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Chapter Text

Roche collapsed into the mattress as soon as Foltest released the arm around his waist and tried his best to ignore the maelstrom whipping in his chest.

"You were as good as usual."

"Thank you Sire," he croaked, unable to bite back the sob that slipped out.

"Oh," the monarch laughed and craned his neck to get a look at his expression, "Was it too good again?"

"Yes," he lied and hid his face in the pillow so he wouldn't have to keep up pretenses. He could feel Foltest shifting off the bed, the muffled footsteps on the plush carpet, and heard the trickle of water as he wrung out a cloth. Roche willed his heavy limbs off the bed, knowing full well that he was not welcome in his King's bed the second he ceased to be useful. He stepped into his clothes, ignoring the viscous trail down his inner thigh and the way his tunic clung to his cum-smeared torso and back.

"You're going to love the next mission I give you," Foltest announced as he cleaned off his cock, removing the traces of their coupling off him.

"And what might that be, Sire?"

"It's almost time we sent a sacrifice to the Scoia'tael deity. I'd like you to go. Spy on them and return when you find something useful."

Roche froze, the emotions wiped clean out of his chest as he attempted to process the order. He tried to ignore the way his heartbeat picked up and his lip trembled, but the slight shake of his hands was unmistakable.

"You would have me raped by dozens of elves, Sire," Roche asked, and although he did his best not to sound bitter, it didn't slip past Foltest who considered him with lips pressed tight together. He lowered his gaze to the floor as the monarch's anger bubbled to the surface.

"I would have you serve our country with your body, just as you do now," he levelled and flung the cloth into the basin, his annoyance as clear as day even in the scarce candlelight.

“The people who returned had their memories wiped.”

“Which is why I’m sending you.”

“Sire-”

"We're so close to liberation,” Foltest boomed and Roche winced, barely holding back his flinch, “We need the final pieces of the puzzle. You can provide it. Don’t you understand?! We can finally extract this thorn from our side and we just need more information about their infuriating settlement."

The tension between them was thick and uncomfortable, and eventually Roche conceded as he always did.

"I understand, Sire," Roche nodded and resumed dressing, bile rising in his throat and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes despite the fact that he felt numb.

"Be thankful, hound. No one else would be able to serve our kingdom in such a unique manner."

"It's an honour to serve, Sire," he lied, his voice firm and delighted and completely foreign to him. There was a small laugh from Foltest.

"I'm glad you saw the light. Report to my chancellor tomorrow afternoon, I'll have him brief you."

He excused himself and strode out of the room with his head held high, his anger and anxiety manifesting only when he was out of sight of the guards. Vernon broke into a jog back towards his house, barely holding his crumbling facade together until the door clicked shut behind him.

The silks and perfumes they adorned upon him were probably worth more than his life, Roche realised rather belatedly as the carriage rocked across the uneven forest floor. He sat blindfolded and bound in the corner of the tiny space, dwarfed by the generous offerings of grain, fabrics, luxury goods, and raw materials heaped into sturdy wooden crates. His anxiety had long since died out and the cold sweat was stale on his skin. Between the fluctuations of adrenaline and numbness, he had completely lost his bearings and wasn't even sure of the time of day. All he knew was that he'd heard seven voices speaking in a foreign tongue, and that they must have been in the settlement because the clop of hooves was sharp against the smooth road.

"Cymerwch y deyrnged i Iorveth," a distant voice spoke and he flinched. The carriage slowed to a stop and the footsteps were light but present around him, quick and efficient as they worked their way towards him.

"Temerian? We are here," he heard the one with the deepest voice speak in a thick accent, and he wouldn't have known it was common if the elf hadn't uttered the name of his country. The hood was eased off and Roche squeezed his eyes shut on reflex, the sunlight far too bright.

"Dyn ydyw!"

His surroundings immediately went silent. Roche forced open his eyes, ignoring the way they watered and the stabbing rays of light. There were four curious faces staring at him, not quite hostile but not exactly welcoming.

"Dyma nhw'n anfon dyn."

"Beth ydyn ni'n ei wneud?"

The tallest of the lot heaved a heavy sigh and thrummed his fingers against the wood. Roche wished they'd put his hood back on so he wouldn't need to face the hesitant glances they kept casting towards him.

"Dim ond mynd ag ef i Iorveth."

He flinched backwards at the name again and tried to lean away from his fate as much as he could. The elf closest to him was undoubtedly pleasant and well-groomed, but he had no inkling of how he might treat him and even less desire to find out.

"Temerian, don't be scared. Come closer, I will untie you."

"I'm not scared." The words slipped out of habit and he turned his face away from the soft smile directed his way. The elf had the makings of a scholar - sharp and angular, with bright, youthful eyes that were burdened with the wisdom of old men. He seemed taller and just slightly broader than he was, and his thick hair was done up in an intricate braided bun that Roche was caught staring at. He turned away when the elf grinned at him.

"You are safe," the elf soothed as he undid the bindings around his ankles. He motioned towards his hands and Roche twisted a little, giving him just enough space to release the silk binding. The blood rushed back into his extremities when the pressure eased and he resisted the urge to wince.

"Come. When your limbs are okay. Irelthye welcomes you."

He took his time, circling his wrists and ankles until the pins and needles ebbed away. And when he ran out of excuses to stay hidden, Roche traversed between the stacked crates and stepped out into the shadow of a monolith.

Between the crown of the crowded canopy, he could barely make out the pointed spires that brushed the ivory clouds, or the bright green banners fluttering precariously from their tips. Its engineering was strange and yet more marvelous than any Temerian structure, with thick stone fashioned with an assortment of runes and motifs, and adorned with slender tiaras of vine-covered arches that peeked down at him from their terraced gardens. It was a marvel how they kept something so large hidden from ever having been found by the Temerian crown, but he supposed they had magic on their side.

"Beautiful?" the elf enquired.

"Yes," he replied simply and breathlessly.

"Let us go inside."

"What happens now," he couldn't help but ask.

"Are you a virgin?"

"No?"

"Ffantastig!" the elf enthused and clapped his hands together. "I'm glad Foltest finally figured it out. We will go meet Iorveth now and let you decide if you want participate in Belleteyn."

"Decide?"

"It's voluntary, no?"

"You tell me."

"It is, d'hoine. We are not savages that delight in rape," the elf assured and turned his chin up, perhaps as a show of pride as they ascended a sweeping staircase. There was an encouraging hand on the small of his back and he unconsciously leaned into the comforting gesture. No matter how much mental preparation he had done, it just hadn't been enough and he clung on to every show of compassion.

"What is your name?"

"Roche."

"Nice meet you. My name is Isengrim."

He nodded in acknowledgement and followed quietly.

"Do you know anything about Belleteyn?" Isengrim prompted again because Roche couldn't find it in him to make conversation.

"Not a thing. The people who sent me here told me it was a fertility festival, but not what happens."

"Accurate," the elf smiled approvingly, "We eat, drink, celebrate, and make love. Every year we have a tribute from Temeria - someone who plays the role of fertility and allows others to partake in their body. It's usually a small affair with just three or so elves. The past tributes could not take too many."

Roche cocked his head a little.

"And why must it be a human?"

"The knowledge is lost," the elf replied with a twinge of sadness, "Not even Iorveth knows."

They traversed the strangely empty corridors, their time filled by Isengrim who was more than happy to fill their silence with snippets about elven culture. He could hear distant voices from elsewhere in the castle, but save for the few armour-clad guards whose visors shielded their faces, he didn't see a single other elven face. His initial assessment of Irelthye was that there was no easy escape for him. The paths were long and guarded, and the windows too narrow for him to squeeze through. And even if he made it out, he might not have survived the environment in his thin clothing.

With heavy feet, he traversed up three lengthy flights of stairs and towards the first signs of life. There were three young elves standing before a set of grand oak doors, huddled together and whispering amongst themselves. And as he stepped into the slotted sunlight, they gasped at him like he was something scandalous.

"Ai dyma’r deyrnged?" one asked as she gestured towards him, and Roche was sick of not knowing what they were saying about him.

"Ydw. Mae'n olygus, ynte?"

Another giggle and a few nods. He did understand the way their heated gazes swept over his body. Appreciatively. Like he was desirable. Roche felt his head spin and forced himself to face forward. He wasn't supposed to enjoy any part of this. It would be a betrayal to Temeria. He hadn't even been able to map his way here, and he surely wouldn't be able to get home. A small part of him was horrified to find that he didn't mind.

"Nervous? We are about to have an audience with Iorveth. He is stern but fair, so relax."

Roche kept quiet because he knew rulers to be otherwise. The doors opened to a cozy throne room, adorned with tapestries and paintings emblazoned with every conceivable colour, framed by rich wood and illuminated by sleek chandeliers. And though there were a thousand other things to distract him, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the single being reclined upon a ritzy throne.

"Un doeth, mae'r deyrnged o Temeria wedi cyrraedd," Isengrim said and gestured towards him.

A single emerald eye raked over his body and Roche’s heart began to race, but he couldn't tell if it was from fear or excitement. Iorveth looked every bit the deity they had claimed him to be - vulpine features cut of the finest sandalwood, and his piercing gaze forged from the brightest fires of Mahakam. And maybe Roche should have noticed the expensive silk he wore or the gold adorned his ears, but he was too preoccupied with trying to keep himself together.

"Iorveth asks if he can communicate with your mind, d'hoine," Isengrim asked with a warm smile and he nodded before he could consider the consequences.

Then there was a press against his mind that he couldn't place - a presence hovering just at the edges of his thoughts. Neither warm nor malicious, but simply there. He relented and dropped the barriers he never knew he had, afraid that saying no to a god might earn him death. Almost immediately, he felt the force sweep across the expanse of his mind, searching and sampling, and eventually settling in a quiet corner where he felt like his peaceful memories might have resided. It was a tight fit.

“What is your name?”

And perhaps he should have been shocked, but he was too nervous to feel anything else. He swallowed hard, holding the blistering gaze as best as he could.

“Roche.”

“And what was your occupation in Temeria.”

“Solider.”

He swore he saw the deity's eyebrow twitch.

“Are you scared?”

“Who wouldn’t be,” he thought flippantly, and then remembered that the deity was in his mind. He looked up, panicked, at a wayward smirk that made him suppress a shiver. Shit.

“Has Isengrim already informed you of the proceedings? You don’t have to follow through with this. We have other elves that would gladly take your place as tribute.”

"He's told me the gist of it. About the festival and what the tribute's role is."

"Perhaps I wasn't clear, d'hoine, but I won't read your memories or the thoughts you don't project on me. Be explicit in your reply. I ask again: do you want to follow through with this."

It made Roche quieten down. He wasn't used to having boundaries, and it made him think of Foltest and wondered what he might say to his current situation, and then immediately of how the monarch had treated him like a jester. He thought of the nights he'd laid there performing like his life depended on it, and then of the ones where he felt like his body was no longer his. Of Foltest telling him to exchange his body and to be glad about it.

A part of him wanted to reject them and head straight back to Temeria. Defy Foltest. Tell him that he was sick of him. Maybe he would quit and run a tavern up north and far away from the rest of the snot-eating crowns. He certainly knew where Foltest's little trinkets were kept and the money he could make selling them off would certainly be enough to fund it without too much worry.

And Roche realised he must have felt it too strongly, because he felt a rush of reassurance and warmth sweep across his mind. Iorveth was regarding him with an expression of curiosity, and Isengrim touching his back again and staring with concern, or any of the sympathy that he didn't want in the first place.

An extremely attractive being was touching him, he realised belatedly. Someone that, on a drunken night in a seedy tavern, he might have bought a better ale for and chatted up. The hand began gently caressing him and he wondered how it would feel like held in his arms. Against another body that he didn't pay for, or demand payment from him.

Maybe he did want to participate after all.

"Would it be easier if I didn't give you a choice?" the deity asked again.

And then he shook his head. Even if he was scared, the choice would at least be his. He was doing this because he wanted to, not because Foltest had offered him up as a hound for slaughter.

"I consent," he resolved out loud, "I'll participate as the tribute."

A smile tugged at the sombre features of the deity. He shifted forward in his throne and Roche hated the way his heart jumped.

"You will tell me when you want to stop, or when it is too fast, or too much for you. You will be honest with me or you will be thrown out, do we have an understanding?"

He nodded with surety and actively ignored the rabid beating of his heart.

"Good. We'll start now."

Before he could ask, the ground beneath his feet trembled and he grabbed onto Isengrim's arm in surprise. The elf chuckled and pressed a kiss on the back of his hand, watching him with a mixture of mirth and heat as the air began to cackle with magic. He didn't know what he expected, but it most certainly wasn't a cascade of tendrils as black as the void, reaching out of the ground and winding around his underarms and thighs. He let out a surprised yell as they lifted him off the ground as if he were nothing more than a paperweight. He barely had a second to catch his breath before Isengrim cupped his face in his hands and began kissing him - hard. His mouth fell open in shock and he felt a tongue push straight in, exploring past his lips and massaging against him, soon followed by the sound of tearing fabric that he quickly realised was his own clothes.

"Isengrim-" he gasped as the elf pulled back and glanced around to find that the other three had joined. There were hands over his partially bare body - caressing him, groping him, and tugging off the rest of his clothes. Three hands on his torso, two on his arms, and three on his legs. He bit back his moans, embarrassed about having so many eyes turned on him, and yet so desperate for another's touch that he didn't want to turn them down.

"I am overjoyed that you agreed, Roche," the elf cooed as the tendrils pulled him back onto a soft surface and pulled his legs open for the audience. His heart was hammering hard against his ribcage and he felt like his mind was melting from the sheer amount of stimulation. How long had it been since anyone explored his scars, or even his body for that matter?

"Mae ganddo lawer o greithiau. Ydy e'n filwr?"

"Mae'n edrych yn debyg."

"Da, ni fydd yn rhaid i ni fod yn dyner."

"Dirty talking, are you alright," one of the elves suddenly asked.

"Yeah," he choked out just as someone nibbled on his neck, "Just don't call me a whore."

"Pain? Rough?" came another inquisitive voice from behind his leg, followed by a trail of kisses up his calf.

"A little," he gasped, and then felt the sharp sting of teeth on his inner thigh where they had ripped a hole in the cloth. His chest was bare, save for a few scraps of cloth over his abdomen and arms, and he barely had time to breathe before his shredded trousers were pulled off and his hardening erection sprung into view.

"Look at you, little d'hoine, so eager for us," Isengrim mocked and tugged on his balls, and Roche pulled hard against the restraints in shock.

Then there was a mouth over his cock and two slick fingers in his ass, and it was suddenly too much for him. The pleasure washed over his body in waves, lighting up his nerves and overwhelming his careful self control. He could usually do it - bring up images of an ugly man or some kind of monster - something to distract him from the pleasure or dampen his arousal - but he found himself hapless in the hands of the elves.

"By the gods, I'm going to cum if you don't show down," he panted and tried to pull away from the stimulation, but the tendrils pushed him back into it. And the infuriating elves listened for a split second before realising what he meant, and then doubled down on their efforts. The fingers in his ass pumped with more deliberation and when his back arched off the surface in a wordless shout, he heard a few small sounds of approval.

"Fuck! Slow down, I'm cumming fuck-" he pleaded to no avail. The mouth around his cock rumbled in a moan and the fingers massaged hard into his prostate, and before he could stop himself, his climax was wrenched clean out of him and wiped his mind blank. He came with a whine and turned his face away, trying his best to hide his embarrassment at his utter lack of control as the elf drank him down. It didn't work - a thumb hooked on the inside of his mouth and forced his face forward, and Roche could do little but look at Isengrim who was watching him with a predatory smile.

"So gorgeous when you climax, our pretty puppy," Isengrim praised, and Roche hated the way he tightened around the elf's fingers in response, "Such a warm and soft hole. I am going to spear you open on my cock and fuck you till you cry and beg for us to stop, our sweet thing."

"I can't get it up so soon," Roche whispered in defeat, his cheeks turning red from the shame blooming in his chest. Isengrim simply tutted and stroked his cheek, and he felt warm puffs of laughter from the elf who was coming off his cock and moving to shed his own clothes.

"Do not worry about that, it is Belleteyn," Isengrim promised and he could feel the elf scissoring his fingers, distracting him from the building heat in his chest again.

"What?"

"Just wait and see, puppy," he soothed, and then planted a hard smack on his ass. Roche just barely managed to keep himself from yelping and he wondered how long he could keep up his shield. The tendrils bumped the lower half of his body up and spread his legs wider, and he could clearly see Isengrim grinding his cock against his own rapidly hardening one. The length was oddly ridged and tapered at the tip, and what truly worried him was the sheer size of the elf.

Isengrim lined himself up and the head slipped in without him breaking a sweat, but Roche was groaning and tugging at the restraints at the halfway mark. He felt full and stretched wide, and even though he tried to relax, the muscles wouldn't budge.

"Is it too big, dear heart," Isengrim asked, stroking his hair with one hand and idly playing with Roche's erection in the other. He was shocked to find that he was already hard again. Never in his life had he had such a short refractory period.

"Big," was all Roche could whisper between the pants and the restrained gasps.

"We will take it slow, do not worry."

"What is your name," the elf who had sucked him off asked, popping into the peripherals now fully nude. He looked young - they all did except Isengrim and Iorveth - with wide, bright eyes and plush lips that were reddened from friction.

"My name's Roche. What's yours?"

"Roche… Roche. I'm Ciaran. I am going to fuck you too, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," he answered before thinking it through, for the burning heat spreading through his body was impossible to ignore. He watched as the younger elf clambered on top of him with an excited smile and without any preparation, sunk himself down to the hilt. Roche couldn't withold his surprised gasp as he was enveloped in the tight heat, nor could he bite back the broken moan as Isengrim and Ciaran moved in perfect unison. The older elf was fucking into him slowly, loosening him up and pushing deeper into him each time, and even when he felt like he was filled to burst, there was still more to take.

"Such a sweet little hole, it feels like it is sucking me in," Isengrim praised and rubbed his thigh soothingly, and Roche responded by clenching down on him ever so slightly. It made the elf lurch forward and gently collide into Ciaran, who giggled and leaned behind on Isengrim. He was on full display now - his legs parted wide and his cock bobbing enthusiastically as he rode him hard. And watching Isengrim caress and kiss Ciaran, Roche couldn't help but feel a terrible pang of jealousy.

"Got space for two more," a voice next to him asked. He turned to find the other two elves already naked and erect, a dusting of pink high on their cheeks and their lips stained from kisses.

"Yeah, I can take one of you in my mouth, but where's the other going to fit," he asked sheepishly and they simply grinned at him.

"You have a nice chest, d'hoine. I'd like to use it."

Roche's features scrunched up and Isengrim thrust hard into him. His words choked in his throat and he would have jerked away if not for the restraints.

"He does," the elf commented and his gaze trailed up Roche's body, coming to rest on his pectorals, "If you choose to stay after this, I would like to see if I can make you cum from sucking on them."

Roche tried to squirm away, but Isengrim tutted and slapped his ass till he settled down. And he would have uttered a few curses, but one of the elves sat on his chest and pushed the air out of his lungs. The tendrils shifted underneath him and he soon found his head hanging off the surface, followed by a very erect cock just centimetres from his lips. He licked them wet and opened his mouth, welcoming the organ as it slowly slid into him. His nostrils filled with a sharp and woody musk and he reached over to grasp the base of the elf's cock, buying him a little breathing space. He felt woefully lightheaded, but it made him all the more vulnerable to the continued onslaught of pleasure.

Without sight to distract him, there was little else keeping him from feeling the full intensity. The shallow thrusts of cocks in his mouth and his rear. The warmth and tightness sliding up and down his cock. The constant thrust of something warm and slippery on his chest. And the fingers that were squeezing and tugging his nipples. He felt it all acutely, and heard every moan that reverberated through the hall. He wondered if Iorveth was looking and he arched his body off the surface towards where the deity was seated, showing off for him.

"You look as beautiful as a painting. More so than one, even," the voice in his head fluttered and Roche whimpered around the cock in his mouth.

"Will you join us," he asked in his moment of temporary insanity.

"It is unfitting for me to partake in the festivities."

"Afterwards, or maybe even tomorrow? I want you."

A fresh wave of arousal coursed through him and he knew it was Iorveth's.

"If we had it my way," Roche continued, "I would be sat in your throne riding you, or in your bedroom letting you have your way with me."

"Harlot," and he could feel the heat in his words. Roche's cock twitched hard in response and he heard Ciaran moan loudly.

"How would you like me," he continued without missing a beat, "Pressed face first into the bed with my ass up in the air? Or bound by all your tendrils while you fuck me into oblivion."

"No. Face up. So I can watch you cum over and over again. If I had my way, I'd keep that pretty expression all for myself."

The steadily-building pleasure peaked at the implication and it felt like it had multiplied tenfold. Between his twisting and straining, he could barely find relief, and he was yet again stood at the precipice of another orgasm, clinging on and refusing to fall.

He didn't know how long they'd been at it, but he heard two loud moans and the splatter of something warm on his neck and abdomen. Then the cock in his mouth withdrew abruptly and he was thankful for his closed eyes, because he felt the elf's seed splatter over his jaw and cheek.

The surface was shifting again and Roche found himself back in his original position, staring up at Isengrim who was nearing his own peak, and a orgasm-hazy Ciaran who was still grinding down on his cock. The other two had climbed off him and fallen into a nearby daybed, far too busy kissing and caressing each other to care about him.

"I'm close," he groaned, his voice rubbed raw from sex. And Roche realised belatedly that he shouldn't have said that, because a tendril snuck over is side and cured around the base of his cock and around his balls. He yelled in a mixture of pain and surprise as it squeezed down, and he knew in an instant that he was being denied his orgasm. He looked up at them for help, but Isengrim simply chuckled and Ciaran ran his fingers through his hair soothingly.

"Looks like his grace wants to torture you a little longer," the younger elf commented as he climbed off Roche. He moaned at the loss, already missing the warmth of another around him.

"What do I do," he strained, knowing that it was right around the corner. He always melted into a mess, and the thought of making himself vulnerable in this manner terrified him.

"Take it like the good little puppy that you are," Isengrim teased as he slung Roche's leg over his shoulder and spun him on his side, putting him on full display for Iorveth. He began to plough into him for real, thrusting hard and fast into him as his expression melted into one of unrestrained pleasure. The slap or skin against skin was loud and obscene in the hall, and without the other participants to fill the space, Roche heard his own little sounds of pleasure echo back at him. His face burned beet red with embarrassment and as much as he tried to hold it in, he soon reached his peak.

"Your grace," he pleaded when the beginnings of his orgasm coursed through his body. Iorveth removed unmoving and Isengrim continued to thrust with perfect accuracy, hitting his prostate with every movement and lighting up his spine. The pleasure was scalding at this point - leaving burning trails across his mind and body, and pulling his balls painfully tight against his body. He felt like he was about to explode if he didn't cum soon.

The sheer need for release began to take over his senses, and when all he could think about was wanting to reach his peak, he didn't care how he looked or sounded. Wanton moans spilled past his parted lips and his entire body was tense from head to toe, twisted in pain-pleasure and constantly battling against the restraints.

"Please, your grace! Let me cum oh by the gods, please," Roche sobbed, and then yelled and moaned when the tendrils began rubbing along the length of his shaft and flicking his nipples. He could feel the arousal washing off Iorveth, and no matter how much he delighted in the knowledge that he was affecting the deity, a part of Roche resented him for putting him through this torture.

"Your grace, please!" he begged when he couldn't take it again, "I'll be a good hole for you, I'll clean your cock properly, and let you fuck me however you want. So please! Please oh please I'll be good for you Iorveth, so just let me cum, please!"

And at least one of his promises must have worked, because the tendrils around his painfully erect member released and Roche almost blacked out from the sheer force of his orgasm. He was thrust into the high immediately, so violent and sudden that his mind blanked out and his body numbed in places, and for a long while he wasn't able to feel anything except the ebbing pleasure. His seed painted his own chest with warmth and he could feel Isengrim spill in him too, and for the longest time, he couldn't feel anything else except the slowing touches on his body and the throbbing of his emotions.

He wasn't sure how long he was out, but he came to when a gush of concern washed over his mind like a cool balm.

"How are you feeling," Iorveth enquired, his voice now dripping with delight and pride.

"You grace," he whispered, still reeling from the shock of his release.

"Would you like to stop?"

"I'll stop if you want me to. I'll keep going if you wish."

"No, en'ca minne. We stop when you say so."

Roche paused to think and Iorveth smirked at him.

"You have my permission to continue if you would like. You can gorge yourself on as many or as few cocks as you want, and I will still want you once the festival is over."

He didn't know what came over him, but a sudden surge of emotions swelled up in Roche's chest and he sucked in an unsteady breath. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, doing his best to keep himself in check. Despite his best efforts, it didn't go unnoticed.

"Come here," the deity bid forth and Roche walked unsteadily up to the throne. A blanket was wrapped over him as he ascended, and he pulled it tight over himself. He didn't even know where all this was coming from and a part of him burned with shame from not knowing.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Let me hold you."

The tendrils were about him again, carrying him up the last few steps and depositing straight into Iorveth's lap. The deity was smaller than he appeared from down below, but he was still larger in bulk and most definitely taller. He curled up around the warm body and hid his face in the soft robes, crying as quietly as he could for fear of letting the others see.

"Sleep a while."

"I'm sorry," he apologised again.

"Not another word. Rest."

Exhaustion crept over him in an instant, and tucked away in the safety of a being who cared, Roche fell asleep far quicker than he had ever in his life.

Chapter Text

Consciousness first returned with disorientation in its wake. Vernon stirred with a groan and tried to pry open heavy eyes, and when that didn't work, he rolled on his front and buried himself further into the feathered pillow. It was then that he noticed that the bed was comfortable.

He shot awake, his heartbeat spiking as he scrambled to his right and desperately searched for the edge of the mattress. He practically threw himself off and it wasn't until his bottom hit the marble floor that he realised this wasn't Foltest's bedroom.

"Are you alright," came a quizzical and unfamiliar voice that sharpened his focus.

"I'm…" he trailed off, gazing up at the unfamiliar being that hovered above him with a grim expression. Iorveth. His ceremonial robes were traded in favour of a set of simple black and green robes, and yet he looked every bit the deity that he was.

"At ease. We're in my bedchamber," the being offered and he quickly scrambled to his feet.

It was night, he deduced from the darkness outside the window. The modest chamber they occupied told stories of a practical inhabitant, though the flourishings were unmistakably rich. The woodwork was sleek and spotless, and adorned with an assortment of well-polished trinkets. Silver cups. Small paintings. The occasional candelabra. It was unpretentious and quiet wealth, as he'd seen of old beings.

He would have sat down, but he wasn't sure if he were welcome there.

"Vernon Roche, age 34, born in Vizima. Scouted by the King himself when he was 17. A member of the Blue Stripes for five years and the commander for one," Iorveth read off the small stack of papers in his hand. Vernon's heart sunk straight to his stomach and his mouth dropped open in shock.

"Your Grace…" he whispered, cold dread filling the empty space.

"In that time the unit has been responsible for squashing a rebellion that attempted to overthrow the monarch, infiltrated Redenia and killed off individuals who had voted in favour of starting a war with Temeria, and thwarted Aedirn's attempts to take over the Pontar Valley. He is a decorated murderer and by all accounts a threat, you Grace. I do not know of the intentions behind the dh'oine King, but it would be wise to assume that they are impure. I implore you to dispose of Vernon Roche immediately."

He dragged out the last words as his impassive gaze moved from the paper and over to him. Vernon swallowed hard and resisted the urge to cover his naked body.

"Is the report of you true," the deity asked simply and Vernon nodded. He didn't dare speak, too afraid of what his voice might sound like.

"Did the King have an ulterior motive for sending you," he asked and Vernon kept incredibly still. He had little love left for Foltest, but he would never compromise his country. Iorveth would have his cold, dead body long before he had his answer.

When he didn't reply, Iorveth simply huffed and shook his head.

"It matters little what your answer is," the deity concluded, "I can see quite plainly that he does. You are the third man sent from Temeria in twenty years, and the only battle-hardened one in a century. I thought you had taken the place of your beloved, but one of my men recognised you for the demon that you are."

"Then kill me," he grit out, clenching his fists to stop the tremble in his hands, "Kill me and send my head back as a warning to the king."

"I will not fall for your ill attempt at provocation and neither do I intend to kill you," Iorveth sighed and eased himself into a chair before his vanity, staring off into a space that held answers he couldn't see.

Silence stretched between them, peppered by the scuttling of forest creatures and bloodthirsty voices outside the chambers. Vernon stared at his cold feet instead, and when he could fret no longer, he broke the silence.

"So what do you intend to do," he asked finally.

"Erase your memory and send you back," Iorveth concluded with absolute surety, as if his mind had already been made up ages ago, "Even if you have come here with a motive, I cannot feel your ill will towards me and my people."

A sigh of relief escaped before he could catch it, and he quickly bit down on his lips and berated himself. Iorveth considered him, and he could still feel him prodding at the corners o his mind.

"It will take a moment to address the crowd. Eat and get some rest" the deity instructed, "Even a blind man can tell that you haven't been sleeping well."

"Where?" he asked stupidly and Iorveth cocked an eyebrow at him.

"The latrine," he deadpanned, "Of course I mean the bed, dh'oine. Where else would one sleep?"

"Okay," he answered sheepishly.

Iorveth swept up his robes and without another glance at Vernon, began to make his way outside. The door opened to a deafening myriad of voices that hushed almost instantaneously.

"Digon. Pwy roddodd ganiatâd ichi ymgynnull y tu allan i'm chwarteri preifat," he heard the deity say but couldn't decipher. It clicked shut and he found himself alone in the room.

Vernon plopped down on the edge of the bed and pulled his knees to his chest, his inner conflict beginning to rage. Did he try to look for clues and escape, or did he stay put and let it happen? It would be so easy to rummage through his drawers, fashion a sheet rope and escape into the forest. And then what? Report back to Foltest and lead the invasion back into the castle? Take down a group of elves that had showed him nothing but kindness and caused no trouble for Temeria? The only transgression he could think of was that they were required by the peace treaty to send an offering of food and materials annually, the quantity of which was equal to what Foltest single-handedly consumed in six months.

Foltest would be so mad at him. But what was he going to do? There were no beatings he couldn't endure, and at worst he would be demoted. Maybe Vernon would even say no when he started calling him over for his nightly duties. The thought thrilled him.

At the end of the day, his loyalties laid with Temeria, and would be in the best interest of the country, he decided, if his time here was erased from memory and the Scoia'tael left untouched. Yes. He couldn't let the peasants suffer from another pointless war.

Sure of his decision, he sat down at the vanity where Iorveth was moments ago and ate unburdened.

Fresh berries, toasted nuts, seared meat, and bread that was still warm. The wine was unpretentious and easy to drink, and even the water tasted clean. It was by no means extravagant or indulgent, but it was still luxurious to someone like him. Vernon ate till he was satiated, and then cleaned himself up and climbed under the sheets with a contented sigh. That they might serve good food to someone whom they saw as a potential threat was mind-boggling, and it occurred to him that this meal might have been what they served their deity. Maybe Iorveth had given his food up for him.

But there was no way that was possible, right?

Iorveth was supposed to be a god, and yet he didn't act like one. Which monarch would have indulged his crass words, or let him fall asleep in their arms crying? And now he was outside, protecting him from a mob that wanted him killed and letting him sleep in his bed. It was ridiculous no matter which way Vernon looked at it and the only reasonable explanation he could think of was that Iorveth somehow fancied him.

It didn't seem like that far a stretch.

He'd most definitely felt Iorveth's arousal while he watched him at his weakest and couldn't shake off the image of those emerald eyes razor-focused on him. He remembered how he'd smelt - sandalwood and cloves intermingled with his natural musk. It was the same smell that clung to the sheets and the pillows and the more he tried to ignore it, the more he became aware that he was utterly surrounded by it.

Shit.

Arousal began to stir, never quite extinguished in the first place. With no more distractions, his thoughts drifted back to the throne room and he snuck a hand around his hardening cock. It still felt a little sore, but the lascivious thoughts of Iorveth would not leave him be. Slowly, he stroked himself to fullness and buried his face into the pillow, wondering if he would smell like this when he pinned him down, or perhaps when they were cuddling post-coital with the deity's cum trickling out of him.

He tried to bite back his moans even as his legs shuffled under the sheets and his body ground into the mattress, searching for any kind of stimulation he could get. By the gods, he was so handsome and his arms were so strong. And he was so kind too. Would Iorveth be as big as Isengrim? Maybe larger, for he was taller and broader. And maybe it meant he couldn't fuck him as roughly, but it wouldn't matter as long as he could have him. Vernon's breath was beginning to come short and he let out a soft moan, deciding that between him and the door clicking open, the sound wouldn't-

He immediately scrambled to sit, coming face-to-face with the deity again who was watching him in the doorway.

"Did you think you could jack off in my bed and pretend nothing happened," the deity asked, his voice a warm hearth as he shut the door behind him.

"You Grace…" he whispered and felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Really now, Roche."

"You can call me Vernon," he insisted.

"Well, Vernon. Did my men not satisfy you?"

"It's not that, you Grace," he swallowed hard, eliciting a hearty laugh from the deity.

"What, then? Did the thought of getting killed turn you on?"

"Just the promises I made you," he threw out and it rustled the deity.

He willed himself to stand and began to guide Iorveth towards the bed, and though the deity's expression didn't budge, he could feel his excitement through their mental link. Eyes locked. His hands grasping strong hips. He felt solid even through his robes.

"Your Grace. May I clean your cock," Vernon breathed and knelt before him, and the deity gave him the most insidious smirk as he eased himself down.

"You were serious," Iorveth remarked as he pushed away the lapels of his robes, "About being a good hole for me."

"Do you want a blowjob or not," he frowned and it drew another laugh.

"Insolent dh'oine. Get to it then."

Somehow that was incredibly hot and it made his cock twitch. His gaze travelled down his bare torso and he could see the outline of Iorveth beneath the thin fabric now. Vernon wanted to get his mouth on him. He hooked his fingers under the band and pulled, revealing a slumbering cock that made his mouth water.

Without fanfare, he grasped the base and took the head into his mouth and sucked. He heard Iorveth hiss with pleasure and rumbled a small moan in response. The deity was big - huge - stretching his lips tight and flooding his airways with an intoxicating musk. Vernon could only take half of him in before he felt like he might gag, but Iorveth didn't seem to mind and carded his fingers tenderly through his hair. He began to fill inside his mouth, swelling and twitching against his tongue, and Vernon fluttered his eyes close so he could properly relish in the sensation and satisfaction of being good for someone.

"You look gorgeous," Iorveth praised and it was suddenly not enough. He pulled back with a pop and began to rise to his feet.

"Your Grace, I want you in me," he whispered and moved to straddle the deity.

"No can do. You were exhausted from the ritual," Iorveth chided with a wayward smirk, though he made no move to stop him from climbing into his lap.

"I'm fine. Use me," he insisted. As soon as his knees hit the bed, he began grinding his bare and admittedly sore ass against the erect length, doing his best to undulate his hips sensually.

"D'hoine, you should refrain from pushing yourself."

"Don't make me beg, your Grace," he demanded as he wrung his arms around Iorveth and hid his face in the nape of his neck, breathing in the soothing, earthy scent that he wanted so badly to drown himself in. He knew he should have behaved, but his lust burned far too brightly for him to care about decency and etiquette. Tiny moans rumbled in his chest as his cock fully stiffened and bumped against the deity's abdomen, and though the ache in his legs was fierce, his desire for the other was far greater.

"Fancy demanding things of a deity. You certainly have guts," Iorveth teased, though there was no bite to his words, "You should be lucky that you are so very attractive."

Firm fingers clasped his jaw and he moaned in delight, happy for whatever touch he could get. The mattress shifted below him and he felt the slide of tendrils up his sides and around his wrists. In mere moments, his hands were bound behind him and his legs were wrapped tight in the hold. Iorveth slid under him and pressed the head of his cock against his still-swollen.

"Yes," he whispered and tried to press down, but the tendrils locked him squarely in place. Iorveth chuckled as he fished out a small jar of lubricant that was hardly touched.

"Impudent and impatient," he scolded lightly as he began to slick himself up, the back of his hand brushing against his balls riling him up and bringing little to no relief. He vaguely became aware of Iorveth watching him intensely and squirmed hard, trying to divert his attention away. It didn't work and instead prompted the deity to caress his cheek and rub lubricant into his beard.

"What are you smiling so much for," Vernon tried to snarl, though it came out breathy and worse of all, needy.

"Just appreciating the little menace in my lap," Iorveth hummed as he ran his hands over Vernon's torso. He tried to arch into the touch, panting and so desperate for any kind of contact. The head of the erection was probing him ever so gently and it was beginning to drive him crazy. It occurred to him that he was tracing the collection of his scars on his back, where he'd been whipped while prisoner to the Aedernians.

"Put it in me already," he tried to demand, his heart beginning to knot from the attention.

"Such a tough little thing. You have the body of someone who has been through hell and endured the worst, and yet your vigor is unmatched."

"For fuck's sakes just put it in me!" he yelled in frustration without thinking. And instead of getting angry, the deity smirked and pushed Vernon down onto his cock. He choked on air and lurched forward, the air punched out of him as he was stretched around the thick organ. It was slow and intense and the deity didn't give him any time to adjust to his thick girth, far larger than anyone he had ever had before. Vernon could do little but swallow deep breaths and stave off his wild clenching as the head pushed past his prostate and even deeper into him.

"Big-" he choked out, his voice trembling and overwhelmed, and his entire body burning from a mixture of arousal and pleasure. The worst part was that there was no pain to ground him - only a thrumming, pleasant awareness that he was about to be overwhelmed.

"Since you asked so nicely, I will make sure that no one shall ever come close to satisfying you like I will tonight," Iorveth promised as he lifted Vernon up and off his cock.

And just when the tip was about to pop out of him, the deity pushed him back down and speared him wide open. A hoarse cry was ripped from his throat and his muscles spasmed around the intruding organ, heightening his own sensations and sending waves of pleasure straight to his groin. And right when he was about to get used to the sensation, he found himself lifted back off and fucked back down, his cock slapping against the other's abdomen and the sensation punched a strangled moan out of him. Iorveth seemed to delight in it and the tendrils sprung to life, bouncing him mercilessly in mid-air and forcing the deity further and further in. They were curled around him now, part soothing and part claiming, rubbing him in so many of the places he liked. His inner thigh. The curve of his hipbone. In circles around his areola. It was hell and it was heaven.

"Is this enough for you, my little survivor?"

"No-" he choked out, because it was the truth.

"Greedy," Iorveth scolded gently.

The tendrils laid him down into bed and folded him up like a paper doll, and the position served only to amplify the tightness by a thousandfold. His legs were pushed into his chest and his arms pinned immobile by his sides, and there were few places left to look except at the deity who wouldn't stop staring at him. Swallowed up by the mattress and trapped under Iorveth's bulk, Vernon could do little but submit to the unending waves of pleasure, his distress and delight expressed through the unintelligible gasps and moans he no longer had control over.

Utterly consumed. And he would only have to say a word to take it back.

He'd never felt pleasure and power as acutely. There were no masks to put up or performances to put on, and absolutely nothing standing between him and the being that was watching him with those fiery eyes. He could feel it all - the way he liked the deity's hands patting down his hair, or running down the front of his pectorals, or how those plush lips felt against his neck.

"Please," he strained, his voice crushed by the pressure against his torso and the relentless assault in his rear, "I want more, please-"

And he got more. In a second, his lips were captured in a deep and searching kiss, his moans drunk dry and his breath stolen. He couldn't resist the thumb rubbing circles against his jaw or the fingers pressing against the head of his erection, and even though he inexplicably tightened around the cock pounding stars into him, Iorveth didn't stop. A thumb slid across his slit and he bucked his hips, pushing into Iorveth's hold and wishing for the touch to never stop.

"I'm coming! Don't stop I'm-"

It was his last cry before his body and mind froze, unable to focus on anything except the approaching orgasm. The thrusts quickened and the fingers pressed down harder on his cock, and Vernon quickly tipped over the edge with a strangled cry. It crashed down on him hard, paralysing his limbs and pulling his muscles taut, his entire body on fire and his mind wiped out by overwhelming pleasure. Drowning his senses. Flooding his veins. There was nothing else but him and Iorveth and those careful hands fucking him through his high, so delicate and insistent.

His vision slowly focused and he couldn't help the small smile that curled his lips when their eyes met again. Iorveth looked destroyed - his irises swallowed up by the darkness of lust and the tinge of redness high on his cheekbones. A smile cracked his features and he was sure he'd whispered something awfully close to Iorveth's name.

Then came the unexpected crash of lust through their mental link.

"Ffyc," he heard the deity curse sharply, the tremor and surge of heat unmistakable.

"Iorveth?"

"I will make you mine," he heard over the roar of blood in his ears. And suddenly there were no more polite words and no more hesitation as his world was flipped around.

By the time he collected his wits, he found himself face-first into the mattress, his ass pushed high into the air and his drooling cock on display between his legs. There was a foot by his face and the bed shifted as Iorveth mounted him for real, and he didn't have time to feel ashamed because there were hands parting his cheeks as the deity forced himself back in, his careful control lost and replaced by something consuming and primal.

"Yes, please," Vernon groaned as the grip on his hip tightened and Iorveth began to roll his hips.

"I will claim you," he heard Iorveth declare and his cock twitched in response, filling despite his fatigue as it slapped and splattered over his abdomen. Fingers curled around his cock again and he was horrified, surprised, delighted, excited, to discover that was still so turned on and still so close to the edge. In seconds he was right there again and on the upward climb to another orgasm.

"Please- un! Don't stop-" he mumbled uselessly, limbs kicking out underneath him as he began to pull forwards, simultaneously wanting his touch and trying to get away from it. And Iorveth bound him squarely in place as he pounded into him again and again, forcing pain and pleasure on him until it began to numb his mind once more. He was panting hard now, drool spilling out the side of his mouth as he tightened around the deity, only vaguely aware of the repercussions when the thrusts quickened with an accompanying grunt.

The noises he made were no longer pretty - just deep, guttural pants and desperate cries that teetered between the line of pain and pleasure. Above him, he could hear Iorveth's smile in his laboured pants and feel his excitement in his bruising grip. The rhythm was erratic and the touch was rough, and Vernon could do little else but pull at the sheets as he was used just the way he liked.

"Iorveth," he tried again, his voice coming out in an embarrassing whine that made his cheeks burn with shame. And yet the deity seemed to relish in it, pushing his fingers into his mouth as he ploughed into him harder and faster. He was soon rendered useless, unable to think about anything but the being in him and over him, and wondered too loudly how good it would be to stay forever bound to Iorveth's bed and used for his whims and fancies. Held down while the moon crossed the sky, little more than a hole to warm him through the night.

The rhythm sputtered suddenly and he heard the moan before Iorveth buried himself as deep as he could. The palm of his left hand burned fiercely and he brought it up into view, just in time to watch a set of black vines etch into his skin. Then heat flooded his insides and he clenched down wildly, now desperate for his own release. He didn't have to wish long for Iorveth was milking him again, fingers pushing against the head of his cock as he rolled in small thrusts against his prostate. His legs were trembling hard - caught between the order to stay in place and the instinct to push towards the source of pleasure. Eventually his instincts won and he collapsed into the mattress, barely letting out a weak shout as his cock spurted a few ribbons of cum across the sheets.

"Iorveth," he whispered again as heavy eyes fluttered shut. He'd led campaigns and ran through forests for sleepless days and nights, and yet nothing had left him as utterly drained as he was now. There was rustling and movement around him, but he really didn't care.

"Are you alright?" came a concerned voice.

"More than," was Vernon's tiny and lazy reply, even though he knew he should have attempted to sound happy. And then he remembered that it was Iorveth and his guilt vanished.

"It's done. You will be mine whether you remember it or not," the deity whispered as he rolled him onto his side and pulled their bodies flush together. His skin was cool and firm next to him, like a soothing salve against his own sweaty and heated skin.

"Will I ever see you again," he asked, the thought lingering on the edges of his mind as sleep encroached on his consciousness.

"When the time is right," Iorveth cooed softly, "Sleep for now, my darling dh'oine."

An arm snaked around his waist and he sighed into the hold, warm, satiated and safe.

Confusion couldn't even begin to describe how Roche was feeling. One moment he was bound by his own countrymen and laid in a cart shaking with fear and dread, and the next, he was at the foot of Vizima Castle in the dead of the night, rested, full, clean, and in a completely different set of clothes. Nothing hurt. Nothing was sore. Was it over? He couldn't remember a thing. Gods, Foltest was going to be so angry. There had been a white-faced scout who ride ahead with his news of memory loss and a letter that had been tucked against his chest.

"Vernon! By the gods Vernon!"

The voice jolted him out of his thoughts and he turned to see Ves clambering into the cart.

"Ves," he breathed, relieved to see a familiar face no matter how upset she looked. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed hard.

"Come on, I'll help you look at your wounds."

"I don't think I'm hurt? But gods Ves I don't remember anything. Foltest is going to hang me."

"I'll kill him if he does," she snarled, suddenly protective, "You're back in one piece, that's all that matters."

"Ves," he whispered, his heart suddenly warm.

"How long was I gone?"

"45 hours. Too long."

"Dammit. How the hell did I lose so much time."

There was the thud of boots on the ground outside and a soldier peeked his head in.

"Commander Vernon Roche? His majesty requests your presence immediately."

"For fuck's sakes, he just came back," Ves yelled at the burly solider who visibly flinched.

"S-sorry ma'am, it's the King's orders, I can't," he stammered, his fright clear as day.

"It's okay Ves," Roche soothed and patted her shoulder. She sighed heavily and disentangled herself from the embrace, and then looked him over a few times just to make sure he was fine.

"I'll wait for you outside," she tried.

"Go home first. I don't know how long it'll take. I'll see you tomorrow instead, okay?"

"Oh come on, who the hell is going to take care of you."

It took him a long time to convince her.

The path to the throne room was distinctly less dreadful, though he couldn't place the reason why. It used to lurch his stomach and upturn his heart, and it had suddenly simmered down to a mild distaste. Just what the hell had transpired with the Scoia'tael.

The door to Foltest's chamber was flung wide open. Amidst the flicker of warm candlelight, a single shadow paced within, its strides telling of an impatient and furious man and Roche knew that he was the cause of it. He exaggerated his footsteps to announce his arrival and the king in his nightclothes stepped into view the doorway, bone white silk contrasting sharply against the hardened steel of his guards. At least they were here tonight; it meant that Foltest didn't want him that way.

"You've failed," Foltest announced down the corridor, his voice thunderous in the quiet of his shame.

He stopped and got on his knees, head hung low.

"I'm sorry, Sire," he murmured obediently, apologetically.

"I asked you to come back with information and all I got in return was a letter demanding to know why I sent a scarred man and accusing me of spying. Do you even remember a thing? Did you even remember the mission?!"

What else did you expect, Roche thought bitterly but gnawed on the inside of his lip instead.

"Put him in a cell and get Merigold on him," Foltest bellowed at the guards who jumped straight to action, "Who knows what the hell this dog told them. I want his memory restored no matter what happens!"

He was about to get up when a sudden and loud cry startled him back down. The sound of metal hitting ground reverberated through the hallway and he spun around to find a guard on the floor, curled around himself and groaning in pain.

"What are you doing you fools?!" Foltest demanded several volumes louder, "Get him out of my sight!"

There was another scream behind him and two more iron-clad bodies hitting the ground. Uncertain footsteps shuffled around him and he caught Foltest's twisted expression out of the corner of his eye. Between the fallen soldiers, his king and the strange warmth in his right hand, he didn't know where to look.

"Sorcery," a guard whispered under his breath and Roche scrambled to his feet.

"No, no I swear I'm not doing anything," he stammered out, shocked but the furthest thing from scared, "I'll walk myself there. Anything you want, Sire. The interrogation room, right? So Merigold can do whatever she needs to do to my brain? I'll go. I'll go right now."

He bowed low, turned tail and walked himself down the hallway, the heavy boots of numerous guards pattering behind him. A distance from him. Scared of him.

And even though Vernon was utterly confused, he couldn't deny that small part of him that was delighted. He'd expected to come out scarred, spiteful, or broken even. But this surge of power, of certainty, and of freedom? He'd been trying to pick up his broken pieces for years and remember the person he'd been before his identity revolved around Foltest

Maybe he could heal. Maybe he was worth forgiving. Maybe he'd found himself where he least expected.