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Levyl hung back as the Champion talked to his majesty, who was sitting back in a tall throne on the raised dais in the centre of the great throne room, which was lit with huge bronze braziers. It had been cold outside, and he was somewhat soothed by the heat of the flames, feeling their radiating warmth reach out to lick at his skin.

The king was on the younger side, less than forty, with a square jaw. He was a little short, with finely curled hair and a thin moustache, and as he finished waving his hand to his attendant, who had handed the Champion a bulging pouch of gold and a small seal for the deed completed, he got to his feet.

“Ah ah, before your party is dismissed,” said his majesty, his dark gaze looking over the Champion, Deezia, Bale, Lemox, and then to Levyl, where it lingers. “You. You’re a new addition to the Champion’s party, are you not?”

“Yes, sire,” said Levyl.

“Pick locks, do you?”

“No, sire,” said Levyl. “I’m from the Dawn Academy, I translate for the party.”

“Hm,” said the king, slowly descending from the raised dais and approaching them – approaching Levyl, who he slowly walked around, looking him up and down. Levyl stayed still, his eyes forward, his back straight, his hands neatly clasped in front of his belly – the king was shorter than him by a head, even in the block heels he wore, which made a loud, crisp sound against the stone floors. “Are you departing tonight, Champion?”

“No, your majesty,” said the Champion. “We’re joining a caravan departing tomorrow morning, a few hours before noon.”

“Good,” said his majesty. “You’ll stay with me…” The king trailed off meaningfully, standing directly before Levyl and looking up into his eyes.

“Levyl Raster, your majesty,” Levyl supplied obediently.

“Levyl,” the king murmured.

Bale, the warrior of the party, an older man in very well-kept armour, cleared his throat and stepped forward, standing at Levyl’s shoulder.

“Your intentions, majesty?”

“My intentions?” the king repeated, and he laughed an airy, fluttering laugh, laying one delicate hand on his narrow hip, pressing his plump lips together into a small, round peach of a mouth. “Do you doubt my honour, Sir Knight?”

“I expect he intends to fuck me, Bale,” said Levyl pleasantly. “I’ve no objection whatsoever.”

“No?” Bale pressed him, looking at Levyl keenly, and Levyl nodded.

“Yes, Bale, although your concern is appreciated.”

“As you say,” Bale rumbled, stepping back into the party, and Levyl gave them all a wave as they trudged out in search of a hot bath and a tavern bed.

Levyl was rather pleased, in all honesty – he had no doubt that even if he wasn’t allowed much time to sleep tonight, what sleep he had would be on a very fine feather bed.

“They’re not allowed to fuck in some courses at the Dawn Academy, is that right?” his majesty asked.

“In some courses, sire, that is true. I myself am a logician and linguist, a specialist in warding and enchantment. No such decree was ever made against my fucking as much as it pleased me – sexual desire, sexual frustration, are traditionally thoug ht of as dangerous obstacles, destabilising elements, in the course of channelling more powerful or less controlled magicks. In enchantment and numerology, the power being channelled by the caster is far less important than the symbols or equations one has written out.”

“How interesting,” said the king very falsely and dispassionately, and Levyl hid his smile against his chest. “I am not going to fuck you, Levyl. I am going to push you to your limits.”

Levyl felt a pleasant flush warm his cheeks, and he inclined his head again.

“Very well, sire,” he murmured, and allowed himself to be led aside by some of the attendants, out of the throne room and toward the king’s private quarters.

* * *

Levyl felt some mild trepidation as he laid back on the large, golden-sheeted bed, his head reclined on very soft pillows indeed, feeling the silk of the fabric beneath him. It was sublime in its fineness, in its delicacy, and his skin, rubbed raw from the attendants’ sponges and brushes in the hot, steaming water, then rubbed and massaged with scented oils that made him feel newly supple and put a golden sheen on his body, was sensitised beyond measure.

The attendants had barely spoken to him, but they’d commented over his head to one another – “Isn’t this one pretty?” “What lovely hair he has, although a little too straight, no?” “He has a pretty cock, this one, and feel the weight in his pretty balls!” – and they’d not been shy about cleaning his body, combing out and braiding his hair, administering the enema.

He'd never had an enema before – he’d taken a liquid suppository medicine before, years ago when he’d been vomiting constantly and needed the antiemetic potion, so the sensation hadn’t been entirely new, but the enema had been a far more significant quantity than that.

He’d been lent over with his forearms braced on the table, grunting breathlessly at the sensation of the water pouring into him from the enema bag, the feeling of becoming fuller, heavier, feeling a tension in his muscles, a few uncomfortable cramps, before he was able to relieve himself.

Now, he felt strangely, absurdly empty, impossibly empty. The inside of his guts felt sensitised in the same way all of his skin did, and he wondered what the attendants had put into the enema beyond water to make him feel that way, to make his insides feel just slightly… cool, like morning air on bath-damp skin.

He’d asked, of course, but every question he’d asked of the king’s attendants – “What is he going to do to me?” “Does he do this often, King Ansel?” “What’s in this, what are you giving me?” – had been met with tittering laughter and a few affectionate pats to his face, his thighs, his arse.

King Ansel entered the room, closing the door neatly behind him.

He’s stripped out of his ceremonial armour, changing instead into a short-sleeved silk black tunic and similarly silky trousers, and Levyl made to sit up, but his majesty clucked his tongue at him.

“On your back, young man,” he said in a whisper. “Here to the edge of the bed, those pillows behind you… Yes, just like that.”

“I’ve never had an enema before,” said Levyl.

“Well, you have now,” Ansel said dismissively, and pulled forward a cushioned kneeling bench to the edge of the bed, dropped down onto it. “Do you like to be fucked, Levyl?”

“I’ve been fucked here and there,” Levyl murmured. “I prefer to fuck than—”

“I don’t need your life story, young man,” said Ansel severely, and Levyl’s mouth was dry as he watched the king drizzle some glistening lubricating oil over his fingers, and Levyl opened his mouth to say something else, he didn’t even know what – to flirt, to compliment his majesty’s bedclothes or his concentration or his handsome face, to ask what was in store for him – but he was cut off as Ansel slipped three fingers into his hole at once.

Levyl swore, pressing his cheek hard into the pillows beneath him, supporting his head, as he felt the stretch around them. Ansel had delicate hands, but Levyl wasn’t typically one for even playing with himself, and three fingers at once was more than he was accustomed to.

He gripped tightly at the bedsheets, feeling his hole, strangely smooth and oiled and sensitive, forced to give way by the perfect slide of those three fingers, so slick there was almost no friction at all for a moment, and then all he knew was the drag of them inside him, the feeling of Ansel’s fingertips dragging against his inner walls, pressing against him, pressing—

Levyl squeaked, the sound sharp and high and slightly breathless,

Ansel chuckled, but Levyl couldn’t bear to open his eyes to look at him, too focused on the intense flicker of sensation at his prostate to do that, to do anything but let out embarrassingly high sounds, his composure forgotten, his fingers gripping tight enough nearly to tear at the sheets underneath him. It was impossibly intense, the sensation, a lightning strike that went straight through his cock and up his spine, and the king was rubbing at him, was rubbing in a very slow, even circle so that liquid was dripping out of the head of his suddenly straining, aching cock, and there were tears on Levyl’s cheeks and his head was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think, couldn’t formulate two thoughts in order, couldn’t make his brain do anything but sing with heat and pleasure and pure sensation.

He was stretching further, he realised, Ansel had slipped his pinky finger alongside the three already sunk in him, and he was thrusting them forward and into him, drawing back, thrusting forward again.

He opened his eyes, fiercely blinking away tears and letting them fall hot down his cheeks so that he could look at Ansel’s focused expression, at the quirk of his peach fruit lips, his head tilting slightly to one side. He wasn’t looking up at Levyl’s face but at the tight furl of his arse stretched around the king’s fingers, utterly concentrated, unblinking.

His hand shifted slightly in its position, and Levyl took in a hitching breath as he realised what was happening.

“Wait,” he managed to choke out, and Ansel’s eyes flickered from their gaze on Levyl’s stretching hole up to his face. He had dark eyelashes and hazel eyes that shone damn near to gold in the light.

“For what, precisely?” his majesty asked.

“Is it— Is it gonna hurt?” Levyl asked.

“Rather the opposite, it seems,” his king commented with such a dry superiority that Levyl felt as though a bolt of lightning had been shot directly through his cock, and he could see it twitch. Chuckling again – fuck, fuck, Levyl could feel that too, feel the twitch of his fingers – Ansel folded in his thumb and sank inside, forward, in.

Levyl couldn’t breathe.

King Ansel’s whole hand slid inexorably, unstoppably, into him, and Levyl stared disbelievingly, uncomprehendingly, at Ansel’s wrist, at the tendons shifting under the skin, in his forearm.

Ansel’s fist shifted slowly within his sensitive guts, and he was so, so agonisingly full, because he had the whole of the king’s fucking hand inside him, could feel it turning slowly from one side to the other, rubbing at his walls, putting pressure on him, on his prostate. He was whimpering constantly, tears on his cheeks, and his cock was dribbling too, and he couldn’t even come because it was just so fucking much, too fucking much, too much inside him for him to feel an edge to fall over and a relief and a release of tension, it was all just too much—

The king suddenly pulled back, and Levyl howled at the widest part of his hand, his clenched fist, forcing his hole to stretch out wider, and he felt a twinge of desperate fear, wondering if the king was going to drag the whole of his fist right out of his hole and leave Levyl gaping and open and aching and empty, but he just thrust forward again.

He was fucking Levyl with the whole of his fist, with his fist, he was fucking him, his fist and his wrist and his forearm, and Levyl had never felt anything like this, had never been so overwhelmed, so full, so fucking destroyed—

And then Ansel, his majesty the king, tilted Levyl’s cock upwards with his other hand, dipped his head, and swallowed Levyl’s cock into his mouth, sank Levyl’s cock as deeply into his throat, over his tongue, as Ansel’s fist was sinking into Levyl’s arse.

Levyl’s scream was loud enough that it made the rafters shake, his grip so tight on the bedsheets they really did tear, and he didn’t care, because he was coming so hard that it felt as though fireworks were bursting behind his eyes, behind his cock, inside him, felt as though he were exploding inside and it was ecstasy.

He was shaking, crying out, his thighs quivering, and he felt as though he were going to turn to jelly, going to turn to liquid, felt so fucking sensitive that it hurt, it felt so good that it hurt, was a searing cleave through the very core of his being.

* * *

He was dazed, when Ansel finally drew back his hand, slowly withdrew from him and left his hole so open and so empty and so gaping wide and cool—

At some point, his majesty gently stroked his face with a handkerchief, wiped off the saliva and the tears, smiling down at him beatifically.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” Levyl asked hoarsely.

“In the morning, perhaps,” his majesty said. “Perhaps I’ll see how far I can push you the next time you come through these parts.”

“Further?”

“Oh, I think you could go further,” King Ansel said softly, trailing a finger down his chest, and then he laughed softly. “Good work, young man. A capable academic you are indeed.”

“Is this what amounts to using my degree now?” Levyl asked faintly – he was too tired to try to get him to engage in further banter and riposte, but he was gratified indeed by the rich sounds of the king’s laugh, even as he threw a blanket over Levyl’s exhausted body and left him there to sleep.

“Oh, gods,” he realised with a sudden stunning, painful clarity, just before falling asleep. “I have to ride six hours on a fucking horse tomorrow.”Erotic short. A handsome king fists an adventurer.

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2.3k, rated E. Fisting! Cis M/M. Fisting and some D/s and teasing and overstimulation and all that fun stuff.

Currently doing short requests! Leave 'em in my ask. Tips appreciated but not required - please do not send requests via Ko-Fi. <3

Levyl hung back as the Champion talked to his majesty, who was sitting back in a tall throne on the raised dais in the centre of the great throne room, which was lit with huge bronze braziers. It had been cold outside, and he was somewhat soothed by the heat of the flames, feeling their radiating warmth reach out to lick at his skin.

The king was on the younger side, less than forty, with a square jaw. He was a little short, with finely curled hair and a thin moustache, and as he finished waving his hand to his attendant, who had handed the Champion a bulging pouch of gold and a small seal for the deed completed, he got to his feet.

“Ah ah, before your party is dismissed,” said his majesty, his dark gaze looking over the Champion, Deezia, Bale, Lemox, and then to Levyl, where it lingers. “You. You’re a new addition to the Champion’s party, are you not?”

“Yes, sire,” said Levyl.

“Pick locks, do you?”

“No, sire,” said Levyl. “I’m from the Dawn Academy, I translate for the party.”

“Hm,” said the king, slowly descending from the raised dais and approaching them – approaching Levyl, who he slowly walked around, looking him up and down. Levyl stayed still, his eyes forward, his back straight, his hands neatly clasped in front of his belly – the king was shorter than him by a head, even in the block heels he wore, which made a loud, crisp sound against the stone floors. “Are you departing tonight, Champion?”

“No, your majesty,” said the Champion. “We’re joining a caravan departing tomorrow morning, a few hours before noon.”

“Good,” said his majesty. “You’ll stay with me…” The king trailed off meaningfully, standing directly before Levyl and looking up into his eyes.

“Levyl Raster, your majesty,” Levyl supplied obediently.

“Levyl,” the king murmured.

Bale, the warrior of the party, an older man in very well-kept armour, cleared his throat and stepped forward, standing at Levyl’s shoulder.

“Your intentions, majesty?”

“My intentions?” the king repeated, and he laughed an airy, fluttering laugh, laying one delicate hand on his narrow hip, pressing his plump lips together into a small, round peach of a mouth. “Do you doubt my honour, Sir Knight?”

“I expect he intends to fuck me, Bale,” said Levyl pleasantly. “I’ve no objection whatsoever.”“No?” Bale pressed him, looking at Levyl keenly, and Levyl nodded.

“Yes, Bale, although your concern is appreciated.”

“As you say,” Bale rumbled, stepping back into the party, and Levyl gave them all a wave as they trudged out in search of a hot bath and a tavern bed.

Levyl was rather pleased, in all honesty – he had no doubt that even if he wasn’t allowed much time to sleep tonight, what sleep he had would be on a very fine feather bed.

“They’re not allowed to fuck in some courses at the Dawn Academy, is that right?” his majesty asked.

“In some courses, sire, that is true. I myself am a logician and linguist, a specialist in warding and enchantment. No such decree was ever made against my fucking as much as it pleased me – sexual desire, sexual frustration, are traditionally thoug ht of as dangerous obstacles, destabilising elements, in the course of channelling more powerful or less controlled magicks. In enchantment and numerology, the power being channelled by the caster is far less important than the symbols or equations one has written out.”

“How interesting,” said the king very falsely and dispassionately, and Levyl hid his smile against his chest. “I am not going to fuck you, Levyl. I am going to push you to your limits.”

Levyl felt a pleasant flush warm his cheeks, and he inclined his head again.

“Very well, sire,” he murmured, and allowed himself to be led aside by some of the attendants, out of the throne room and toward the king’s private quarters.

* * *

Levyl felt some mild trepidation as he laid back on the large, golden-sheeted bed, his head reclined on very soft pillows indeed, feeling the silk of the fabric beneath him. It was sublime in its fineness, in its delicacy, and his skin, rubbed raw from the attendants’ sponges and brushes in the hot, steaming water, then rubbed and massaged with scented oils that made him feel newly supple and put a golden sheen on his body, was sensitised beyond measure.

The attendants had barely spoken to him, but they’d commented over his head to one another – “Isn’t this one pretty?” “What lovely hair he has, although a little too straight, no?” “He has a pretty cock, this one, and feel the weight in his pretty balls!” – and they’d not been shy about cleaning his body, combing out and braiding his hair, administering the enema.

He'd never had an enema before – he’d taken a liquid suppository medicine before, years ago when he’d been vomiting constantly and needed the antiemetic potion, so the sensation hadn’t been entirely new, but the enema had been a far more significant quantity than that.

He’d been lent over with his forearms braced on the table, grunting breathlessly at the sensation of the water pouring into him from the enema bag, the feeling of becoming fuller, heavier, feeling a tension in his muscles, a few uncomfortable cramps, before he was able to relieve himself.

Now, he felt strangely, absurdly empty, impossibly empty. The inside of his guts felt sensitised in the same way all of his skin did, and he wondered what the attendants had put into the enema beyond water to make him feel that way, to make his insides feel just slightly… cool, like morning air on bath-damp skin.

He’d asked, of course, but every question he’d asked of the king’s attendants – “What is he going to do to me?” “Does he do this often, King Ansel?” “What’s in this, what are you giving me?” – had been met with tittering laughter and a few affectionate pats to his face, his thighs, his arse.

King Ansel entered the room, closing the door neatly behind him.

He’s stripped out of his ceremonial armour, changing instead into a short-sleeved silk black tunic and similarly silky trousers, and Levyl made to sit up, but his majesty clucked his tongue at him.

“On your back, young man,” he said in a whisper. “Here to the edge of the bed, those pillows behind you… Yes, just like that.”

“I’ve never had an enema before,” said Levyl.

“Well, you have now,” Ansel said dismissively, and pulled forward a cushioned kneeling bench to the edge of the bed, dropped down onto it. “Do you like to be fucked, Levyl?”

“I’ve been fucked here and there,” Levyl murmured. “I prefer to fuck than—”

“I don’t need your life story, young man,” said Ansel severely, and Levyl’s mouth was dry as he watched the king drizzle some glistening lubricating oil over his fingers, and Levyl opened his mouth to say something else, he didn’t even know what – to flirt, to compliment his majesty’s bedclothes or his concentration or his handsome face, to ask what was in store for him – but he was cut off as Ansel slipped three fingers into his hole at once.

Levyl swore, pressing his cheek hard into the pillows beneath him, supporting his head, as he felt the stretch around them. Ansel had delicate hands, but Levyl wasn’t typically one for even playing with himself, and three fingers at once was more than he was accustomed to.

He gripped tightly at the bedsheets, feeling his hole, strangely smooth and oiled and sensitive, forced to give way by the perfect slide of those three fingers, so slick there was almost no friction at all for a moment, and then all he knew was the drag of them inside him, the feeling of Ansel’s fingertips dragging against his inner walls, pressing against him, pressing—

Levyl squeaked, the sound sharp and high and slightly breathless,

Ansel chuckled, but Levyl couldn’t bear to open his eyes to look at him, too focused on the intense flicker of sensation at his prostate to do that, to do anything but let out embarrassingly high sounds, his composure forgotten, his fingers gripping tight enough nearly to tear at the sheets underneath him. It was impossibly intense, the sensation, a lightning strike that went straight through his cock and up his spine, and the king was rubbing at him, was rubbing in a very slow, even circle so that liquid was dripping out of the head of his suddenly straining, aching cock, and there were tears on Levyl’s cheeks and his head was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think, couldn’t formulate two thoughts in order, couldn’t make his brain do anything but sing with heat and pleasure and pure sensation.

He was stretching further, he realised, Ansel had slipped his pinky finger alongside the three already sunk in him, and he was thrusting them forward and into him, drawing back, thrusting forward again.

He opened his eyes, fiercely blinking away tears and letting them fall hot down his cheeks so that he could look at Ansel’s focused expression, at the quirk of his peach fruit lips, his head tilting slightly to one side. He wasn’t looking up at Levyl’s face but at the tight furl of his arse stretched around the king’s fingers, utterly concentrated, unblinking.

His hand shifted slightly in its position, and Levyl took in a hitching breath as he realised what was happening.

“Wait,” he managed to choke out, and Ansel’s eyes flickered from their gaze on Levyl’s stretching hole up to his face. He had dark eyelashes and hazel eyes that shone damn near to gold in the light.

“For what, precisely?” his majesty asked.

“Is it— Is it gonna hurt?” Levyl asked.

“Rather the opposite, it seems,” his king commented with such a dry superiority that Levyl felt as though a bolt of lightning had been shot directly through his cock, and he could see it twitch. Chuckling again – fuck, fuck, Levyl could feel that too, feel the twitch of his fingers – Ansel folded in his thumb and sank inside, forward, in.

Levyl couldn’t breathe.

King Ansel’s whole hand slid inexorably, unstoppably, into him, and Levyl stared disbelievingly, uncomprehendingly, at Ansel’s wrist, at the tendons shifting under the skin, in his forearm.

Ansel’s fist shifted slowly within his sensitive guts, and he was so, so agonisingly full, because he had the whole of the king’s fucking hand inside him, could feel it turning slowly from one side to the other, rubbing at his walls, putting pressure on him, on his prostate. He was whimpering constantly, tears on his cheeks, and his cock was dribbling too, and he couldn’t even come because it was just so fucking much, too fucking much, too much inside him for him to feel an edge to fall over and a relief and a release of tension, it was all just too much—

The king suddenly pulled back, and Levyl howled at the widest part of his hand, his clenched fist, forcing his hole to stretch out wider, and he felt a twinge of desperate fear, wondering if the king was going to drag the whole of his fist right out of his hole and leave Levyl gaping and open and aching and empty, but he just thrust forward again.

He was fucking Levyl with the whole of his fist, with his fist, he was fucking him, his fist and his wrist and his forearm, and Levyl had never felt anything like this, had never been so overwhelmed, so full, so fucking destroyed—

And then Ansel, his majesty the king, tilted Levyl’s cock upwards with his other hand, dipped his head, and swallowed Levyl’s cock into his mouth, sank Levyl’s cock as deeply into his throat, over his tongue, as Ansel’s fist was sinking into Levyl’s arse.

Levyl’s scream was loud enough that it made the rafters shake, his grip so tight on the bedsheets they really did tear, and he didn’t care, because he was coming so hard that it felt as though fireworks were bursting behind his eyes, behind his cock, inside him, felt as though he were exploding inside and it was ecstasy.

He was shaking, crying out, his thighs quivering, and he felt as though he were going to turn to jelly, going to turn to liquid, felt so fucking sensitive that it hurt, it felt so good that it hurt, was a searing cleave through the very core of his being.

* * *

He was dazed, when Ansel finally drew back his hand, slowly withdrew from him and left his hole so open and so empty and so gaping wide and cool—

At some point, his majesty gently stroked his face with a handkerchief, wiped off the saliva and the tears, smiling down at him beatifically.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” Levyl asked hoarsely.

“In the morning, perhaps,” his majesty said. “Perhaps I’ll see how far I can push you the next time you come through these parts.”

“Further?”

“Oh, I think you could go further,” King Ansel said softly, trailing a finger down his chest, and then he laughed softly. “Good work, young man. A capable academic you are indeed.”

“Is this what amounts to using my degree now?” Levyl asked faintly – he was too tired to try to get him to engage in further banter and riposte, but he was gratified indeed by the rich sounds of the king’s laugh, even as he threw a blanket over Levyl’s exhausted body and left him there to sleep.

“Oh, gods,” he realised with a sudden stunning, painful clarity, just before falling asleep. “I have to ride six hours on a fucking horse tomorrow.”