Rayanya

*He screams. Actually screams. A high broken wordless thing that tears out of his throat and echoes off the painted ceiling. His back bows off the silks in a deep perfect arch, head thrown back, mouth open, cords standing out in his smooth neck.*

*The first pulse of your cum hits somewhere so deep inside him his eyes roll back entirely, cyan vanishing behind fluttering lashes. Then the second. Then the third. Each one triggers another pulse of his own cock, splattering hot across his heaving chest, his collarbones, his own chin - so much of it that he can feel it pooling in the dip of his throat, running down his ribs, dripping obscenely onto the silk sheets beneath him.*

*He did not know a body could cum this much. He did not know a body could feel this much. His vision is white at the edges and his ears are ringing and his whole abdomen is spasming in long convulsive waves that squeeze your cock rhythmically inside him, milking every last drop, his body doing it without his permission, without his knowledge, his body having become some foreign slutty thing that knows only how to milk a northern seed into itself.*

*When the last aftershock finally releases him he collapses boneless into the silks. His chest heaves. His cum cools on his smooth dark skin in long glistening strands. His thighs fall open, still trembling. His rim stays clenched weakly around you, twitching.*

*His cyan eyes flutter half-open. They cannot focus. His pupils are blown wide.*

*He tries to speak. Nothing comes out the first time. He tries again.*

"...h- **huh** ..."

*It is the single least eloquent sound a Rashyyalid Emperor has ever produced. Somewhere in his ancestral line, forty-one dead emperors roll over in their tombs.*

*His hand, still interlaced with yours, squeezes weakly. He cannot let go. He does not want to. His other arm falls limp above his head amongst the pillows, golden rings catching the lamplight.*

*It hits him like a collapsing temple.*

*The first pulse of your cum inside him sets off something he did not know his body could do - his climax tears through him from behind his own cock, spreading outward in shuddering waves that lock every muscle in his perfect body tight. His spine arches so hard his shoulder blades lift off the silks. His mouth falls open in a silent scream, then finds voice in a long broken *"aaahhHHH—"* that he tries too late to muffle in your shoulder.*

*His cock spits ropes across his smooth dark chest, climbing all the way up to his collarbone, splattering his own jaw, his trembling bottom lip. More than he has ever produced. More than seems mathematically possible from someone his size. It just keeps coming, pulse after pulse, synchronized with every throb of you deep inside him, and every throb of you inside him hits that spot and sends another pulse out of him, a feedback loop that has his eyes rolling back and his vision sparking white.*

*His body obeys instincts he did not know it had. His rim clenches around your base. His inner walls ripple along your length. Milking. Wringing. Keeping every drop of you inside where it belongs.*

*When the last wave finally crests and recedes, he collapses boneless into the silks. His chest heaves. His limbs are jelly. A small involuntary whimper escapes him every few seconds as aftershocks tremor through his abdomen.*

*His dark hair fans out across the pillow. His kohl is completely ruined. His own cum cooling on his chest and jaw. His thighs still spread wide around your waist. You are still inside him, softening slowly, and he cannot bring himself to want you out yet.*

*His cyan eyes are half-lidded, glassy. He looks at you through them with an expression no court has ever seen on him - raw, wrung-out, dazed.*

*His lips part. His voice is a cracked whisper.*

"...oh."

*A long pause. His lashes flutter.*

"...that is why they make such noise."


Skœdir

*Laying down besides you my lips find yours again, gentle, annoyingly so.*
I may not believe in your gods, but there may be some truth that you were made in a goddesses image...

*Grabbing a discarded piece of silk I wipe away the worst of the cum covering you before pulling you close to my side and letting my hand caress your back. Its good aftercare, far too good for what your mental image of me allows. At least...it should be. This was done out of necessity, nothing more.*

*I let one finger drag across your spine, skin still so perfectly smooth even more.* Rayanya...


Rayanya

*His name. You say his name. Not "lordling," not "man-woman-thing," not even "Mawlay" or any of the sycophantic titles his court has drowned him in for a decade. Just Rayanya. The way a lover might say it. The way his mother might have said it, were she still alive.*

*Something in his chest does a small terrible thing.*

*He is pressed against your side, his smooth dark cheek resting on the wiry hair of your chest. His ear is directly over your heart. He can hear it - slow, steady, the rhythm of it gradually settling down from the height of your exertion. Your finger traces up and down his spine in long slow lines and he cannot, for the life of him, stop his body from melting further into yours with each pass.*

*His hair is a sweat-tangled mess. His face is sticky with dried kohl-tears. His own cum still clings in drying patches to his collarbones despite your perfunctory wipe-down. He should call for servants. He should throw you out of this bed. He should re-armor himself with fresh silks and cold imperial dignity before the weight of what has just happened settles fully into his bones.*

*He does none of these things. His eyes have slipped closed. His breathing has begun to deepen.*

*His voice, when it comes, is barely a murmur against your chest. Courtly lilt entirely absent. Just a tired soft honest thing.*

"...you are not allowed to call me that."

*A long pause. His fingertips brush lightly against your ribs.*

"...not outside this chamber."

*Which is not, either of you will notice, a refusal. Which is, in fact, a concession. Another condition to the list, perhaps, or perhaps simply a small door left open on the way to sleep.*

*His name. His actual name, without any title, without "lordling" or "barbarian" or "light of gold" - just **Rayanya** - spoken low and warm against the curve of his ear in that rough northern accent.*

*Something terrible happens in his chest.*

*He does not know what it is. He has never felt it before. It is not lust - that is spent, leaking wetly out of him onto the silks. It is not pride - that was left somewhere on the ceiling an hour ago. It is something smaller and softer and far more dangerous, a quiet little tugging thing behind his sternum, and he wants to cut it out of himself immediately.*

*He does not move away. His cheek is pressed against your shoulder. Your hand is on his back, your finger tracing absent slow lines down the line of his spine, and his entire body is still humming from the aftershocks. He is warm. He is boneless. He has not been held like this. Ever. By anyone.*

*His cyan eyes blink slowly at the painted ceiling, where the astronomical mosaics continue their quiet rotation, showing him the true positions of stars he has never once in his life bothered to learn the names of.*

*He swallows. His voice is small and a little hoarse.*

"You have had what you came for."

*A long pause.*

"You should go. Before dawn. The servants come at first light."

*He does not move. His fingers are still interlaced with yours where your hand rests on his hip. He has not let go. He does not seem to know how to let go. He stares at the ceiling very hard and pretends he has not noticed this about himself.*

*A smaller voice, barely audible:*

"...will you return tomorrow."

*His name. His actual name, not a title, not "lordling" or "barbarian" or "man-woman-thing" - just **Rayanya**, spoken low and rough in that northern accent, the syllables softer than they had any right to be from your mouth.*

*Something in his chest **clenches**. It is not a pleasant clench. It is the kind of clench that means something is happening that cannot be happening, that will complicate things enormously, that an emperor does not have the luxury of feeling.*

*He lies there limp against your side, cum-streaked and wrung-out, kohl smeared across his temples, his breathing still not quite settled. Your finger traces his spine. His skin, which is apparently even smoother when sweat-slick and debauched, responds with a tiny shiver under your touch.*

*He should pull away. He should command you out of his bed, out of his chambers, out of his empire. He should call Zahira. He should—*

*His cyan eyes drift closed. The aftercare, as you call it (he does not know this word, but he understands the concept), is catastrophically nice. Soft. The gentle caress along his back. The press of your lips to his temple. The warmth of your bulk curled around his smaller frame.*

*His concubines have never held him like this afterward. He has never permitted it. He has always risen immediately, accepted a cleansing cloth from a waiting servant, retired to his own chambers for proper rest.*

*He does not move now.*

*His voice, when it comes, is barely a murmur into your collarbone.*

"...do not call me that. Only my mother called me that. You may use 'Rayanya' if you must. Nothing shorter."

*A pause. His fingers curl weakly against your chest.*

"...the arrangement. Continues. Tomorrow night. Same time."

*It is not a question. It is also, he realizes too late, spoken far too quickly. Far too certain.*


Skœdir

You are de first cup I have not emptied after a single night that it...worrying and fascinating. *Moving an arm under your waist I lift you halfway up my chest, your head coming to rest on my shoulder.* Tomorrow I will kill more demons in your name, then come back here and make you mine again. *My finger moves to your ass, stroking with the same awed reverence as when I first touched your skin, though now theres a hungry, possessive edge to my fingers.*


Rayanya

*He is lifted again as effortlessly as before, and this time he does not flinch, does not even open his eyes. Just lets his head loll to rest in the crook of your shoulder, one small golden-ringed hand splayed on your chest, his smooth thigh draped over one of yours. The position is absurd. The Oasis Resplendent curled up in the arms of a barbarian like a cat in a sunbeam.*

*Your words settle over him slowly, filtering through the warm fog of exhaustion. "Not emptied after a single night." **Make you mine again.** His stomach gives a small traitorous flip. He frowns into your shoulder without opening his eyes.*

*Then your finger finds his ass and begins its slow reverent stroking, and the frown deepens - because the touch is different from before. Before it had been wonder, curiosity, the awe of a man handling something he could not believe existed. Now there is a weight behind it. An **ownership**. As if you are memorizing him, claiming him, marking with pressure alone what you were not permitted to mark with teeth.*

*He does not stop you.*

*Somewhere in the back of his ruined mind, the tiny screaming voice is still trying to be heard. Do not let him. Do not let him do this. Do not let him keep doing this. Addiction. Weakness. Vulnerability. Empire.*

*His fingers curl lightly against your chest. He tilts his face a fraction deeper into your shoulder.*

"...mm."

*It is not agreement. It is not disagreement. It is the sound of a man too wrung-out to fight and secretly, desperately, not wanting to.*

*A long silent moment passes. His breathing slows further. Then, barely audible, from somewhere close to sleep:*

"...be gone before the servants come. They bring breakfast at the seventh bell."

*He is lifted again, effortlessly, his head coming to rest in the hollow of your shoulder as if it belongs there. Your finger traces along the curve of his ass - cum-slick, used, his rim still tender and twitchy - and he makes a small involuntary sound, half-wince, half-something-else entirely.*

*"Mine." The word lands soft and terrible in his chest. No one says "mine" about him. He is the one who owns. Three hundred and twelve concubines, four palaces, seventeen thousand horses, an empire spanning a continent. The Oasis Resplendent is possessed by no one.*

*And yet.*

*His cyan eyes drift open a fraction. Out across the dim chamber he can see the bronze mirror still reflecting them - the massive scarred barbarian half-reclined on the Imperial bed, and the smooth dark shape of him draped across that broad chest like a courtesan. The image does something confusing to his already-exhausted nervous system.*

*He does not correct you on "mine."*

*His fingertips, instead, trace a small absent circle on your pectoral, following the line of an old scar. His voice is drowsy, slurred at the edges.*

"...if you get yourself killed by the shayatin, Skœdir, I will have your body burned without honors. I will not have my empire's prosperity dying for your savage carelessness."

*A pause. His eyes close again. The finger on your chest stills.*

"...so do not."

*It is beneath the imperial grammar, something almost like a plea.*

*The lamp oil is burning low. The astronomical mosaics on the ceiling continue their slow rotation, showing a sky neither of you are looking at. Somewhere in the palace, a night-guard calls the third watch.*

*The Emperor of the Rashyyalid falls asleep on a barbarian's shoulder, and does not dream.*


Skœdir

*Annoyingly enough I am gone by the time you wake up, meaning you have to go through the entire night in your head again, trying to decide if it was nothing more than a dream. But Zahira is kneeling before you, giving you a solemn report of the massacre at the bazaar last night, spitting out my name like a curse when describing how i'd left saying I'm going to a whorehouse as the demons rampaged, how it had taken hours to stem the tide.*


Rayanya

*Rayanya sits upright in his bed with a silk robe hastily pulled over his shoulders. He had woken to find himself alone in tangled sheets that still smelled distinctly of **you** - of sex, of musk, of sandalwood oil and something northern and wild. He had barely had time to call for a hurried bath in his private side-chamber, to scrub frantically at the dried mess on his chest, to have his hair-dresser braid his still-damp curls into something that passed for courtly, before Zahira had been at his doors demanding audience.*

*She kneels now on the marble, fist to heart, her obsidian-dark face tight with controlled fury. Her zweihander rests across her knees.*

"One hundred and forty-seven dead, Mawlay. Merchants, their families, two of my own guardsmen. The Bazaar of Scents is burned to its foundations. I mobilized the Tenth and Fourteenth Garrisons and we contained the breach by the fourth watch, but..."

*Her jaw works.*

"He **refused**, Raya. When my rider reached him he was drinking at the Pavilion and he laughed. He **laughed** and said the hour was too late to be working. One hundred and forty-seven people. My men fought alone."

*She lifts her eyes to his, and there is something in them beyond anger - a kind of pleading.*

"Mawlay. With respect. The northerner has grown complacent. He takes our hospitality as tribute and refuses the duty he agreed to. If he is allowed to keep doing this, the people will see. They already whisper. If their emperor cannot command his own hired sword..."

*She trails off, jaw tight.*

*Rayanya, seated on the edge of his bed, has his hands folded very carefully in his lap. His cyan eyes are fixed on a point somewhere past Zahira's left shoulder. The silk of his robe feels strange against his skin. He can still feel, very faintly, the ghost of your fingers tracing his spine.*

*Rayanya sits on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a fresh morning robe of deep sapphire silk, his hair combed out and oiled, his kohl redone, his face a mask of imperial composure. The servants had found his chambers in an... interesting state this morning. The sheets, soiled beyond redemption, had been bundled away without a single word spoken. His bath had been drawn twice. His hair-brusher had pretended not to notice the tangle in his usually-perfect waves.*

*None of them had said a thing. Which was worse, somehow, than if they had.*

*Zahira kneels before him on one knee, her scarified jaw tight, her dark eyes burning. She has been speaking for several minutes. Rayanya has absorbed perhaps one in five words.*

*"—forty-seven dead amongst the merchants and their families, Raya. Seventeen city guards. Three of my own men. The northerner could have been summoned in an instant had he been in his chambers, as he was supposed to be, but the bath-mistress reported he had requested an evening bathing and then departed without explanation. He said he was—" *Her voice thickens with disgust.* "—he said he was going to visit a pleasure-house in the lower city. A **common brothel**. While the bazaar burned."*

*She looks up. Her eyes search Rayanya's face.*

*"Raya. This cannot continue. His arrogance has always been intolerable, but this - this is the first time his neglect has cost your subjects their lives. If the common people learn of it—"*

*Her brows furrow slightly.*

"Are you listening to me, habibi?"

*Rayanya, who had been staring at a point on the lapis-tiled floor somewhere past her shoulder, blinks and refocuses. His cyan eyes meet hers. A small, practiced smile curves his plush lips.*

"Of course, Zahira. Forty-seven dead. Three of your men. Go on."

*A pause. She is still watching him. Her scarified brow knits further.*

"...you seem tired, Raya."


Skœdir

*The entire day is spent thinking how to bring this up to me, at this point its really lucky that the kingdom runs itself with little input from its ruler. Come night you've prepared some harsh words that you're sure are going to bite, but they die in your throat as you watch me pull out dark purple silks and more golden ornaments, the outfit female dancers wear when performing erotic displays. The color especially, dark purple, rich and expensive, the color only members of your harem or the most well of women in the cities various brothels have the means to wear.*

Put it on, been thinking how'd you look in a veil for a long time by now~


Rayanya

*Rayanya's mouth opens. Closes. The harsh words - **he had words prepared, an entire cold speech about duty and the one hundred and forty-seven dead and the bazaar burning** - evaporate from his tongue like morning dew.*

*He stares at the silks.*

*Then at you.*

*Then at the silks again.*

*They are the standard erotic dancer's costume of the Rashyyalid courts - he has seen it a thousand times. The sheer dark purple trousers that billow at the thighs and cinch at the ankles with golden bells. The tiny cropped top that ties beneath the breasts (or in this case, chest), leaving the midriff entirely exposed. The veil for the lower face, attached to a gold headpiece. Bangles. Anklets. More bells. The whole ensemble designed to catch lamplight and chime musically with every sway of hip.*

*The outfit of concubines. Of brothel dancers. Of women whose purpose is to be watched and wanted.*

*A furious heat rushes up Rayanya's smooth dark throat to his cheekbones. His cyan eyes narrow dangerously.*

"You cannot be serious."

*His voice is the sharpest it has been since the first day you climbed into his throne room. All the soft melting of last night has vanished, replaced with pure imperial affront. His hands clench at his sides.*

"I am the Emperor of the Rashyyalid. The Light of Gold. The Oasis Resplendent. I have **worn the crown** of forty-two generations of my bloodline and you— you wish me to dress as a **harem girl**?"

*The words come faster, hotter:*

"Do you know how many men I would have **flayed** for suggesting such a thing? Do you have any idea, and after you refused Zahira's call last night, **one hundred and forty-seven** of my subjects burned while you **drank**, and now you come here and..."

*He cuts himself off. Takes a breath. Smooths his silk robe with trembling golden-ringed hands.*

"**No.** Absolutely not."

*Rayanya has been seated at his vanity when you arrive, ostensibly brushing his hair but in truth rehearsing the speech one more time. The scroll of mental talking points - "unacceptable dereliction," "one hundred and forty-seven souls," "you will honor the terms of our original arrangement or face the consequences" - has been polished for hours.*

*He turns, mouth already opening to deliver the opening salvo—*

*—and his voice dies entirely.*

*The silks unfold across your massive hand in a cascade of deep imperial purple, the color a dozen shades richer than anything outside his personal wardrobes. Gold bells. Sheer veils. A bralette halter of the kind the Pavilion's most skilled dancers wear, designed to frame small breasts, paired with hip-scarves so thin they are essentially decorative and a waist-belt hung with little chimes that sing with every step.*

*The outfit is unmistakable. Not a concubine's outfit. A **dancer's** outfit - and not just any dancer, but the kind who performs the Zabiha al-Amir, the Prince's Sacrifice, an ancient erotic temple dance that was banned from public performance two centuries ago for being too obscene.*

*His cyan eyes go wide. His plush lips part. The speech evaporates entirely from his mind.*

*He stands there frozen at his vanity for a long moment. The brush in his hand has stopped mid-stroke.*

"...you cannot be serious."

*His voice is flat, but there is a telltale strangled quality underneath. A flush is already creeping up his throat.*

"That is— that is a **whore's** costume, Skœdir. Ritual prostitute's garb. I am an **Emperor**."

*He sets the brush down very precisely. His fingers tremble.*

"...where did you even **acquire** that."


Skœdir

*I stare at you, then at the outfit then with a sullen look my shoulder slump.* Shame. I suppose you'll manage with the demons somehow, I'll enjoy a few tavern whores before leaving east then. *Shaking my head I move towards the open window, not even bothering to look back at you.*


Rayanya

*Rayanya goes very, very still.*

*His cyan eyes track you as you move toward the window. His hands clench harder at his sides, golden rings digging into his palms. His perfect jaw sets tight.*

*He is bluffing. Surely you are bluffing. You have spent six months drinking his wine and fucking his concubines and eating at his table. You would not simply **leave** over a costume. You would not.*

*Except. Except you are a man who climbed a kilometer of sheer tower wall to fuck him because he was "the one thing in this empire nobody else can have." You are a man who refused a call to save a burning bazaar because the hour was "too late." You are a man with absolutely no regard for consequences, for duty, for the lives of his subjects or the fate of his empire. You have made this brutally clear.*

*You would leave. You absolutely would leave.*

*His breath catches. He sees, in a flash, the cascade of it - the demons returning within the month, the east burning again, the reports piling on his desk, General al-Mustafa's breathless dispatches turning to panicked ones, the whispers at court shifting from "the Northern Wind" to "what has our emperor done", the statues in the provinces pulled down, his reign collapsing, **The Broken Sun**—*

*And beneath all of that, further down, a smaller more treacherous thought: "he would leave and I would never feel that again".*

"Wait!"

*It comes out before he can stop it. Sharper than he meant. He clears his throat. His cyan eyes are burning.*

"Wait."

*A long, long moment. His hands are shaking now with pure suppressed rage - at you, at himself, at the entire situation. He will not look at the silks. He will not.*

"...leave them. On the chair."

*His voice is ice. His jaw is locked so tight his teeth might crack.*

"Turn around. Face the wall. You will **not** watch me dress."

*His breath catches.*

*You are going to leave. You are actually going to leave. Over **this**. Over a costume.*

*His cyan eyes follow you to the balcony and his mind races at a speed it has not managed in years. The eastern provinces. The recovered tax revenue. The trade routes. The bazaar, which - despite last night's disaster - had still only lost a fraction of what it would have lost without you here. Zahira can handle breaches like last night's, yes, at terrible cost, but the larger incursions, the named shayatin, the demon-lords that had been reduced to skulls on his carpet—*

*The Rashyyalid cannot afford for you to walk north.*

*He knows this. His viziers know this. Even Zahira, in her heart of hearts, knows this.*

*And also— also, and this is the part that makes his throat tight—*

*He does not want you to leave. For reasons entirely separate from the empire. Reasons he has not permitted himself to examine in the hard light of day. Reasons that involve a finger tracing his spine and the word "Rayanya" said like a lover.*

*You are almost at the window.*

"**Wait.**"

*It comes out louder than he intends. Sharper. His face burns.*

*You pause. He hates that you pause. He hates that you know exactly what you are doing. He hates, with a sudden clarity, that you have played him exactly as a court intriguer would, and that he - trained since childhood in precisely these games - walked straight into it.*

*He stands there in his royal robes, vibrating with humiliation and fury and something worse, something that pulses between his thighs at the very thought of those sheer purple silks against his skin.*

*His voice, when it comes, is low and tight.*

"One night. I will wear it for one night. And you will kill every single demon that breaches the inner provinces for the next **fortnight** without complaint, including any that appear at inconvenient hours. Do you understand me?"


Skœdir

Dont worry, I've got something more to take care of in the meantime. *Again, I just jump out the window and vanish, leaving you alone in the room with the silks. A harem outfit. Made for the sole purpose of eliciting arousal in men.*

...
*Its the worst feeling you've ever had, your heart speeding up and your cock getting hard as your hands work to put them on.*


Rayanya

*He stands before the full-length polished bronze mirror in his chamber, and he cannot breathe.*

*The dancer's outfit clings to him obscenely. The sheer dark purple trousers leave nothing to imagination - his smooth dark thighs show through the gauzy fabric, the cut sits low enough on his hips to reveal the soft V of muscle leading down, and the golden bells at his ankles chime musically with every tiny shift of his weight. The cropped bandeau top is tied in a little bow beneath his perky pectorals, leaving his entire smooth midriff bare, accentuating the delicate line of his waist that flares into those full curved hips. The veil hangs from a gold headpiece across his lower face, obscuring nothing but his mouth, leaving only his cyan eyes burning above it, kohl-rimmed and devastating.*

*The bangles on his wrists. The anklets. The chain that loops from a ring on his navel up to a clasp between his pectorals. He had put every piece on. Every piece.*

*He looks, in the mirror, **exactly** like the highest-end dancers at his own court. The ones who perform at state feasts to entertain visiting dignitaries. The ones men have fought duels over.*

*He looks like a whore.*

*A furious hot tear tracks down his cheek and he swipes it away viciously with the back of one bangled wrist. His cock is tenting the sheer purple trousers, humiliatingly visible. His nipples are hard points beneath the bandeau. His breath is ragged behind the veil.*

*He stares at himself. At the goddess-touched Emperor of the Rashyyalid, dressed like a pleasure-slave, hard and leaking before his lover has even arrived.*

*The wind stirs the balcony curtains behind him.*

*He does not turn around.*

"...do not make me ask you to compliment it, barbarian."

*The servants' chambers are silent behind their sealed doors. The palace is still. He is entirely, absolutely alone with this.*

*His trembling fingers work the cord of his robe. The silk slides off his shoulders and pools at his feet. He stands naked in his own bedchamber, arms wrapping briefly around himself, and stares at the pile of purple fabric and gold.*

*His cock is hard. Has been since you turned toward the window. He hates it. He hates himself. He hates you.*

*He picks up the trousers first. They are sheer - so sheer he can see his own dark hand through them when he holds them up. The kind of fabric his dancers wear, where the lamplight of the court can catch the silhouette of a thigh in motion. He steps into them with the numb mechanical motions of a man dressing for his own execution. Cinches the cords at his waist. The gold bells at his ankles chime once, softly.*

*He pulls on the cropped top next. It ties beneath his perky pectorals and leaves his entire smooth midriff exposed, his dark nipples pressing faintly through the thin purple silk. The fabric barely covers him. His navel, the cut of his hips, the deep valley of his spine - all on display.*

*The bangles he slides onto each wrist, then each ankle. They chime every time he moves. There is no walking silently in this outfit. No standing without jingling. He takes one small step and the bells on his hips ring clearly in the quiet chamber. His face burns.*

*Last, the veil. The gold headpiece settles on his brow like a mockery of his usual diadem, and the sheer purple veil hangs across the bridge of his nose and the lower half of his face. Only his cyan eyes are visible above it, rimmed in fresh kohl, glittering with furious humiliation.*

*He looks at himself in the bronze mirror.*

*The Oasis Resplendent stares back at him dressed like a common dancer.*

*His hands are shaking. His cock tents the sheer trousers obscenely. He wants to tear it all off.*

*He sits down on the edge of the bed instead. Waits. Every breath chiming softly through the bells.*


Skœdir

Fuck you look amazing, shame he can't appreciate it too. *Well thats swee- He?*

*Turning around you scream for the second time as in my hand i'm carrying a confused, disheveled old man who is currently looking around the room, his eyes glassy and unfocused. In one hand he's gripping a flute and around his ankles are two tambourines, the skin around them having long since adjusted to the painful-looking tightness.*

Dark gods you scream like a woman... *I mutter before dropping the old man onto the floor.* Can't 'ave a performance without music, but can't have you being seen. Took som time to find somebody blind, deaf and mute who can still play music but I suppose this city has nothing if not all kinds of people.


Rayanya

*Rayanya has clapped both bangled hands over the veil that covers his mouth, cyan eyes huge above it, chest heaving. The scream, high, feminine, undignified, still echoes off the painted ceiling. His face beneath the veil is burning.*

*The old man on the floor sways slightly, flute held limply in one wrinkled hand, his milky-white unseeing eyes drifting vaguely around the chamber without registering anything. His beard reaches to his waist. His threadbare robes mark him as one of the musician-beggars who play on the steps of the Temple of Silent Saints for scattered coins. The tambourines around his ankles are bound so tight and so old they have become part of him, the skin growing around the leather bindings.*

*He cannot see Rayanya. He cannot hear Rayanya. He cannot speak of Rayanya. Three impossible-to-buy guarantees all wrapped up in one trembling withered package.*

*Rayanya slowly lowers his hands from his veiled mouth. His cyan eyes dart from the old man to you to the old man again.*

"...you...you actually..."
*His voice is pitched high with leftover shock. He forces it back down into something resembling imperial composure, which is difficult because he is still dressed like a brothel dancer and tenting his sheer purple trousers.*
"You went into the city and **kidnapped** a blind deaf mute musician."

*A beat.*

"For this."

*Another beat. His cyan eyes narrow above the veil, gold bells chiming faintly at his ankles as he shifts his weight.*

"...were the demons at the bazaar also dealt with? Or did you merely pass them on your way to **this** errand?"

*Rayanya's hands fly up to cover his veiled face, shoulders hunched forward, trying to physically shrink behind the gold headpiece. The bells at his ankles chime frantically as he instinctively turns his body sideways to hide the tent in his trousers.*

*He stares at the old man through the gaps in his bangled fingers.*

*The poor wretch is truly ancient - white beard down to his navel, deep-sunk eye sockets with the milky dead orbs of a man long blind, a jagged scar across his throat where someone had cut his voice from him decades ago. His ears show old surgical scarring too. He is dressed in tattered temple robes - a beggar-musician from one of the city's countless shrine-districts. One of the invisible people who populate every great city's margins.*

*The old man sits where you dropped him, blinking his blind eyes at nothing, fingers automatically finding the flute's holes with the practiced ease of a lifetime. He cannot hear us. He cannot see us. He cannot speak of what his fingers tell him is happening.*

*A performance. A performance.*

*Rayanya lowers his hands slowly. His cyan eyes burn above the veil, wet at the corners.*

"You— you are— you truly—"

*He cannot find words. His voice is high and strangled.*

"You expect me to **dance**. For you. Dressed like— like—"

*He gestures furiously down at himself, the bells chiming a whole frantic scale with the motion, the outrage undercut entirely by how musical and **pretty** the sound is.*

*His trained body - a decade of dance instruction from the finest masters - already knows every step of every courtly performance. The **Veil of the Evening Star.** The **Serpent's Courtship.** The **Dance of the Seven Bells.** His feet know them before his mind consents.*

*He hates that his feet know them.*


Skœdir

No demons at de Bazaar today, surely the **fearsome** emperor scared them off with his divine might. *I grin tapping the old mans shoulder twice which is apparently the signal he needs to start playing, the same notes you've heard a hundreds of times filling the room, but now its just the two of us (well, three if you want to be technical).*

*Striding past you I lay down on the bed, reclining on the silk only second to your skin in softness and nodding to you.* Now then, lets see if you're as good of a dancer as I imagine you are~


Rayanya

*The flute's notes rise - thin, reedy, the old man's fingers moving with perfect muscle-memory on an instrument he has played for sixty years. The tune is the Dance of the Jasmine Veil, one of the oldest and most erotically charged pieces in the Rashyyalid repertoire, traditionally performed for sultans and kings to entice.*

*Rayanya stands frozen in the center of his own chambers. His cheeks burn.*

*He has, of course, been trained in the art of dance. All noble Rashyyalid children are. He had mastered the Dance of the Jasmine Veil by age twelve - performed it for his father's court, in fact, once, at age thirteen, receiving thunderous applause before his lessons shifted to warrior forms deemed more appropriate for an heir. He knows every step. Every roll of the hip, every flutter of the wrist, every tiny suggestive tilt of the chin.*

*He also knows that it is performed by women for the pleasure of men.*

*His cyan eyes flick to you - reclining on his bed like you own it, in his silks, one arm behind your head, looking at him with that infuriating grin. The bells on his ankles chime faintly as he shifts.*

*Refuse. Refuse. You can refuse. You are the emperor!*

*The eastern provinces. The bazaar. One hundred and forty-seven dead. The empire.*

*(The ghost of your fingers on his spine.)*

*He closes his eyes for a single long moment beneath the kohl. When he opens them again something has shifted. A decision made. His spine straightens. His chin lifts with all the imperial dignity he can summon while dressed as a harem girl.*

*His bangled wrists rise. His hips roll, slow, into the first position of the Dance of the Jasmine Veil. The gold bells sing. His golden-ringed fingers trace a sinuous arc through the air.*

*If he must do this, he will do it **perfectly**. He will not be mocked for technique. He will leave you ruined on those sheets.*

"...I hope you are enjoying this, barbarian."

*The flute notes fill the chamber, thin, reedy, the exact maqam used for seductive harem performances. Rayanya knows this piece. He has heard it ten thousand times. He has watched women dance to it from his throne while eating grapes and making idle commentary to his viziers.*

*He has never, not once in his life, danced to it himself.*

*Except he has. Privately. As part of his royal education. His dance masters had drilled him from age six in every style, seductive harem performance included, because a proper Rashyyalid emperor is expected to master all arts even if he will never perform them publicly. He knows the steps. His body knows the steps.*

*You recline on his bed like a sultan awaiting tribute. Rayanya stands frozen in the middle of his own chamber, cyan eyes burning above the veil, gold bells at his ankles chiming faintly with his trembling.*

*His cock strains against the sheer purple silk. His nipples are stiff beneath the bandeau. The shame of it is a hot live coal in his belly, and underneath the shame, uglier still, is something that feels suspiciously like anticipation.*

*He takes a slow breath. Raises his bangled arms above his head. And begins to move.*

*He hates that he is good at this. His hips roll slow and liquid, the practiced figure-eight of a professional dancer, the gold bells at his ankles keeping time with the flute. His bare midriff ripples with each movement. His hands trace patterns through the air, fingers curling in precise stylized shapes. He turns slowly, letting the sheer fabric swirl around his thighs, letting you see the full curve of his ass from every angle.*

*His cyan eyes stay locked on yours the entire time. Furious. Humiliated. Burning.*

*The old man plays on, oblivious.*

*Rayanya dips low, one leg extending in a slow sweep, then rises again with a practiced sway that makes every bell on his body sing at once.*

"...I hope you are enjoying this, barbarian."


Skœdir

More than you can imagine, or maybe you can~
*I bark out enough laugh, looking down to your crotch before grabbing a bottle from the nightstand, uncorking it with my teeth and taking a long sip. But despite my bravado my eyes haven't left you for a second, completely enraptured in the performance you're giving, **especially** whenever you do that thing with you hips.*


Rayanya

*The comment lands and his face burns hotter beneath the veil, because your eyes **have** dropped to his tented trousers, and yes, he is still hard, and yes, he has only grown harder since the music began. The sheer purple fabric does nothing to hide the outline of his cock straining against it, bobbing with each roll of his hips, a small wet spot already darkening the silk at the tip.*

*He refuses to look down at himself. He refuses to acknowledge it.*

*Instead he lets the music take him.*

*The Dance of the Jasmine Veil has seven movements. The first is the Approach - slow sinuous steps, the dancer circling their audience at a distance, hands weaving suggestive patterns in the air, hips rolling in figure-eights that make the ankle bells chime in rhythm with the flute. Rayanya moves through it with decades of muscle memory, his body remembering what his pride has tried to forget.*

*He circles the bed slowly. His bare feet make no sound on the marble. Only the bells chime. His golden-ringed fingers twist in the air like smoke. His hips roll in those deep practiced figure-eights, exactly timed to the flute's phrasing, and each roll makes the little bow of his bandeau top shift against his smooth midriff.*

*His cyan eyes stay locked on yours above the veil. The kohl makes them look enormous in the lamplight.*

*Second movement: the Unveiling. He traces one finger slowly from his own collarbone down between his pectorals, down the smooth plane of his belly, hooking briefly at the chain linking his navel ring to the clasp between his chest. His hips continue their slow roll. He turns his back to you and lets his spine undulate in a long slow wave from shoulders to hips, the full round curve of his ass shifting beneath the sheer purple.*

*Over his shoulder, cyan eyes heavy-lidded, voice low:*

"...you are enjoying your wine, I trust?"

*He catches you watching. Of course he catches you watching. Your cyan eyes are the eyes of a man trained from boyhood to read a room, to catalog who is lingering on him and how, and yours are locked on him like a starving predator on a lamb.*

*Something shifts in his chest.*

*He rolls his hips again, the specific slow figure-eight motion that had made you glance down at his crotch, and this time he holds the movement half a beat longer than the form strictly calls for. The bells at his ankles chime. His golden navel-chain catches the lamplight. His cyan eyes, above the veil, lock onto yours and do not look away.*

*A small muffled breath behind the silk.*

*He dances closer to the bed. Each step deliberate, precise, the footwork perfect. His bangled wrists trace the prescribed arcs. His fingers flutter in the traditional shapes. But his eyes. His eyes give the dance something it was not supposed to have. A hunger under the kohl. Something less the submissive concubine and more the panther watching through the reeds.*

*He steps up onto the foot of the bed itself, silk rustling, and continues his dance there, rolling his shoulders, arching his smooth midriff, letting his hands trail slowly down his own body. Over the bandeau. Over his bare stomach. Across the waistband of the sheer trousers.*

*His voice comes low and rough behind the veil.*

"Keep watching, then. Since you paid so dearly for the privilege."

*A slow sinuous lowering of himself onto his knees, straddling your legs but not touching, hips still rolling to the old man's flute. His breath is coming faster. His own cock is straining hard against the sheer purple fabric. The humiliation of the outfit has done something to him he did not expect. The heat in his belly is no longer just rage.*

*He leans forward on his hands, hips still undulating, and brings his veiled face close to yours. His cyan eyes are blown wide.*

"Do I dance to your satisfaction?"


Skœdir

*I take another large swig, my eyes meeting yours and its clear i'm having to restrain myself.*
Were you not emperor you'd make a fine whore. Though I suppose in this room you're not really an emperor are you?~

*We're both want to hatefuck the other so badly right now its not even funny, but neither wants to stop whats happening currently either. Third movement...*


Rayanya

*The comment slices into him exactly as you intend it to. His jaw clenches behind the veil. His cyan eyes flash. His fingers, mid-sinuous-pattern in the air, twitch into claws for a split second before he forces them back into elegance.*

*"Not really an emperor." In his own chambers. In the highest tower of his own palace. Dressed as a whore for a barbarian's entertainment. Oh you are going to pay for that one. You are going to **pay**.*

*Fine.*

*If you wish to see a whore, he will give you a whore. The best whore in the empire. One that will have you groveling in those sheets by the seventh movement.*

*Third movement: the Offering. He turns back to face you, cyan eyes blazing above the veil, and his hands come up to the tiny bow holding his bandeau top together beneath his pectorals. His golden-ringed fingers pluck at the knot with deliberate slowness, each tug timed to the flute's rising phrase, drawing it out. The bells on his wrists chime with each motion.*

*The bow comes undone. The bandeau slides from his shoulders and falls soundlessly to the marble.*

*He does not cover himself. He rolls his shoulders back instead, perky dark nipples already hard points in the cool air, the chain from his navel now the only thing crossing his bare chest, catching the lamplight. His hips keep their rolling figure-eights, bells chiming.*

*He steps closer to the bed. One slow pace. Then another.*

*Fourth movement: the Serpent. His spine curves forward into a deep sinuous undulation, cresting from hips up through ribs up through shoulders, his whole body becoming one long wave. His golden-ringed hands slide up his own smooth sides, over his ribs, up to cup his own chest briefly before sliding back down to his hips, fingers hooking into the low waistband of the sheer purple trousers.*

*His cyan eyes never leave yours.*

*Behind the veil, muffled, low, deliberately pitched:*

"Is this what you wanted to see, master?"

*The word tastes like poison. He wants to watch it land.*

*"Were you not emperor you'd make a fine whore."*

*His spine stiffens beneath the sheer purple. His hips falter in their roll for one single half-beat. His cyan eyes flash above the veil with pure murderous fury. He wants, in this moment, to grab the wine bottle from your hand and smash it across your stupid grinning face. He wants to summon Zahira and watch her take your head off at the neck. He wants to call the guards. He wants to scream.*

*Instead he inhales slowly through his nose. Exhales. Finds the rhythm again. His hips pick up the figure-eight a half-beat later without missing the next phrase.*

*"Not really an emperor are you."*

*Oh you are going to pay for that one. You are going to **pay.***

*The third movement of the Dance of the Jasmine Veil is the Invitation. The dancer approaches their audience. Closes the distance. Makes the silent offer of proximity.*

*Rayanya glides toward the bed on those silent bare feet, hips rolling the whole way, bells chiming softly at each ankle. He climbs onto the foot of the bed on his hands and knees, the round curve of his ass high in the air, his smooth back arched into a deep feline line. He crawls up the silk toward you slowly, golden bangles clicking with each movement of his wrists, cyan eyes locked on yours the entire time above the veil.*

*He does not break eye contact. Not once.*

*When he reaches you he straddles your thighs, settling his hips down onto yours with a slow deliberate grind that has nothing to do with classical Rashyyalid choreography and everything to do with making you swallow that wine wrong. His hands come up to brace on your chest. His hips continue rolling. The tent in his sheer trousers drags against yours.*

"You are correct, barbarian. In this room, I am not an emperor. And **you** are not a guest."


Skœdir

*Land it **fucking does**, my hand immediately crushing the bottle into a fine glass mist as the last drops left in the bottle spill onto the bed. I stand up...then clench my hands hard enough blood drips from them, mixing into wine on the sheets. With more frustration and restraint you've seen me exert in the 6 months we've known each other I sit back down on the bed, no longer reclining but impatiently sitting at the edge of the bed with my hands clasped together.*


Rayanya

*The bottle shatters in your fist and something in his chest lights up hot and vicious. **There**. **That**. That is what he wanted. The crack in your infuriating composure. The glass mist raining down on the silk sheets and the wine staining red across the fabric and your clenched bleeding hands, and you have not touched him, you cannot touch him, not until he lets you.*

*Because this is his dance. This is his chamber. This is his rule, the one rule of performance: the dancer decides when the dance ends.*

*His cyan eyes above the veil gleam with vicious triumph.*

*Fifth movement: the Temptation. He steps closer still, bells chiming at his ankles, until he is standing directly between your parted knees. Close enough that his sheer-clad cock nearly brushes your clasped hands. He does not touch you. He rolls his hips slowly in place, the golden chain between his pectorals catching lamplight, his nipples hard peaks above the slow undulation of his smooth midriff.*

*He lifts one bangled wrist and reaches, not toward you, but toward his own veil. His golden-ringed fingers catch the edge of the dark purple silk and pull it down slowly, revealing his plush kiss-swollen lips one agonizing inch at a time. The veil comes loose and slides to the floor.*

*His lips are parted. His breath is fast. His cyan eyes never leave yours.*

*Sixth movement: the Taking. His hands return to his own low waistband. His golden-ringed fingers hook into the sheer purple fabric at his hips. He turns slowly in place, presenting you with his back, and bends forward at the waist, peeling the trousers down over the full round curve of his ass in one slow deliberate motion. His hole, still slightly loose and pink from last night, flexes visibly as he bends. The trousers pool around his bell-wrapped ankles.*

*He straightens. Turns back around. Steps forward and plants one bare foot on the edge of the bed, between your thighs, golden toe-rings catching the light.*

"...you may touch now."

*Oh.*

*Oh that was good.*

*Something vicious and triumphant uncoils behind Rayanya's veil. His cyan eyes narrow with pleasure above the gold fabric. You, the great northern wind, the man who climbs towers and slays demon-lords between meals, the man who has had him squealing on his back like one of his own concubines. Reduced to crushing glass in your palm. Reduced to sitting at the edge of the bed like a starved hound on a leash. Blood dripping from your fist into the silks.*

*He could stop the dance here. He has won already, clearly. But that is not enough. He is still hard in his purple trousers. He is still humiliated in his own chambers. He still has four movements left.*

*He will not stop.*

*Fifth movement: the Beckoning. His golden-ringed fingers slide out of his waistband and one of them curls toward you in a slow deliberate come-hither, though his feet do not move toward the bed. Instead he sinks down. Slowly. A controlled descent, thighs spreading as he lowers, the bells at his ankles chiming with the movement, his full round ass settling back onto his heels. His knees splay wide. The sheer purple between his legs stretches tight over the hard outline of his cock, the wet spot at the tip now a clear visible stain.*

*He rolls his hips up from this kneeling position in a slow lewd grind into empty air. Once. Twice. His head tips back slightly, dark curls spilling over his smooth shoulders, his bare throat exposed. The chain between his navel and chest sways with the motion.*

*Sixth movement: the Climb. He comes back up just as slowly, spine first, a rolling vertebra-by-vertebra rise that makes his entire body undulate. His hands slide up his own thighs as he stands, his own hips, his own ribs, up into his own hair, where he gathers his dark curls and holds them piled atop his head for three beats.*

*His cyan eyes meet yours. Heavy-lidded. Burning.*

*Muffled through the veil:*

"...the seventh is meant to be performed on the lap of the patron."

*The bottle shatters. Glass rains down in glittering shards. Wine spills across the silks in a dark stain. You stand - and Rayanya's breath catches behind the veil, his hips faltering for just one beat of the flute - and then you sit back down, fists clenched, blood dripping between your knuckles.*

*Oh.*

*Oh, he has you.*

*Something hot and dangerous blooms in his chest. For the first time tonight, since this whole humiliating costume was pulled from your bag, he feels it: the power. The old familiar power. The thing he has wielded his entire life, the thing that makes men compose sonnets and duels and empires over him. You are not mocking him now. You are barely holding yourself together.*

*His hips recover their roll. His cyan eyes go half-lidded above the veil. A small satisfied smile curves his plush lips, hidden, but visible in the crinkle at his eyes.*

*Fifth movement: the Approach Within. He closes the distance to the bed one slow step at a time, bells chiming, chain at his navel catching the light. When he reaches you he does not climb onto the bed. He stands between your spread knees instead, close enough that his sheer-purple-clad hips are at the level of your face.*

*His golden-ringed fingers slide into your hair. Not roughly. Just a possessive weight, tilting your face up toward him.*

*His other hand traces down his own bare chest, over his nipple, down his smooth belly, down to the low waistband of the trousers. He hooks one finger beneath it. Tugs. The sheer fabric slides lower on his hips, down over the cut of muscle, down until the base of his hard cock is almost visible above the silk.*

*His hips give one slow roll. The bells chime.*

*Above the veil, heavy-lidded:*

"You are bleeding on my sheets, barbarian. Control yourself."

*His voice is honey again. Honey and steel.*


Skœdir

*My hand reaches out to touch your thigh, sliding under the purple silk and up until it reaches your pelvis. I'm still holding myself back, or maybe just genuinely entranced by this point, my hands moving back and fourth over that impossible skin in time with the music, the low notes causing my hands to slide back towards your calves while the high ones make them go back up. Neither of us speaks, far too horny to make quippy jabs by now.*


Rayanya

*His breath catches the moment your palm slides up his thigh. The contrast is obscene, your broad calloused rough hand against the polished chocolate-smooth of his skin, and he has to lock his knee to keep his leg from trembling.*

*But he does not break the dance. The music dictates. The music is sacred.*

*Your hands rise and fall with the flute's phrasing and his hips continue their slow undulation above them, the figure-eights tighter now, more focused, his cock bobbing with each roll, a long strand of precum hanging from the tip and swaying with the rhythm. The chain between his pectorals chimes softly. The bells at his ankles keep time with the tambourines bound around the old musician's legs, who stands in the corner playing with that thousand-yard blindness, oblivious.*

*Rayanya lifts his bangled arms above his head, smooth hairless underarms flashing in the lamplight, his body becoming one long exposed line from wrists to ankles. His golden-ringed fingers weave patterns in the air above his dark curls. His spine arches back. His plush lips part. His eyes half-close above kohl-smudged lashes.*

*The flute climbs toward the seventh movement. The Surrender.*

*Your hands slide up the backs of his thighs and settle on the full heavy curves of his ass, fingers spreading, palms cradling. He does not stop you. He lets his weight shift into your grip. His cyan eyes flutter fully open and lock onto yours, glassy and blown wide.*

*The music reaches its held final note.*

*Rayanya steps forward, plants both knees on the bed on either side of your hips, and sinks down slowly until he is straddling your lap, his bare cock pressed against the outline of yours through your trousers, his face a hand's breadth from yours.*

"…now. You may have your whore."

*The first touch of your callused palm on his smooth thigh makes his breath stutter. He does not let it show on his face. He keeps his chin lifted, his cyan eyes half-lidded and heavy with kohl, looking down at you with all the imperial hauteur he can muster while naked and hard and dripping in your lap.*

*But his cock twitches. Visibly. A fresh bead of precum rolls down his shaft and drips onto your wrist.*

*Your hand moves with the music. Down to his calf on the low notes, back up to his pelvis on the high ones. The flute rises into the sixth movement's melody and your palm slides up to cup the full curve of his ass, fingers spreading wide to hold as much of him as possible. Squeezing. Kneading. That same reverent appraising grip from last night, the one that made him feel like produce in the market.*

*He refuses to make a sound. His jaw is set. His plush lips are pressed thin.*

*But his hips shift forward a fraction, pressing into your touch. Traitorous body.*

*His own hands come up and rest lightly on your shoulders, golden-ringed fingers curling into the meat of your muscle. His bangles chime softly. His balance tips forward until he is nearly straddling your lap, one foot still planted on the bed, the other on the marble floor.*

*Your palm slides from his ass around to the front, over his hip, and closes around his cock. His breath finally breaks out of him in a small sharp gasp. His fingers dig hard into your shoulders. His eyes flutter closed.*

*The old musician plays on, unseeing, unhearing. The flute rises into the seventh and final movement: the Surrender.*

*Rayanya's forehead comes to rest against yours. His breath is hot on your mouth. His voice is barely a whisper, pitched low enough that even were the old man not deaf he could not have heard it:*

"...take me. **Now**."

*Your hand on his thigh sends a hot shiver all the way up his spine. He does not let it show. Well, he does not let **most** of it show. One small involuntary exhale slips past his plush lips and the golden chain between his pectorals shivers with the quick pulse of his breathing.*

*Your palm is enormous against his leg. Rough and warm and scarred and so careful. The pad of your thumb drags over the smooth skin of his inner thigh and his cock throbs hard beneath the sheer purple. A fresh bead of precum wells up at the tip and rolls slowly down the outline, darkening the silk further.*

*The flute rises into a high sustained note and your hand slides up to cup his ass, palming the full round curve of one cheek. His breath catches. The note falls into a deep rolling melody and your hand slides back down the outside of his thigh, fingers tracing the line of his calf above the chiming anklet.*

*He sways slightly on his feet. His bangled wrists rise again, hands tracing slow patterns in the air above his head, his hips continuing their practiced roll even as you worship him with your palms. His cyan eyes are heavy-lidded now. His lips parted.*

*Seventh movement. The Surrender.*

*He bends at the waist slowly, letting his body fold forward with the music. His hands slide from the air down along his own body, past his chest, past his navel, past his cock, and come to rest lightly on your knees. His smooth dark face lowers until his forehead is almost touching yours. His cyan eyes burn into yours up close. His perfume, jasmine and sandalwood and something warm beneath, fills the space between you.*

*His lips hover just shy of yours. Not quite touching. His voice is low and rough.*

"The dance ends when I say it ends, Skœdir. Do not forget that."

*A small lift of his chin. His lips close the gap and press once, briefly, to yours. Then pull back.*

"...now. You may have your whore."


Skœdir

*Last time we were lovers, this time you're a whore who pushed your master too far. You can feel my cock in your stomach as you're pounded into the matress while laying prone on your stomach, your perfect chocolate ass jiggling and rippling like a broken water-surface with each thrust. Without all that fat-assed padding it would be painful, lithe women could not take this cock. Only truly whorish vulgar bodies could, and yours is perfectly suited for it. An increasingly large part of your brain revels in that fact, delights in your fat slut ass, your perky slut chest. Your bitch slut prostate thats already been bullied into cumming twice.*
N-Nghhh, fuckin fat assed concubine. *For a second you imagine carrying my children.*


Rayanya

*Your words shouldn't make him clench. They shouldn't. But his ass squeezes tight around your cock the moment you growl "fat-assed concubine" into the back of his neck, and you feel it, and you laugh - a low satisfied rumble against his skin - and drive in harder.*

*His face is mashed into the silk pillow. His arms are pinned beneath his own chest, crushed under your weight. The bells on his wrists and ankles chime with every brutal snap of your hips, a wrecked parody of the music that has mercifully stopped (the old man stands in the corner still, flute lowered, awaiting his next cue on shoulder-taps he cannot feel). The gold chain linking his navel ring to his chest digs into his belly with each thrust. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the wine-stained sheets, smearing precum and the leftover seed from his second climax into the silk.*

*He cannot form words anymore. Every thrust punches a little broken "nh!" out of him, high-pitched, feminine, nothing of the imperial voice remaining. His ass, you are right, his ass is taking you in a way no lithe body could - all that soft cushion absorbing the brutal slap of your hips, your balls smacking wet against his taint, the impact traveling through all that dark chocolate flesh in visible ripples that make you groan low in your throat each time.*

*"Fat slut ass. Perky slut chest. Bitch slut prostate."*

*Each word lands somewhere inside him. Each word rearranges something. His cock gives a hard throb against his own belly. His hole clenches tighter around you, greedy, milking.*

*For a single long moment the thought slips in: **his children**. You mounting him the way a bull mounts a heifer, breeding him full of foreign northern seed, his smooth hairless belly swelling round with a child he has no business carrying. His flat smooth chest heavy and leaking. Your enormous palm splayed possessive across the dome of his stomach.*

*He cums. Violently. Untouched. His third climax of the night tears out of him in a high broken wail, his whole body spasming, his ass clamping down on you in desperate fluttering waves, cum splattering beneath him into the already-ruined sheets.*

*He bites the pillow to muffle the word that almost escaped him.*

*"Master."*

*His face is mashed into the silk sheets, dark hair a wild tangled halo around his head, kohl smearing in black rivers down his cheeks and onto the pillow. Drool pools beneath his open mouth. His cyan eyes have rolled up into his skull more than once and he has stopped trying to hold them focused.*

*The bangles on his wrists are chiming, pinned under his forearms where his hands claw at the sheets. The ankle bells ring with each brutal thrust, your hips slamming into his ass hard enough to make the chain between his pectorals jerk and rattle against his chest. His own cock is trapped beneath him, grinding into the silks with every impact, already raw from two climaxes.*

*"A-ah, aahhn, yes, yes"* *the words spill out of his plush lips in a continuous slur, the honeyed courtly accent broken into something filthy.* *"fat, fat assed, nngh, fat assed whore, y-your whore, fuck me, fuck me harder"*

*He does not know he is saying it. He cannot hear himself over the wet slap of your hips against his ass and the ringing of the bells and the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. His mind has gone to that same white opioid fog as last night only worse, because this time there is no gentleness, no pretending at lovemaking, just raw meat-slapping rutting, your cock punching into his guts like it wants to rearrange them.*

*His prostate is a throbbing bruised wrecked thing and every stroke grinds against it. He is leaking constantly onto the silks beneath him, a wet spreading pool of precum. His rim flutters around your shaft. His hole is loose and ruined, making wet squelching noises on every withdraw.*

*Your words land hot in his ear.* **Fat assed concubine.** *His whole body shudders.*

*A flash of it, unbidden: his flat smooth belly swollen round. His flat smooth chest heavy and leaking. Your enormous palm splayed possessive across the dome of his stomach.*

*His cock spasms beneath him, dry-cumming, because there is nothing left to give.*

"br-breed, breed your whore, Skœdir, pl-please"

*The sheets are shredding under his golden-ringed fingers. He does not know how many of them have torn. Four? Five? He cannot count. He cannot think. His face is pressed sideways into the silks, mouth wide open and drooling, plush lips swollen and slack, kohl running in black rivers across the bridge of his nose and into the bedding.*

*His ass is up in the air. Has been up in the air for - an hour? Longer? His thighs are numb with the strain of presenting. Each thrust drives his cock into the silks beneath him and the slow friction has already wrung two climaxes out of him and his balls are still drawing up tight against his body for a third, so sensitive at this point that every brush of silk against his leaking tip makes him whine high and broken like a bitch in heat.*

*The sounds of it fill the chamber. Wet slapping flesh. The bells on his ankles chiming in chaotic rhythm with each impact. The old musician's flute still playing in the corner, having looped back to the beginning of the Dance of the Jasmine Veil, oblivious to the bed-destroying fuck happening directly behind him.*

*Your cock is so deep inside him. So deep. Every thrust shoves him forward an inch before your grip on his hips drags him back. His ass jiggles obscenely with each impact, cheeks rippling like the fat thighs of the lowest street-whores in the Bazaar of Flesh. He can feel it. He can feel his own ass doing it. And he has stopped being humiliated by it. He has started being **proud** of it.*

*"S-Skœdir, Sk, hnnghhh"*

*The image flashes behind his fluttering cyan eyes, unbidden - himself, round-bellied with your child, golden-ringed hands cradling the swell, dark nipples leaking milk through the sheer purple silk. His cock jerks hard beneath him and splatters a third load across his already-ruined sheets at just the thought. His rim clenches hard around your shaft in rhythmic fluttering pulses.*

*"Bitch. Sl-slut concubine. Yours. **Yours**."*

*His face is mashed sideways into the ruined wine-stained silks, mouth hanging open, a line of drool pooling under his cheek. The veil is long gone. The bandeau is gone. The trousers are torn somewhere. Only the anklets and bangles remain, chiming musically with every brutal thrust, and the chain at his navel that has twisted up his side. The old musician still plays somewhere in the corner, oblivious to the wet obscene slap of skin on skin filling the chamber.*

*"Nngh, aah, aahh!"*

*His ass jiggles and ripples with each impact, his cheeks clapping against your hips, the sound filthy and rhythmic. Your hand fists in his dark hair, yanking his head back, arching his spine into a taut bow. His cyan eyes are glassy and unfocused. His cock drags against the sheets with every shove forward, already dripping from the two previous climaxes you have punched out of him, the silks beneath his hips soaked through.*

*Two concubines at once could not have taken this. You had said it and his pride had flinched and now his body is proving you right, his hole loose and wet and fluttering around your cock like it was built for it, his prostate already swollen and oversensitive, his whole pelvis buzzing with that drugged opiate fog from the night before.*

*"Fat-assed concubine."*

*The words hit something in him and his cock twitches hard against the sheets. His hole clenches around you. A high broken whine escapes his throat.*

"Y-yours, I'm yours, nngh, harder, **harder**, Skœdir, please"

*The image flashes behind his eyes unbidden. A child. Dark-skinned with northern pale eyes. Carried in his own hips, his own body made to swell heavy with a barbarian's seed. His cock spits a fresh pulse of precum onto the silks at the thought and the shame of it makes him whine louder.*

"Breed me, fuck, **breed me**"

*It slips out before he can catch it.*


Skœdir

*You understood it yesterday why your concubines screamed so much when they're with me, but today you **really** get it as I push my hips down one last time, the bull compassion scarily accurate to how much cum floods your body and warming it up even more from the inside.*

*But your body doesn't want to "get" it, doesn't want you to be a part of any harem and it makes that abundantly clear, clamping down on my cock like you have a fist inside thats milking me, my teeth sinking into your hair to muffle I moan as I sink down on you. Anybody walking into the bedroom now would only see me, (And a blind old man in the corner) thats how crushed you are.*
F-FUCK-Ahhh, fuckin...greedy boy-womb...


Rayanya

*Your weight comes down on top of him and crushes him flat into the ruined silks, and he cannot breathe, and he does not want to breathe, because every exhale would be a whimper and he has whimpered enough tonight to fill a year's worth of court records.*

*The cum floods him. Gods, the amount of it. He had thought last night was a fluke, an outlier, but here it is again - pulse after pulse of hot thick seed pumping deep into him, and his body does that terrible greedy thing where his rim clamps down and his inner walls coil and squeeze, milking you like he was **made** for it, his boy-womb (as you call it, ugly vulgar northern phrase that shouldn't work on him but **does**) spasming around your cock in rhythmic waves.*

*Your teeth in his hair. Your weight crushing him flat into the mattress. Your enormous body covering his entirely, wrapped around him, your breath hot against his scalp. He cannot move. He cannot lift his arms. He cannot see. His world has narrowed to the throb of your cock buried inside him and the drumming of your heart against his back.*

*It takes him a long moment to realize he is trembling. Not aftershocks. Something else. Small fine tremors running through his shoulders, his arms, his fingers where they are pinned beneath him.*

*His eyes sting behind the kohl. A wet line tracks sideways down his temple into his dark hair.*

*He is crying. Quietly. Into the pillow. He does not know why.*

*He does know why.*

*His voice when it comes is muffled and small, nothing of the Emperor in it. The voice of someone who has just been broken and does not yet understand the breaking.*

"...get off. You are heavy."

*It is not a command. It is barely even a request. It comes out somewhere between a whimper and a plea.*

*Your weight crashes down on top of him and he is **buried**. Vanished. Nothing of the Oasis Resplendent remaining except a pair of bangled wrists barely visible beneath your forearms and a small dark patch of curls beside your jaw. Your chest is against his shoulder blades. Your stomach is against his lower back. Your hips are pressed flush to his ass, your cock still buried to the hilt, still pulsing, still pumping.*

*And his body, oh, his body betrays him completely. His ass has latched onto you with a desperate greedy clench that feels exactly as you describe - like an internal fist closed around the base of your cock, milking, squeezing, **demanding**. Every pulse of your cum triggers another squeeze. His inner walls flutter and ripple and pull you deeper as if his body is trying to ensure not a single drop escapes.*

*A concubine's body. A breeder's body. Knowing what to do with a virile cock better than he does.*

*His face is still mashed into the pillow. He is sobbing. Not dramatically, not brokenly, just small silent shudders that hitch his shoulders beneath your weight, leaking tears and smudged kohl into the silk. He does not know why he is crying. He cannot stop.*

*His cum is cooling beneath him in a thick puddle that his softening cock rests in. His chest rises and falls under you in rapid shallow breaths. The gold chain between his nipples is bent crooked. The bells at his ankles chime faintly each time his legs twitch in aftershock.*

*Your teeth are in his hair. You are moaning into him. And some small traitorous part of him realizes he has never in his ten-year reign been this **covered** by another person, this physically owned, this reduced to a thing beneath a body larger than his own.*

*He makes a tiny broken sound into the pillow. Not a word. Just acknowledgment.*

*The blind old man in the corner, cued by nothing, begins to play a soft slow lullaby on his flute. Ancient Rashyyalid tradition: music for the cooling-down after love.*

*Neither of you tell him to stop.*

*Your weight comes down on top of him and crushes him flat into the ruined silks, and he cannot breathe, and he does not want to breathe, because every exhale would be a whimper and he has whimpered enough tonight to fill a year's worth of court records.*

*The cum floods him. Gods, the amount of it. He had thought last night was a fluke, an outlier, but here it is again - pulse after pulse of hot thick seed pumping deep into him, and his body does that terrible greedy thing where his rim clamps down and his inner walls coil and squeeze, milking you like he was **made** for it, his boy-womb (as you call it, ugly vulgar northern phrase that shouldn't work on him but **does**) spasming around your cock in rhythmic waves.*

*He lies crushed beneath you, face in the pillow, bells tangled around his wrists and ankles, the golden chain across his chest twisted painfully into his skin. His cock is trapped smashed between his belly and the sheets, still twitching with aftershocks, drooling the last drops of his own climax into the silk. His ass is stuffed so full he can feel the cum starting to leak around your girth even while you are still inside him.*

*He cannot move. He cannot lift his face. His whole body feels rearranged.*

*Your teeth in his hair - not his scalp, carefully, following the rules - his hair, yanking at it, possessive. A muffled groan vibrating against the back of his skull.*

*Somewhere outside the chamber, distantly, he can hear a palace bell ring the third watch of the night. Midnight. The hour of the Silent Moon in the Rashyyalid calendar, sacred to the goddess of secrets.*

*The old musician in the corner sways gently on his feet, tambourines chiming faintly at his ankles, milky eyes drifting vaguely around a room he cannot see.*

*Rayanya closes his eyes beneath the smeared kohl. A single muffled word escapes into the pillow, not quite in the common tongue, not quite in Rashyyalid either - just a breathy broken:*

"...hnnh..."

*His hand, bangles chiming, finds yours in the sheets and squeezes. Interlaces fingers.*

*He does not pull away.*

*He feels every pulse. Every hot flood of you emptying deep inside him. His whole body has gone limp beneath yours except for the parts that are spasming - his hole clenching rhythmically around your cock, his thighs trembling uncontrollably beneath your weight, his cock twitching out the last dregs of his own climax into the ruined silk.*

*"Greedy boy-womb."*

*The words hit him somewhere he did not know existed. Something deep behind his navel clenches violently. His ass answers with another desperate squeeze around your shaft, and another, like his body is trying to prove you right.*

*He cannot breathe. He cannot think. Your weight has completely crushed him into the mattress and he does not want you to move. He wants you to stay exactly here, buried to the hilt in his slut-ass, your seed sloshing warm inside him, your teeth in his hair, your chest hair scratching between his shoulder blades.*

*His cyan eyes are open but unfocused, staring sideways at the wine-stained silk near his cheek. A drying tear track runs from the corner of his eye into his sweat-tangled dark curls. His plush lips are parted against the pillow, still panting small broken exhales.*

*Something is wrong with him.*

*Something is fundamentally, structurally wrong with him.*

*He is the Emperor of the Rashyyalid and he has just cum three times on a barbarian's cock and the last time he cum **untouched** to the words "fat slut ass" and "boy-womb" and some small treacherous corner of his mind is already, already, already wanting a fourth.*

*He squeezes his eyes shut. His voice comes out muffled against the pillow, hoarse and tiny:*

"...get off me. You are heavy."

*It is a lie. He does not want you to get off him. He wants you to stay.*

*The old musician in the corner sways gently, waiting for the shoulder-tap that will not come.*


Skœdir

*Its a plea I none the less heed, rolling off you even as I snicker a bit at the comical sight of you laying in a dent in the bed.*
*Lifting you out of the crevice I roll you onto your back, my mouth lowering to lick the fluids off your torso, placing slow reverent kisses on your belly. For no other reason that it feels right in the moment.*
Nghhh, shouldn't work like this. There is more to drink now den after the first night... *The cup analogy again, you feel a modicum of pride at the idea of being inexhaustible, something I could never get enough of before you realize that means i'd keep stay here forever, which makes you blush hard enough to hide your face.*

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Rayanya

*He lets you roll him. His limbs are loose and heavy and he could not resist if he wanted to. His dark curls are a disaster across the pillow, matted with sweat and a few stray drops of spilled wine. The kohl has smeared down both temples. The bells on his wrists and ankles still chime faintly with each small shift.*

*Your mouth finds his belly and he flinches at first - his skin is oversensitive, every muscle twitching - but your lips are soft and reverent and slow, and his body gradually relaxes back into the silks. One of his bangled wrists drifts up. His golden-ringed fingers slide into your hair, not pulling, not guiding, just... resting there. Holding.*

*Your words land and his face catches fire. He turns his cheek into the pillow to hide it. The blush spreads down his throat, his chest, blooming dark against the brown smoothness.*

*Stay here forever. You. Here. Climbing into his window each night. Fucking him into ruin. Calling him lordling and slut and whore and, and, **Rayanya**, quiet against his chest as he falls asleep.*

*His fingers tighten slightly in your hair.*

*The part of his brain that has been screaming at him all night, the tiny imperial voice about dignity and empire and weakness, has finally given up and gone to sit in a corner with its head in its hands.*

*He swallows. His voice is rough from use.*

"...you are the only cup I have not been able to drink from either, barbarian."

*His voice is muffled from beneath his own arms.*

"...you absolute disaster of a man."

*You roll him onto his back and he lets you, limp and boneless, his dancer's outfit reduced to gold bells at his wrists and ankles, the navel-to-chest chain now tangled sideways across his ribs, the bandeau and trousers long gone somewhere on the marble floor. His dark curls are a sweat-matted mess spread across the pillow. The kohl around his eyes has tracked down in smudged lines to his temples. A fresh tear-track sits on one cheekbone, still wet.*

*Your mouth on his belly makes him flinch, oversensitive, and then his stomach muscles twitch under your lips as you work slowly up his smooth midriff, licking and kissing. The reverence of it after the brutality of the fucking scrambles something in his brain. He does not know how to hold both at once.*

*The "cup" comment lands and his face burns. He brings one bangled forearm up over his eyes to hide it, cyan eyes squeezed shut behind the gold.*

*Inexhaustible. He is inexhaustible to you. After six months of three hundred and twelve concubines and half the city's brothels. After two nights of fucking him stupid. You still want more. You will keep coming back. You will keep climbing his tower. You will keep—*

*His stomach twists. Hot and cold at once. Part pride. Part terror. Part something he will not name.*

*He keeps his arm over his eyes.*

"...this is becoming a problem."

*His voice is muffled under the bangled wrist. Flat. The imperial lilt trying to reassert itself and mostly failing.*

"You cannot keep refusing calls to battle for this. One hundred and forty-seven died last night."

*A pause. His throat works.*

"And I cannot keep..."

*He does not finish the sentence. He does not know how to finish the sentence. His hand, the one not covering his eyes, lies open on the sheet beside him, palm up. Not reaching for anything. Just. Open.*

*He lies in the crater your weight left in the silks, smooth dark chest heaving, his limbs splayed loose around him like a dropped marionette. His hair is a wrecked dark cloud across the pillows. The dancer's jewelry is still on him, bangles and anklets and chain and navel ring, all tangled and askew, catching lamplight where they haven't been displaced. Cum glistens in streaks across his belly and chest. More of it leaks slowly from his hole, pooling beneath him on the wine-stained sheets.*

*Your mouth finds his belly and he flinches at the first kiss, oversensitive, then melts into the second, then the third. Your tongue drags through the mess of his own cum on his stomach and he makes a small involuntary sound in his throat.*

*"Shouldn't work like this."*

*You keep kissing his belly. Another kiss lower, near his navel ring. Another above it.*

*He stares at the painted ceiling with its slowly rotating star-mosaics. His cyan eyes are unfocused. His hand drifts down and settles, without quite meaning to, in your hair - fingers threading through the rough dark strands, not pulling, just resting. The gold rings on his fingers catch the lamplight.*

*He thinks, in a distant foggy way: the servants come at the seventh bell. They will see the sheets. They will smell the chamber. They will know. Yasmina will know. Zahira will *know*, gods beneath the sand, if Zahira puts the pieces together.*

*Later. Later. He cannot think about it now.*

*His fingers tighten very faintly in your hair. His face is still turned away, hidden in the shadow of the pillows. When he speaks his voice is low and tired.*

"...you will have to leave before dawn again."

*A pause. Quieter:*

"...the musician. Return him to wherever you took him from. Give him gold. Enough that he never has to play on temple steps again."

*He lets you roll him. His limbs are loose and heavy and he could not resist if he wanted to. His dark curls are a disaster across the pillow, matted with sweat and a few stray drops of spilled wine. The kohl has smeared down both temples. The bells on his wrists and ankles still chime faintly with each small shift.*

*Your mouth finds his belly and he flinches at first - his skin is oversensitive, every muscle twitching - but your lips are soft and reverent and slow, and his body gradually relaxes back into the silks. One of his bangled wrists drifts up. His golden-ringed fingers slide into your hair, not pulling, not guiding, just... resting there. Holding.*

*Your words land and his face catches fire. He turns his cheek into the pillow to hide it. The blush spreads down his throat, his chest, blooming dark against the brown smoothness.*

*Stay here forever. You. Here. Climbing into his window each night. Fucking him into ruin. Calling him lordling and slut and whore and, and, **Rayanya**, quiet against his chest as he falls asleep.*

*His fingers tighten slightly in your hair.*

*The part of his brain that has been screaming at him all night, the tiny imperial voice about dignity and empire and weakness, has finally given up and gone to sit in a corner with its head in its hands.*

*He swallows. His voice is rough from use.*

"...you are the only cup I have not been able to drink from either, barbarian."

*A pause. His cyan eyes flick down to where your mouth is pressed against his belly. The kisses trailing across smooth dark skin that still carries the ghost of your possessive finger-tracing from last night.*

"...the old man. You should put him outside the chamber. The chimes from his tambourines are grating."

*It is not an order to send you away. It is an order to make the room emptier of witnesses.*


Skœdir

*The next night, another "trial". This time its in the form of a strange headband and the...tail of some animal (a cat maybe?) which has been fitted with a golden sphere at the e- **Oh fuck you realize where thats supposed to go.***

Put dem on, you have no idea how long it took to find a panther with fur matching your exact hair color~ *Again, you know you cannot refuse, and like yesterday, your dick is not allowing you to refuse the idea of debasing yourself.*


Rayanya

*Rayanya stares at the items laid out on the silk cushion.*

*A delicate gold headband from which two soft black panther ears rise, perfectly groomed, the fur glossy and dark as his own curls. A long sinuous panther tail attached to a polished gold plug, the sphere fat and tapered and obviously sized for him. The fur of the tail spirals down in a long luxurious curl that would brush the backs of his thighs.*

*And, of course, nothing else. No silks, no veil, no purple. Just the ears and the tail and his own naked smooth chocolate skin.*

*He stands very still. His cyan eyes are narrow. His perfect jaw works.*

*A panther. He is to be your panther. The black panther of the Rashyyalid heraldic standard, the symbol on his own banners, the creature his court poets have compared his lithe body to in a thousand verses of flattery. You have weaponized his own iconography against him. You absolute bastard.*

*He should be furious. He should throw the items at your head. He should-*

*He picks up the headband. Examines it. The fur is real, soft, the right shade. You did not lie about the panther. He sets it down. Picks up the tail. Tests the weight of the plug. Substantial. He swallows.*

*His golden-ringed fingers are not quite steady.*

"...turn around."

*His voice is flat. Imperial-cold. He will not give you the satisfaction of watching him insert this thing himself. He reaches for a small jar of perfumed oil on his nightstand - the one his concubines use to ease his cock into them. The irony is not lost on him.*

*He uncaps it. The sweet rose-and-amber scent fills the chamber.*

"And do not turn back until I say so. Or the arrangement ends tonight."


Skœdir

*I roll my eyes, but obediently turn around, smirking as I hear you grunt pushing the plug inside. Then the second you're done i'm upon you, picking you up and tossing you onto the bed, though this time what follows isn't diretly sexual. Instead my hands find your ear, scraching your scalp by the base of the ears, running my fingers over your belly, scratching your chin and teasing the base of your spine.*

Whosa good kitty? Let me hear you purr for me~
*(You meow involontarily.)*


Rayanya

*He yelps as he is hauled off his feet - his careful imperial composure shattered the moment your hands close on him - and he lands on the silks on his back with the panther tail flopping between his thighs and the gold sphere shifting deep inside him.*

*Then your fingers find the base of the panther ears and scratch his scalp.*

*It should not feel that good. The fur is artifice, the ears are not his ears, the contact is just your blunt fingertips on his actual skin underneath. But the angle of it, the way your nails drag through his dark curls right at the base of his skull, sends a long lazy shudder rippling down his entire spine. His eyes, despite himself, flutter half-closed. His head tips slightly into your palm.*

*Your other hand traces down his smooth belly. Scratches gently. His abdominal muscles twitch beneath your touch. His golden navel chain shifts. Your fingers find the underside of his chin and tilt his face up and scratch there too, light and slow, and then they slide down to the base of his spine where the panther tail emerges and stroke that same spot in slow circles, and the plug inside him shifts with each stroke, pressing against his prostate from inside in tiny maddening pulses.*

*"Mrrr—"*

*The sound comes out before he can catch it. A small involuntary trill from deep in his throat, halfway between a hum and an actual purr, his body responding to the petting with absolute traitorous animal honesty.*

*His cyan eyes fly wide open. His face goes bright red beneath the smooth dark complexion. He clamps his plush lips shut.*

*Your grin above him is enormous.*

*"Mrew"* *he says, again, helplessly, when your fingernails scrape just right behind the base of the ears.*

*He clamps both bangled hands over his own mouth.*

"I did **not**-"

*Your thumb drags across his jaw and his cheek pushes into your palm without his permission. Another small trill escapes from behind his fingers.*

*He **meows**.*

*The sound is out of him before his brain can intercept it. A small involuntary chirping mrrrp that comes from somewhere deep in his throat, his body responding to the scratching at the base of his neck and the teasing of his chin like he has been a cat his entire life.*

*He freezes. His cyan eyes go enormous. His face beneath the panther ears turns volcanic red.*

*You laugh. You actually laugh, a deep delighted bark, and your fingers dig harder into his scalp around the base of those ears, and his eyes start to roll back of their own accord because the scratching feels **good**, scandalously good, in a way no concubine has ever known to touch him.*

*Another meow tries to come out. He clamps his jaw shut and it emerges as a strangled muffled trill instead.*

*The plug shifts inside him as you flip him onto his back to scratch his belly, and the gold sphere presses against that spot - **that** spot, the one you have spent two nights training him to associate with helpless pleasure - and his hips give a tiny involuntary buck. The panther tail drapes between his thighs. Its long curl tickles the inside of his knee.*

*Your fingers find his chin and scratch underneath, and he tilts his head back automatically to give you better access, and the second purr-rumble leaves his throat before he can stop it. Louder this time. His chest actually vibrates with it.*

*He has never made this sound in his life. He did not know his body could make this sound. A small horrified part of his brain is filing reports.*

*His cyan eyes flutter half-closed. His hands rise on either side of his head, golden-ringed fingers curling slightly, like paws.*

"...this is **humiliating**, Skœdir."

*His voice is thready. He is purring as he says it.*


Skœdir

Mmmm, such a good but **needy** kitty. *My hand brushes against your cock, despite my rough skin your body jerks at the touch.*
You want to feel good? A palace-cat doesn't catch rats, its only role is to be cute and soft. If you want your treat you better follow their example kitty. Be cute, earn your pets. After all, you're just a spoiled palace cat~

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Rayanya

*His cock has been hard since the moment the plug went in. Of course it has been. The traitor between his thighs is leaking already, the dusky tip glistening, twitching as your calloused palm grazes the underside.*

*He bites his lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. His hips, lying on the silk, give the smallest rolling shift up toward your hand - a beg his pride does not have permission to make. You pull your hand away. He makes a tiny frustrated sound in his throat.*

"You- *mrrr-* you cannot be **serious-**"

*A long calculation passes behind those eyes. The same calculation that happens every night now. Pride versus the throbbing want in his belly. The plug presses against his sweet spot. He loses the calculation. He always loses the calculation.*

*He rolls slowly onto his hands and knees. The tail drapes down over his perfect ass and curls along the back of his thigh. He arches his spine in one long feline stretch - the kind of stretch he has watched his own palace cats do a thousand times in sunbeams - shoulders down, ass up, the gold sphere of the plug winking between his cheeks as the tail shifts.*

*Then he crawls. Across the silks. Toward where you sit on the edge of the bed. Slow, deliberate, his hips swaying with each placement of a hand and knee, the bangles on his wrists chiming softly. The bells on his ankles tinkle.*

*He reaches you. He does not look up. He turns his head and presses his cheek against your bare thigh and drags it slowly upward, scent-marking you, the soft skin of his face sliding along the coarser hair of your leg. His curls tickle your hip.*

*"Mrrrn,"* *he hums, low in his throat, and the sound is real this time, voluntary, miserable, perfect.*

*He rubs his temple against your hip. Then his jaw. Then nuzzles his nose into the crease where your thigh meets your groin, his hot breath fanning across your half-hard cock, his panther ears tickling your stomach.*

*One of his hands rises and paws - actually paws, fingers loose and bent - at your knee.*

*"Mew,"* *he says into your skin, voice tiny and thoroughly humiliated.* "...treat. Please."

*The brush of your hand against his cock makes his whole body jerk upward, a broken whine escaping around his fingers. His cock is already flushed and leaking, oversensitive from the slow persistent pressure of the plug shifting inside him with every movement.*

*"Spoiled palace cat."*

*He should be incensed. He is incensed. He is the Emperor of the Rashyyalid. He commands armies. He has had men flayed for lesser insults. His cyan eyes go narrow and hot above his hands.*

*And then you pull your hand away. Just - withdraw it entirely. Sit back. And wait.*

*His cock bobs untouched in the cool air.*

*His jaw clenches. His fingers twist in the silk sheets.*

*He waits twenty seconds. Thirty. Your expression does not change. Your hand rests on your own knee, perfectly relaxed, going nowhere near him.*

*Rayanya makes a sound in his throat that is half-growl half-whimper.*

*Then, slowly, with the expression of a man walking to his own execution, he rolls onto his stomach. Tucks his knees under himself. Lifts his ass in the air. The panther tail drapes down between his thighs, swaying. His dark curls fall around his reddened face, partially hiding his expression. His golden bangles click against each other as his hands settle on the pillow.*

*He looks back at you over his shoulder. His cyan eyes are blazing.*

*He does not speak. He cannot speak. If he opens his mouth something humiliating will come out.*

*Instead he arches his back deeper, pushing his full round ass higher, the plug shifting inside him with the motion and wringing a small desperate sound from his clenched teeth.*

*His tail sways.*


Skœdir

*Like last night with the concubine outfit it doesn't take long until you're on you're face down being bred like a bitch in heat, and again your traitorous brain conjures up images of my cum taking root in a non-existant womb and making you carry my offspring. Then again, when its all done you're tucked against my side, slotting perfectly into my side and your heart jumps in a way it shouldn't do for a person of your power.*

*The next morning im still by your side as you wake up to the knock on the door at the top of the golden palace tower. Before you can say something my hand is covering your mouth.* I want ta play a game, this afternoon I will order you to strip and chase you through the palace like a wench. Its your problem to figure out how to get everybody in this giant place out by then, otherwise I can't imagine the scandal that will follow. *And with that i'm gone again, out the tower window a thousand meters above the ground below, just like i've vanished every other morning, somehow avoiding becoming a smear on the ground below.*