New Chef

“Detlef!” Even though the intervening years since school have mellowed him, Lydon still eagerly throws himself into the older German’s arms, racing past the servant who had opened the door. “I’m sorry we haven’t visited in so long. There’s been a lot of business to attend to.” He makes a face at the thought of ‘business’. “Really, I thought Jerome would be doing more of it, but…anyway, it’s all settled now. Ivar and I are living in my parents’ manor, you simply must come and visit us.” Lydon had been fond of his parents, but…their deaths have been quite convenient, allowing him to pursue his interests more freely. At twenty-four, Lydon has become quite skilled at torturing and killing boys. Ivar, as always, seems born to sadism.

Detlef crushed Lydon in a great big hug. “Hello, young Lydon.” the older man smiled. He’d missed the boys visiting. “I’m glad you could make it. Roland is excited to see his new home. Is Ivar still at home?”

“Yes, thought someone should stay home. And I don’t think Jerome likes him very much, and I do so love to torment Jerome. I can’t wait to meet Roland, I was so happy when you said you had a chef!” Lydon reaches up to stroke the hair over Detlef’s temples. “You’re going grey, old chap. It looks quite distinguished.”

The big German man laughed. “My replacement chef is turning me grey. He has a few… peculiarities.”

Lydon raises an eyebrow. “So you wrote, but you were being terribly vague. What would you find peculiar?”

“He spent most of his youth in an asylum and seems to have come up with the idea that sex will solve everything. He’s keeping Roland –and the other servants- quite busy.” Detlef chuckled.

“I see…an asylum, you say?” Despite his own inclinations, Lydon is a little unsettled at the thought of sleeping in the house with a known madman. “Whatever for?”

“For killing and eating his sister.” he said with a smirk. “Only for the same sins we’ve committed, little Lydon.”

Visibly relieved, Lydon smiles back. “Ah. Well, there but for the grace of God, and all that. Is he straight, then?”

“I don’t have any female servants, so I don’t know if he is inclined towards women. However, he certainly seems to enjoy men.” Detlef wraps an arm around Lydon and leads him down to the kitchen. “Roland, Jess, this is Lydon.”

Roland – a great tall man with red hair- crosses the kitchen and offers Lydon a big hand. “It’s an honor to meet you!”

Tucked safely under Detlef’s arm, Lydon peers around the kitchen. Despite his old friend’s assurances, he’s still a little wary. Seeing the large man approaching, Lydon recognizes Detlef’s description of Roland, and eagerly takes the chef’s hand. “You must be Roland. I’m very pleased to meet you, as well. Detlef has nothing but the best to say about you, and I know how exacting his standards are for his game.” He eyes the short, pudgy blond behind Roland carefully. He’s never met a madman before!

Jess looked up from the contents of the bowl he was whisking briefly, meeting Lydon’s eyes, then going back to his work.

Roland was flushed with happiness, “I’m glad he’s given me such a glowing review! I only want to do the best that I can.” he turned and looked back at Jess. “Come say hello.” he encouraged.

“Hello Lydon.” Jess intoned, clearly disinterested.

“Hello, Jess.” Lydon says, rather awkwardly, before turning back to the enthusiastic Roland. “I’m only glad that he’s letting me steal you away from him. Now that everything is settled at home, Ivar and I have been lamenting our lack of a decent chef.” Ivar has killed several of them, in point of fact, but Lydon decides this is not the time to mention that fact.

Roland grinned. “I hope I’ll be up to both your standards.”

“Of course he will. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll always take you back here.” Detlef said, looking at Lydon pointedly. He knew that it was likely that the failed chefs had died horrible deaths at the hands of Ivar.

Lydon flashes his most innocent expression, daintily examining his manicured nails. “Very good. I assumed I would stay the night. For old times’ sake.” Now Lydon’s innocent look takes on a decidedly flirtatious edge, pointed firmly at Detlef. “Ivar doesn’t mind, he just gets quite jealous if he’s around, you know. But…he’s safely at home.” Linking hands with Detlef, Lydon presses his body against the German’s side, quite casually.

Detlef laughed, squeezing Lydon firmly to his side. “Is that how it’s going to be?” he teased. “And I thought you’d be eager to get to know Roland.”

A Hunting Party

Detlef grabbed his servant's pants and tossed them to him, wiping his cock across the man's thigh and getting up from bed. "Get dressed, I'm having some friends over for a hunt soon."

With a shuddering moan, wishing he had more time to recover, Eben pulls on the trousers and tries to make himself look as presentable as possible on post-coital shaky legs, covered in sweat, with mussed hair. "Yes, sir..."

"Good. I'll be downstairs, we'll be having a drink while they ready the horses. I expect to see a more presentable version of yourself in the stables when we get there." Detlef laughed, slapping Eben on the ass appreciatively before heading downstairs.

"Ahh...yes, sir." Although he's not entirely certain how he came to be getting regularly fucked by his Master, Eben can't deny that Master Detlef is uncommonly good at sodomy. He can be a little rough, but...Eben quickly smoothes his hair in the mirror, wipes the sweat from his face, and finishes dressing. He's in the stables as quickly as he can.

Detlef had a quick drink with his friends, all of them foreign though all very well traveled and with his same... interests. They all went out to the stables. Eben was waiting for them there. Detlef grinned, tossing him something pointy. "Put them on." he said, getting on his horse. He'd loaned the Russian a horse, but the Englishman had brought his own.

Eben fumbles with the strange object he's been tossed, trying to figure out how exactly he's supposed to put it on. And why there are only three horses tacked.

One of the grooms steps forward quietly and helps him adjust the straps. It's a pair of antlers to wear on his head. Detlef grins down at his servant pleasantly. "You should run. We'll take a quick turn around the property, then we'll be after you." he nudged his horse and was followed by his friends, all talking as if this was perfectly normal.

Completely surprised--he's gotten used to his master being somewhat peculiar, but this! Eben remains still for a moment, thinking. His master had seemed completely serious. Realizing that he's losing his head start, Eben starts running for the woods backing the property. He's a little miffed and hardly wants to run, especially in his good clothes, but he wouldn't want to ruin his master's game and get a beating. Especially over a harmless bit of fun and entertainment for his visiting friends.

It wasn't long before he heard the pounding of hooves behind him. The horses were crossing the field towards the woods.

Eyes a little wide, even though he knows it's just a game, Eben increases his speed to enter the woods. Once he's in the woods, reflecting that he's glad they aren't using the hounds, the servant tries to think of a strategy while running. He can't outrun a horse, but he should be harder to find in the woods. He heads for the deepest part.

The horses have to slow when they enter to forest, but they don't sound too far behind him. Once in awhile he can hear their voices, but he can't make out the words yet.

Trying to move as quietly as possible while still keeping up good speed, Eben continues through the woods toward the older, more tangled growth, where he can hide and the horses will be forced to move even more slowly. He has to untangle his cumbersome antlers a few times.

He can't tell where the horses are coming from anymore, the sound seems to be coming from more than one place. There's a gunshot from not too far away.

Eben almost cries out at the sound of the shot, biting his hand as he runs to keep from making a noise. Seeing a dense clump of bushes, he hurls himself into the middle of it, heart racing with fear and exertion. "Of course, they're using blanks," he murmurs to himself, trying to stop his violent trembling and reassure himself. "They're not actually shooting at me." He laughs softly, deciding to rest here a moment.

There are horses all around him it seems, and he can see flashes of the men's clothing through the bushes. Another shot is fired and this time it takes him in the stomach.

At first, Eben isn't sure what had happened, except that his face is suddenly in the dirt. He pushes himself to his knees and sees a wet spot on his nice black jacket. Frowning, he tries to stand, only to realize that something is very wrong. Panicked, he scrambles to his feet and begins madly stumbling his way through the thicket as fast as he can.

He can hear Detlef's voice and suddenly there's a horse in front of him. His Master kicks him, catching him just under the chin.

Eben's scream is interrupted by his master's booted foot connecting, and he goes down hard, flat on his back. He lays, panting, in the dirt, staring up with wide, betrayed eyes at his former master.

Detlef dismounts his horse, his two friends catching up to him as he shouts for them, dismounting themselves. Eben watches as Detlef takes out the leather roll of his knives. He'd seen the big man dress a deer in the field before.

Eben makes a final, desperate attempt to stand at the sight of the knives, all too aware of what they'll do to him. The pain in his stomach has faded in his panic, and he's hardly aware of Lydon and Ivar standing near him.

Ivar steps on his wrist, kneeling down to slice the dirty dress clothes off his body, revealing his twisting, pale torso and the exit wound. Detlef stroked his Eben's face gently, still smiling. "I'm glad you ended up being my kill. I was starting to feel attached." The knife slid from his neck down to his navel and the three men began to skin and butcher him.

Eben manages a final scream for help at the sharp pain in his wrist, struggling as hard as he can. He may as well be laying still, with three men on him and the wound in his gut. He keeps his eyes on Detlef while his face is being stroked, trying to form words, to ask why, what he had done wrong. He falls silent as the knife takes him past speaking.

"Good shot, Detlef, old boy!" Lydon exclaims, smiling over the carcass. "You're right, he does look delicious."

Detlef grinned. "I'm glad you agree, since I'll be sending some sausage and jerky home with you." he pulled Lydon down and put a knife in his hands, guiding him through the steps.

Lydon is surprised, but pleased, when he's grabbed, and he grins up at Ivar. Soon, he's completely focused on the task at hand, grinning with pride and pleasure, enjoying the feeling of Detlef's rough hands guiding his own. "I can hardly wait."

Detlef helped the boys dress the carcass, removing the servant's organs and storing the ones he wanted to keep in bags. He wrapped the meat in a plastic stretcher and tossed it over the front of his horse. "Good job." he patted Lydon on the back.

Lydon smiles, pleased by the older man's praise. "Thank you." He's licking his lips already, just looking at the meat. "I can't wait to see what your chef comes up with." Aroused as well as hungry, Lydon saunters over to Ivar for a messy, passionate kiss.

Ivar grins, kissing back, wiping some blood on Lydon's cheek and ear as he grabs him.

Detlef laughs, mounting his horse. "I'm heading back. If you two need a few minutes, take your time." he nudged his horse and they wandered away through the woods.

Lydon waves vaguely in Detlef's direction, mouth still pressed to Ivar's. The blood and grabbing only serve to make him harder, and he's soon leaning into Ivar's body from mouth to groin, moaning against his lover's lips.

Ivar growled, pushing him down into the bloody grass and undoing his pants, grinding against Lydon.

"Ahhh!" Lydon gasps, sprawling for a moment before wrapping all of his limbs desperately around Ivar. "Please, Ivar, please..." he moans lustily, scrabbling at his lover's clothes.

Ivar forced him down by his throat and kneed him in the crotch, undoing Lydon's pants and taking his cock in his mouth.

Lydon is almost completely undone by this, babbling and clawing wildly at any part of Ivar that comes within reach. He's almost thrashing too much to keep his cock in Ivar's mouth, until he calms enough to realize what's going on, and settles on the still-warm, bloody grass.

Ivar sucks and grazes him with his teeth for awhile, sliding an unlubricated finger inside his lover and curling it sharply.

With a delighted shriek, Lydon first arches away from the finger, then drives himself down on it to the knuckle, squirming happily and beaming up at Ivar.

Ivar slides in a second finger, biting the very tip of Lydon's cock.

Lydon screams in ecstasy, thrusting his hips as much as he can, hands clawing the grass above his head, getting them slick with blood.

Ivar curves a third finger into him, sliding his mouth down until Lydon's head hits the back of his throat and his lips touch the base of his cock. He groaned around his mouthful.

"Ngh!" Lydon groans back, rocking Ivar's fingers over and over his prostate, crying out again as he feels how deeply his cock has entered his lover. "Ivar!" he gasps, "fuck me!"

Sitting up, Ivar pulls his fingers out, wipes his hand on the grass and lubricates his cock with the 'deer' blood, slowly forcing himself into Lydon's tight anus.

Lydon sits up as well, to see what Ivar has used to lubricate himself. The sight of his lover's bloodied cock sliding into him almost pushes him over the edge, and he grits his teeth to keep from cumming on the spot. He lays back down, laughing a little wildly, and resumes clutching the wet, cooling grass.

Ivar sheaths himself entirely, raking his nails down Lydon's chest.

"Nah-hah!!!" Lydon bucks beneath his lover, sitting up to wrap his upper body around Ivar, kissing his neck, throat and chin.

Ivar bites Lydon's jaw, forcing him back down and fucking him raw.

Lydon can feel his eyes filling with tears, and he's trembling as though feverish, as he always does with a really good fucking. He lays more or less passively, held in place by Ivar's teeth, biting his own lip.

"Cum." Ivar hisses around the skin between his teeth, spurting into Lydon, his own hips bucking.

Screaming freely, knowing that the only person who could possibly hear them is Detlef, Lydon does as he's told, cumming all over both of their fronts. He sprawls on the earth again, panting and grinning.

Ivar finishes, pulling out of his boyfriend and kissing him soundly, flopping onto the bloody, sticky grass next to him.

Purring with contentment, Lydon snuggles against his Ivar, smiling at his lover, eyes half-closed. "Mmm. We should get back. I want to try some of that meat, and I know you do."

"It'll take some time to prepare." Ivar panted. "We can rest a bit."

Lydon sulks playfully, trying to sit up, only to collapse again. "Ah...alright, I suppose..." he pants, laying his head on Ivar's chest and closing his eyes happily.

******

Tossing his horse's reins to a groom, Lydon runs as quickly as possible for a gentleman into the estate, sniffing deeply for the smell of cooking boy-meat as he hurries to find Detlef, Ivar in tow.

Ivar laughed, always enjoying Lydon's post-coital energy. Once they'd had a nap, he was always raring to go. Ivar, on the other hand, could always nap for hours after good sex.

"Detlef! We're back!" Lydon calls, heedless of the bloody footprints he's tracking everywhere, enjoying the feeling of the blood cooling, then drying, on his face and clothing. His arm is firmly wrapped around Ivar's waist, stealing kisses from time to time.

Detlef called out to them from the dining room, where he was lounging in a chair, smoking, looking post-coital himself. The servant kneeling in front of him got up, face red, and left in a rush.

Lydon laughs heartily at the servant's expression and escape, settling himself in a chair, again not caring about the blood--that's what servants are for. "Well, maybe not for you..." he muses out loud, smiling at Detlef.

"Not for me?" Detlef asks, buttoning up his pants. Ivar laughed, settling in next to Lydon.

"Mmm? Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about servants, and how their job is cleaning. But maybe less for you," he nods his head at Detlef's pants, resting his hand on Ivar's thigh.

"Oh that? He was just polishing my cock." Detlef chuckled.

Lydon nods sagely. "Yes, those are important to clean. ...how's dinner coming along?" he asks, not able to contain his eagerness for long.

"It'll be ready soon!" Detlef put out his cigarette. "Haven't you tasted longpig before?"

Lydon shakes his head, eyeing the cigarette. Ivar has put plenty of his own illicit cigarettes out on him, much to his enjoyment. With a playfully bratty sigh, Lydon settles back in his chair, smiling at his companions. "A fine hunt, Detlaf old boy."

"Agreed." Ivar chuckled, flagging down a passing servant and getting a drink. He gave a happy sigh and relaxed into his chair.
"Thank you both." Detlef chuckled, "I'm glad you could make it. I only wish you could stay longer than a week."

"We're glad you invited us. And we wish we could stay, too, but we have to be getting back to school." Lydon envies Ivar his drink; every time Lydon tries to have alcohol, he pictures Jerome's disapproving face. Same with cigarettes of his own.

"Ah well, you can stay longer once it's summer. And you can bring some of your own servants along if you wish. If you have any... delectable boys." he winked at Lydon.
Ivar downs his drink with a purr, fingers tightening on Lydon's thigh.

His eyes rolling at the pressure on his leg, Lydon pauses a moment before he can answer. "Ahh...yes, we would like that very much...I only have one servant of my own, and I don't see how I could replace him. I don't know how you do it. Good help is so hard to find."

"Good help is hard to find, but I do well with what I have. I don't need them, for the most part. I enjoy having them cook and clean... as well as other things, but I enjoy living on my own as well." Detlef shrugged. "Perhaps that's why I can get along after I kill them. Though I couldn't do without a willing chef." he laughed.

A servant opened the door and brought in a silver platter. The boy was almost as whole as they had left him, roasted like a whole pig.

"Mmm! That smells wonderful!" Lydon is leaning forward in his chair, as though to get the food sooner. "How does one find a willing chef?" he asks. "I shall have to find one, when I'm of age." Lydon can't imagine living alone.

"I put out an ad on a cannibal site, actually." Detlef told him. "And I was lucky enough to find a wonderful chef." The servant served them all, then left.

"Really? I should think you would get mostly poseurs and frauds. I'm glad you found someone!" With that, Lydon begins devouring his savory meat as quickly as he can with good manners.

"Well, if frauds agree to meet me, I can do a fair job of cooking them up myself." Detlef dug into his food. Ivar was savoring his first mouthful, eyes closed.

Lydon laughs heartily, finally slowing down enough in his excitement to relish his meat. "This is exquisite!" he murmurs.

Ivar laughs, patting his boyfriend's thigh. "Slowing down?" he asked.

Blushing a little, Lydon nods. "What a wonderful vacation, Detlef. Thank you."

"You're very welcome! I hope you plan to come back and visit." he smiled.

In Which Jerome Pussyfoots

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Jerome prepares to knock on his Master’s door. It’s something he’s done thousands of times during his lifetime of service to Lydon, but rarely has he been as hesitant as he is now. He’s about to ask about something very, very sensitive that could very well earn him a beating…or worse. Another deep breath, and his knuckles are no closer to the door. Finally, the aging butler closes his eyes, turns his whole head away, and screws up his face.

“Stop pussyfooting about outside my door and come in, damn you.” Lydon’s voice could easily be heard through the door.

“Ack!” Startled, Jerome loses his customary composure for a moment. “Ah, yes sir. Thank you, sir.” Exhaling, Jerome grabs the doorknob and flings the door open rather dramatically.

“Did you forget what you came to see me about, or were you just stalling?” Lydon chuckled, not bothering to turn and look at his butler. He was curled up in the bay window, wrapped in a thick quilt and his robe.

Jerome smiles, pleased that his master is resting and warm. “No, sir, it’s just…well, it’s Perry.” He flinches even saying the name. He continues before he can lose his resolve, or Lydon loses patience altogether. “He’s doing much better, as you know, from his time spent with Christian. He came to see me last night, and…” Jerome falters, trying to think of how to continue. “…he asked me to kill him.” Finally, he just says it straight out, flatly, not looking at Lydon.

Lydon turned to look at Jerome, sighing quietly. “Did he say why?”

“Yes. He thinks that he’s the reason you’re unhappy, and he believes that if he were dead, you would get better. I think he may have asked Christian to kill him, as well.” Jerome can’t entirely blame Perry; he’s had the same thought, many times before. But Perry’s life—and death—are, and have always been, in Lydon’s hands.

“I’ll speak with him.” Lydon said, understanding now why Jerome was hesitating outside his door. “Is he still sick?”

“Thank you, sir. Yes, he is, sir. He’s spent the last two nights in my bed; I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, I just…” Jerome gestures helplessly. “Also…I think his masochism has, returned, for lack of a better word.”

“What makes you think that?” he raised an eyebrow, unwrapping his blanket and holding out his hand for Jerome to help him sit up.

Jerome strides across the room and takes his master’s cool hand to assist him. “Well…he, ah, keeps trying to have sex with me. And while he’s trying, he grabs my hands and tries to get me to scratch him and hold him down.”

“Have you had sex with him?”

“No! No, of course not, sir. Not until I had spoken with you and asked you how you wanted me to proceed.”

Lydon leaned on Jerome, getting him to walk him to his bed and sitting down, robe opening a bit around his chest and shoulders. “I think it would be good for both of you.” he said softly, “on the condition that I get daily reports on his mental health.”

Jerome automatically settles the robe back around his master, letting Lydon’s answer settle in. “Really?” The butler is surprised enough to ask. “Yes sir. If you think so, sir.” He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Especially Lydon’s tone.

Lydon allowed Jerome to fuss over him, watching his butler with a bit of amusement. “Do I keep surprising you, boy?”

“Yes,” Jerome laughs. “It’s been years since you called me boy…” He finds himself reminiscing, especially to the days before his master had met Ivar. “Sir, may I ask you a rather personal question.”

“I suppose.” he arranged himself comfortably against the pillows.

Jerome asks permission to sit on the bed with his eyes, and tries to think of how to word his question. “…if you were feeling better, sir, would you be playing with Perry? For that matter, why do you think that it would be good for me?”

Lydon nods at Jerome’s silent question. “I will never play with Perry again. But I believe it was a part of him that he shut down after … what happened. Seeing it come back is good, I hope. Perhaps he’s healing. And you have been alone for a long time. Any sort of intimacy will be good for you.”

Seating himself quite gracefully on the edge of the bed, Jerome looks absolutely heartbroken, watching his master. “Why never again, sir? And…yes, I believe that he is healing. I think that his time with Christian, however unlikely a companion our guard may be, has had a very positive influence on Perry. I am hardly an expert on such matters, sir, but…I do believe that any return to his…former state…can only be for the good. It may be painful, but I suppose that it’s like returning an injured animal to the wild. As for myself, sir…I have no opinion on the matter.” The butler smiles softly.

“No opinion indeed.” Lydon smirked at him, pulling Jerome down next to him. “And I… I was there when Perry broke and I will never remind him of what I’ve put him through. I’m glad that he still loves me, but if I broke him further, it would undo us both.”

With a startled laugh, Jerome curls against his master, reminded again of those carefree days before Lydon had left for school and met Ivar, when it had just been the two of them. “None whatsoever, sir,” the butler replies, allowing a bit of humour into his voice. With a sigh, he continues. “I’m glad sir. I don’t believe that he associates you with that time, or remembers your part in it, but if you have any doubts, I’m sure you’re right to not chance it. I’m honoured that you would allow me, sir.” The thought of Lydon reduced to the same state as Perry, especially in the first few years following being broken, makes Jerome shudder involuntarily. Although the thought of his master screaming at him whilst being bathed manages to be simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.

Lydon nodded, nestling into Jerome’s shoulder and chest. He’s found himself craving attention lately, even from Jerome, who he still has mixed feelings about. Mostly he misses Ivar and the way they had been in their school days. But it wasn’t going to be the same again.

Jerome gently twines a leg between his masters' and strokes Lydon’s hair and back. He can feel his master’s heartache, and he suspects, given his own train of thought, what may be causing it. “Ivar and Gregor haven’t been by in some time, sir. Would you like me to message them for a visit?”

Lydon glared at him silently, but nodded. “That would be fine.”

Though he can feel Lydon’s movement and suspects that he’s being glared at, the butler can’t actually see his master’s face to confirm it. Not that it would make any difference. Stifling a yawn, Jerome nods. “First thing in the morning then, sir.”

“Good boy.” he says, yawning.

Jerome stands to stoke the fire. “Is there anything else before you retire, sir?”
“Come back and hold me until I sleep.” He sat up and undid his robe, shrugging it off his shoulders and handing it to Jerome.

Finding himself staring as he watches his master reveal his pale, lean chest, Jerome nods hastily and takes the robe. “Ah…yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The butler hangs the robe in its customary place, and quickly banks the fire for the night before crawling back into bed with Lydon.

Lydon wraps himself in a warm blanket of his butler, closing his eyes and preparing to drift off with a yawn.

Jerome settles them both, making sure that no buttons or seams or anything else are making his master uncomfortable. He feels himself drifting off as well, but he’s wont to move, feeling that Lydon is still awake.

Lydon fell asleep, but his sleep gave no indication to Jerome. His breathing was even and soft.

The butler realizes that his master is asleep, but too late to escape sleep’s clutches himself, and he’s soon snoring softly in Lydon’s arms.

Lydon woke later in the night, falling into bed in his dream. He sat up a little, surprised to find himself in a warm embrace. He turned to see Jerome snoring quietly, his hair tousled and his jacket wrinkled. Smiling, he leaned down and kissed his butler gently. “And here I thought you didn’t sleep. You’re human after all.” he chuckled, brushing some stray hairs out of Jerome’s face and nestling back into his arms.

Attack of the Killer Butler!

Michel is running, more or less blind with the amount of blood dripping incessantly down his hair and into his eyes. He cannot stop; if he does, they'll catch him, and he'll have a lot more than blood to worry about. He's forgotten, for the moment, that one hand is pressed to his abdomen, keeping...things...safely inside where they belong.

Ivar is walking sedately, following the trail of blood, his cock dripping with anticipation of the kill. He's not concerned. Even if the boy manages to leave the manor, he's miles from help.

Jerome is in his small study, sipping tea with shaking hands, trying to block out the horrific sounds from below.

Lydon laces his bloody fingers with Ivar's, smiling at his friend with a baring of teeth. They would finish this night with the best sex, they were both thoroughly aroused.

Ivar curls and straightens his fingers, relishing the tackiness of the still-wet blood binding their hands together. His answering grin shows the blood oozing between his teeth.

Michel sobs, hearing their footsteps behind him. He's bruised and bloody, not just from the torture he's fled, but from crashing into furniture and other obstacles on his panicked flight. "Please!" he screams, "please, just let me go!" as he crashes through the house.

Lydon laughs, kissing Ivar, then pulling him along as he sped up. "Ya tebya lyublyu!"

"And I love you, my Englishman," Ivar cries, throwing back his head and laughing, until they're skipping along like schoolboys following the trail of blood and broken things.

Lydon fingers the little kitchen knife he's been playing with all night. His fingers are sticking to it, just as they're sticking to Ivar's skin. Blood soaks them both up to the elbows, spattered across their clothes and skin, stuck to their hair and even their eyelashes.

Ivar smiles, more a curling of his lip. "I can't wait to lick it all off of you," he growls, wiping a bloody curl off of his forehead, his accent thickening with lust and the hunt.

Lydon groaned, knees going a bit weak.

They're close enough now that Michel can hear them, but he can't seem to make himself run any further. He's reduced to a painful, shambling walk, trying to keep his noisy sobs in check.

Ivar catches his partner easily, twirling him into his arms and pressing their chests, their lips together, leaving bloody handprints on one of the few remaining bits of Lydon's skin. "I have you, my treasure."

Lydon wraps his arm around Ivar's neck, kissing him deeply, melting against him.

"Mmm...Lydon, darling, as much as I want to fuck you right here in this wonderful puddle, there is the boy. He won't get far, but..."

"Nnngh..." Lydon groaned, fingers undoing Ivar's apron. "Jerome!" he shouted.

Jerome puts down his tea with a sigh of regret, standing and going to the undoubtedly bloody and lustful young Master and his terrifying friend.

Ivar rips the apron loose and pins Lydon to the floor with his hips, smearing some of the blood onto his partner's opening as lubrication, before grabbing both of Lydon's wrists and violently penetrating him.

Lydon screams, his whole body bucking under his lover's thrusts.

"Don't just stand there gaping," Ivar snarls at Jerome, "do your fucking job and clean this up. But first, find the boy and take care of him." He lowers his dripping mouth to Lydon's throat, biting and worrying the soft skin there.

Lydon makes a series of inhuman sounds, wrapping his legs around Ivar and pulling him deeper, neck offered up to the teeth happily.

Jerome splutters, but leaves, following the blood trail. Take care of him. Kill him?

Ivar doesn't notice the butler leave, so intent is he on ravishing and ravaging his partner.

Michel has found himself in the kitchen, where he is frantically, but weakly, pounding on the glass patio door from where he's fallen to his knees.

Jerome goes to the weak, struggling boy, trying to keep his horror in check. He hesitates beside him, then kneels.

The kneeling boy screams, coughing pink foam from his mouth, and for a moment his hand falls away from the ragged wound in his belly, revealing things that shouldn't see light. He gazes up at Jerome, the horror in his eyes matching the butler's. "...help..." he gasps. He has no idea who the man is, only that he hadn't been in the basement while...

Jerome swallows hard. He can't help but wonder if the boy has already lost some organs and other things that weren't meant to be outside of his skin. The slit across his stomach is wide and the boy is drenched in blood and other unmentionable things. "I... I'll help." he stands, looking about for any sort of weapon.

Michel stares up at the older man with complete trust, allowing himself to relax and settle on the floor.

Jerome chokes back tears, digging through a drawer and finding a kitchen knife. He kneels back down with the boy, cradling him, keeping the knife behind the boy's back.

The boy nestles against the stranger, croaking, "What's your name?"

Jerome wraps an arm around the boy, stroking his hair. "I'm Jerome." Please don't tell me your name.

The boy smiles painfully. "Michel. Did they...hurt you, too?" He closes his eyes, pressed against Jerome's side like a frightened child.

"I... no." he holds the boy. He can see how labored his breathing is. He can see the slick, dark things falling out of the gaping wound in the boy's belly. He closes his eyes and slits the boy's throat.

Michel has time for a fleeting, betrayed look at Jerome before he collapses in the older man's arms. He splutters a little and jerks a few times, then is mercifully still.

Jerome silently cleans up the body, the blood and the horrible trail all the way back to the basement.

*****

Christian is enjoying one of his few days off with a bottle of bourbon, regaling his wide-eyed Yves with war stories.

Yves is suitably wide-eyed and hanging on Christian's every word. Also, literally hanging on to Christian.

Jerome is writing letters on the table, sitting across from them, having his own -glass- of bourbon.

Squeezing his husband's sweet ass under the table, Christian leers across at Jerome, with just the beginnings of a slur tilting his words. "Yeah, that'sh what a man does. He gets it done. He kills people. Right, Jerome?"

"I don't think the measure of a man has anything to do with killing." Jerome says quietly.

Yves, always a little--well, infinitely--more of a keen observer than his husband, drunk or no, leans into Christian and murmurs, "C'mon, Christian...let's go have sex."

"No, I wanna talk to Jerome! What does it have to do with, Jerome, if not with killing? That's a pa--a pa--a wussy answer, that's what that is. That's the answer of a man who's never killed anyone."

Jerome gives Yves a small smile, sipping his bourbon and turning back to his work stiffly.

Yves smiles back, looking rather pained. He moves to the next phase: grabbing Christian's crotch.

Christian brushes Yves' hand aside, looking smugly across the table at Jerome. "Don't just sip there and sit your drink!"

Jerome stood abruptly, finishing his drink and collecting his papers to leave, trying to ignore Christian.

Yves gives a sigh of relief, giving Jerome his most apologetic expression.

"No, no, Jerome! Don't just leave. We were having...a conversation." With another belt of bourbon, Christian strides (in his mind, anyway) across the room and grabs Jerome's sleeve.

Jerome turned and decked him, face red with anger.

Yves shrieks and he grabs the armrests of his chair, but he stays seated--anything he tries to do will just make the situation worse, at this point.

"Jerome!" Christian laughs heartily, clapping the older man on the back and rubbing his jaw with his other hand. "I didn't know you could hit like that."

"Be quiet, you fool." Jerome said softly. "You know what kind of house this is. You remember Ivar, don't you?" His voice never raised above his usual quiet, but it was shaking.

Christian pales, and he actually takes a step back from the butler. "Yes...what has that got to do with anything?"

Yves quietly bangs his forehead on the table a few times.

"You know what he likes." Jerome sighed. "You can't even imagine what Master and Sir got into once the Master inherited this house." Jerome shuffled his papers again, making them perfectly neat. "I have cleaned up after them through it all."

"Cleaned up..." Christian is clearly having a little trouble keeping up. "Oh. Jerome, you have killed someone! Good for you!"

"Alright, that's it! Come on, Christian, I'm taking my ass and leaving, and you're coming with me." Yves shoves his chair violently back and heads for the doorway Jerome isn't in.

Jerome clenched his hands, crumpling his papers a little. "Go with your husband." he hissed.

With something close to fear in his eyes, Christian follows Yves out.

Gregor's Brand

Bound, gagged and blindfolded, Gregor is led into an unknown building...seeing as he's stepped out of a horse-drawn carriage, having travelled by boat, he's not -that- unclear about where he is, but he's not sure why he's so restrained. He follows the gentle tugging of his master meekly.

"Good boy." Ivar murmured, drawing him along to a room warm from a crackling fireplace. He was made to sit on the floor against a strange man. The stranger held him around the chest, with one hand on his jaw to keep his head still.

Gregor nestles happily against the unknown, large chest. He's a little nervous, but his cock is at at least half-mast, and he trusts his master with his life.

He hears a metallic clang as Ivar draws a brand from the fire, and feels the heat moving as Ivar kneels between his legs, holding his face firmly. "Be still."

Gregor's eyes widen behind the blindfold, and he's drawing shallow, quick breaths through the gag, but he nods, pressing himself into the restraining hands as hard as he can.

"Good boy." Ivar pressed the brand to his cheek for less than ten seconds before pulling it away. He put the brand back in the fire and gathered his cold compress.

Gregor's muscles are tense the whole time, but he goes completely limp when it's withdrawn--he would fall if he weren't supported. His breathing slows again, and his eyes are half closed. The pain hasn't really hit him yet.

Ivar presses the cold to Gregor's face, kissing his boy's forehead. "Ya tebya lyublyu, malchick"

"Ya tebya lyublyu, master..." he murmurs, leaning into the coolness.

"Thank you, Christian, you may leave." Ivan addressed the man holding Gregor. The man left, silently. "My Gregor." Ivar chuckled. "What a strong boy you are."

Gregor nods, a little shakily. "Sp-spasibo, sir..."

After the burn had cooled, Ivar applied a salve to the burn, collecting Gregor in his arms and carrying him to a bed. He removed Gregor's blindfold and cuffs, laying with him in the bed.

Gregor lays on the bed, smiling at his master a little distantly; he's clearly not all there. "Kak eto vyglyadit, sir?"

"Eto krasivyĭ, malchick." he kissed the opposite cheek.

"Spasibo, sir." He glances up at his master, asking permission with his eyes to snuggle closer.

Ivar opened his arms for Gregor, nestling the smaller man against his chest.

Gregor cuddles as close to his master as he can, working his way into his favorite 'parcel' position.

Ivar chuckles, holding Gregor around the neck and cupping his balls. "You'll never escape me now, malchick."

Gregor groans happily, struggling just a little to enjoy the sensation. "Why would I want to, sir?"

"Just giving you fair warning." Ivar tightened his arm around Gregor slightly. "You rest now. You're relieved of your duties until your brand has healed."

"Spasibo, sir," he murmurs, sounding rather sleepy. He presses himself against Ivar as hard as he can, as if to meld them together, eyes drifting shut.

Sapphire

Warning! This story deals with gender/transphobia and underage sexuality/rape. If either of those are triggers for you, you might not want to continue. Neither Carcajou or myself in any way endorse violence against children, sexual or otherwise. That part of the story is not written for our enjoyment. We get no sexual satisfaction from it. Love, Carrion and Carcajou <3

Merlin is out gathering mushrooms in the forest, putting them into her apron as she finds them, humming softly to herself. She starts heading back to the village, smelling smoke in the air. That's nothing new, but there does seem to be more than usual.

She hears the galloping hooves of a horse approaching and men's voices shouting.

Startled, she looks up--all the horses she knows are used for farm work, and are never galloped. She runs for home, calling out for her mother.

The pounding hooves overtake her quickly and she feels herself grabbed by the back of her dress as the horse passes her. She's heaved up over the back of the horse, sideways over the withers.

Merlin screams and kicks wildly, trying to push herself off the wildly running animal to one side or the other, completely terrified. All she can see of her captor is his leather boot, worn smooth by riding.

The man's gloved hands hold her tightly to the horse, one hand in her hair and the other on her upper thigh.

Merlin eventually falls still, exhausted, watching her village being burnt to the ground, and everyone she's ever known being killed. She shuts her eyes tightly and clings to the horse.

After the village has been reduced to smoldering ruins, the rider nudges his horse and rides off. He stops in a clearing. He drops her off the horse and dismounts.

She falls with an 'oomph!' as the air is knocked out of her lungs, clinging to the dirt as though she's about to float away. Her dress is filthy, and her first thought is how angry mama will be...until she remembers. She lays as still as possible.

Now she can finally see her captor. He's a large man with tanned skin, black hair and a short beard. He takes off his gloves, tossing them onto the saddle. "Come here, pretty thing."

Merlin curls into a ball, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and humming softly to herself, trying to block out the man's voice.

He grabbed her, sitting her up and hiking up her skirt. He pauses, making an odd face. After a moment, he pulls down her bloomers.

She screams and tries to squirm away, kicking and flailing at him wildly.

"You're a boy?!" he lets her go.

Merlin shakes her head, sitting a few feet away from him, trying to rearrange her clothes. "No I'm not," she says.

"You have a cock!" he stands up, looking down at her.

"You shouldn't be looking at that!" she shouts, angry now, matching his tone. "I'm a girl. I have what girls have."

"Am I a girl?" he asked, sarcastically.

"No." She crosses her arms over her flat chest and glowers at him. "Obviously not."

"Then why do we have the same bits?!"

"I don't know! Why did you just burn down my village?! You're...a monster, that's what you are. That's why you have girl-bits."

"I wasn't the only one, boy, and all those men have the same parts that we do. What the hell!" he paced, angrily. His horse snorted and pawed uncomfortably.

"...how am I a boy?" Merlin asks, sounding a little uncertain. After all, the rest of her world has been turned upsidedown...

The man undoes his trousers, pulling out his cock. "You've got one of these!"

Her eyes widen at the sight, and she averts her eyes. "Yes! You shouldn't be waving that around. How does that make me a boy?"

"Only boys have these." he snarled. "Girls have holes, boys have cocks. What the hell is wrong with your village that they don't teach you that?"

Merlin blushes, then yells back, "Nothing, now, because it's gone! Why did you take me with you?"

"Well..." he looked like he couldn't find his words. "I was gonna fuck you, but I wanted a girl." he spat at Merlin's feet. "So I guess I'll take you to the city."

"...are you sure I'm a boy?" Merlin asks, looking close to tears again. "...maybe you're just not..."

He kicked her, grabbing her by her skirt and tossing her onto his horse again. His horse started a little, pacing in a circle until he mounted behind the girl.

She squirms, grabbing at the horse's mane until she's sitting properly, not just thrown over the saddle. "Why are we going to the city?" she asks, glowering back at him.

"Someone will want you," he glowers.

"For what?"

"I dunno. But I'm sure I can get a good price for you." he snapped. "Now shut up."

Merlin glares at him for a moment longer, before turning back to face forward, trying to get his little cock comfortable.

****

When they got to the big city, her abductor dropped her down on the ground in front of a two story building.

Merlin spits on his boot, quietly, and gazes up at the buildings and people around her, awed.

"Clara!" he called in through the door.

Clara, the large, busty madame of the brothel they're in front of, comes out when she hears his familiar shout. "Felix! What's this you've dragged in?" She seizes Merlin's jaw and scrutinizes her.

"Boy who thinks he's a girl. You like freaky ones, right? Willing to pay for it?"

Merlin glowers but holds still to be examined.

Clara raises an eyebrow. "...is that so? ...I wouldn't really call that 'freakish', Felix...just...confused. Well, bring her inside, we'll have a look." She roughly grabs the girl's arm and pulls her into the building.

"Didn't say freakish." he muttered, following her in. "Freaky."

Clara rolls her eyes. "Wait out here. I'm sure she's been at enough with you poking and prodding her." She points to a comfortable horsehair chair and leads the girl through a curtained doorway into another room. "Lay down there," she points to a low bed.

Merlin lays down, a little nervously, but she knows that tone--there's no arguing with it.

"Good girl." she says. "Now, Felix says you're a boy. Is that true?"

Merlin shakes her head, relaxing a little now that they're alone.

"May I see?" Clara asks, touching the edge of Merlin's skirt.

She nods shyly, turning away.

Clara lifts her skirt and finds she doesn't need to lower her undergarments, since they're already down around Merlin's knees. After confirming what Felix had said, she pulled up the girl's underwear, rearranged her skirt and stroked her hair back into order. "Why don't you sleep here for tonight? What's your name, honey?"

"...Merlin..." the girl says, glad she hasn't been shouted at or told she's a boy or anything. She smiles at the older woman, enjoying having her hair stroked.

"Well, you rest, Merlin. There's a bath across the hall if you want one, and your chamberpot's under the bed." she kissed Merlin's forehead. "No one will come into this room except for me, alright?" she smiled, standing to leave.

Merlin nods, smiling gratefully.

Felix is stalking back and forth in the outer room, irritated by the wait.

Clara goes outside, glaring at Felix. "You rogue, you scared her half to death."

Felix makes gives her his most innocent look. "What're you talking about? I brought him straight to you."

"Then why were her bloomers around her knees?" she snapped. "Don't you have more respect than that? I thought I taught you better."

Felix rolls his eyes. "So? How much for the boy? Why're you still saying 'she'?"

"Because that's what she thinks she is." she frowned. "Four coppers?"

"Four coppers! And people call me a crook!"

"She's still a baby! I'm not going to put her to work for a few years, she'll be doing laundry and serving tea. I'm not buying a working girl, I'm buying a servant that needs to be trained." she said, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forwards, ample bosom nearly touching him. "And you are a crook!"

Felix shrugs. "I don't see anything wrong with her--him--but...alright. He's not doing me any good. I'll take it." He holds out his hand.

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out a small purse, handing him four copper coins. "Now either get out of here or make yourself useful, you little trouble-maker!"

"Yeah, yeah." He pours the coins onto his palm, glances at them to make sure they're in order and puts them in his own purse. He mounts his horse, giving Clara a little wave. "Say g'bye to the boy for me!" He rides off.

She shakes her head, smirking a bit. She retires to her room to wait for evening. Their sort of business doesn't happen much in the morning.

****

A few years later, Merlin is in the brothel's small garden, picking herbs for dinner. Although he's long since figured out what the place is, and his own gender, he still considers the brothel home, and often wears women's clothing.

"Merlin!" the young man hears a familiar voice calling from over the fence. Felix opens the gate, coming in. Over the last few years, he's developed a bit of a fondness for Merlin. Though he was hardly surprised by the boy's growth into a delicate and angelic young man, he was surprised to find that his feelings were the same for someone he knew was male. "Big day today?"

Merlin goes over to hug Felix, blushing a little. "...yes." He has mostly forgotten or repressed the events that brought him here, and he always enjoy's Felix's visits, although he's always a little wary.

Felix handed him a little present, a chocolate. "Well, uh... good luck." he chuckled, trying not to flush himself at the suddenly very awkward moment. He brushed past Merlin and headed inside.

Merlin takes the chocolate, raising an eyebrow at his sort-of-uncle's behaviour. Shrugging, he goes inside to find Clara, stowing the chocolate in his room. He's both dreading and anticipating dark.

Clara gives him a hug, enveloping him in her arms and bosom. "My Merlin." she kissed his cheek. It was clear that she was pretty emotional over Merlin's first night as a prostitute.

Merlin grins at her, blushing a little again. "Felix is here," he says.

"Yes, I saw that scoundrel come through." she chuckled. "Oh, I have a present for you. Come up to my room."

she bustled away, expecting him to follow.

He follows, not sure what to expect. He hasn't been to her room very often, especially now that he's older and doesn't have nightmares very often. "Clara?" he asks, shyly. "Should I dress like this, or like a boy?" It's a question that's been asked at least fifty times in the last month, since they'd decided that it was time for him to become a prostitute.

"Well, I think my present might answer my feelings on that." Clara laughed, handing him a long box. "But I want you to dress however you like to, love."

Merlin nods, nibbling his lip. He sets the box on the bed, opening it tentatively. Inside is a gorgeous blue shift with matching blue undergarments. There are even ribbons for his long hair, all of it going perfectly with his blond hair and fair skin. "Oh, thank you! It's beautiful!"

"I know you always wanted a dress like Opal's." she smiled. "Should I let you get dressed?"

Merlin hugs her, grinning broadly. "Thank you so much!" He glances out the window. "Yes, I guess it's about time...the customer knows that I'm...you know...right?" he asks, another oft repeated question.

"Of course, I was very careful to pick someone we trust." she kissed him on the cheek. "I'll leave you to dress, honey. Oh! Before I forget. You get a name, just like the other girls. Sapphire."

"I know, I'm sorry...I just...you know..." He presses the dress to his narrow chest. "I'd forgotten!" he says, not lying very well. "Thank you. I love it. It's perfect. Will...will you still call me...?" he asks, shyly.

"Of course, darling, you'll always be my little Merlin." she smiled. "I'll be making tea downstairs if you need me." she left Merlin to get ready.

Merlin smiles again. "Thank you..." He heads to his little room, putting on the new clothes and spinning around happily, admiring his reflection in his small, polished metal mirror.

"Lovely." said a demure voice from the doorway. Ruby stood there in her red ruffled skirt and nothing else. "Here." she strode over, handing him a bottle.

Merlin smiles at the familiar voice. "Thanks. You too." He takes the bottle, frowning at it a little. "What's this?"

Lube. For sex."

He looks puzzled. "What's lube? Clara didn't say anything about that..."

"I didn't think she had, so I thought I'd better. Don't want your first time to hurt!" she chuckled. She opened the bottle and poured a little onto his fingers. "You put it on his dick and you put some in you too, alright? Girls can make their own, but no one can for anal."

Merlin rubs the oil between his fingers, blushing a little, nibbling his lip. He nods gratefully.

"Have fun." she grinned, leaving him with the bottle.

"...thanks!" he calls after her, clutching the bottle and sitting on his bed, looking concerned.

Felix knocked on the door, waiting awkwardly outside.

Merlin leaps up, then calms himself and walks sedately to the door. "Yes? Oh. Felix."

"Hey, crumpet." he walks in. "So, you know who it's gonna be yet? Have you met him?"

He raises an eyebrow. "...is that why you're here today? No, I don't. I think Clara did it that way on purpose...don't you trust your aunt? Crumpet, indeed." Merlin twirls to show off his new outfit.

He stammers. "Well - uh, a beautiful crumpet?"

He laughs. "Thank you. You shouldn't be in here, he should arrive any moment."

"Okay. Just be safe, okay?" he said, stumbling a bit and giving Merlin a clumsy, stubbly kiss on the cheek.

"...of course. Are you drunk?" Merlin laughs, pushing the older man away.

"No more than usual." he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll see you tomorrow." he said, backing out of the room.

He rolls his eyes and laughs, gently pushing Felix's large chest to get him out. "Yes, you will. Between the two of you, I'm amazed that you haven't offered to be in the room yet--and don't even think about it!"

He flushed, leaving.

Shaking his head, Merlin settles down to wait again, trying to think of himself as Sapphire.

Prince

(should we have just called him Ralis and gotten it over with? ...oh our inspirations)

King Rian and his personal guard have retreated to the throne room to make their last stand. Prince Lachlan is hidden behind the throne, much to his chagrin--he would rather be fighting--but his father insisted. The king is sitting in his throne, preparing for the final struggle.

The doors shudder every time the battering ram hits, finally cracking and giving way. Soldiers swarm in, quickly dispatching the personal guard. The sheer force of numbers overwhelms them. The commander, who they had seen from the ramparts for days, strides in. He's a huge man, with dark skin and long hair. Without a word, he runs his blade through King Rian's chest.

Rian tries to keep his death as quiet as possible so his son won't hear and leave his hiding place, but some noise is inevitable as he perishes.

Commander Mateo chuckles, nodding to two of his guard. They drag Prince Lachlan out from behind the throne.

"There you are, little princeling."

Lachlan struggles wildly--he still hasn't seen his father's body--and jabs with his short sword as much as he can with his arms pinioned.

They take his sword away and kick it across the floor. "Want to kiss your father goodbye?" the commander asks. "He's still twitching."

The prince screams with rage and grief, almost breaking free as the emotion gives him strength, but the older, larger soldiers hold him fast. He sags between them, trying to hide his furious tears.

The commander walks up to him, tilting the younger man's head up by the chin. "Now, what shall we do about your kingdom, little king?"

Lachlan tries to jerk his face away, glowering at his large captor. "My people will never allow you to rule them, no matter what you do to my family," he sneers, trying to sound braver than he feels. I'm not ready to be king, he thinks, sadly.

"I don't really care to rule them. There are two options available to you, boy." Mateo took a few steps away, pushing the dead king out of the throne and sitting down, his feet resting on the back of the dead man. "I can burn your kingdom to the ground and kill everyone in it. Or, you can submit to me and rule your kingdom under my close watch."

"If you don't care to rule them, what do you want? Why are you here?" he asks, carefully looking only at his captor's face, ignoring his father's defiled body for the moment.

"We only want to occupy, to take your resources and live atop the backs of your citizens." he chuckled, taking off his gloves and putting them neatly over the arm of the throne. "Either that, or kill everyone, if we cannot gain control of the people."

Prince Lachlan grinds his teeth, his head bowed as he thinks. Finally, he raises his eyes again. "Alright. I will submit to you, on your oath that my people will go unharmed."

"On my honour." Mateo made a salute that was common to his people, alien to the little Prince. He again nodded to his soldiers. One of them knelt in front of the commander, undoing his armour and breeches. The other guards started to strip Prince Lachlan.

Lachlan's eyes go wide--he isn't sure what's going on, being innocent--but he's certainly humiliated by being stripped. He fights not to blush, eyes stormy. "At least give me a hand free to...cover myself..." he orders the men holding him.

They just grin a little, not responding to him. Another pair of them pick him up by the ankles, carrying him to the throne.

Lachlan's nostrils flare with his angry breaths, but he's quite helpless. He rolls his head from side to side, trying to see what's going on.

He can see the soldier's head bobbing in the commander's lap as the men lower him closer to Mateo. The commander takes his sheathed sword and touches the tip of it to Lachlan's tight opening.

The prince frowns in confusion, not sure what the soldier is doing. Is it some kind of obeisance? Then he feels the sword touching him very inappropriately, and squirms, trying to lift his hips between the men holding him to get away.

Mateo smiles, looking almost contented as he slides the scabbard slowly into the squirming boy. The men push him into the oddly-shaped implement slowly.

Lachlan bites his lip until it's almost bleeding, trying not to cry out. His nails are dug into his palms, and silent tears are running down his cheeks. Finally, he gives a hoarse scream.

Mateo's expression gets more and more pleased as the soldier's head in his lap bobs faster and Lachlan is impaled further. Mateo finally spasms, grasping the hair of the soldier sucking his cock and thrusting the sword out, further into the captured prince. His men keep Lachlan held up until they get another nod from him, pulling him off the sword.

The prince screams again as it's forced deeper, his body shaking with sobs. His mouth and eyes are wide with shock and he shudders violently as the sword is withdrawn, the rough leather stained with his virgin blood.

The men put his feet down, letting him collapse to his knees. "Good." Mateo chuckled. "I'm satisfied with your submission."

Lachlan kneels, shivering, on the rough stone floor, hardly feeling it. Only his royal upbringing keeps him from spitting at the man's feet--or vomiting. As it is, he can only remain motionless, head bowed again.

"Kill him." he waved the men away. They started to drag the naked, bleeding prince out of the room.

"What about your oath?!" the prince screams as he's dragged from the room. "You monster!"

"You have no citizens, boy! A dead prince can rule over nothing!" he laughed, his laugh echoing out of the throne room to follow Lachlan.

Lachlan goes limp, allowing himself to be dragged, shaking with furious, helpless, pained sobs.

There was a whistle of arrows and two of the guards dropped to the ground. The others followed soon after, feathered shafts sticking out of their chests and necks. Lachlan heard footsteps, then felt someone kneeling with him, throwing a riding cape over him. "Your majesty."

Lachlan looks up, weakly. He smiles wearily at his saviour, before collapsing into unconsciousness...

The young man bundles up the prince, throwing him over his shoulder and making his way down to the stables by a quiet route used only by servants. He threw the prince over a horse, mounting behind him and nudging the horse. They rode out almost unnoticed, escaping the breached walls easily and entering the forest.

***

The prince wakes to the mottled sun and shadows of trees, leaves blowing in the summer breeze. He blinks, not remembering why he's so sore and weary.

He realizes that he's naked under the cloak he's wearing. There's a fire not far from him and someone crouching by it.

Lachlan tries to sit up, to see the figure more clearly, only to double over with a groan, feeling as though he's been stabbed low in the gut. The cloak falls aside, revealing his pale, lean young body.

The other man goes to his side, covering him up gently. "How are you feeling, my Prince?" The man leaning over him was about his age, with fair skin and dark hair and eyes. He looked fit and his hands were callused from work.

"Ahhh..." Lachlan gasps, clutching his abdomen. Then he remembers everything in a rush, so powerfully that he's literally knocked back, landing on his butt on the cloak. He cries out as this wounded part of his anatomy hits, and he tries to find a comfortable, dignified position. Finally, he looks up at his rescuer with pained eyes. "I'm fine..." he gasps, obviously lying.

"Here, sir." the man hands him a mug of something steaming. "It should help with the pain." he sat just far enough back that he wouldn't intrude on the prince's space. "I'm Arran."

"Mmm...thank you..." the prince says weakly, taking the drink. His nose wrinkles at the sharp, herbal scent of the drink. "...what is it?" he asks, looking anxious. "...Lachlan..." he says, rather pointlessly.

Arran smiles. "I know, sir. It's a medicinal tea. It should numb the pain and help you heal." he made a helpless gesture. "I'm afraid I can't do anything more."

Lachlan nods meekly. "Thank you." He sips the drink, trying not to grimace at the taste. Sure enough, he soon feels better. When he feels steadier, he begins asking questions. "How did we...how did you rescue me?"

"I shot the men who had you and we escaped on horseback." he nodded to the mare who was grazing a little ways away. "I'm... sorry about your father."

Lachlan nods and heaves a heavy sigh, pushing the thought out of his head, trying to think what to do. "We'll need to raise an army..." he murmurs, overwhelmed and a little foggy from the drink.

"Not until you're better, sir." Arran said firmly, cushioning the prince's head against his thigh and stroking his hair in an effort to help him sleep. "You rest."

"Ah...yes..." he settles in against the thigh. "Will we be safe here for a while? Not to question you...I'm sure you know..." his eyes are rather wide--he's not sure how to defer to the other's experience while still remaining in charge. He finds himself quite relieved by the gentle contact, closing his eyes.

"I'll stand watch until the fire dies down, then nothing can find us until morning. We'll travel more tomorrow if you can manage sitting on a horse, sir." Arran murmured.

Lachlan winces at the thought of his tender, tender anus bouncing along on a horse, but he nods as bravely as he can. "Ah, yes. Of course." He gives a gently dismissive gesture, rather uncertainly.

"We'll see how you feel tomorrow." Arran smiles. Clearly the tea was taking effect and soon the prince was sleeping soundly. Arran stayed awake until the fire died down, then tucked himself into the cloak with the prince to keep the other man warm.