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ichorness · 4 years ago

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there will be no tenderness- pt 1

ao3 link

Rating: E

Relationship: Rowan/Castor, Castor/Avor/Evrin

Warnings: noncon, breeding kink (no pregnancy), anal, spitroasting, slapping, spanking, branding, choking, knotting, leashes, mild puppy play, rough oral sex, rough vaginal sex, trans character being penetrated in front hole, kidnapping, emotional manipulation. lmk if i missed anything.

The royal procession gleams where it travels down the road dug through the steep hilly terrain, hard packed dirt hardened by years and years of horse hooves and carriage wheels. The carriage that passes below Rowan now is dark wood polished to a shine, pulled by 4 large white horses with braided manes and jeweled bridles. Rowan snorts at this. Only royal horses need rubies studding their bridles.

The royal guard accompanying the carriage is nothing to sneeze at, however. Half a dozen highly trained knights, devoted to nothing else but the safety of their king and the king’s family. They’re mounted on darker, smaller horses, built for speed but still strong enough to tote large men and women dressed in full mail.

Rowan lays on their stomach at the top of the hill nearest the wooden bridge that spans the river that cuts the land in half. If they look across the road, a bit to the east, they can see the tops of two burly heads also aimed at the road. The somewhat uncontrollable battle-lust of Rowan’s compatriots make them uneasy, but this is the price one pays for throwing their lot in with a couple of packless werewolves, and the two have been reliable so far.

They refocus their attention to the procession. The prince and a few of his companions are being escorted from the royal family’s country estate in the warmer, greener southern countryside where he wiles his winters away to the royal palace on the northwestern coast. The first breath of spring always brings the prince, the king’s younger son, home, on a route cleared of all other travel until he makes it safely to the capital city. The path the carriage takes changes yearly, but Rowan spent a few days in various taverns listening to merchantmen and caravan drivers griping over having to change their travel plans. Supposedly they’re compensated for the inconvenience, but apparently not enough to keep from grumbling into their cups.

The first pair of accompanying horses is close to nearing the bridge now. It’s time. Rowan lets out a low, steady whistle, like an owl, and waits until it is returned. Then, they make their sliding descent down the side of the hill, skidding to a halt a few yards ahead of the procession, directly in the middle of the road. The knights ahead of the carriage pull their mounts to a curious halt, hands already on the hilts of their swords.

Rowan raises their hands, heavy silver ring on their left pointer finger already drawing their magic forward from their chest. “Hey!” one of the knights shouts, drawing his sword and making to dismount.

By then, it’s too late, however. Rowan can feel the heavy, fast heartbeats of the horses as if they were Rowan’s own, pounding in their ears. They look into the eyes of the horses and feel the impulses of their minds, reaching in and gathering up the strands of their consciousnesses into their left hand and clenching their fingers tight around the bundle. A small tug.

The horses bearing the knights let out enraged snorts and brays, kicking and bucking with ferocity until the knights go spilling to the ground. A firmer tug from Rowan and the horses turn on the knights, staring down over them with fury and hatred. Stamping their great hooves and kicking out with their back legs.

It’s barely a thought for Rowan to sever the harnesses connecting the white carriage horses to their load, allowing them to thunder off away from the scene, dragging the driver a few yards before the fool has the good sense to release the reins. This doesn’t save the poor man, of course, for with a snap of Rowan’s ringed fingers, he bursts into a wash of flames, burning to a husk in seconds. No witnesses.

These distractions are enough that Rowan’s werewolf companions approach almost unnoticed, until Avor, larger and blonder than his compatriot, tears into the first knight. This is enough to finally draw screams of terror from inside the carriage, the prince and his pampered friends clearly unused to such brutality. One of the knights draws her weapon, a long necked rifle from the east, new and expensive, supposedly able to fire projectiles at amazing speeds.

Rowan has never seen one up close, as they are prized and the sale of them is heavily restricted, but they know that within the chamber there is flint and powder to launch the small steel ball within the barrel. They release their control of the horses, that part of the job now done, and focus their energy on the spark waiting to be lit inside of the rifle. All at once, it explodes with surprising force, blowing up in the knight’s face as she draws it close to her face to take aim. She falls to the ground with a scream, face a bloody mess and hands blown to bits.

A knight ducks one of Evrin’s clawed slashes and charges toward Rowan instead. Rowan clenches their left fist tight enough that their arm aches with the force of it, and the knight slows, a look of confused fear crossing his face. His movements become brittle and stuttered until he stops completely, frost traveling fast over his frame, feet to head. Freezing his insides, skin going blue and white. Rowan picks up a decent sized rock by the side of the dirt road and lobs it at the frozen knight. He shatters on impact, bloodless, like an ice statue.

Evrin and Avor make quick, bloody work of the rest. Their fronts are wet with red by the time the last knight falls dead, missing his throat. They stop, looking to Rowan for confirmation, who nods. The large men rip the carriage doors off the body of the carriage completely, to the horrified cries of those inside. Rowan can see four individuals, two young nobles, an older man (probably an attendant or tutor), and the prince himself. He isn’t wearing his crown in the privacy of his carriage, but his portrait is on enough walls in the kingdom that there is no mistake.

Prince Castor is cowering against the corner of the carriage, nails digging into the plush seats as if that will protect him. Rowan would pity him, if he didn’t represent such a large sum of money. “What do we do with the rest?” Evrin, smaller and moderately more reasonable than Avor, asks.

Rowan shrugs. “No witnesses,” they say, reaching into the carriage and grabbing for the prince. He shrieks when Rowan snatches his slim wrists, kicking and flailing. He’s small and weak, however, his well heeled, pampered life betraying him when he can’t even manage a proper punch. If his aim had been better he would have broken his thumb against Rowan’s face. Rowan wrestles Castor out of the carriage and wrenches his head back by a handful of his soft hair. “You saw what I did to your guards with this, didn’t you?” Rowan holds up his ring for Castor’s inspection, imbued with the power of a magical focus.

Castor manages the barest of nods. “Do you want to know what I can do to you?” Rowan can see Castor’s pulse hammering against the skin of his neck. A tiny shake of the head. “Then be a good boy,” Rowan says against the shell of his ear, breathing in the smell of his clean, perfumed skin.

The prince, wisely, stands utterly still, aside from his trembles of fear, which Rowan does not blame him for. They put him out of his pathetic misery, pressing two fingers to his temple and slowing his mind and heart until he slumps heavily into their arms, fast asleep. He will not wake for several hours. It’s a small mercy, but he will be spared witnessing the gory fate of his friends. They produce a pair of iron manacles from their pack and fasten them tightly around Castor’s princely wrists, hands behind his back.

Avor and Evrin are busy hauling the bodies of the knights toward the carriage and piling them inside of it. A limp arm hangs out the left door, and Avor kicks it back into the carriage with irritation. He hasn’t bothered wiping the blood from his face, allowing it to seep into his beard, but Evrin at least took a cursory swipe at himself with a rag sticking out from his pocket. Once all the bodies are in the carriage and the doors shut, Evrin looks to Rowan. “You’re up, boss,” he says, his tone going snide.

Rowan raises both hands, fingers splayed, and a gust of flame flares up from beneath the carriage, engulfing the entirety of it immediately. Soon the pillar of smoke will be visible for miles, as well as the stench of burning human flesh and hair.

It’s time to depart.

They take 3 horses that used to bear the knights, Rowan’s magic making them agreeable to these strangers. Rowan balances the sleeping prince in front of them in the saddle, pulling his fine velvet, fur lined hood over his head so the face on a million portraits and stamps around the kingdom isn’t bare to the world, and sets off at a steady gallop. Evrin and Avor have a bit more trouble with their mounts, magic or no. The horses sense that there are predators among them, that these man shaped creatures are beasts that can and will eat them. Avor’s steed requires a firm heel to the side before it sets off after Rowan, but soon, the three of them are riding west just as the sun turns in the sky to begin its lazy descent.

Castor’s body aches, tailbone and hips smarting like they do after a day of riding. His shoulders, also, are painful and tense, arms strained and burning. He groans softly, confused. His face is against the hard, damp ground instead of a pillow, and his neck is itching at him. He goes to stretch, bring his arms in front of him to sit up, and stops when he feels the cold, hard metal of the cuffs around his wrists. Tight enough to bruise, and the raw feeling in his wrists suggest that they have.

His breathing picks up now, panic setting in as memories of what occurred before his sleep come back to him, a bit hazy, but still alarming. Sounds of slaughter, crackling fire, the cries of men and horses. Castor rolls onto his back with a grunt and struggles into a seated position, staring around.

He’s sat in a small clearing where a tiny camp has been pitched, a tent and two bedrolls situated around a hastily dug fire pit. The itch at his throat is a length of rope that has been tied around his neck and connected securely to a fallen log a few feet behind him. It isn’t thin rope, either, and of course he’s already been divested of his dagger and travel purse. His ears burn when the phrase “like a dog” floats through his mind, collared and leashed as he is.

This minor embarrassment is in the back of his mind, however, as he takes in the others at the camp. Two massive, burly men, covered in hair and arms bulging with muscle sit on one side of the fire, eyeing him like meat. Castor has never seen werewolves before, but he can safely assume that’s what these men are. One of them, more blonde than his fellow, has a permanently elongated face, as if partially phased into that of his wolf form, eyes a clear and inhuman bright blue, and large clawed hands and feet as well. If a werewolf spends too much time in his bestial form, returning to a completely human shape becomes impossible. The other, smaller and darker haired, appears human enough, but still has a thinly veiled ferocity about him, made all the more apparent by his proximity to the other.

The third of this small party is not a werewolf, but Castor remembers them. Their cool voice in his ear and their magic ghosting over his body. The heavy silver ring on their hand gives them away, the signet on the top an engraving of many interlocking circles in a hypnotizing pattern with a sunburst at its center, a symbol of magical power. Castor has no magical talent of his own but has studied the topic enough to know the most common of sorcerers' glyphs. Most sorcerers Castor knows spend their lives amongst dusty old tomes or else are conscripted into his father’s army, but clearly others found it more prudent to seek other lines of work.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” the sorcerer says blandly, crouched beside the fire and gazing intently into the flames, either scrying or lost in thought. One of the werewolves, the larger more brutish one, snickers.

Castor glares at them sourly, lip curled with disdain. This causes both of the werewolves to laugh, as if he’s a pouting child and not one of the most powerful people in the country. “Where am I? What do you want?” he demands, trying to sound commanding. It comes out shaky and thin.

The sorcerer looks up from the flames and gives a wane smile, rising and approaching him. “Consider it a temporary interruption of your journey home. We’re ransoming you,” they say calmly, pulling a key from their pocket and reaching around Castor to uncuff his hands, putting themself very close into his personal space, close enough for Castor to feel the heat of their body. He read somewhere that sorcerers have higher body temperatures, due to the power inside them.

The manacles fall and Castor winces, examining his wrists. They’re chaffed pink and red. “Now, please remove your clothing,” the sorcerer says and Castor’s eye bulge.

“What?” Castor asks shrilly.

The sorcerer snorts. “We will be a mite less conspicuous if we aren’t parading the prince around in all of his finery. Besides,” they pinch Castor’s cloak between their fingers, feeling the material, “This will fetch a pretty price. Velvet cloak, rabbit fur lining. Silk shirt with handspun lace, if I had to guess. And,” they hook a finger over Castor’s top button, “Pearl buttons.”

Castor crosses his arms, knocking the sorcerer’s hands away. “No! Why didn’t you do it when I was sleeping, if that’s the case?”

“I wouldn’t undress someone while they slept, that would be rude,” the sorcerer replies, twisting their ring around their finger.

“If he don’t want to do it, Rowan, ‘haps we can help. He might not be used to dressing and undressing hisself,” the blonde werewolf suggests hungrily. The sorcerer, Rowan, closes their eyes, face drawn with irritation, probably at having their name revealed.

“If you make me ask again, I’ll take Avor up on his generous offer,” Rowan says, a glint in their eye. Castor swallows, looking over Rowan’s shoulder at the hulking werewolves. His fingers shake at the clasp of his cloak, but it falls to the ground. Then follow his supple leather boots and fine woolen trousers, vest, and silky white shirt. The buttons are pearl, and slip in his shaky grasp, but they too come open. He stops when he’s down to his thin underclothes and socks, cheeks burning and unable to meet Rowan’s gaze, praying he won’t be forced to take anything else off. Rowan nods, once, and sweeps their own cloak off, older and much more tattered than Castor’s, the wool worn very thin in some places, and wraps it around Castor’s shoulders. “To stave off the chill, Your Highness.”

They lock the manacles back around Castor’s painful wrists, but allow him to have his hands in front of him this time. Castor clutches the cloak closed tight around him and sits on the ground, knees tucked to his chest.

Rowan walks away, leaving Castor alone in the line of Avor’s hungry gaze. He can practically feel how the werewolf aches for him. His companion only masks it marginally better, but when the wind shifts and blows at Castor’s back, his nostrils flare, clearly smelling him.

Rowan lifts their pack onto their shoulders, crouching in the dirt at the edge of camp and sketching a glyph into it, one of warding and protection. “Where are you going?” Castor asks, heart beating in his throat. He doesn’t trust Rowan at all, but he knows with a fierce certainty that he doesn’t want to be alone with the two werewolves.

“To make sure we will not be found,” Rowan replies simply, wiggling the fingers of their ringed hand, “And mail a letter.”

“My ransom letter?”

“Quite. Boys, please keep our esteemed guest company while I’m gone,” Rowan says, and with that they set off into the trees, the rapidly darkening forest swallowing them whole.

Castor draws his cloak closer around himself, fists clenched tight around the fabric. Avor grins at him leerily. “Why aren’t you with your pack?” Castor asks nervously.

The unnamed one shrugs. “Had a few ‘differences in opinion’ with the pack. Struck out on our own,” he says shortly. His smile as he says it makes Castor wonder if he’s not remembering what the flesh of his former packmates tastes like. He shudders.

“Me ‘n Evrin are a pack of two. All we need,” Avor says proudly. “Most the time. It does get lonely, some. Evrin here is no good to lay with.” He jams a hard elbow into Evrin’s side. “Not soft, not good for holding. Bet you are, though. Bet you’d be nice and warm and wet.”

Castor shakes his head frantically, pressing himself back until he’s pressed flush with the log he’s leashed to. Avor takes a few steps forward, closing the space between them and wrapping a hand around the rope attaching Castor to the tree. “Where you think you’re going, pup?”

Castor’s heart pounds, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out almost everything else. He clings the cloak closed in front of him, even as Avor uses his grip on his leash to draw him up to his knees, closer to Avor’s body. The press of the rope on his neck isn’t choking, not yet, but it easily could be, and they all know it. “I can hear your heart, boy,” Evrin says, reaching over to cup a rough hand around Castor’s cheek. “Smell your blood pounding.” His thumb traces just under Castor’s eye, then his fingers trail down, over his neck and what’s visible of his shoulders and collarbone.

Avor uses his other hand, hooking a claw under the clasp of the cloak at Castor’s neck and tearing it away with no effort at all. Castor’s hands hold it shut around his body but now his shoulders and upper back are bare, save his thin undershirt. “Please,” Castor whispers, voice high and reedy and shaking so badly he can barely force the word out. “Don’t.”

Evrin moves to pull the cloak away from Castor and Castor clings to it tightly. Not tightly enough to stop an impatient werewolf, however, and the fabric tears loudly in the silence of the evening, leaving Castor with handfuls of tattered wool as the rest of the cloak is ripped away. He whines then, a pitiful little whimper, tears springing to his eyes. “Already crying, pup? Haven’t even done anything yet. Jus’ wanna look at you,” Avor says lowly, in a voice that might have been comforting if he didn’t yank hard on the rope in his hand, choking off Castor’s airflow all at once as the prince scrambles to his feet, still more than a head shorter than Avor.

The early spring evening is cold and he can feel goosebumps blossoming on his body, his nipples hardening painfully in the chill. Evrin’s warm bulk closes in behind him, caging him between the two. He runs his hands over the thin fabric of Castor’s undershirt, almost reverent, before gathering it in both hands and ripping it open at the back to touch his skin. Evrin’s hands are burning hot on Castor’s back, callused and nails just a bit too long. Avor tears the shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it aside. In one hand he holds the rope tight and a handful of Castor’s hair, tilting his head back.

Avor doesn’t kiss him as much as he drives Castor’s mouth open with his own, sliding his tongue between Castor’s lips and laughing when Castor shrieks and squirms, though he can’t move at all against Avor’s strength and Evrin behind him.

With his other hand, Avor scores five angry lines over Castor’s chest and stomach with his claws. Castor yelps, the thin sharp cuts a searing pain, and then makes another higher noise when Avor catches one of his nipples between his fingers and pulls hard. It hurts, and yet Castor feels a familiar coil in his stomach. He tamps that down firmly, and it isn’t hard when Evrin stops stroking his hands over Castor’s stomach and suddenly drives his teeth hard into Castor’s shoulder. His teeth are sharper than they should be and break skin easily, more rivulets of blood spilling over his skin. He’s distracted from the momentary pleasure, until Avor breaks away from his mouth and licks a long line up his throat, following the pulse thundering along in his veins, tasting it thoroughly.

Evrin’s hands reach around his front to tease his nipples now, hands missing the painful claws, but he is no more gentle.

“You were wrong, little puppy. You’re so soft, warm too,” Avor says into Castor’s ear. “Wonder if all princes are s’nice as you.” Castor shivers at the gust of breath against his cheek. Evrin moves one hand from Castor’s chest and drags it down his front, cupping his hot pussy through his thin shorts.

“I can smell you, y’know. Smell you getting wet. Can’t hide from us, pup,” Evrin says with a low laugh, grinding the heel of his palm roughly into Castor’s dick. Castor’s hips leap on instinct, hitching up into the contact, before he can control himself and jerk away with an ashamed little cry.

“No…” he mumbles, shaking his head in Avor’s grip. Tears begin to slip down his cheeks in earnest now, blurring his vision.

Avor laughs in his face and let’s go of his hair to backhand him across the face, hard enough that he stumbles to the ground. Castor’s cheek smarts fiercely and he cries harder. No one has ever raised a hand to the prince before. He cups his cheek defensively and sniffles, but isn’t on the ground alone for long before Evrin and Avor join him, forcing him up onto all fours. Avor puts his hand in Castor’s hair again, pulling his head up as he fumbles his belt open, his claws tearing his trousers in his haste.

He snarls in irritation but draws his cock out, shoving his trousers down his thighs. It’s massive, long and thick and leaking from the tip already. Castor flails, scrabbling with his bound hands against the ground to rear his head away, letting out noises like a wounded animal amongst senseless begging.

Avor doesn’t budge, but he snaps, “Quit your fussing,” and fists his hand tighter in his hair, scratching his scalp and definitely ripping some of it out. Castor winces, which is a mistake, because the next time he opens his mouth Avor presses his cock in between Castor’s lips.

Castor immediately chokes and gags, unused to the feeling and unprepared for it, the head of Avor’s cock filling his mouth and stretching his lips open around it. As Avor sinks in more, undeterred by Castor’s streaming eyes and spasming throat, Evrin yanks Castor’s pants down to his knees, exposing his shamefully wet cunt to the cold night’s hair. Castor screams, muffled by Avor’s dick steadily working its way down his throat, but Evrin only spreads Castor’s ass cheeks to expose both his holes and chuckles softly.

“You filthy pup. You like his cock in your mouth don’t you?” Evrin asks, and Castor flails his feet in disagreement, but it doesn’t matter, because a thick, rough finger is feeling around in his wet pussy. Castor screeches again, trying to buck his hips and dislodge the finger, but only succeeds in sinking further down on it. “Quit screaming,” Avor says, grabbing hold of the rope around his neck and jerking it tightly, choking off what little air Castor is able to get around the cock nudging into his throat.

Evrin doesn’t bother with anything more than the finger and rubs the tip of his cock against Castor’s wet entrance briefly before sliding in while Castor grows red faced and faint from lack of air.

Castor has played with himself before, taken his own fingers and toys, but nothing nearly as large as this. Though he’s wet, the stretch burns badly, his tight hole feeling as if it might rip open. He releases a strangled cry as spit leaks down his chin and Evrin drives further in, slowly and steadily, hands bruising tight on Castor’s hips.

Avor releases the rope to hold onto Castor’s head with both hands as he begins to fuck his throat in earnest, hard and fast and sloppy while Castor tries to suppress his gags, focus on breathing through his throat. His cheeks and chin are shiny with spit, the sound of Avor’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth wet and obscene, and he’s still taken only slightly more than half.

Evrin pulls out to spit on his own cock and then Castor’s cunt before shoving back in hard and fast, forcing his cock deep and groaning with satisfaction. “That’s right pup, take it all,” he murmurs, reaching forward to ruffle Castor’s hair like a dog. He eases back and thrusts home again, snarling when Castor clenches on him. Castor cannot help the moan that escapes him or the burning shame when Avor and Evrin both laugh at him. “Stupid whore. Knew you’d love it,” Evrin says, picking up his pace.

Castor releases punched out whines every time Evrin fucks into him, enjoying it despite himself, growing wetter with arousal. “Good little bitch, taking my cock,” Evrin growls, voice growing guttural. The nails that he draws down Castor’s back are sharpened claws, opening shallow cuts.

“Gonna cum in you, pup. Gonna give you my knot,” Evrin says low in his throat. Avor continues fucking Castor’s throat, not speaking, only snarling and growling lowly. Castor takes almost the entirety of his cock now, throat finally opening up to him. Castor is still crying, tears trickling down his face, but his mind is going fuzzy with the sensation, hands on him and cocks inside him making it hard to think. He’s wet all down his thighs now, and if he wasn’t being held so tightly by them he’d be rocking back onto Evrin’s cock.

Castor can feel Evrin’s cock starting to swell at the base, stretching Castor’s cunt even more, forcing in and out until it’s too wide to fit, stuck tight inside Castor. Castor lets out a low wail, sobbing and hiccuping at the feeling of being so desperately full. Evrin ruts into him a few more times, growling like an animal, before Castor feels cum flood into him, thick ropes of it, filling him even more. He moans loudly and Evrin growls contentedly, settling.

Avor drives into Castor’s soft throat harder now, driven wild by Evrin’s orgasm, his snarl rattling in Castor’s chest. He can feel Avor’s knot begin to swell, bumping against Castor’s lips, but much too wide to fit into his mouth. Avor begins to realize this as well and grunts with irritation, thrusting forward harder. Castor gags hard, drool spilling down his face, but the knot doesn’t budge, even though it isn’t entirely swollen yet. Avor pulls his cock all the way out angrily, allowing spit and pre-cum to dribble down Castor’s chin and connect his lips to Avor’s cock with wet strings.

Avor slaps Castor hard across the face, causing him to jerk and fall off of his elbows where he’s propped up shakily. He pulls Castor back up by the hair and uses his other hand to try to pry Castor’s mouth open, forcing it wide, but still the knot can’t fit. “Should knock your teeth out, pup!” He shouts, hitting him again. Castor’s lip splits on the impact and he cries out, pressing his face to the ground again and not getting up. Avor leaves him there, looking at Evrin.

“Can’t cum if ‘m not knotted. Pull out,” he says and Evrin grunts.

“I haven’t gone down yet. Take his ass instead,” he suggests, stroking a finger over Castor’s asshole. Castor squirms and whines, shaking his head urgently, trying to form the words to plead for Avor not to.

“Won’t fit, an’ it’ll take too long to make it. Needta breed him, Evrin, now. Pull out,” Avor snarls, loud and angry.

Evrin groans, too content in his post-orgasmic haze to be bothered by his companion’s anger or respond in kind. “Fine. Deep breath pup,” Evrin says, slapping Castor’s ass hard. Castor shrieks, but then it turns into a sobbing scream as Evrin pulls himself free of his cunt, knot still swollen hard and thick, large enough that Castor worries he’ll tear in two. He doesn’t, and Evrin sighs, getting to his feet to allow Avor to take his place. Castor can feel thick dribbles of cum leaking out of him and clenches his hole instinctively. He feels so stretched open, loose and pliant.

Avor does, thumbs spreading Castor’s cunt greedily, inhaling audibly. He takes his cock in hand and presses it to Castor’s opening, shoving in hard and fast to his knot, which doesn’t fit at first. Castor realizes how much bigger Avor is than Evrin and whines into the dirt. A few more shallow thrusts and Avor’s knot finally sinks in. Castor whines, the stretch painful even after everything. As Avor fucks him harder and deeper, grunting at every pass of his knot, Evrin pulls Castor’s head up with an oddly gentle hand in his hair. He’s fisting his cock lazily, still thick with its knot and coated in cum and Castor’s own slick.

“You’re better with your mouth on something, pup,” Evrin says, drawing Castor’s lips down onto the head of his cock. “Lick it clean.” Castor takes the head in his mouth obediently, curling his tongue around it before pulling off and working his lips and tongue around the shaft, lapping up the mess, tasting them both. “Like it, don’t you, puppy? Oughta keep you for ourselves. Make a good breeding bitch,” Evrin suggests snidely.

“‘S a good cunt, but no cunt is worth the amount of money we’d lose keeping ‘im to ourselves,” Avor says, his voice nearly unrecognizable, low and rumbling. He sinks inside one last time, knot flaring wide and filling Castor up completely, stuck fast. He begins humping and grinding his hips down, no longer thrusting, holding Castor’s body flush against his.

Castor’s mouth goes slack on Evrin’s cock, tongue lolling out at the unbelievable pressure, the fullness and the ache. He’s faintly aware of the moans he’s releasing, but he’s so full that he doesn’t care. Finally, Avor cums with a howl, loud and victorious, dragging his claws hard down Castor’s back, leaving deep red cuts in his flesh. Castor screams, too, at this, at the pain but also at the feeling of cum flooding him again, the needle bite of claws in the skin of his ass. It’s so much, too much, too much for any human to withstand, and Castor almost drowns in the wave of his own orgasm. He spasms, cunt clenching down hard on Avor’s knot, falling flat on the ground except where his hips connect to Avor’s. He sobs with it, in both relief and new shame at the pleasure.

He knows Avor and Evrin are both speaking to him, goading him, insulting him, but he can no longer parse their words, instead laying utterly still and spent. Avor seems to want to remain tied until his knot goes down, unlike Evrin, and so pulls Castor into his lap for a more comfortable position, stuffing his fingers in Castor’s mouth. Castor barely notices or reacts to it, except for the fact that Avor sinks deeper inside with the new position. He settles there, head lolling, tears beginning to dry on his cheeks.

Rowan stands at the edge of camp, just inside the protective ward, and surveys the scene in front of them. The kidnapped prince lays on the ground, slumped into a sad little puddle, covered in dried blood and other fluids. His undershirt is gone, the shorts rucked down around his knees in a tangle. He’s very still, but his eyes are open and glassy, tear tracks clear on his face. Avor and Evrin sit huddled closer by the fire, looking supremely pleased with themselves. “I expected you to exhibit a modicum of self control,” Rowan sighs, and Avor snickers.

“He’s still alive, ain’t he?”

Castor sniffles. Rowan kneels down beside him, watching the way he shivers, possibly from cold, possibly from something else. “Come along, Your Highness,” they say, gripping him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. They make quick work of the rope around his neck, freeing him from the fallen tree he was tethered to. Castor hesitates, resisting. “Unless you’d like to spend the evening with your new friends?” Rowan gestures behind them to Avor and Evrin. Avor winks lewdly at him.

That gets the prince moving, hitching his shorts up most of the way and following Rowan meekly toward their tent, the only tent they bothered pitching. The werewolves don’t mind sleeping beneath the stars. Inside is warmer, a bedroll laid out as well as a larger traveling pack and an oil lamp. In one corner is Castor’s purse, which the prince stares at openly. He doesn’t put up any fight when Rowan invites him to sit down upon the bedroll, however. “They did a number on you,” Rowan says, tracing warm, gentle hands over all of the cuts and bruises Castor accumulated in the last few hours. Castor shivers under Rowan’s touch, and Rowan smiles.

They heal the scratches and the deep bite mark, the bruises on his hips and throat. He sits with his knees up, tucked against his chest. When they draw their fingers down his chest and brush against a swollen, abused nipple, he whines, then bites his lip hard as if to silence himself. Rowan hooks their fingers under the waistband of Castor’s ruined shorts, drawing them down. Castor catches their wrist in a tight grip, but Rowan makes gentle shushing sounds, as if soothing a frightened animal. “Easy, Your Highness. I’m no insatiable werewolf.” Castor let’s go, balling his hands into fists and tucking them under his chin protectively.

Rowan draws the shorts off all the way, nudging Castor’s knees apart, showing the mess of wet and white between his thighs. “They bred you deep, didn’t they?” they coo, brushing two fingers over his puffy folds. Castor twitches, but Rowan does little else but look. He’s so soft and gentle, even battered and dirty, he’s every inch the fragile, porcelain prince. Rowan is not an insatiable werewolf, but they do feel compelled to touch and feel him, maybe even take something of him for themself.

“Will it… take?” Castor asks worriedly. Rowan places a gentle hand over his abdomen.

“Not unless you’re a werewolf as well. Their kind can only mate with another of their own,” Rowan assures him. Castor visibly relaxes at this, but twitches each time Rowan touches him. Rowan can’t stop touching.

“Did you enjoy it?” Rowan asks lowly, trailing their fingers through the white mess still leaking from between Castor’s legs. Castor flinches, but his legs ease open further.

“No! No,” Castor says sharply, even as Rowan slips two fingers into his stretched, aching cunt.

Rowan arches an eyebrow. “No?” They withdraw their fingers and Castor releases a small whine. Rowan quirks their lips in half a smile. “I find that hard to believe. You enjoy this, don’t you?” Rowan ghosts their fingers, now wet, over Castor’s swollen dick, making the prince whine out again. He shakes his head frantically. Rowan laughs this time, massaging his thumb in firm circles around Castor’s sensitive cock, watching him struggle not to thrust his hips up into Rowan’s touch. “It’s alright, Your Highness. You can enjoy it. I want you to.”

Castor keens, leaning back on his elbows slowly, begrudgingly. His eyes are hooded but his expression is still distantly guarded. Rowan clicks their tongue. “Though I imagine after your evening activities you can hardly feel this at all,” they slide their fingers back inside Castor, pushing through the cum and slick. “No matter.”

Rowan withdraws their fingers, sliding them along Castor’s slit and then lower, brushing them in small circles around Castor’s ass, teasing the hole gently. Castor jumps, hips lifting as he clearly struggles between pulling away and leaning closer. “Have you had your ass fucked before?” Rowan asks conversationally, teasing his rim with one finger.

“N-no. I’ve never been with anyone before,” Castor mumbles.

“You’ve touched yourself before, though, haven’t you?” Rowan asks, pressing down with their fingers just hard enough to slide it partially inside Castor’s ass before withdrawing again. Castor nods hesitantly. “Have you fucked your own ass, I wonder? In your royal chambers, aching to feel full?” Rowan continues, sliding the finger in further and stilling while Castor clenches down on it, panting. “Have you?” They add firmly.

“Yes,” Castor breathes out in an embarrassed huff, spreading his legs more. Rowan shifts, kneeling between them, fingering Castor’s ass steadily with one cum covered finger now, their other hand going to his cock, jerking it between their thumb and forefinger.

“Did it feel like this?” Rowan eases a second finger inside. It’s tight, they have to press more firmly, and Castor’s breath catches in his throat, but he nods. “Tight and aching, just a bit of pain. Do you like pain, Your Highness?”

Castor pauses and then shakes his head no. Rowan stuffs the fingers of their left hand into his mouth briefly, hooking them over his teeth. “You needn’t lie, my prince. Your secrets are safe with me.” Rowan withdraws the fingers, wet with spit, and goes back to Castor’s dick, now rubbing against the sensitive head in time with his thrusts in Castor’s ass. He’s more relaxed now, taking the fingers easily, though he still whines with every particularly deep push inside.

Castor’s mouth stays open, panting out hot gusts of air ghosted with keens and moans, rocking his hips minutely. Rowan can see his cunt clenching as well, the heave of his chest and the flush over his neck and cheeks. He’s turning a pretty shade of pink all over, eyes closed and head tilted back. “Lying doesn’t work, anyway. I can tell how much you like it. Can feel it,” Rowan says, and Castor shakes his head again, more of a reflex than anything.

Rowan shifts their position, leaning further into Castor’s space to drive their fingers deep, pausing to gather more slick and cum still leaking from his abused cunt before adding a third finger. Castor cries out, throwing his head back. Rowan’s thumb is rough on Castor’s throbbing cock, grinding into it to draw out every sound Castor will grant them, and Castor doesn’t disappoint. He’s a noisy thing, almost shameless in his pleasure, and Rowan drinks it in.

They know Avor and Evrin can hear him, of course they can, and Rowan takes pleasure in that as well. Knowing they can give the prince something the werewolves couldn’t, that this royal, pampered thing is opening his legs for them so willingly, giving them the one thing the werewolves hadn’t taken for themselves.

“That’s it, Your Highness. Take it all like a good boy,” Rowan coos and Castor opens his eyes to meet Rowan’s gaze as he moans. “Take what you need, my prince. I won’t deny you anything,” Rowan swears.

“Please,” Castor breathes out, the last vestiges of his shame bleeding from him as he reaches out and takes hold of Rowan’s wrist, keeping them from retreating, grinding up into their fingers with fast, loud gasping breaths. “Please.”

“Yes,” Rowan replies simply, enraptured by the prince. His delicate skin marred with bloody scratches, his soft mouth open, the line of his throat stretched out invitingly. The way he feels under Rowan’s hands, so silky soft and hot to the touch, body open and inviting, leaking all over the both of them. The wet sounds of Rowan rubbing his dick and fucking his ass are obscene, but almost drowned out by Castor’s high cries and throaty groans. He might have screamed for Avor and Evrin, but he will moan and whine like this for Rowan only.

All at once, Castor clenches up, drawing tight like a bowstring, drawing in a long gasp before arching his back and moaning loudly. His holes spasm and his hips thrust and twitch uncontrollably, wetness gushing over Rowan’s hands, squirting until both Rowan and Castor’s thighs are soaked. He’s whining now, like a wounded animal, unconscious little squeaks and hiccups of pleasure and agony as Rowan works him through it.

When Castor begins to draw away, Rowan stops, wiping their hands on the prince’s already filthy underpants. Castor sags down onto the bedroll, limp and panting for a moment, before rolling onto his side and curling up.

“You’re beautiful,” Rowan says. Castor sniffles, looking at them briefly before clenching his eyes shut tight and crossing his arms across his stomach. “You can sleep with me,” they continue, “I imagine it will be more comfortable in here than on your back in the dirt out there.” They nod meaningfully toward the flaps of the tent and Castor cowers. Rowan moves around him, pulling back the top flap of the bedroll and ushering the spent prince into it before shedding their outer layers and joining him, closing the covers tightly around them.

There isn’t room for modesty in a single bedroll, though Castor struggles for it for a few moments. Pressed tight and small against the very edges of the furs, flinching from every brush of their bodies together. Rowan lays on their back, ignoring him completely, eyes closed. When the prince hesitantly shuffles closer and tucks himself against their side, however, they smile. Rowan rests a hand in the prince’s now heavily mussed hair, running their fingers through it until his breathing evens out and he relaxes fully against them.

It’s the wee hours of the morning when Rowan wakes again, and the first thing they notice is that they are alone. The second thing is the lightness of their left hand. Their ring is missing. Normally, panic would set in at this, a missing ring and hostage, but Rowan only rolls their eyes, kicking their way out of the fur bedroll and pulling on their boots and coat.

The morning is chill when they step out, the sun only barely beginning to crest the horizon. Avor and Evrin are already awake and moving around, having dressed and snuffed out the fire. “Where did he go?” Rowan asks.

Evrin gives them a sly grin. “North, skittered off about fifteen minutes ago. Figured we’d give him a li’l head start, sporting-like,” he says, jerking his head in the direction Castor fled to. Either the prince truly is royally stupid, assuming he could sneak past two werewolves and then outrun them and a sorcerer he stole from, or he’s simply hoping to reach civilization before they catch him.

“Do all wolves like to play with their food?” Rowan asks, and Avor laughs.

“Nah, most says fear rots the meat, ruins the taste. Me, though, I like tasting the fight,” he says, flashing a smile with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“You may retrieve him, but refrain from eating him, or a repeat of last night, if you please,” Rowan says.

Avor and Evrin exchange a glance, and then Evrin speaks. “Should go alone, then. Avor has a harder time staving off his darker impulses after a chase.” Avor snarls, but doesn’t disagree. Rowan nods and Evrin lopes off into the woods, hunching down to run on all fours, body elongating to accommodate it. Rowan has no concern, for the nearest village is several miles off, and there’s no way a prince stripped to his skivvies will beat a wolf there.

They flex their left hand. Rowan is not concerned, but they are irritated. Stealing their ring was clever, perhaps, because the lack of a focus for their magic leaves them weakened, but also foolish, because now he will face a fierce punishment. Their softness the evening previous was clearly a poor decision on their part, but Rowan cannot help feeling pity for a broken, crying boy. Castor will learn not to take Rowan for granted again.

Five minutes barely pass before Rowan hears a scream pierce the woods to the north, a high pitched pathetic little cry befitting of a prince. “Your friend wastes no time,” Rowan says to Avor, who simply growls, appearing more bestial by the minute, agitated at being left behind. Probably desiring another taste of royal skin.

Evrin returns soon after, dragging the prince by his ankle. He is filthy now, covered in dirt and leaves and grass, scrabbling at the ground with his nails. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks and he chokes on them, coughing in between his fearful sobs. Evrin drops him in front of Rowan, who kneels beside him. Castor avoids their gaze, hugging himself where he lay. Evrin reaches into his trouser pocket and hands over Rowan’s ring, which glows when it is returned to them.

“Stealing my ring was very foolish, Your Highness,” Rowan says lowly, fitting the ring back onto their finger and reveling in the feeling of completeness, of power restored. “I can understand fleeing. I anticipated it. But taking a sorcerer’s focus is a great betrayal.”

“I’m sorry,” Castor whimpers, wet faced and wobbly lipped.

“You will be,” Rowan says, cupping their ringed finger with their other hand and watching as it begins to glow with heat, the air around it buckling. The metal grows orange, then red, then white hot.

Castor shrieks and scrambles back, but only gets a foot or so before Evrin pins him down with a foot to his chest, shoving him flat onto his back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, please I won’t do it again! I’ll be good,” Castor begins babbling, staring with wide eyes as Rowan hovers over him again. “I’ll be good.”

“Hold his arms down, please?” Rowan requests of Evrin, who kicks the prince’s arms apart and then lowers himself to kneel above his head, holding his wrists down firmly. Rowan straddles his waist and takes a moment to cup his cheek. “You will learn your lesson,” they say and kiss him on the wet cheek. Castor sobs.

They press their burning hot ring into Castor’s chest, above his heart, the heat immediately blistering the tender skin. Castor wails, voice cracking with the force of it, before Rowan claps a hand over his mouth. He sobs into their palm, thrashing around. Rowan admires the burn on his chest, a perfect brand of their ring, all of the lines of the rune on it bubbling up into fierce blisters.

Rowan leans down, close to Castor’s ear, breath stirring his hair. “You’re mine now, do you see? You bear my mark.” Castor doesn’t respond, only continues to cry. But if he doesn’t understand it yet, he soon will.

#there will be no tenderness #my writing #op

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