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It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you
But I don't know if you feel the same as I do
But we could be together if you wanted to
—Arctic Monkeys, “Do I Wanna Know?”
The weight of his doublet remained as cumbersome as it had been earlier, when two overly zealous servants had squeezed him into it like so much bread into a goose's ass. It boasted around a hundred minuscule laces criss-crossed down his back, each painstakingly woven into the fabric, making it nigh impossible to remove on his own.
Laurent tugged at his sleeves, scowling in irritation, and considered just sleeping like that in it. After all, he’d certainly be warm enough not to need the blankets.
He wasn’t expecting the knock on the door. “Just a moment,” he called, still fighting the labyrinth of laces down his back. His fingertips barely scraped the silver cord laces, and the eyelets were too small to find by touch.
“Oh, damn it to hell,” he grumbled, giving up, and strode across the room to fling the door open wide.
Damen stood there, clutching two matching goblets adorned with intricate filigree, along with a flagon. He raised his eyebrows at Laurent.
“Oh,” Laurent said blankly. “It’s you.”
The Akielon prince usually shared some time with him in the evening; Laurent had practically taken over his hearth rug. But last he had seen of Damen, he’d been chased out of the main hall by Lord Charron, both of them wearing harried, uncomfortable looks.
Lord Charron was certainly good at making people uncomfortable, Laurent thought sourly.
"Have the courtiers gotten to you too?" Damen remarked, nodding towards the room where the younger prince's belongings lay strewn about in a sulk.
Laurent snorted. "My apologies," he replied, batting his lashes at him in a cloying mockery of the court. "Were you expecting a warmer reception? Please, grant me a moment to adopt my best courtly persona. I present to you Prince Laurent, who has no intention of poisoning you."
Damen’s eyes gleamed with amusement. Laurent’s gaze fell to his mouth, lingering on the ever-familiar dimple. “I shall take your word for it. Let me in,” Damen said, waggling the flagon at Laurent. “I've brought a fine remedy for your affliction.”
“Wine?” Laurent asked, distaste coloring his words. He could barely tolerate his alcohol, but most everyone in Vere seemed to favor either overly sweet white wines from the south, or sour reds from the east.
“Spiced cider,” Damen corrected. “And don’t ask me what I did to get it this early in the season.”
Despite his aversion to alcohol, the idea of a warm, faintly spiked cider appealed to Laurent, offering a subtle reprieve from the day's weight, which pressed down on him like his ridiculous doublet. "Bring it here," he instructed, drawing Damen nearer with a firm grip on his strong arm.
He barred the door; the servants weren’t coming back and there was not a single other person in this miserable, wretched castle he wanted to see.
Laurent had encountered far too many Veretian noblemen that night, all of them intent on eyeing his rear under the pretense of conversation. The Veretian noblewomen, meanwhile, seemed to think the spare prince little better than stable yard muck scraped off their shoes, reserving their affections instead for Auguste, the heir who held the true promise of marriage. No, let the rest of them hang, he thought as the heavy oak log fell into place.
As Laurent settled into the chair by the dressing table, the doublet tightened around him, its fabric constricting like a coiling serpent, making him feel increasingly confined and uncomfortable.
Damen poured a generous amount for them both, the corner of his mouth curling up. Laurent accepted his cup gratefully when it was offered to him, and drank deeply.
“Ah, it’s to be a night like that then,” Damen said.
It was already a night like that. It had been a night like that since Laurent had been escorted into the feasting hall, fending off Lord Adric's leering, wine-soaked breath, his grubby hands straying into the improper. Laurent's expression soured as he glared into his cup.
Damen saw it and snorted. He kicked out the chair from the writing desk, a piece charmingly carved to make it look like it was made of vines, and sat in it.
Like everything else in Vere, the chair was not intended for someone of Akielon stature. It creaked with some alarm as it took his weight, and Damen looked down, holding himself perfectly still.
“It would be a fine end to the night if I fell to the floor and fractured my skull,” he said, brown eyes bright.
Laurent looked down into his cup musingly and said, “A fractured skull would be a gentler end than what I endured this evening. I ought to tell you what Lord Adric said to me, only I don’t think you’ll survive the experience.”
Damen grinned at him. “He does seem skewed towards the ridiculous tonight. Shall I die of laughter?”
Laurent considered. Lord Adric had been most eloquent on the subject and very unflattering towards him, complete with gestures. “You’ll try to kill him and get thrown into a dungeon,” Laurent said, and downed another burning swallow of cider.
Damen turned his eyes toward Laurent, his expression suddenly somber. “No doubt you have the matter under control,” he said, waiting for Laurent’s nod. “Then give me a lead in this,” he continued, brandishing his own cup, “and we’ll revisit the subject in half an hour.”
“So you can drunkenly try to kill him and get thrown into a dungeon?” Laurent raised his golden eyebrows and pursed his lips. “I think not, Damianos. Unless your Akielon bloodline grants you the power to magically escape captivity?”
“Don’t Damianos me,” Damen said. He made a face at Laurent. “Turn your displeasure where it belongs, my prince, and remember who brought you this cider.”
More cider was clearly the answer. Laurent drank again and made a face back. They hadn’t spiced it enough, whoever had made it, and it tasted horrible going down. “Suppose you robbed a sailor for this,” he mused.
Damen snorted. "Suppose I did," he said, raising his cup towards Laurent once more. "Shall I regale you with my own tale of misfortune from this evening? Or are we to encounter once more the scenario of princes thrown into dungeons?"
"You're the one lacking subtlety," Laurent retorted primly. "I’d merely adopt my second-best courtly persona. This time, I’ll be Prince Laurent, who has indeed poisoned you and will now observe your demise.”
Damen’s insouciant grin, with just enough bared teeth, made Laurent want to squirm. It radiated a lazy confidence, like a lion proudly surveying his domain.
Laurent felt a warm flutter in his stomach and chest. Or perhaps it was the cider. More cider, Laurent thought to himself, and I shan’t have to ponder it further. He took another deep drought.
“Yes, fortify yourself,” Damen said. He leaned back in his chair and spread his long legs comfortably. His sword hand lay curled high up on his thigh; Laurent glanced at it, then next to it, then forced himself to look away studiously towards the windows.
He cleared his throat and said, “Go on, then. It cannot be as bad as what Lord Adric said to me.”
“Unlikely,” Damen retorted. Laurent turned back to him. Damen was smirking now, a cocky roguish look Laurent wanted to kiss off his face. He controlled his frown at the thought. It had been a long time since he had spiked cider. A long time since he’d had anything stronger than watered ale.
Damen was still waiting. Laurent made a little noise in his throat, prompting Damen to continue.
“Did you see Lord Charron follow me when I left the hall?” Damen began. He scarcely waited for Laurent’s nod; he knew Laurent liked to watch him when he moved among his men. “He wanted words with me, something about his precious little daughter.”
Isabeau Charron was a maid—a woman—of two-and-twenty and there was nothing little about her. Certainly not her tits, which she had spent half the night trying to thrust under Damen’s nose. “Yes,” Laurent said shortly.
“Apparently she has found herself in some type of trouble,” Damen said, and his sly glance was a sweet jape between them. Trouble with Laurent often led to a public verbal flaying, much to his chagrin. No doubt trouble with Isabeau Charron was a matter much less clean.
“Shall I guess?” Laurent asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You wouldn’t be able to in a hundred years,” Damen said. His eyes glittered. “She decided that after being denied her chance to net herself the crown prince of Vere, she would take after the next best thing. So says the chamberlain who found her naked in my bed when he went in to lay the fire.”
The cider was not enough. It was a horrible move on Isabeau’s part, a whorish move, and a move that worked. Laurent choked on air and demanded between two harsh coughs, “You cannot say—”
“Drink,” Damen urged him, as pleased with himself as any cat that had caught a mouse, as he sprawled in his chair.
Laurent tried to calm his racing heart. If Lord Charron was trying to rush Damen off to the nuptial chamber, then Damen would hardly be here plying him with weak liquor. Laurent turned his furious frown to his cup and drank as he was bid.
“And,” Damen went on, his smirk eating up his face, “so says the stablehand she brought to amuse herself with until I took myself to bed.”
“No!” Laurent gasped, a reflex. The shamelessness of it—
The absurdity—
“Oh yes,” Damen assured him. He rocked his chair back on two legs, smug and pleased with Laurent’s wide-eyed look. “A bastard too, apparently. And he knew exactly what he’d gotten himself into, with the chamberlain as witness, so he hastened off to her lord father with the poor girl before anyone could say a word.”
Laurent wasn’t that well on his way to drunk, but the laughter was still sweeter and easier coming up than any cider could be going down. “Oh my word,” he said and wiped at his eyes, his whole face hot with laughter. “And what did Lord Charron want you to do about it? Find another place to sleep?”
“He wanted me to marry his daughter and spare her the shame. As I am the son of a savage king who sires bastards, I would understand better the tribulations his daughter will soon find herself facing.”
Laurent decided he had tolerated Lord Charron long enough. Enduring his remarks was one thing; however, Damen’s royal father, despite Vere's disdain for Akielos’ penchant for producing illegitimate children, was their ally and therefore beyond reproach, especially from a minor lord of another realm. “I’m going to put something in his drink for that,” he said. “Hmm, what do you think of him shitting his breeches at the high table?”
“I think it fitting,” Damen said, and kept his eyes on Laurent over the rim of his cup as he drank. “Since I am not allowed to throw him into the sea.”
Laurent sniggered, before coughing and hiding it in his fist. His cheeks were hot. “Out with it,” he said. “Surely the discussion didn’t end there, seeing as I am not currently attending you and your new queen in whatever shack they have passed for a nuptial chamber.”
"He seemed determined I help," Damen said, his arm flexing as he dragged a hand through his curls. "Apparently visiting princes are known to drive maidens to madness. So I told him I understood all too well, and would be honored to help the lad pay the bride price for her."
Laurent wished he could bask in the expression on Damen's face for a lifetime. There was something about how Damen looked at him then, the self-satisfied edge of his smile, his dimple, that made Laurent burn up. He wanted to trace kisses all over that smile, an improper desire best left confined to his private nighttime fantasies. He could devour Damen, he truly could; he could settle into his lap and refuse to budge until they were escorted with indignation to the nearest nuptial chamber themselves.
The thought made Laurent suspect he was getting drunk. Less cider, he thought and gave his cup a glare. Cider that shitty shouldn’t be allowed to be so strong.
Damen was staring at him when he looked up again, a warm slow sweep of his eyes that made Laurent tingle down to his toes.
You are drunk, he told himself sternly. Do not say something stupid.
“To Isabeau Charron,” he said instead to break the thick silence between them. He raised his cup in a mocking salute. “May she be satisfied with her new lot in life.”
"Better him than me," Damen drawled as he toasted with him.
Damen would never be satisfied with a lady like Isabeau, Laurent thought loftily. Some fat flirting thing bobbing around the heir to Akielos. It would have been inexcusably rude of Laurent to scratch her face off at the table, so he would refrain from that particular impulse. But now that she was wed in disgrace, Laurent hoped the lady would have the sense to leave Damen well enough alone.
He was still staring at Laurent. Damen did that sometimes, looked at him. Laurent glanced out the windows again, hoping frantically that the other man hadn’t read the ugly thought off his face. Gods, no wonder Damen was inundated with maids seeking marriage, the way he just sat there, legs spread wide in his chair like the world’s best feast.
Damen didn’t want a bride. And he wasn’t, as Laurent had once wondered, infirm. The Akielon had laughed the last time Laurent had asked him that. It made it almost worse that Damen had not yet settled down and married. Made it worse for Laurent that he couldn’t seem to look past Damen to find a suitor of his own.
Laurent couldn’t say he minded the staring. It used to make him hopeful how Damen kept his eyes on him in the yard, in the hall, over the rim of his cup as Laurent sprawled across his hearth rug in his nightclothes. But all Damen ever did was look. It was probably only contentment that Laurent was there to keep him company, and not wedded off to some foreign lord and sent away from Arles, leaving Damen to fend off the court’s intrigues alone.
This was why Laurent didn’t drink. It always made him maudlin and weepy, or hot between his legs. The latter was easier to hide than crying; Damen couldn’t notice how Laurent pressed his thighs together now, hidden as they were under all the layers of stiff material.
Laurent set aside his cup on the dressing table and turned to the heavy silvered mirror. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and darkened. He scowled at his reflection, fingers fumbling to remove the pins securing the circlet in his hair. They could finish this cup and then he would shoo Damen away and crash into the bed, ridiculous doublet and all.
“Don’t you have a boy to help you with that?” Damen asked as the pins fell, one two three, in ringing little crashes into the glass bowl for them.
"Two of them," Laurent admitted as the circlet fell into his lap, and he fumbled to retrieve it. “And last I saw, both of them were drunk as anything at the feast. No, I am thoroughly alone tonight.”
“Shame,” Damen said. When Laurent glanced at him in the mirror, he was hiding that smug smile with the brim of his cup.
“It is,” Laurent said. He bit at his lip, considering the wide ruff on his idiotic doublet, and added dryly, “Seeing as I shall have to cut myself out of this doublet or else sleep in it tonight.”
Damen made a low noise in his throat. Laurent glanced at him in the mirror; the Akielon was leaning forward in his chair, his knuckles white around his cup.
“I know, I know,” Laurent laughed. “Ruin a perfectly good doublet! But there’s about a hundred silver cords laced down my back, each of them as fine as strands of spider silk, and well beyond my grasp even before your cider. But I don’t much like the damn thing, so I cannot say I’ll miss it if it meets some tragic fate with my dagger.”
Damen cleared his throat. “I’d say it has its charms.” He rocked his chair back again to another chorus of creaks. “Was Radel angry when he set orders for your clothes? Usually your things suit you ill when he does that, not flatter you half so well as this doublet does.”
The jeweled cufflinks in Laurent’s sleeves came out next. “No,” he said absentmindedly, fighting with the catch of one. He couldn’t quite get the loop of it— “It was a gift. Some stupid lordling, no doubt panting in his bath at the thought of undoing all these laces for me.”
Something banged behind him. Laurent turned his head to look in the mirror, still trying to work apart the little silver clasp, and snorted. Damen had knocked over the flagon with his elbow and was straightening it hurriedly, his smile rapidly wilting.
Laurent laughed. “You're as graceful as a knight in full plate attempting the pavane,” he said.
But Damen didn’t laugh back. All the humor was chased off his face as his eyes narrowed, examining Laurent. No, Laurent thought, flushing, as Damen inspected the doublet from the line of fabric clinging to his shoulders to the finely embroidered hem.
“Some lord has been sending you clothes,” Damen said, low and ominously smooth. The precursor to a poor mood, Laurent thought. A quick rage or thorough sulk. “Sent you that doublet. And you wore it?”
Usually he could tease Damen out of his moods before they went on building, but he was drunk and warm and wanted Damen’s eyes on him like this, burning hot and all proprietary. Laurent pressed his thighs together once more, savoring the sensation, before returning his attention to himself in the mirror.
“Yes, clothes and jewels and books and all manner of frivolous things,” he said lightly. He hadn't dwelled on it all evening, except for rolling his eyes when the servant, who had laid out the other scandalous gift he had received, tittered behind a hand.
The catch finally came free and he dropped the cufflink away with a sigh. “As you know, it’s bad form for Veretian nobility to send proposals without some sort of gift. Though,” he added, feeling his heart beating harder in anticipation, “the things I’ve been getting are much nicer than the ones Auguste used to get.”
“Proposals,” Damen said through his teeth, “should go to the head of your house.”
“They couldn’t help themselves, they all said, given my distinction in horsemanship and reputation as a Veretian beauty. I haven’t the heart to remind them that my appearance is more a gift of my Kemptian heritage.”
Laurent considered the missive that had come with the doublet, a letter salacious enough to scandalize any aristocrat of good repute, and added thoughtfully, “And besides, better if my father doesn’t read these letters, I think.”
As if some spoiled lordling, who thought Laurent was mad for ridiculous clothes, would have any idea what to do with him and the gifts he was given. Laurent chuckled at the thought, feeling warm all over and deliciously aware of the thunderous silence behind him.
Cider was good and speaking with Damen was good and Laurent was going to have to send him away very soon, before he said something stupid and soppy or tried to shove Damen’s hand between his legs.
"Anyway," he continued, "the doublet suits me poorly, but it sufficed for the feast. So here I am faced with whether to destroy it or wait until dawn for the ash boy to assist me out of it.”
The last of his jewels was the brooch, its heavy silver adornment with a lion engraved on it resting against his chest. Another gift, though it had come letterless and tucked inside his jewelry box as if it had always been there. He reached across his chest, carded away the loose mass of his hair, and undid the clasp.
“Give it to him,” Damen said suddenly, low and imperious.
Laurent’s fingers fumbled and he swore, the brooch slipping out of his fingers and sliding down into his ruff.
“Oh, damn,” he hissed and pushed the neck of the ruff down further, trying to fish it out. Cool metal pressed against the pale skin of his chest and pooled down his belly.
“Laurent,” Damen said, his voice tight.
“Pardon?” he asked, blinking up at Damen in the mirror. The other man was clenching his jaw, his eyes narrowed as he met Laurent’s gaze; he looked furious.
“The doublet.” His words were deeper now, his whole body stiff with displeasure. “Give it to the ash boy if he helps you out of it.”
“A princely gift,” Laurent said, and snorted. “I know you don’t know much about velvet weaving, and I’ll admit that I don’t either, but according to Radel, this damn thing is about a mile of southern-made velvet. I cannot imagine what an ash boy would do with that.”
“An inappropriate gift,” Damen corrected harshly. His jaw ticked. “A stranger sending you letters and clothes? You know you should not have kept it at all, much less worn it.”
“Pardon,” Laurent shot back. “I didn’t realize it was your duty to decide my wardrobe and tell me which pieces suit and not.”
“Yes, well it’s the king’s duty to keep you from getting yourself married away!” Damen snapped. “You wear a lord’s gift in front of him and he will take it as a sign of favor that you’ll actually wed him!”
“I wear all sorts of gifts,” Laurent said, and fished for his brooch again. He hooked just the tip of his finger under the heavy brooch and started to pull it free, the cold metal scraping across his hot skin. “Some of them,” he said as he watched Damen watch his hands in the mirror, “you even gave me, and you’re hardly going to wed me.”
Damen went rigid.
“Besides,” Laurent said as he looked at his red-cheeked reflection in the mirror, with his hand down his doublet and his chest exposed almost to his nipples, “none of the men in the hall seemed to mind me wearing it. I think they found it very fetching.”
His reflection in the mirror seemed to be impressed with his own brazenness. Laurent pulled his brooch free and set it aside, picked up his cup of cider to toast his reflection in the mirror, and drank down the last of it.
Damen made a low noise. Instinct had Laurent stilling and flicking his eyes to Damen’s reflection, his heart rabbiting away in his chest. Damen looked like someone had slapped him, his mouth soft and confused and almost wounded.
It was unfair that Damen was so handsome even when he was furious and flushed with rage. It was unfair that Damen didn’t want Laurent back, he thought. It wasn’t Damen’s fault that Laurent loved him, but he wasn’t going to sit there and let Damen say no one else was allowed to love him either.
“It’s a doublet, not a declaration of marriage,” Laurent said coolly and stood. He turned to face Damen, the starchy material of his clothes weighing him down and lending him a sense of regality he never felt with Damen. “And I burned the letter that came with it, so unless some idiot lord wants to admit to being scorned by a prince, no one shall know unless I tell them myself.”
The thought crept in and spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “About the doublet, or the other thing,” he said, and slapped a hand to his mouth to smother the laughter.
Damen stood as well, breathing hard through his nose. “What other thing,” he demanded. His eyes were burning, his mouth a sullen curve.
“Mm,” Laurent said. He’d take the words back if he could; it almost wasn’t fun riling him anymore. “It is not a polite topic of conversation.” He shrugged, a slow liquid roll of his shoulders that tried to cast off the gathering tension he felt there.
Gods help him, but he found himself enjoying Damen's demeanor far too much, relishing in his anger and covetousness. Laurent welcomed it, for once savagely pleased to see Damen consumed by the same emotions that relentlessly ate away at him. He wanted to shove Damen onto the bed and crawl over his hips; he wanted to kiss all over his face.
The air was heavy between them. This was why Laurent didn’t drink; the temptation was too great to keep Damen looking at him and only him, to keep all thoughts of other people he wouldn’t marry out of his head.
“You tell no one,” Laurent said, “and I shall do the same, and my doublet may remain unassailed by petty rumor.”
Damen clenched his hand tightly at his side. Good instinct urged Laurent to roll over and show him his belly; the cider, however, made it seem a grand idea to run a hand across the embroidery on his sleeve as if to admire it.
“The hour is late and you still need to find a bed to sleep in, one that isn’t sullied by disgraced noblewomen,” Laurent said. “You ought to see the castellan before he retires for the night.”
Damen said nothing, his gaze burning.
The back of Laurent’s neck was hot. He added loftily, “And thank you for the cider.”
A heartbeat's pause, then Damen crossed the room toward him. Laurent put his face up for a goodnight kiss, but Damen didn’t press his lips to his temple as he always did. Instead, he took Laurent by the shoulder and turned him firmly until Laurent had his back to him.
This was more dangerous than anything else Laurent had done that night. “You needn’t,” he rushed to say. “The ash boy can—”
Damen’s dagger made a small sound, a thin sigh of steel against the leather of his scabbard as he drew it free.
Despite his behavior that evening, Laurent was made of good instinct, the plain sense all animals had. It kept him small and still where he was, as Damen breathed out against the back of his neck, humid on the knobs of Laurent’s spine. Laurent hunched his shoulders in and held his breath, but not from fear. He wasn’t frightened even as he felt the flat of the blade press cold against the nape of his neck. He wanted to arch himself and press against it.
Laurent shivered as Damen held it more firmly against his skin. He enjoyed the cold threat Damen exuded, the way he clicked his teeth upon catching Laurent's gaze in the mirror, the deliberate manner in which he grabbed Laurent's waist to keep him in place.
Damen released a breath of his own. “You don’t care for this doublet,” he rasped in Laurent’s ear, a barely hidden question.
The knife was delicious on Laurent’s neck. And Damen’s fingers, so hot and proprietary through the material. Laurent shook his head slowly, a single turn of it, and gasped as he felt the blade drag down, felt the sudden pressure of the doublet pulled tight to his body as Damen cut down through the entire back of it from Laurent’s shoulders to the curve of his ass.
It wasn’t the sort of doublet one wore over an undershirt. When the weight of its material dragged the whole thing off himself, Laurent was left bare but for the matching silk hose he was wearing. Damen's knife continued its relentless path, slicing through the delicate ties of Laurent's hose, causing them to fall away too. Laurent stood there, exposed, save for the sheer undergarments still tied precariously at his hips.
His reflection in the mirror had eyes large enough they threatened to swallow his whole face. He shivered from the touch of the air and from the sight of the Akielon’s broad shoulders framing his pale, bare skin.
Laurent looked at Damen, and he looked back.
Damen’s eyes were almost black as he slipped his knife back away and put his other hand on Laurent’s waist. It was big and heavy, his skin bearing the dusky hue of his southern Akielon heritage. His fingers were a lush spot of color on the ivory skin over Laurent’s ribs. Damen's gaze lowered, and Laurent got to see the exact moment he realized Laurent’s undergarments were made of pale silk and matching edges of lace.
Laurent was aflame, his sensitive skin flushing from head to toe. He sucked in a breath and laughed nervously. “How much cider did you have?”
Damen didn’t say anything, just slid his hand from Laurent’s ribs to cup the curve of his hip. He idly stroked over the line of bone under his skin. They made a pretty picture together, Laurent thought wildly. The couple in the mirror looked just like the sort of painting that sold like hot cakes on street corners in Marlas.
Laurent was half-erect already, hot from Damen’s staring and wet almost from the moment Damen set his knife on his neck. It only worsened as Damen slid the pads of his fingers under the soft line of Laurent’s undergarments to touch the sensitive skin there, and then took them away again to roll the delicate ribbon of the tie between his fingers.
It certainly didn’t help that Damen could see how wet he was, the silky material damp and darkened two shades where it pressed between his thighs.
“You’re giving the doublet to the ash boy,” Damen said instead of answering him. “And I’m burning these,” he went on, low and dark as he tugged the tie free of the sloppy knot and the little scrap of silk and lace slid down Laurent’s legs.
Laurent scarcely dared to breathe, feeling so hotly exposed he thought he might burst into flames at any moment.
He felt Damen’s lips moving hot on the webbing between his shoulder and neck, but he didn’t do it fast enough to hide his sharp smile, the way his cheek dimpled as he nipped at the younger man. Laurent’s heart hammered in his chest.
Laurent didn’t want him smiling. He wanted Damen just as hot and confused and aching as he was. He licked his lips. Cider was good. Cider helped him say it even as he flushed hot enough to burn at his own brazenness.
“But I did like those.”
Damen yanked him back fully against him until they were pressed chest to back. His hands were tight on Laurent’s skin, and Laurent was glad of it because it felt like he was about to explode out of himself at any moment. The rich material of Damen’s tunic scraped against the thin skin of Laurent’s back, and his nipples were almost painfully hard with the sensation. He wanted to rub against Damen like a cat.
Laurent squirmed against him, panting softly, and froze. Damen was hard, his cock thick and heavy against the dip of Laurent’s back. Laurent moved his hips a little again, an instinctive twitch back into him, and Damen grunted in his ear. Then he lifted Laurent up out of the mess he’d made, crumpled hose and ruined doublet and scattered silver laces like stars through it all, and threw the younger man onto the bed.
Laurent sank into the mattresses with a yelp of surprise and scrambled to sit up again, throwing his hair off his eyes.
“I drank as much cider as you,” Damen said, as he jerked at the ties of his tunic and tossed it aside. His shirt under it was fine enough to be sheer; Laurent could see the muscles of his chest move as he tore it off and set it flying. Every inch of Damen was defined by lean, hard lines.
Gods, Laurent thought, but that was why he stalked around like the most dangerous animal in the world. He stared at the contour of Damen’s biceps and the definition of his lower arms as Damen worked at his sword belt, and pressed his own legs together to soothe the ache between them.
“And I hold my drink better,” Damen said as he knelt to undo his boots. Laurent made a confused noise. Damen looked up at him through his curls and said roughly, “So it’s not the cider, thanks. Could be I’m just tired of you being a tease.”
“A tease!” Laurent squawked. His pulse ribboned at the sight of Damen undressing; he reached between his legs and cupped himself just so to ease the ache.
“When we’re done here,” Damen said as if he hadn’t spoken, “you’re going to go through your clothes and give away everything another man has ever sent to you.”
Laurent could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, his neck, his cock. He squeezed his fingers more tightly around himself, and had to stop to catch his breath. He knew he shouldn’t provoke, but he couldn’t help himself. “I won’t. Those are my nice things.”
“Oh?” Damen asked. He was now working at the laces on his breeches, his arms thick with muscle. He paused to look up at Laurent with that smile, the smile that made Laurent mad for him, all dimple and smugness and careless charm. “Strange,” he said. “I don’t actually give a shit about that.”
He shoved his breeches off and Laurent was going to bite every inch of him, he was. He was going to put his teeth all over the shadowed ridges of muscle on Damen’s belly leading down to his cock and mark him as his own. Laurent made a soft noise as he looked lower, unable to help it. Damen’s cock itself was prettier than any picture, thick and hard and proud against his stomach.
Damen gave him a moment to look, breathing hard like he was in the middle of a fight, but as still as any stone.
Laurent stroked himself again, fingers trembling. Then, slowly, making sure Damen’s eyes were on him, Laurent brought his fingers to his mouth. Hot and dampened, he trailed them down between his legs, slipping two inside himself. The sensation was deliciously smooth from practice as he eased them in. Fair was fair.
And when Damen’s eyes went to the movement of Laurent’s wrist, he spread his legs wider and moaned like all the pets did, like it was the best thing he had ever felt, like he was dying from it.
There was a strange fractured moment, one where he was definitely alone on the bed, then one where Damen was on him, swearing at him, as he took Laurent’s fingers away from himself. Laurent whined with annoyance as Damen pulled his wrists up to rest above his head.
“You want a pretty doublet to flounce around in?” Damen asked, holding himself above him, too far away to touch as Laurent arched himself up. Damen sounded hoarse; he sounded like he was about to kill someone. “Want something lacy to wear under your clothes?”
Laurent tried to rub on him, tried to squirm down against the leg Damen nudged between his thighs, but Damen held it just out of his reach. He gave Laurent’s wrists a hard squeeze, bordering just on the edge of pain, and it only made Laurent burn hotter. Both arms in one of Damen’s big hands and the bones grating.
Damen was so strong. He could break them if he wanted to, all he’d have to do was squeeze tighter. It made Laurent wild with wanting; he could scream from it.
“Yes,” Laurent panted. He wanted Damen to touch him. His skin felt like a hot coal all over. He would have agreed to anything.
“Then you’ll ask me and I’ll give you something,” Damen said, and dipped his head to kiss him. Laurent tilted his face up eagerly, but Damen pulled back just before their lips met, his breath warming the air between them. “I’ll give you what you want,” Damen murmured against his lips.
And then he ducked his head all the way down, and kissed Laurent hard on the mouth.
He tasted like cider, and like blood rushing under warm skin. Laurent kissed him back, and Damen sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Laurent moaned and opened his mouth so Damen could put his tongue in, a delicious slide against his, and it was like a mockery of what he really wanted. He gave in to the heat, letting Damen devour him as the night pressed in around them.
Laurent peaked again, toes curling. He clenched so tightly Damen could barely pull out of him to push back in. The pleasure was so overwhelming that Laurent shuddered and wilted all at once, his muscles useless.
He could die of it, he really could.
Damen was waiting hunched over him, his hips still. Laurent could feel him trembling, the tiny shake of the arm he had braced under Laurent’s hips. Laurent laughed, feeling so good and sweet for him, and dug his heel into Damen’s back. “Now you,” he said and shoved his golden hair out of his eyes again. It left his fingertips wet with sweat; the sheets were going to be disgusting. “Take your pleasure,” he gasped, still shaking as he came down.
Damen pulled out and Laurent hummed, watching the muscles in his chest and his stomach as they moved. It didn’t feel as hot as before, as frantic. Just thick and delicious and good as Damen fucked him sharper and harder, not keeping that same rhythm as he had before when he wanted to please Laurent.
“I’m so glad you didn’t marry Isabeau fucking Charron tonight,” Laurent said and Damen laughed, sudden and helpless. He stopped to brush his own curls away, his eyes bright as he looked down at Laurent.
Laurent clenched again, on purpose, just to see what Damen’s face did. Just so he could see how Damen slammed his eyes shut and breathed hard through his nose. His whole body was still, but he could feel how Damen wanted to tremble with tension. How Damen didn’t let himself, like even that tiny little motion would push him over.
“You can spill in me,” Laurent said, stretching his arms above his head until his whole back tugged into a hard arc. “I’ll hold you like that when you do,” he said, and hummed in his throat.
Damen opened his eyes to look at him again, sharp and glittering. Laurent always liked it when Damen looked at him, even like this. Damen was telling him not to say things he didn’t mean, a single agonized look, but the tremble at the corner of his mouth told Laurent he wanted him to mean it.
Damen crawled over him, kissing at his neck as he pushed Laurent’s legs wider with a hand. Laurent pulled Damen closer, crooning into the kiss. This way was nice too, and easier for Laurent to get his legs around Damen’s hips and fuck him back. And Damen liked that, liked Laurent working himself onto him.
Liked it so much. Damen’s back got tenser, tighter with each thrust, and Laurent scrubbed his hands all over him, the wings of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine between the thick muscles of his back. Laurent said breathily, his lips to Damen’s ear, “You said you’d give me what I want. Come on, spill in me. I want it.”
Damen’s breath stuttered. Laurent clenched again as hard as he could, wanting to give him something tight, wanting him to feel Laurent as he spilled, and Damen groaned into his neck. His hips made three frantic thrusts, and then he dropped onto Laurent, panting softly.
Damen was warm and heavy, all collapsed on him. Laurent rubbed Damen’s head, combing through his curls, and said thoughtfully, “We’re going to have to burn this sheet. I don’t think anyone could get the stains out.”
Damen nodded against him. He ground his sweaty forehead against Laurent’s shoulder, then rubbed the scruff of his stubble there until Laurent was laughing and trying to shove him away.
“You’re going to give me a rash!” he said, heaving at Damen’s shoulder. But he couldn’t be sour about that; a thousand birds were fluttering in his chest, and the silky brushes of their wings made Laurent feel as light as air.
Damen pulled back, grinning. His mouth was still swollen. “It’ll suit you better than that doublet,” he said and kissed Laurent.
Laurent sighed into it and sucked on his lip. It was nice. It was good. He wasn’t going to tell Damen the rest of his wardrobe was also made of ridiculous gifts. He wouldn’t have any clothes to wear otherwise.
Finally, Damen pulled away and rolled off him. “Where’s your washing basin?” he asked, running a hand over his face. He was still red but not out of breath anymore. Damen was too used to working his body hard, all of him a weapon even before adding in four feet of sharp steel.
“Behind the screen,” Laurent said and put his hand between his legs the second Damen was gone. He felt around curiously. He was still swollen and sore in strange places, but he thought that would ease. Damen’s seed was dripping out of him, awkward but not uncomfortable. Laurent wiped at it, and touched his finger and thumb together consideringly.
Damen had spilled in him a lot, he thought as he wiped his hand on the sheets. But Damen had wanted it a lot, so much so he’d cut Laurent’s clothes off of him to get it.
Laurent grinned and starfished out on the bed. “That was fun,” he said, as Damen came back and pressed a damp washcloth against his skin.
Leaning back against the pillows, Laurent watched Damen clean him with the gentle precision with which he did everything else, like a skilled sculptor shaping delicate marble. Laurent spread his thighs a little wider and brought a foot up to rest flat on the sheets, allowing Damen to see how red he was between his legs as the man attended to him. Teasing him.
Damen snorted even as his ears went red. “I think you’re right about the sheet,” he said. “A lost cause.”
And then he came around the side of the bed and tugged it out from under Laurent, a sharp jerk that sent him rolling.
“You ass!” Laurent cried, sputtering, and threw the rag at him. It fell short; he had been aiming for his face but Damen kicked it out of the way as he bundled the sheet up and threw it towards the wall.
“Yes?” he asked. He threw Laurent a fond look. “Seems to me I’m just giving you back a little of your own.”
“Seems to me you already did,” Laurent said, pushing himself up. “Considering how my doublet isn’t even fit for the rag heap anymore.”
Damen looked entirely too pleased. “Is that so,” he said, brows raised. “Shame, that.”
“I should make you sleep in your own room,” Laurent said, kicking the rest of the sheets out from under himself. He held them tight for a moment as Damen plucked at them.
He snorted. “You love me too much,” he said and tried to tug the sheets out of Laurent's hand.
Laurent held them tighter and gave him an unimpressed look.
”Yes, alright,” Damen relented. “Message received. The knife work is for special occasions only.”
Laurent let the sheets loose and said, “So is the cider.”
“Oh?” Damen asked as he climbed under them. Laurent cuddled up close to him, fussing for a moment. He dragged Damen’s arm around his waist when he didn’t move it fast enough, and sprawled against him happily.
“Yes,” Laurent said firmly and propped his chin up to look at him. “No liquoring me up every time you want me to say terrible things.”
“Terrible things,” Damen said musingly into his hair. “Hmm, things like ‘suck my cock’? Or things like telling me how you think of me when you touch yourself?”
“Don’t—” Laurent said, almost breathless with the rush of embarrassment over the things he had said earlier.
Damen slid out from under his arm and rolled onto his side towards Laurent, considering him and smiling that beautiful awful shit-eating smile. “Things like ‘spill in me’?” Damen said, just as red as Laurent but grinning twice as hard.
“I hate you,” Laurent said fervently and shoved him back down to burrow into his side.
“You love me,” Damen laughed, horrible as anything as he pawed at Laurent’s hip and rubbed the dip of his waist. “You love me so much you’ll wed me—”
“I love you a little,” Laurent huffed and tucked his cheek to Damen’s heart. The bare scars on his skin were new and familiar and comforting all at once as Laurent nuzzled them.
Just the right amount of cider, he thought and hid his smile against Damen’s skin. Damen was warm all over, loose and relaxed, and Laurent was warm all over and still a little drunk. It was better than any moment in his life, Laurent thought happily. He yawned to the sound of Damen’s rumbling laugh and let his eyes slide shut, satisfied.
“Sweetheart,” Damen murmured after a while and tugged on a strand of Laurent’s golden hair. Laurent had a sleepy moment wondering what he was talking about before he realized Damen meant him.
That was sweet, Laurent thought, and not nearly as bad as some of the things he’d heard lords call their pets. But he still had a sudden grim thought of someone hearing Damen say something so soppy and to him of all people. His hand was already on Damen’s chest; he pinched the skin under Damen’s nipple.
Damen yelped like a kicked dog. “Don’t call me that out of the bedchamber,” Laurent mumbled into his shoulder.
“You could’ve asked,” Damen said sulkily, but he kept petting his hair.
“Mm,” Laurent said and tucked himself closer.
He was almost asleep when Damen said again, “Laurent.”
“Gods,” he groaned. He was comfortable, finally. He was sore. He was so tired he could die of it. “What is it?”
Damen laughed. “I need to ask,” he said into Laurent’s hair, his thumb working little circles into his skin. “I’m not likely to get in a better mood than this. What did Lord Adric say to you?”