So. Fairies.

[sharpestscalpel]

Because it isn't like I have other things to do, right? I posted the first part here, but I've been updating on AO3 and the kink meme - figured I ought to go ahead and update the rest here as well.



Improper. Impossibly improper. He had carried Charles, his prince, as a baby, had placed him in the care of humans after the slaughter of the royal family had rendered the fey kingdom unsafe. He had sent a companion to watch over the child Charles had grown into. And now, with Charles an adult grown, Erik would help him regain his kingdom, find revenge on those who would steal it from him.

His prince did not yet appear to have a proper lust for revenge but Erik’s would suffice in the meantime.

That was not to say his prince was a stranger to lust. No such luck for Erik, poor Erik, loyal guardian and defender. He had noted the frequent encounters, had noted the lazy loose muscles Charles walked home with after parties, from clubs. Erik was a long-lived creature - he was not so innocent that he could not identify the feeling that surged over his skin whenever he glimpsed his prince’s red mouth.

Erik is equally no stranger to lust.

It is lust that has brought him to this place, the waiting space between fighting their enemies and preparing for another battle, to be naked with his prince in the shower, offering to tend to him like a body servant. Erik is a fighter, has never cared for the cleanliness of another’s flesh with anything more than perfunctory interest.

And his prince will not order him. If Erik is honest, and Erik strives always to be honest with himself in these matters at least, it is that which calls him to Charles like a siren. Charles had taken off his clothes, stood naked like an invitation, and then left Erik to make his own decision.

This is unique in Erik’s experience. The fey are not cruel so much they do not hesitate, do not stop before taking what they want. Charles has learned new ways, and the tension of it has wound Erik so tightly he thinks he might break from it.

The first time Charles tried to kiss him, Erik had frozen, waited for Charles to take what he wanted as was his birthright. Erik had still been dripping with the pale blood of Marko’s soldiers; he would not have fought it. His senses had all been heightened. The second time Charles had tried to kiss him, Erik had parted his lips without thinking, then refused - he could not simply have what he wanted. Charles was his prince. It was not appropriate.

But Erik does want.

The water is hot, steam swirling around them. Erik is all too accustomed to physical discomfort, though he knows the past few days have been difficult for Charles. His prince is used to luxury, to soft things. Erik is hardened and scarred. But he has a deep-hidden desire to be soft for Charles.

His prince is under the water spray, tracks of liquid running over his skin, making it glisten. And so Erik, against his better judgment, takes the soap from Charles and lathers his hands. If Charles will not compel him, well, he will do as requested. Only as requested. Until, perhaps, Charles will ask him for more.

Charles rumbles a bit, a pleased noise, when Erik nudges at him. Charles braces his arms on the clean tile wall in front of him - Erik’s breath rattles in his chest at the sight of it. Charles is short for a prince, but he is made of precious things. His spine is a clean line, straight and vulnerable. His hips are narrow, if a bit soft, a bit suggestive of more carnal pleasures than the simple scrubbing is prepared to give at the moment. Erik holds his breath… and settles one soap-slicked hand against the nape of Charles’s neck.

There. There is nothing to strike Erik down for taking what he should not long for in the first place.

Nothing but the stretch and twist of Charles’s back. Erik steadies his breathing, the way he does while he watches and waits for his prey when he hunts. He ignores his own body, shuts out his responses as unimportant. He brings his other hand to Charles’s shoulder, smoothes soap suds across the breadth before dipping down to count each vertebrae.

“You’ve got very nice hands.” Charles sounds pleased, lax with the heat surrounding them. It’s very different from his usual speaking voice. It feels private, personal. Charles presses back into the span of Erik’s palms.

One of Charles’s hands leaves the wall - the motion of his shoulder blade catches Erik’s eye just enough that it takes him a moment to realize what Charles is doing.

His prince is touching himself.

This is, Erik supposes, the way nature pays him back for desiring his prince. He digs his fingers into Charles’s sides, a reflexive grip as he tries to decide: should he leave Charles to his orgasm? The action is answer enough - he will curse himself for it later but for now he will remain and watch what he is allowed to see.

“Oh, that’s nice, keep touching me, if you don’t mind.” Charles sounds half breathless already.

He does not have a vantage point but Erik does have an imagination. He saw Charles flaccid with cold and discomfort - but now Charles is hard, curved up toward his belly and flushed with arousal. The motion of his shoulder gives Erik some idea of his pace, the tempo of his strokes, but speaks nothing of how hard Charles grips himself.

Erik drags his fingers down, presses deep into the muscles along side Charles spine, He lets his nails leave red weals and feels daring for even so temporary a marking. His head comes up when Charles chokes - but it is not the spray of the water that has stolen Charles’s breath. His prince leans back, rests more weight on Erik’s hands. “Closer, come closer to me, won’t you watch?”

It’s a question - there is room for Erik to refuse. Instead, he steps closer, so close that his own hardness presses against the valley of Charles’s ass - it is Erik’s turn to gasp. There is no space between them now, the soap still on Charles’s skin slicking the contact of back and chest. Erik does not know what to do with his hands.

He settles on fluttering them down to Charles’s hip bones, just rests them there. And he looks over Charles’s shoulder.

“Fuck, oh, fuck.” Charles throws his head back, and now Erik has a clear line of sight, down to where Charles is gripping himself, the plump head of his cock disappearing and reappearing in the tight ring of his fingers.

Erik would like to touch for himself. Erik would like to taste the fluid seeping from the slit of his prince’s cock. But Charles hasn’t asked for any of that so he stays as he is, stays silent because if he speaks, he will weep from how much he wants his prince.

There is no one thing that makes his prince come - Charles has not varied his rhythm or his technique. But, quite suddenly it seems to Erik, Charles is there, body tensing in the circle of Erik’s arms. He strokes himself through it, each jolt of semen washed away by the constant pressure of the shower around them.

It seems like such a waste to Erik. If he were his prince’s consort, Charles could mark him with his come… That was a foolish thought. He was his prince’s guard and even this was overstepping boundaries.

Charles shudders and slowly stills. Erik waits until he was sure his prince can stand on his own; Erik’s will is all that keeps him from begging for what he wants. When he steps back, his legs are shaky with self-restraint.

“You need to rinse your back, my prince. You’ll itch if the soap dries.” Erik ignores that his voice is shaky as well.

***

The food is still warm when Charles, dressed in dark jeans and a turtleneck that is slightly too large for him, joins Erik at the table. He’s physically relaxed, there’s no denying that. But his mind is spinning. Erik had climbed in the shower with him, had been naked in the shower with him, had touched Charles in the shower with his bare hands.

Maybe things worked differently in Erik’s fairy world, but in Charles’s experience, when a man did something like that… Well. Erik had been aroused - Charles wasn’t hallucinating the erection that had been pressed up tight against his ass. He just hadn’t expected Erik to leave the shower without doing something about it.

Charles slumps down in his seat. It’s entirely possible, Charles thinks, that he’s just crossed over a line he’s always taken very seriously. So, he resolves, no more. It doesn’t matter that Erik’s breath on his neck had made Charles come harder than he has in ages. It doesn’t matter, because an erection doesn’t mean Erik wants Charles to touch him.

“I want to apologize to you.” Charles can say it, but he can’t quite look at Erik’s face when he does. Instead, he looks at the fork beside his plate. Shiny and clean. “I think I’ve made you uncomfortable.” Charles thinks he’s actually made Erik unwillingly witness Charles jerking off but he can’t quite make himself say that.

Erik pauses, and Charles has to bite his lip. Erik has a fork in his right hand. But he’s raising a chunk of red meat to his mouth with the knife in his left hand. For all Erik looks like a man Charles would pick up for a quick fuck, Erik isn’t human. And Charles needs to remember that.

“My prince?” Erik’s hair is still damp. He had stepped back from Charles, waited for Charles to rinse himself. Then Erik had fetched towels - all without a word. “I’m dry, on ground I can defend, and soon to be well fed.” Erik offers a small, toothy smile. “I am far from uncomfortable.”

His teeth look sharp. Charles shivers, though he’s far from cold now. Charles dares it this time, looks at the grey-green eyes. “I meant earlier. In the shower.”

Because he is looking, Charles sees the light that moves through Erik’s eyes. “In the shower, my prince? I was not uncomfortable there either.” Erik returns his attention to his meal, but stops again, looks up through his lashes at Charles. He has long lashes, that shouldn’t be so dark. “You asked and I… answered as I saw fit.”

Charles is far from stupid. His parents - his human parents, as opposed to his murdered and betrayed fey parents - had not known quite how to love him but they had certainly made sure he was well schooled. Charles has intelligence and education but Charles does not think he can unravel everything that Erik means by his answer in the space of one meal. Especially not when the sight of Erik chewing, the way his throat works, is enough to make Charles want things. He wants Erik to do things for him. He wants Erik to join him in his next shower and he wants Erik to dry him instead of simply handing him the towel.

“I meant it when I said I wouldn’t order you. You don’t have to do anything just because I ask you to.” Charles’s mouth waters. He hasn’t eaten all day. But it’s important, it’s vital beyond his own comprehension, that Erik understands.

There is water in the wine glasses. Erik sips, his long fingers cupped around the bell of the glass. “I will do what I am ordered to do, unless it compromises your safety, my prince. But if I am asked to do something I do not wish to do, I will say no.”

It makes Charles’s mouth go dry, the way Erik hands him so much power. And the casualness of it jars him, makes him accept, in a way he has not done until this very moment, that Erik really does regard Charles as his ruler. Erik will do anything Charles orders. Anything but allow harm to come to Charles. Erik has already fought off attackers and put himself in the way of harm.

What else would Erik do for Charles? What is Charles supposed to do in the face of that kind of loyalty and dedication?

He can only trust it. A tension he has only been half aware of eases in his shoulders. Erik says he will say no - but he joined Charles in the shower and agreed to wash his back. Charles asked him to do that. What else has Charles asked him? Charles replays their shared shower, tries not to shift in his chair at the memory.

Closer - he’d asked Erik to come closer and watch. And Erik had done so, had pressed them together back to front, hands on Charles’s hips. And if he had not wanted to do it, Erik would have said no.

Charles digs into his meal. Raven has always told him that hunger makes for gourmet sauce, and he finally understands what she means.

***

After dinner, which is quiet and easy after Charles ceases with his ridiculous... apologies, Erik goes to the kitchen. There is a fancy silver serving tray in one cupboard. It has never actually been used for tea, though there is a matching tea set. Charles has followed Erik, and the weight of his curious blue eyes makes Erik itchy between his shoulder blades.

Erik puts the tray on the counter, then fills the silver teapot with water from the tap. He puts the teapot on the counter next to the tray and looks at Charles. "I need to speak with someone. It would be best if you did not say anything." He isn't sure Charles should be here for this but even in the safety of this apartment, Erik is not comfortable leaving Charles alone while magic is being worked.

Charles nods. Erik counts a few heartbeats, just to underscore his seriousness - time measured by the body is meaningful. But Charles only nods again.

The tray is highly polished, even straight from the cupboard - there is no telling the last time it was used. Erik wipes it with a cloth anyway. "Turn off the lights, please."

If Charles wonders why Erik needs him to flip something so simple as a light switch - if Charles wonders why there is even a light switch in an enchanted place - he does not ask. Instead, he follows the instruction. Erik lets out a slow breath. It is cheating to command his prince. When Charles has taken his place as king, Erik will no doubt be punished for it. But right now it is heady to lead him in these small things.

And, it occurs to Erik, Charles actually does not know these things. Raised by humans, with only watered down fairy stories, Charles is... innocent. Erik puts the teapot he has just picked up down with a thump. Charles does not know.

The apologies make more sense now. Erik has spent time with humans, enough to know they have different laws of consent. Charles must think he has done Erik a wrong. Erik worries at his bottom lip, enough to draw a single drop of blood. He stops, though, at the touch of Charles's hand to his arm.

"What are you doing? You've hurt yourself." A human would not be able to see in the dark kitchen. But Charles has seen the glistening redness on Erik mouth. Erik wonders if Charles has ever tasted blood.

"It's a little hurt. Nothing to think of." Erik moves, slow and easy, to bring a finger to his lip. He smears the blood on the silver tray; it isn't required but it's best to use what he has spilt. And it will strengthen the connection. "If you would, my prince, retrieve the water for me." He is curious now, what Charles will do.

Charles lifts the teapot from the counter and brings it to Erik. Their hands brush when Erik takes it from him. There is a spark of something between them. Erik thinks the water will be warmer than it was out of the tap. But he pours with a steady hand, until a thick inch of water has pooled across the surface of the tray. And when he is done, when his eyes glint in the reflection off the silver surface under the water, he speaks again.

"Frost Queen, I am calling you." He needs to pay attention - it is not wise to be relaxed when calling the Frost Queen - but there is a part of his mind taken up with noticing: when the water lights up and casts a frigid winter dawn into the kitchen, Charles looks blue and red and white, like a blessing child in the snow.

The scrying mirror brightens even more - and a woman appears. Her expression is bored but her eyes are fierce, her true self behind a mask. The Lady Emma Frost, first consort to Shaw of the Dark Court. Erik's uneasy ally.

"Tell me good tidings, my rebellious child." Emma is older than Erik, and she reminds him of it at every meeting.

Erik chuckles, and it is not a nice sound, full of ground glass and brambles. He can see Charles flinch from it. "I have retrieved our wayward prince, Frost Queen. Will you keep to your end of our bargain and guarantee our safe passage?"

If Emma has reason to renege on their agreement, Erik will claim a boon from her at a later date. He is strong, and he trusts in his strength. But Emma is crafty. Better to play a long game of negotiation with her than ever to confront her. And if Emma has reason, Erik is certain it is good reason. Crossing Shaw's territory is always a risk; it will be doubly so when he is escorting his prince.

One day, Erik will bleed Shaw out into the snow. One day, Erik will hold Shaw's life in his hands, and he will crush it. The same way Shaw crushed the life in Erik's mother.

But this is not that day. And Erik will live a very long time. This day is for his prince. One revenge at a time.

If he has an idle fantasy of his prince helping him to crush his enemy, well, that is Erik's business, to be mulled over in the privacy of his bower.

Emma's smile is a match for Erik's laugh, rose thorns tangled in tempting blonde curls. "He is not my prince, little wolf one. I will keep to my own court for now." She leans closer to the mirror, close enough that Erik thinks she might reach out from the water and touch him. "Take him by the dark road, take him by night. My hounds will guard the path." Emma snaps her teeth at Erik, an old joke between them. "Don't give them reason to hunt you, dearling."

There are more eyes on him than Emma's eyes; Charles is staring. By rights, he should not be able to see Emma in the water. But Erik thinks he does, thinks Charles's own power is lighting the mirror enough for Charles to act as witness. The way Charles widens his eyes at Emma's endearment is a distraction - Erik thinks he should have held Charles further back.

Emma's smile changes. There is seduction in the curve of her pink mouth, all gentle bedroom smiles. Erik can still see the ice in her irises, but only because he has known her for so long, learned her tricks at her feet. "Hello there, little prince."

Charles startles. But instead of stepping back, as Erik might have expected, he leans forward, close to Erik's side. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, of course." Erik might also expect that to be a lie, but Charles has met everything over the past three days with an affable enthusiasm. Out of the way of the mirror, Charles presses a shaking hand to Erik's thigh, grips the fabric of his trousers.

The bird song of Emma's laughter is delighted. "Oh, he is darling. I see what your humans have turned him into." Emma does not like humans - she has a history with them that Erik can only guess at. But she had agreed with him, at the time. There is not yet a true accounting of what they have wrought, giving their royalty over as a changeling.

Charles raises an eyebrow, as though he is Emma's equal, allowed to question her. And, Erik thinks, he is. "And what is that, Frost Queen?"

She does not often face questions. The water in the mirror turns crystal at the edges, touched by her power. "You'll discover it in time, little prince. For the sake of my little tooth snapper, I will hope you discover it soon." She dismisses Charles with her gaze alone; it is clear she cannot see him. "The dark road, Erik. Track fast and safe."

They do not say farewells. Erik nods, and watches as the rest of the water freezes over, ice forming until Emma's image is obscured.

The fingers at his thigh flex in the fabric, squeeze tight and then release. Erik can feel the phantom presence of Charles's touch, even through denim. "She's... interesting."

That is one way to put it. "She is dangerous. And treacherous. And she has secured a way for us. Sleep deep tonight, my prince. We'll have a long road tomorrow night." Erik will not sleep. He will watch over Charles. And if he entertains himself with fantasies, well. His mind is still his own.

***

That hadn’t been creepy at all. Except for how it really really had been. Charles isn’t sure he ever wants to meet the Frost Queen in person.

But he’s also fascinated. Because the Frost Queen is gorgeous and she calls Erik dearling, like Erik belongs to her. There’s a fierce tide of possessiveness that rises in Charles’s throat at that thought, that grips him high up under his chin where his jaw hinges. He’s not sure what to name it - it’s a new feeling. Charles has had plenty of possessions, has owned many things. But the only time he’s felt anything resembling this jealous half-madness was as a very young child - when Raven had come to him, when he had found her in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

He had never slept well. His bedroom was far enough from the kitchen that the noise should not have woken up - but he had crept on small child feet, convinced he would find someone there. And he had - Raven, crouched over a broken plate that she had knocked from a shelf. And in the morning, he had introduced her to his parents as his sister, with no idea why he called her that other than that it was true.

In hindsight, it ought to surprise him that his parents had accepted it. Surely most parents, no matter how distant, would not simply welcome a strange child into the family. His parents had done so, as though in a daze, and Charles had accepted it as the right way of things.

Charles suspects he should ask Erik about this… but isn’t sure he will like the answer. Charles suspects there are many answers he isn’t going to like - it is increasingly evident that, yes, what Erik said was true. Casual belief is one thing; experiencing it for himself is something else entirely - though Charles is not entirely sure yet what the right words are to describe it. They are trekking into another world, sideways from the way Charles grew up. And he doesn't know the rules.

The rules - there is something he is missing when it comes to Erik. The man was very precise - he will do as ordered, he will make his choices when given a choice… There is obviously some kind of difference in significance. Charles has never been ordered.

He yawns and burrows deeper against the couch cushions. There is a bedroom. In fact, there are two bedrooms. But he is reluctant to leave Erik; the living room is comfortable enough for them both. “Is she your lover?” he cannot help but ask the question. It is a whisper; it is also a burning brand in his throat that Erik might belong to someone else.

Erik sits in the leather chair he hid behind earlier in the evening. Charles would like to smell the leather layered with Erik’s scent. That’s a new thought. He focuses on Erik’s mouth when Erik speaks, considering. “The Frost Queen belongs to Shaw, the Summer Knight. When he found me as a child, he placed me into her care.” Erik’s words are stilted. There is a story there, Charles thinks.

“So she was like a mother to you?” Something about the woman in the water makes Charles think of insects that eat their mates. He’s not sure he trusts her to know about maternal boundaries. Especially maternal boundaries about nakedness. And genitals.

It takes Charles a moment to realize - the snort that Erik gives is a laugh. “If you must make human comparisons, think of her as an older sister.” That’s not as reassuring as it probably should be. “She has never compelled me in anything.”

That’s interesting. And disquieting. “No compulsions. And what choices has she given you?”

The leather creaks as Erik shifts. “She gave me the choice to leave their court.” His voice has dropped until Charles has to strain to hear him. “She gave me the choice to live.”

A story there indeed. One day, Charles will hear it. But Erik doesn’t look eager to tell that tale. And, it has not escaped Charles’s notice, Erik has not answered his question. The jealousy rises like bile in his mouth, a foreign flavor. Charles doesn't like it. And something else makes no sense to him. "Wait. You said you served my parents. How did that happen if you grew up in, um, the Summer Court? Is that what it's called?"

Erik sighs and, with a slight gesture, lowers the lights. It's harder to see his expression in the artificial twilight. "Shaw is the Summer Knight, but he rules the Dark Court. Your parents, and now you, my prince, rule the Light Court."

Fairy politics are evidently far more complicated than Charles gave them credit for. And Erik isn't giving him much to go on. Charles has no idea what he's going to do about this ruling notion, because Erik has mentioned it a few times, but he can work with this. "If I'm to rule, don't you think I need to know?” Manipulative but….

Charles refuses to feel guilty about the way Erik’s mouth narrows. “You have other advisors than me, my prince.” It’s not a denial. Charles could push, he knows he could, and the whole sordid tale would come spilling out. And Erik might very well hate him for it. Charles doesn’t know how he knows, but if he uses this casual shadowy moment of comfort between them to make Erik do something he doesn’t want to do, he’ll lose the man entirely.

Not entirely - he’ll lose the man’s choices.

Charles is beginning to see the shape of it, at least part of the way Erik lives. And, he realizes, he wants Erik’s choice more than he wants his curiosity satisfied. At least for the moment. He’ll try a different tack to get his information. And in the meantime…. Well, Charles has other questions.

“Fair enough.” He sits up, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Charles is used to things, to people, being easy. He’s always been pursued. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Erik?”

That’s rather vague, he knows. Erik can interpret it as a desire to ask him more about the fairy political situation, or more about the history they seem to share.

The leather creaks again. Charles has seen Erik sit entirely still, so still that Charles was not sure if he was breathing, for hours on end while he waits. This fidgeting is uncharacteristic. Erik fumbles his words. “You, you are asking if you may ask me things?”

“I realize it’s a bit silly.” It is nothing of the sort. “I was just thinking of our… previous conversation. At dinner.” He’s been thinking of the shower as well, so Charles lets a little of that creep into his voice.

“That’s not a question, my prince.” Erik’s voice is a rumble, like a deep subway train under Charles’s feet. “But you may ask me what you will.”

He’ll take that sort of blanket permission any day. “You said you weren’t uncomfortable with me, in the shower.” Charles had been so hard, and having Erik’s hands on him had made Charles quiver in his gut. “How did you feel?”

Charles may be young yet, in many ways, but he’s not so young that he hasn’t learned the value of asking a direct question. Particularly a question with such a potentially interesting answer.

He can hear Erik swallow. He files the sound away for further contemplation at a later date if Erik refuses him.

“My prince…” Erik is hesitant in the same way he’d been tentative asking if Charles would order him. “I felt…” Erik shifts again, until Charles wishes he were the leather of the chair. “I felt an arousal of my interest in you.”

Cheering would be counterproductive, Charles is quite certain. But he can’t help the note of domineering triumph in his voice. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

***

If Erik could flee the apartment, or even just the living room, he would do so now. Turn tail and run back to hide behind Emma’s cold satin skirts. His face is hot and Charles is looking at him, watching him with blue eyes gone cold with power - Erik wonders if Charles even knows he’s doing it, if Charles has any clue just how much sway he holds over those who are weak of will.

Erik is not weak of will - nor is he entirely immune to the snap of compulsion there, even cushioned behind Charles’s question. And he can say no, he can - Erik has power of his own. It’s just… so much sweeter to answer, to give in to the little thread of want that he has been unable to break since he climbed into Charles’s shower.

“My prince,” and Erik looks up through his eyelashes at the man on the sofa, so close within his reach, “I believe they have called it that for quite some number of years.”

Arousal, an interest in another’s body. Hunger for touch, for taste - for the sense knowledge of another person. He has seen the look of Charles, felt the slide of Charles’s hipbones under his palms. And Erik would like to know more, if he’s asked for it, if he’s given it.

More than that, he would like Charles to see him, to know Erik for what he is. That’s terrifying. Erik cloaks himself in propriety.

But it’s an ineffective shield against Charles’s laugh, the curve of plush mouth and the choke of laughter. “Oh, Erik, you surprise me in the best possible ways.” Charles stands, takes the few steps needed to put him there in the space between Erik’s legs, though there is still enough distance between them to be decent. Chaste. “If your… interest in my body was aroused, why didn’t you touch me?”

Charles is very direct - a human habit, Erik thinks. He spares a moment to wonder how it will serve Charles as a ruler; surely it will catch his enemies and allies both unawares. They are prone to misdirection, Erik’s kind, but rarely do they outright lie. Erik is tempted but… no, he will tell the truth.

Erik spreads his legs a little to make more space, invite Charles closer if his prince wishes closeness. “You did not ask it of me.” If his prince had asked it, Erik would have licked every wet centimeter of revealed skin, dried Charles with his mouth instead of offering a towel.

The unspoken invitation is clear enough - Charles steps closer until his trousers brush the tension of Erik’s inner thighs. The denim is thick but Erik feels the contact as though he is naked. No, he thinks - if he were naked, the brief touch would have ignited him completely.

“And if I asked to touch you instead?” Charles asks as though it is a completely usual request. As though he requires permission and actually wished for it to be granted.

And Erik’s heart all but stops.

He has thought about touching his prince - improper enough a thing to dwell on - but so far he has imagined only how he would direct Erik to please Charles. Not because he thinks Charles would be selfish but because… Erik has a long life of experience - he knows how couplings progress when royalty is involved.

“If you asked to touch me? Why would ask for that which is yours by right?” Charles is his prince. Charles can have whatever he wants. And, a rebellious voice in Erik’s mind mutters, Erik wants Charles to have whatever he wants.

The finger that touches Erik’s cheek is a shock, more than Erik was expecting. He looks up and finds that Charles has bent down while Erik was lost in his own thought - Charles is very near now, and his eyes are holding Erik in place. “It’s like we’re having two conversations at once, isn’t it?” There’s a sharp edge to Charles’s smile, and Erik will cut his mouth on it if he isn’t cautious. “I think you mean things I don’t know about yet. But you also mean you want me.”

Erik’s lips part under the tip of Charles’s finger. He wants to lick and feel the edge of Charles’s fingernail with his tongue. Instead, he licks his lips, catches the merest salt of skin. “I told you I will say no if you ask for something I do not wish for.” Erik is usually more careful with his wishes but he doesn’t think he will ever have a chance like this again.

“May I kiss you?” Charles leans closer, closer still until his question kisses Erik’s forehead, an exhale and then the shifting air pressure between them. Erik can only nod, frozen as surely as Emma freezes everything around her.

This is the third time Charles has kissed him and, Erik thinks, the third time is most assuredly the charm. He parts his lips before Charles can request it. Erik is over eager, and his lack of restraint makes his ears burn. But Charles is pressing that red mouth to his own, gentle but relentless until Erik can feel his own teeth against Charles’s lower lip.

Charles tastes like the after dinner coffee they had found brewed in the kitchen when Erik carried their empty dishes to the sink. Dark and slightly bitter, enough to make his taste distinct and interesting. Erik grips the arms of his chair so he will not grab and demand and take.

“Lovely.” Charles whispers it against the corner of Erik’s mouth, then nips, hard enough for Erik to shift in his seat. “And did you enjoy that?” His expectant air is clear; Charles is waiting for an answer.

***

There is a deep quivering in Charles’s belly, the same kind of feeling he had defending his phd, the same kind of feeling he had the first time he’d been sucked off in the bathroom at a pub. It’s the feeling that comes when he’s doing something other people think he ought not do - and it always ends well for him. It isn’t, as his mother has accused him, that he thinks the rules do not apply to him. It’s that, well, they so often don’t no matter what Charles thinks.

Charles leaves his fingertip resting against the center of Erik’s lower lip when he straightens back up, while he waits for an answer. Erik’s mouth is surprisingly generous when the man is relaxed - or at least when Erik is not compressing his mouth into a disapproving line of concentration and self-denial. Charles thinks Erik will have a wide and striking smile, if it’s ever given unfeigned.

If Erik is to break eye contact, he will see - Charles makes no effort to hide the bulge of his erection and, standing while Erik is sitting, it will be rather an unavoidable topic of discussion.

Erik blinks and leaves his eyes closed; Charles can see the motion of his throat as he swallows. The skin of his eyelids is fine and soft looking, slightly wrinkled. Charles wants to put his tongue there.

“Yes.” It’s heated by Erik’s breath, a whispered confession like Erik thinks he will get in trouble for it.

Charles has almost forgotten his question - almost but not quite. And Erik’s admission is an excellent reminder. “What else would you enjoy?” It’s more open ended than his other questions have been, but Charles thinks this is a good time to take a small risk. It’s obvious that Erik is bound by things Charles doesn’t understand at the moment. That’s okay - Charles will figure it out. Just… he’ll figure it out later. When he doesn’t have Erik under his finger, pulse fluttering in his neck right below his ear no matter how controlled Erik keeps his breathing.

The flush is high on Erik’s cheeks - the room is dark but the firelight is enough for Charles to see the flare of red. How hard it must be for Erik to ask for what he wants - Charles almost startles at the thought. Still, backing down will profit neither of them.

Erik opens his eyes and Charles wants to sink down into the man’s lap at the fearful heat there. “I would enjoy more kissing, my prince.” His gaze skitters off to the fire. “And perhaps it would be enjoyable to provide you with service.”

He doesn’t even know what that means and Charles still goes hard at the thought of it.

Think, Charles - and it’s more difficult to think than the situation really warrants, probably, because both of them still have on all of their clothes and his mind should be clearer. Erik has continually deferred to Charles. And then there’s the distinction between orders and asking, even though Charles is more than familiar with orders that are couched in terms of questions and suggestions. Erik’s been curiously unwilling to initiate anything, even if only to take care of his own erection in the shower.

It’s more than submission. Though submission alone would be enough to explain the speed with which Charles leans forward again, back into Erik’s personal space to take his mouth in a kiss that is not gentle or exploratory. More kissing, Erik said. And this is an experiment, a trial in teeth and wetness.

Erik gives under Charles’s demand.

Charles is crawling into the chair, straddling Erik’s lap before he is consciously aware of making the decision to move; his body knows these steps, how best to achieve what Charles wants. He pulls back, not even an inch. “Is this okay?”

His answer is nothing but a sharp nod. Erik doesn’t lean in for another kiss; instead he waits, head tilted and lips open in invitation. This close, his eyes are clear and faceted, salt crystals in a deep cave. Charles wants to curse in frustration but it’s confirmation and, at his heart, Charles is a scientist gratified by an experiment’s result. He doesn’t know the right question to ask yet, and in the meantime… Charles can work with this.

In fact, he wants this, fiercely and suddenly: Erik will say yes until he wants to say no, and Charles can ask for anything.

It’s a physical pain to pull back, to stand up. His cock is aching despite his wank in the shower. Charles has every confidence Erik will make it up to him, though. He stands up, backs up, collapses back into the sofa cushions. Erik’s face is pure distress.

“It’s all fine, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Charles’s mouth feels bruised, just enough that he’s aware the shape each word makes. “I want to ask you another question.”

Erik has kept a hold of the chair’s arms, knuckles white through it all. Charles looks at the long fingers, notes the scars and the slightly crooked joints. The silence stretches between them until Erik nods, relaxes his grip. “Of course you may ask, my prince.” His voice is rasping.

Charles stretches his legs out, adjusts himself so the rough seam of his jeans doesn’t press quite so painfully. “Will you be able to say no if I tell you to do something?” That isn’t quite right. “Will you say no if I tell you to do something sexual right now?”

The shiver that moves Erik’s shoulders is a small thing. But it tells Charles his answer before Erik can find his voice again. Still, the answer is worth the wait. “I will not want to, my prince.”

It’s like something out of a dark fantasy - or a porn film. Charles will be careful, he promises himself. He won’t take advantage of the situation.

“Take off your trousers. Let me see.” Well, he won’t take too much advantage.

***

Erik’s entire body is cold. No, actually, he’s on fire, flames licking up from the hearth across the room and engulfing every ounce of his flesh, every pound. His hands move without conscious thought to the buckle of his belt, the thrill of cool metal - and how can it be cool to the touch when the whole room is ablaze? - like a balm to his fingers. He has fought many enemies; he has slain them all and stood his ground firm after the battle. But now Erik isn’t sure he can stand. He unfastens his pants and, instead of standing up, raises his hips as best he can on weak legs to shove the bunched fabric down his thighs. Good that he had not put on shoes, he thinks, and bites back an hysterical laugh.

He is not in the habit of wearing underwear - they are a human thing and Erik, though he has spent his time among them, has little use for the conventions of human clothing that don’t appeal to him aesthetically. Underwear look silly.

Not that he spares much energy for worrying about how he looks - Erik uses his bone structure like another weapon when he is called upon to do so. It is enough that his prince likes the look of him - sitting in this chair wearing only a black turtleneck is as comfortable as wearing nothing at all. Though, from the way Charles’s eyes move from his naked legs to his clothed chest, perhaps Charles likes the contrast.

Charles wants to see - Erik swings one pale leg over the arm of his chair.

It feels like a game now, though he’s exposed in a way that ought to make him uncomfortable, all vulnerability and defenseless undercarriage on display for his prince. Instead, it makes him aware of how very hard he is. After the shower, he had retreated to the second bedroom to find clean clothes - Erik had sat on the edge on that bed, nails digging into his palms until his erection had subsided.

If he were under his own power, Erik would rub the flat of his fingers down the middle of his chest, over plane of his belly between his hip bones, through the thatch of dark pubic hair that curls like a thicket around the base of his cock. He would curl those fingers around himself, touch soft and slow with an easy stroke, punctuated by thumb rubbing over his slit. He would move his other hand, stoke the inside of one thigh with nails digging in just enough to make it feel like he was doing something wrong.

But he is not under his own power. Erik is under Charles’s power so he sits with legs splayed wide and lets Charles look his fill, waits for whatever Charles will ask of him. It feels like his blood is honey thick and warm, straight from the hive on a sunny afternoon. He had wondered, before he spoke to Emma, if Charles had ever tasted blood; now he wonders if Charles would like to. Erik will taste sweet for him, so sweet and rich.

Charles is looking at him with navy blue eyes - watching with midnight thoughts the same color as the hollows at the base of the Deeps. Erik wants to know what’s casting those shadows. He can be patient for it. Charles shifts on the sofa, tugs a bit at his inseam; Erik watches Charles watch him.

“Do you have a home, Erik?” Charles’s voice is calm, almost soothing - it eases the tightness that is creeping up Erik’s throat. “Do you have a soft bed somewhere safe and secret where you lie naked and lazy?”

The question makes Erik shiver. His bower is closely-guarded, even from those he trusts in the small ways he trusts other people. Emma has never been there - Shaw would use it against them both if she had knowledge of his little hide-away. But his bed is an indulgence, a cozy retreat worthy of any princess stolen away. It’s the bit of luxury he allows himself, and Erik is always aware that it can be taken from him in an instant.

What should he do with his hands? The question is now a refrain. He settles on letting them rest on the arms of the chair, conscious of the way he had clung to them to hold himself in place. “I do have a haven, my prince.” He braces for what the next question must surely be, fights the wave of obedience washing over him. Charles will ask where it is, will ask if Erik will take him there. And Erik must say no.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Charles smiles - and then curls up on the sofa as though he’s watching something particularly interesting on television. “Show me how you touch yourself when you’re there.”

Oh. The request strikes Erik harder then it might otherwise have - he has his refusal ready behind his teeth and now he must swallow it back. He must because he wants this, needs to do Charles’s bidding in this thing. “May I remove my shirt?” At Charles’s nod, he reaches behind his head to grasp the fabric of his shirt - he feels the muscles of his back and shoulders shift as he shrugs out of the shirt, pulls it over his head. Erik drops the turtleneck onto the floor beside his seat, a dark puddle on the dark carpet.

He considers… then Erik licks the three middle fingers of his right hand, leaves his palm dry. He sets the tips of them between his collarbones, and then Erik drags the slickness down over his chest, a cool trail that makes his skin prickle with sensation just from the slight movement of the air. He pauses between his pectorals, considers detouring to his nipples. A glance at Charles offers no encouragement one way or another - though it is encouraging. Charles has propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin is propped in his hand, wrist bent like a broken wing. The weight of his regard is a physical pressure, stroking against Erik’s nakedness.

Perhaps, by the end of the night, he will smell of Charles. It’s a satisfying thought - and it makes Erik sneak his other hand up to pinch at the pebbled center of one nipple. His spit-damp fingers crawl downwards until he circles the rim of his navel and pauses again, teasing - though he isn’t sure if he’s teasing himself or Charles. When he is alone, he can be slow; Erik likes slow.

But he likes fast as well. So Erik scratches his nails across his skin, tugs at the trail of hair that thickens at his groin. And then he bites his lip because his fingers are finally touching his cock, sliding in a loose grip to stroke from head to base and then back up to just under the flare of the glans. He nudges his foreskin up over the head - and that’s the end of his restraint. Erik hisses out his breath through his bared teeth, moans soft at his own decadence.

Erik has seen humans with cold steel rings piercing through their flesh - he thinks of the bite of it, the sting that would sit in his nipples if he did such a thing. The imagined pain adds a fine counterpoint to the rasp of his dry palm. He keeps his grip light - no need to rush, no hurry that leads to uncomfortable chaffing, heated skin roughed by too much friction. No, this is waking up early in the morning when there is no claim upon his time. This is the rare kindness and care that he shows himself infrequently because he cannot let himself be spoiled, he must always be ready for danger and action.

His toes clench and relax in time with his strokes. Erik stretches out the leg he has flung over the chair’s arm, just to feel the flex of his knee, the near cramp of his calf. He curls the toes of his other foot into the thick weave of the carpet, fine fibers against sensitive skin.

It’s not easy to ignore Charles - in point of fact, Erik is aware with an exquisite yearning that Charles is so close, well within reach. He is not doing this for himself, no matter how much it pleases him. He is doing this for Charles’s pleasure, because Charles told him to do it - this is in service to Charles.

A body servant Erik will never be but it seems he can pretend to some of the role after all. He will be proud of himself later - or at least he will marvel that Charles has the power to make this happen. His back arches and he feels the tightness at the base of his spine that heralds the climb to inevitable orgasm.

Charles folds his arm, moves his chin to the back of his forearm. He is a small bundle of man, now, curled up like a banner Erik would very much like to unfurl. “If you were in your bed, would you keep touching yourself like this? If you were in your bed, would you make yourself come?” His voice is deeper and rougher - it’s the private voice he had used to compliment Erik’s hands when Erik washed his back.

It’s harder to find his words than he thinks it will be - Erik wonders about his word order. “My prince, yes, I would. I will.” He flexes his leg again, feels the pull up into his hip and arches into it. What is he promising? He’s not even sure, though he’s equally unsure that Charles will recognize the promise for what it is.

The hum that Charles gives is a feline sound, a rumble that slinks across the distance between them and winds itself around Erik’s ankles. “I’m glad you showed me, Erik. But now I want you to stop.” His smile is beautiful. “Put your hands back on the arm rests, please.” Charles’s smile is beautiful, and Erik wants to cry. He wants to cry, but he does what Charles tells him; he has no desire to say no.