Chapter Text
+
When dealing with the fae, it’s important to remember the following,
Never offer the fae your name,
Do not eat food from the fae lands,
Do not accept any gifts they might offer,
And never, ever make promises you cannot keep.
+
It was a balmy, picturesque sort of night when the King and Queen of the Human Kingdom set in motion a chain of events that would ensure their eventual destruction.
It started with a life. Or the one they wanted, more specifically.
After years of trying and failing to fall pregnant, the MacTavish royal family were truly desperate.
Without an heir apparent, the court would revolt, and they risked everything crumbling into ruin.
But beyond that, more than anything, they wanted a child to call their own.
No matter the cost.
+
Under the cover of night, the king and queen entered a barn on the very boundary of their realm, and took a dangerous gamble.
“So you’ve come to me of all people.” The tall, lanky woman raked her amused brown eyes over the two cloaked figures. “For a blessing?”
The King Mother of the Fae listened to their tale with an indulgent, mirthful expression, reclining on a hay bale as though it were a throne, her silver hair gleaming in the bright moonlight spilling through the rotting ceiling.
Although there was an uneasy peace between their people, it had been a millennia since the human or fae kingdom had initiated a meeting in person.
“A fertility blessing is child’s play,” she added, smiling sharply. “But making a deal with humans?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “It’ll cost you.”
The MacTavish’s squeezed each other’s hand, a unified front. They weren’t foolish enough to make thoughtless promises, but their desperation spurred them on anyway.
“What do you want?” Fiona MacTavish asked, voice strained.
The fae clasped her hands. “I want a union to ensure peace between our realms.”
They both stilled. “What sort of union,” the king said slowly. “You know it’s too soon for our people to accept -”
“I’ll grant you the child,” she interrupted shortly. “But only if our people are brought together.”
The humans looked at each other, their faces white with fear. “You mean… a betrothal?”
The woman’s eyes flashed in the moonlight. “If you like.”
“But the fae king is already grown, he’ll outlive -,”
“The King is only a hundred years old.” The fae waved her hands dismissively. “Practically a child for our kind.”
Fiona stood fast, jaw set. “And what happens when our child dies of old age?” She growled. “Does the King take control of our realm?”
The other woman’s smile widened. “Who says he’ll die of old age?” She waggled her fingers. “I won’t allow my own son to become widowed so easily.”
Fiona narrowed her eyes distrustfully, even as hope blossomed within.
But it was the King who noticed her words first. “He?” Evander shared a glance with Fiona. “You’ll give us a son?”
The fae smirked. “I’m afraid that’s the only way this will work.” She rose from her hay bale and sauntered towards them, hand outstretched. “Well?”
The MacTavish’s held each other’s hands for dear life, and took a leap. “We accept your terms.”
The words, imbued with magic and thick with promise, were enough to seal their fate.
With a flourish of her hand, the fae let out a muttered string of unfamiliar words, ignoring their gasps as Fiona was enveloped in a soft, warm glow. When it was over, the fae offered them both a speculative, searching look.
“You’ll have a few weeks to conceive,” she murmured. “So you have some time to back out.” She smiled at their twin looks of surprise. “If you choose not to couple during that period, the deal is off.”
“That’s it?” The king asked. “No tricks?”
Her white teeth were near blinding in the night. “No tricks.”
Fiona held two protective hands over her stomach, eyeing her warily. “If we go through with this,” she said. “Will your son approve of such a union?”
“I know my son’s preferences,” she said cryptically, before snapping her fingers. “Now, let’s just keep this arrangement between us for the time being.” She laughed under her breath. “A little family secret, if you will.”
“What of our child?” Evander ventured, “Will he be human?”
“Yes,” the fae said.
The couple’s shoulders dropped in relief.
“-And no,” she added, smiling impishly.
“What?” Fiona snarled, scowling when her husband tugged her backward.
“It’s the nature of these things,” the woman drawled. “I can’t really say how much of ours he’ll be - and in a way he’ll always belong to us.”
Fiona’s cheeks burned hot from outrage. “You tricked us.”
“You want a child, don’t you? I can’t create humans,” The fae murmured, eyes roving over the queen’s face. “You have such pretty dark hair.” She darted a glance at Evander. “And the blue eyes! He’ll look more fae than me at this rate.”
The couple stood in stunned silence, their eagerness to hear about their son temporarily winning over their anger.
The fae adopted a perfect facsimile of a Scottish accent, a mad grin curling up her face. “He’ll have such pretty wee toesy-woseys, and I’m sure he’ll grow up so braw and powerful. A perfect little human-fae abomination for my son to enjoy.”
That snapped them out of their reverie.
The king stiffened, face turning red with outrage. “I thought you wanted peace.”
“I do, of course, and what better symbol of peace than this.” The fae smirked. “Not quite human, not quite fae, a little of both.” She made a pinching motion with her fingers. “The best of both our kinds, I hope.”
She took a heavy step back, head tilting to the side. “The rest is up to you now.”
Before the couple could respond, the fae spun on her heels, vanishing in a shimmering puff of iridescent fairy dust.
And in the bowels of the decaying barn, the two humans clung to each other and hoped they hadn’t made a terrible mistake.
+
Weeks later.
King Evander MacTavish stood in his office, peering out the window as one of his most trusted men listened to his tale with growing horror.
“A fae blessing bestowed on the human queen,“ General Shepherd said slowly. “If word got out about this-”
The King spun, eyes narrowed. “Which is why it never will.” He said lowly, “I’m entrusting this information with you.”
“I appreciate that, Your Grace,” Shepherd demurred. He hesitated, and added, “But why tell me?”
Their child could’ve been born without anyone being any the wiser, and yet.
He wants something from me. Shepherd pulled back on his outrage as the cogs in his mind turned.
The King said nothing for a long moment, before he exhaled shakily. “Truth be told, I don’t how a fae blessing might affect our child.” He levelled Shepherd with a solemn, searching look. “I can’t always watch them, and if my child’s magic is…irregular in some way -”
Shepherd stilled, breath caught. His own hatred of the fae was well known, and if the child was corrupted in some way by their magic -
He could be trusted to do what needed to be done.
He braced himself, then faltered, totally unprepared for the King’s next words.
“I want you to watch over them,” he said quietly. “Keep them safe, and guide them if their magic is.” He paused, looking pained. “Volatile.”
General Shepherd thought about his past, how his leadership had held back the tides of enemy fae in the last Great War decades ago, and wondered how he’d been brought so low.
Asked to protect a fae abomination. He set his jaw, mind going white.
His dead comrades would be rolling in their graves, if the fae had left any remains of theirs to bury.
He wanted to tell him no, to turn his back and walk out without a word.
But then there’d be no one to watch this vile child, to ensure the influence of the fae was kept out of human matters.
“Yes, Your Grace,” is what he said instead, hot rage simmering behind his genteel smile.
He would watch the child, and if they stepped one inch out of place, Shepherd silently promised himself that he’d deal with them accordingly.
For the good of humanity.
+
Although the magical circumstances surrounding Prince John MacTavish’s conception remained a secret, the betrothal linking him and the elusive, terrifying fae king did not.
And John was barely even ten when he learned of it, not via his parents as was always planned, but from the noble children he attended lessons with.
“My mum told me the mad fae king is going to steal the prince away one day,” one nobleman’s daughter whispered, loud enough for half the class to hear. “They were betrothed - in secret.”
Betrothed?
The group stared at John in unison, who bristled, pretending to keep his eyes on the parchment before him.
He’d always been terrible at calligraphy, and their not so hushed whispering wasn’t helping his focus.
“I hear he’s ugly, that’s why he wears a mask.”
“He’s got no skin, just meat and bone,” another crowed, lip curling. He sent John a sly smile behind the teacher’s back. “Imagine kissing that.”
They all shrieked with disgusted laughter, and little John wanted so badly to order them all to stop laughing at him, but his parents told him it was bad form to use his power to silence others.
What’s the point of being a prince? He thought morosely. If no one listens to me anyway.
Alex, who’d sat by his side throughout it all, his only true friend in the whole castle, stuck his tongue out at all of them on John’s behalf, but it only made him feel a little better.
+
The news of the King and Queen’s duplicitous deal spread like poison through the human court, and General Shepherd watched with open satisfactions at the divides forming in the once unified assembly.
When the time came, he would be ready to act.
+
It didn’t take long for John to realise he was different, not just from his peers, but everyone in the kingdom.
John had been a healthy, happy baby, one who set the curtains on fire during tantrums, and breathed great clouds of bubbles from his mouth for his own amusement.
“Bubbles,” was the nickname they’d tried to give him.
“Soap!” John had squawked instead, eyes glowing bright blue as he set Shepherd’s robes on fire.
As Soap grew older, though, where others learned to easily control their magic as they aged, Soap’s power seemed to only grow more volatile as he aged.
He’d had the legendary General Shepherd as his personal magic tutor since he was barely old enough to walk, and yet despite his best efforts, he could barely keep a lid on his power.
The court had whispered, picking at his lack of control, and wondering if he was even fit to inherit the throne.
Aside from his parents, Shepherd had been his staunchest defender, teaching him practical swordplay in lieu of magic, grounding him when his rage threatened to send him spiralling.
He taught Soap to meditate, how to open his diminished magical mind up to Shepherd’s steady, pervasive influence, but despite his help, the divides between Soap and the others in the kingdom only grew.
+
Soap was nearly twenty when he first met the Fae King.
After setting too many of his peer’s fine silk shirts on fire as a child, Soap had long since been banned from practising magic within the castle. It was only in the privacy of a secluded, private corner of his mother’s gardens that Soap felt comfortable enough letting go to unleash the wild, unbridled force that raged within him.
The stone courtyard was cracked with scorch marks and moss, bordered by towering hedges and tucked away in the farther reaches of the castle grounds.
Several concrete pillars ignited in a flash of blue flame at his whim, and Soap let his eyes slip closed with a breathy sigh.
It had been weeks since he’d allowed himself this.
Between his lessons and mundane duties around the castle, he’d had no time to slip open the lid on his own power, even if only for a moment.
The smell of burning leaves pricked his nose, and he opened his eyes with a jolt.
Fuck.
So relaxed and lost in the sensation of his own power finally set loose, he hadn’t noticed that the tall hedges bordering his secluded quarter had since caught fire.
“Shit,” he gasped, hands shaky as he tried to coax them the growing inferno back under his control. But the sharp edge of his panic only spurred the flame on higher, and he was on the cusp of calling for help when a cascade of water abruptly soared through the air, neatly dousing his mess in a neat swirl.
“Careless,” a voice like roughened velvet commented, and Soap whirled on his feet with a startled frown.
There was a man on the periphery of his garden quarter, dressed in black from neck to toe, the pale skin of his face near glowing in the twilight, with his ruffle of dirty blond locks fluttering in the breeze.
He was the most beautiful man Soap had ever seen in his life.
Soap waited for the man to see his face and realise the error of his own rudeness, addressing the crown prince in such a way, but as the silence dragged on the man only lifted an expectant brow.
“Who are you?” Soap said, all of his manners flying away under the weight of the beautiful man’s eviscerating gaze.
The man ignored him entirely with a lazy nod towards the crisp, but otherwise still living hedges. “Did no one ever teach you any manners?” He asked mildly.
No one talks to me like that, Soap thought, wide eyed. He oscillated between outrage and his own shame, before his own manners won out. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had saved Soap from potential disaster.
Even if he is being a rude prick about it.
Most people would grovel or simper regardless of how much destruction Soap accidentally wrought on the castle, and it was almost refreshing, if not a little unmooring to have someone speak to him so candidly.
He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, yet.
“Thank you,” Soap said eventually.
“Hm,” is all he said, raking his dark eyes from Soap’s feet up to his crown. “You’re not what I expected.”
Soap felt his eye twitch. “Oh?” He bit out, “What were you expecting?”
Enlighten me, wanker.
“You’re undisciplined,” he said, stalking closer, until Soap was forced to crane his neck up to meet his eyes.
“Oi,” Soap growled, all sense of propriety forgotten.
“And so young.” He continued as though he hadn’t even heard him. “Reckless, wild thing, you’re not what I expected at all.”
“Well I wasn’t expecting you at all,” Soap said waspishly. “This section of the garden is reserved for the Royal Family only.”
You’re trespassing, you smug bastard, he added silently. Get lost.
But the man seemed unapologetic, eyes faintly gleaming in the dying light as he took a heavy step back. “That so? Will you do me the honour of escorting me from the grounds then, Your Highness?”
Soap didn’t like how that title sounded coming from his mouth, like an insult and secret joke rolled into one, but he wasn’t about to allow this arrogant stranger to roam freely without supervision.
So he nodded in reluctant acquiescence, and led the strange, rude man from his private sanctuary. They walked in silence until the hedges gave way to a sprawling maze of low set flowerbeds, and the castle loomed tall and white overhead.
The stranger seemed content to stroll alongside him, making no move to break away once they were back on the common paths.
Who are you? He wondered, mind alight with curiosity.
“You never introduced yourself,” Soap prompted.
His sudden laugh was almost a breathy husk slipping from his lips, so soft and quiet that Soap almost wondered if he’d imagined the sound.
“Neither did you,” he said. “Not wise to give out your name so freely.”
Soap grumbled, exasperated, “Only around the fae.”
Fae had a particular affinity with words as a rule, and collecting names was of particular interest to them. Simply knowing it was one thing, but there was something they coveted about receiving someone’s name freely.
It’s dangerous to give your name away to the fae, his late grandmother had often cautioned.
Soap didn’t quite understand what was so dangerous about it, but then again, the finer nuance of magic generally seemed to escape his grasp as it was.
The man breathed a soft huff, but otherwise said nothing. Soap was about ready to call over a guard to relieve him of his burden, when he realised the man was no longer following.
Soap turned, finding the towering man inspecting a flowering primrose bush with unexpected interest.
The sight of his huge gloved fingers stroking the blushing petals so carefully had his gut clenching, and Soap dropped his gaze away, blinking at the sight of his black, shiny boots.
One of his laces is coming undone.
Soap sank to his knees without conscious thought, watching as the man’s hand stilled in his periphery.
Mother would kill me if she saw me like this, he thought, before he was gripping the strings of his boots with trembling fingers.
“We’re even now,” Soap said drily, lips pulling up into a weak smirk as he tied his shoe in a neat little bow.
The man stared silently, eyes lidded and swirling black in consideration. When he lifted a gloved hand to pet Soap's hair, he jolted as though burned.
“Do you kneel for anyone, little prince,” the man rumbled softly. “Or is this just for me?“ He paused to drink in Soap’s stunned, gormless expression. “Although begging at my feet is a good look for you, I think.”
Soap protested by rote, mouth dry, “I’m not little.” He blinked as the words caught up in his mind. “And you can’t talk to me like that.”
“Why not?” He petted his dark hair like he was a dog, and Soap just barely resisted the urge to lean into his touch. “I’ll be your king soon enough.”
King?
Soap moved to stand, but found himself immobilised by magic, his fine linen trousers crushed and ground into the dirt.
“Who are you?” Soap snapped. “Let me go.”
“You already know,” he murmured, full lips pulling up into a wicked smirk. “And you’re welcome to free yourself, if you can.”
His dark, glittering eyes seemed to flash in time with a rush of thick, cloying magic, and Soap was sure he’d never met a human who felt so imbued with rich power.
Unless he’s not human, something whispered within.
There was only one other king aside from his own father that Soap knew of, one who’d have the audacity to treat him this way.
Soap stared, at a total loss for words. What are you doing here?
“What’s your name?” The king murmured, trailing a gloved finger over his flushing cheek. He pinched his chin and tilted his face up into the fading light, eyes roving the planes of his face in open satisfaction.
This man would be well aware of who Soap was, given the contract binding them together.
My fiancé. A bolt of awareness shivered down his spine.
It was the fae king, the hideous boogeyman who’d lingered in the back of his mind throughout most of his life. He’s fae. Something shrieked in alarm in his mind. And he’s asking for my name.
Soap knew he shouldn’t give it to him, but his mouth was opening almost of its own volition anyway.
“John,” he said, voice thin, and was immediately rewarded with a slow, satisfied smile.
“John,” the man repeated, drawing the name out as though luxuriating in the taste of it in his mouth. With a blink and an amber-like glow to his dark eyes, he stroked his thumb over his chin with a silky, murmured, “Johnny.”
Oh.
A frisson of lightning sparked as an invisible tug pulled at his chest, and Soap gaped up at him, wondering at the magic that simmered hotly between them.
I shouldn’t have told him that.
“You,” Soap breathed. “What are you doing here?”
His engagement to the king in the distant, untouchable Fae Realm was almost an afterthought in his mind, something intangible and unreal. After so long with little to no contact with the fae, Soap was certain their arranged nuptials was not something that would ever come to pass.
But the king was very real, and not at all ugly as the rumours suggested.
And I just tied his boot laces.
”Diplomatic matters,” he said softly, tangling his fingers in Soap’s hair. He gave his locks a gentle tug, eyes creasing at his involuntary gasp. “Thought it was time to meet you in person.”
You’re here for me?
Soap just blinked, all of his attention locked on the hand fisting his hair.
“Stand up, Johnny,” he commanded, and the use of his name had him scrambling to his feet, an invisible compulsion urging him upwards.
King Simon of the Fae Realm was a cavalier, intimidating presence, one of the rare few who didn’t seem intimidated by Soap in the slightest.
And he swayed on his feet, a little weak in the knees at the thought.
“I’ll be visiting for the week,” Simon murmured, nodding lazily at the castle overhead as he slowly began walking again.
“Really?” Soap blurted, before his lips twisted into a genuine, albeit bashful smile. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” He glanced meaningfully at his own soiled trousers, caked in dirt and grass.
Why did no one warn me?
“It’s your home,” he demurred.
“Maybe… I can show you around.” He was never allowed to show people around, was never included in any matters of diplomacy at all, but if the king himself accepted.
Soap beamed at the thought, before his face fell in realisation, as he faltered mid-step. “Unless - you’ve probably got other engagements with my parents?”
He was never this nervous or tongue-tied around anyone, but the king had put him on the back foot and sent his brain into a spiral.
But Simon only smiled, giving him a lidded side-eye. “Whatever you like, Johnny.”
+
From a balcony overhead, the King and Queen watched the two with open relief.
“It’s going well, I think,” Evander muttered.
Fiona leaned into him, throat tight. She’d have preferred to give John more choice in the matter, but if she could help facilitate a cordial marriage, she’d happily take it.
The weight of the kingdom, potentially even two, would sit on her son’s shoulders one day, but above all -
I just want him to be happy.
+
From the shadows, General Shepherd watched the same scene and seethed.
It was bad enough that the prince’s volatile magic couldn’t be contained, that he was clearly tainted by fae witchcraft -
But allowing the fae king to walk on our land? Shepherd turned away, a simmering, cold hatred turning over in his heart. This won’t stand.
I won’t allow it.
+
The following morning Soap, embarrassed by his magical performance the previous day, snuck back into his segment of the garden just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.
He thought of the fae king, watching him with open amusement, and almost groaned at the memory of his own eagerness to impress and show him around. His penchant for giddy overexcitement was unbecoming of him, as Shepherd liked to remind him, and Soap couldn’t help but agree.
He’d felt unmoored and uncharacteristically unsure of himself in the fae’s presence, and he was determined not to lose his head next time.
Smug bastard.
A bolt of electricity singed his palms in time with his ire, and he winced, shaking his hands with a grumble.
“You need a teacher.”
Soap dropped his arms with a groan, turning to find the fae king leaning against a pillared sconce. The man smirked in greeting, vanishing the building crackle of lighting in Soap’s palm with a blink of his eyes.
Show off.
“I’ve had access to plenty of experts,” Soap grumbled.
Simon quirked a brow, looking at the scorched marks dotting the stone courtyard pointedly.
“Are you offering?” Soap huffed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Since you think so highly of yourself.”
“I don’t think that, actually.” Simon stepped away from the pillar. “Just don’t think much of the way humans use magic, is all.”
Soap rolled his eyes. “I am human.“ He turned away from him, self conscious of the eyes trailing his back as he steeled himself to cast again.
Just before he could do so, the fae king circled him, stepping in front of his outstretched palms.
“What?”
Simon came to a stop before him, a light smile dancing across his lips. “Yes,” he said.
Soap waited for more, but he only stared back, indulgent and expectant.
God, you’re annoying.
He’d never felt more invigorated talking to another person in his entire life.
“Yes, what?” Soap said impatiently.
“I’m offering to teach you one day, if you like.” Simon grasped his upturned wrist, gazing down at his hands as though searching for the magic hidden beneath his skin. He looked up at Soap beneath his lashes, voice low, “But only if you ask nicely.”
“What’s a fae going to be able to teach me,” he stammered, staring down at his hand, completely dwarfed by Simon’s own. “Our magic’s completely different.”
Simon just sighed, tapping a distracting, meandering rhythm against his pulse. “Yes or no, Johnny?”
Soap shuddered as unfamiliar magic skirted up his spine as his name fluttered from his mouth. “Fine,” he said. “But do you have to say my name like that?”
And Simon, to his credit, didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning.
“Shouldn’t have given it to me, then,” he murmured, releasing his limp hand with a snicker.
+
Soap didn’t see him the following day, or even the next, and he railed at his own disappointment as he sank into his private bath, soaking his muscles with a throaty groan.
Mind blank, he lathered up his skin with a foamy, sweet smelling lotion, determined to not spare a single thought for the arrogant fae king. His perfunctory strokes slowed into lingering strokes, though, as a vision of dark, gleaming eyes flashed in his mind.
He shifted, biting his lip as his cock filled, letting his fingers drift from his navel up to his chest. When he plucked at his own pebbled nipple, he was overcome by an eery sensation, and a sudden, chilling certainty -
Someone’s here.
He flailed with a splash, chest heaving as he turned -
But there was no one there.
He stared around his ensuite suspiciously before he settled back against the porcelain, heart still hammering as he silently chided himself.
Of course there’s nothing there.
If Soap ended his bath a little early, tucking a fluffy, sumptuous robe tight around his frame as he went -
Well, no one was there to see it.
+
By the time the week was nearing its end, Soap could admit that he was maybe, just a little bit enamoured with the fae king.
He’d desired others before, but his own reputation as the crown prince had left him unapproachable and untouchable. Even the other nobles maintained a respectful distance, fearful of the betrothal agreement tying him to the fearsome, mysterious fae king.
But Simon wasn’t impressed by the trappings of wealth or titles, and wasn’t totally unafraid to speak to treat him, not as a prince to be revered , but as an equal.
He didn’t see much of him throughout the week, but the few times they did meet was laden with an unfamiliar, intoxicating tension that Soap found himself longing as time went on.
They spent their last day together wandering the fruit orchards, walking in contented silence before Simon stopped him with a gentle tug of magic.
Soap turned, blinking owlishly, before he found himself being moved into the shadows as a body collided with his.
What, he thought, eyes widening.
Simon had him pressed gently against the tree, the thick, heavy weight of his body pinning him soundly, and Soap clutched at the bark beneath, blood roaring in his ears.
A question that had simmered in his mind for the last few days came to a hot boil in his brain.
“Are you…”
Courting me? It sounded ridiculous and juvenile even to his own mind, and the words thankfully died before they could hit his tongue.
The full line of his body was flushed against Soap’s, and he bit down hard on his lip, mind abuzz as his scent clouded his senses. Simon arched his body with the barest grunts, grinding his knee dangerously close to his crotch, and Soap silently willed his stirring cock to behave.
But Simon stepped away almost as soon as he’d arrived, rocking back back on his feet with a soft breath as he held up a plump, rounded peach for his consideration.
Oh. Soap tried to stifle his own disappointment. He was just picking fruit.
Simon lifted the fruit to his mouth, pausing to to inspect Soap’s sweating, reddened face with an inscrutable twitch to his lips.
“This one’s ripe,” he explained , maintaining steady eye contact as he sank his white teeth into the fruit. He chewed slowly around a growing smile. “Do you know how you can tell, Johnny?”
Soap shook his head mutely, and Simon crowded him again, eyes gleaming.
“The colour.” He stroked the rounded curve of Soap’s flushing cheek, before he trailed a hand southward, fingers dancing along his flanks. “The size,” he murmured, pressing the flat of his hand suddenly against his abdomen, smirking at his bitten off squeak.
Simon dipped forward, until his breath was ghosting over his parted lips. “And the taste.”
Fuck.
Just as he was sure Simon would kiss him, the peach was lifted towards his mouth, and Soap bit obediently down directly into his bite mark, digging into torn wet flesh, his eyes fluttering as sweet juices bloomed across his tongue.
Simon smiled. “Good?”
“Hm,” Soap moaned eagerly, clutching at his arms. When he pulled the fruit away, he snapped his mouth shut, swallowing hard. Simon watched him all the while, looking oddly pleased, and Soap found himself pinkening under his scrutiny as he licked the juice from his bottom lip.
Simon’s eyes flicked down once, then back, before he took a careful step back. Soap stayed draped across the tree, not trusting his legs to hold his own weight as he blinked back into awareness.
“Come along, Johnny,” he murmured, nodding vaguely in the other direction. “Almost dinner time.”
Oh, Soap thought glumly, as he obediently fell into step with him again.
It was Simon’s final day, and to mark the occasion his parents were making an event of it, inviting a smattering of nobles and throwing a feast.
Although he loved a spectacle usually, he couldn’t help but wish for more time alone with Simon instead.
+
John sat by King Simon’s side at the long dining table, eyes sparkling as he chattered animatedly, unaware of the unimpressed, flinty gaze watching him closely.
The child looks about ready to fall into his lap, Shepherd thought with a curl of his lip.
The impropriety of it burned, never mind that they were arranged to be wed.
When the fae king looked his way, Shepherd calmly averted his eyes, pressing the rim of his goblet to his mouth as he nodded at something his neighbour said.
+
When the night drew to a close, Soap found himself led away from the festivities onto a secluded balcony, indigo night sky shimmering with a sea of stars.
Simon, resplendent in his dark suit of charcoal, leaned against the stone railing with a closed expression.
“Careful with that General of yours, Johnny,” he cautioned seriously, apropro of nothing.
“General Shepherd?” Soap bristled, hackles rising. “I’ve known him since birth,” he said hotly.
“Just an observation,” Simon said, expression inscrutable. “I knew him long before you did, and he’s not someone I’d put my trust in.” He paused, then sighed. “Powerful men only look after their own.”
The war, Soap realised. Simon wasn’t even king at the time when the fae last warred with humans; he would’ve only been a prince himself.
Soap smiled humourlessly. “By that logic, I shouldn’t trust you either.”
“You shouldn’t trust the fae as a rule,” he agreed easily, smiling down at his surprised eyes. “But I expect a certain amount of loyalty from my own fiancé.” He added slyly, “Above all others, I’d hope.”
Oh, God.
They’d spent the whole week not once alluding to their engagement, and Soap was wholly unprepared for the cold shock it was, hearing those words slip from his plush, smirking lips.
My fiancé.
“I wouldn’t make a very good ruler,” Soap said, mouth dry. “If I pick you over my people.”
“Your people will die,” he murmured, matter of fact. “Grow old, have babies, and grow old again.” He leaned forward to smooth over Soap’s rumpled collar. “But there’ll always be me.”
He made that simple fact sound like a dark, horrible promise.
“But I’ll die too, one day,” Soap whispered, tongue leaden. “So wh-”
Simon had been steadily nearing as he spoke, but despite it Soap was still surprised when he slanted his mouth over his, unable to help the mewling little moan that slipped from his lips.
His first kiss.
Soap fisted Simon’s jacket for dear life, unprepared for the claiming, heavy hand that slipped over his nape and arched his head up, unable to do anything but focus on his own strained breathing as the fae ravaged his mouth.
The touch of Simon’s tongue brought with it a taste of sweet wine, and Soap tentatively met it with his own, swiping eagerly at the plush of his bottom lip.
He was beyond hungry, drunk on wine and his own lust, and he felt his body sag as his oxygen starved brain threatened to send him unconscious, before Simon abruptly broke away.
He exhaled softly as he idly stroked the sensitive skin at Soap’s nape. “Time for me to go, I think.”
Already?
“When can I see you again?” Soap whined, pouting churlishly.
“I’ll be back for you soon,” Simon growled, planting another hot, wet kiss to his smiling mouth. “But I have something for you, before I go.”
“Really?” Soap smiled slyly. “My nan said I shouldn’t accept strange food or gifts from the fae.” He hiccuped, swaying clumsily into Simon, who steadied him with a strong arm around his waist.
“Well you’ve already taken human food from me,” Simon agreed easily. “What’s one more thing?”
And Soap, lovesick and stupid, couldn’t find it within himself to argue with that logic.
Simon grasped his hand, flipping it upright and stroking over his knuckles once, before something warm and gleaming was being slipped over his ring finger.
A ring. Soap’s fingers spasmed in his hold as he gawped in disbelief.
It was a solid band of silver, textured and roughened to the touch, and he watched as the ring slowly shrank to fit onto his digit.
“If you’re ever in danger, it’ll bring you to safety.” Simon showed his own left hand, adorned with a matching ring.
“I live in a fortress.” Soap huffed, smiling bashfully as he inspected his prize. “What danger?”
Simon only blinked, before he was sweeping him close for another lazy, languid kiss.
“Think of me, Johnny,” he breathed against his lips, watching Soap’s lashes flutter dreamily. “When you sleep.”
It felt so much like an order, an iron grip squeezing over his heart, and Soap was nodding obediently without conscious thought.
“Good boy,” he purred, eyes gleaming amber. “Can I see you again, little prince?”
And Soap, stepping unwittingly into his snare, gave him a short bob of the head. “Yeah.”
“Promise?”
Soap’s breath hitched, as something worried and warning tolled in his mind, but the sound was gone with a flash of gleaming, fathomless eyes.
“Aye,” he whispered. “Whenever you want.”
The smile on Simon’s face turned positively predatory, and he released him with a heavy step away, raking his eyes over Soap’s form once more, before the air turned strange -
And he vanished in a spectacular explosion of fairy dust.
Soap stared at the space he occupied, and wondered at the fog lingering behind his eyes, before he shook it away with a frown.
+
That night Soap went to bed alone and thought of Simon.
His huge hands and body, how small and he’d felt against the tree, locked in his arms. The threat of power that lurked beneath the surface, and the easy way Soap gave in to all of his whims should’ve given him pause.
But none of these thoughts surfaced as he dribbled a glass bottle of lubricant onto his fingers and sank back into the pillows, naked and soaked with sweat.
The first touch of his hand to his cock drew out an aborted, stifled whimper, toes curling as he wasted no time fisting himself, impatient and desperate.
Teasing two fingers against his rim, he swiped a wet stripe over his fluttering entrance, imaging something thicker was there in its place when he finally sank his digits in to the second knuckle.
“Fuck.” The stretch of just his fingers there for the first time was almost unbearable, but he distracted himself with a wet squeeze of his shaft, thumbing over his tip with a moan.
He sucked in his bottom lip and imagined he could still taste the flavour of his mouth, biting down hard as his cock gave a heavy, ominous throb.
Soap leaked a filthy line from his cock down to his balls, dripping down and staining the fine silks beyond repair. He writhed and rocked into his fist, his cries growing louder as his impending orgasm had him clamping down on his fingers.
He imagined the weight of Simon’s eyes on him as he stroked harder, legs spread obscenely as he sucked two fingers along his tongue, anything to muffle his own whimpering, rapturous whines.
When he finally came, the light fixtures on the wall shattered as his eyes flashed blue, back bowing with an almost pained cry.
“Simon.”
+
In a looming castle on the perilous cliffside overlooking the fae realm’s turbulent sea, a king fell into his throne, tossing his gleaming silver mask to the floor with a heavy thud.
Ghost lazed on his seat, watching his young, gormless prince trapped within the crystal sphere sitting in his palm. He watched the his hand flexed inside his untouched hole, the way his balls jiggle with the involuntary flex of his cock, how he oozed a steady line of of pre-come all over the unmarred, untouched flesh of his stomach.
He shifted with a grunt, his already snug breeches growing tighter as his cock swelled. He idly cupped himself, teasing over his fattening bulge as he watched with lidded, covetous eyes.
He was certainly a spoiled little prince, yet somehow almost sickeningly noble and sweet at the very heart of him. Ghost shifted in his seat as Johnny cried out, the tendons in his thighs tightening as he rocked into his squelching fist.
So desperate and greedy he was, trying in vain to muffle his moans, as though embarrassed by his own rapture.
Ghost knew he was untouched, could practically taste his purity on his clumsy, nervous tongue, and the knowledge of it only made him squeeze hard at his swelling cock.
He was ripe on the vine, practically waiting to be plucked.
Ghost wanted to take his innocence and shatter him into nothing.
His power called to him, a strange, heady cocktail or human and fae, so wild and untamed and unlike anything he’d ever tasted before.
A human-fae abomination of his own mother’s making, created especially for him. The news of his betrothal to a human brat had rankled at first, still did, in the darker corners of his mind.
But Johnny was brimful of fae magic - vulnerable, unwitting, and so, so ripe for the taking.
In the crystal ball, his delectable, hungry prince came with a reedy, distressed little cry.
“Simon.”
Ghost shuddered, watched his balls and cock visibly pulse onto his stomach, and he released his own neglected bulge with a deep, satisfied exhale.
Whether he ended up chained by his feet or by elevated to his side remained to be seen, regardless of Johnny’s end, Ghost was going to take his innocence and shatter him into nothing.
He stroked a thumb over the crystal with a slow, satisfied smile.
He just doesn’t know it yet.