iskanderpryor

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander’s laugh was sharp, breathless, punched from his lungs with the force of that second thrust, the table groaning beneath them in protest. His fingers scrambled for purchase, nails catching on wood, breath ragged and sweat-slicked curls falling into his eyes as Daven drove into him like a man possessed. Gods, he was going to feel this tomorrow. He was going to crave it tomorrow.

"Breed me?" he rasped, the words hitching on a groan as the head of Daven’s cock pressed deep again, dragging across every nerve like it knew the map of him. "You think I’ve waited for it?" His head fell forward, forehead pressed to the warm wood, lips parted around a pant as another thrust nearly knocked the wind from him. And yet - still - he smiled, wicked and sharp, a wolf wearing satin.

"I planned for it." Iskander turned just enough to catch Daven’s gaze over his shoulder, eyes dark with hunger, pupils blown wide, his body trembling with every push, every pull. "I knew you'd ruin me," he breathed, "and I let you." His leg hitched higher still, opening further for him, a silent, feral invitation. “I want you to lose yourself. I want them to smell it on me for days.”

He reached back blindly, palm curling around Daven’s wrist still locked on his thigh, guiding him, grounding him, keeping him. “So do it,” Iskander whispered, voice velvet and venom. “Fill me up, witcher. Make me yours.”

desire mixed thickly with love, lust with desire, and altogether, it created a heady concoction that daven all but lost himself in. it was a thick haze that enveloped him, making every part of the world fade until iskander was all that remained. a focal point of his heart. it had always, inexplicably and irrevocably, been him. from squire and prince, to witcher and prince, to this, bodies pressed together, cock rutting slick and heavy against that cleft, making sacred love in the other’s ancestral home of all places.

no thought of faith could withhold the sin he wished to commit. there was no sweeter sin than release, than surrender, and daven gave in. curling a hand around his lover’s pale throat, he made that spine arch as his ruddy head prodded the loosened ring open, parting the way past muscle into... “fuck...” daven groaned at the sheath of divine warmth. it was like a scabbard perfectly crafted for him, if not slightly stretched taut by the little girth that the witcher was endowed with.

well, it was the girth of a handspan. but there was practically no resistance from iskander’s side either, nothing to expel him, as if the prince’s insides had been waiting for him to slot in. he swore under his breath lowly, felt the word reverberate and become a growl as iskander clenched desperately around his thick cock. daven’s balls drew up, tightening and growing heavier.

then one hand anchored itself on the other’s thigh propped up against the table, the grip syncing in time with the pump of his hips, his first thrust into that inviting heat. another rising groan met the pleasure, this one melting into a breathless gasp. even though iskander was the one receiving, daven was the creature of absolute submission. he wanted, more than anything else, only to please his lover, to ravish him in love, to ruin him affectionately.

daven, gritting his teeth, slid his cock nearly all the way out only to slam his hips hard once more, hard enough to rattle the legs of the study table. the cock found home, girth plowing through muscle. “fuck,” a pant, “you been waiting for this, haven’t you?” the words dissolved into a chuckle. “for me to breed you.”

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander’s response came not with immediacy but with silence - a long one, heavy as snowfall in the northern pines. His gaze remained on the fire, eyes hollowed with thought. When he finally spoke, it was with the same tempered, deliberate cadence that marked him as both a prince and something far lonelier.

“You see fear when they look at me. I see curiosity. And that’s worse. They still think I’m unfinished. A thing to prod at.” He rose from his seat with the grace of someone who hurt too much to make it look easy. “Let them watch, then. Let them write their little letters and sip their honeyed wine. But when I draw blood, I’ll make sure the scent of it carries back to every hall that dared question Bergia’s silence.”

There was no false humility in his voice, nor any claim to infallibility. In fact, there was a thin thread of disgust there - self-directed, as though survival had come at a personal cost he hadn’t yet paid in full. He finally met Irwys’ gaze, and something behind his eyes stirred - an ache, an old certainty turned sour.

There was a flicker of that same humorless half-smile as before, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They tried to kill me once. That buys them a debt. And my mother raised me never to leave one unpaid.”

"I'm all too familiar with the concept that their success may have been gifted by luck and circumstance, but ultimately, every species commands the instincts of a predator."

The fables of House Gaunt spoke of great warriors, protectors of the land. In the three years since the signing of the treaty, his father had thrown their heritage to the flames.

Irwys wasn't quite sure that the prince's upbringing would have meaningfully demonstrated just how dangerous the most beautiful and docile creatures could be; even his most recent ordeal might not have revealed the Argonian's true nature.

"Who says you'd have to be?" Irwys insisted. It wouldn't be unusual for a royal to succumb to a mysterious disease, a bout of illness or find themselves the victim of a seeming accident. There were many houses loyal to the Bersian royal family that could pull off such feats, House Gaunt included.

The noble took another sip from his cup, his gaze studying Iksander's features before admiring the dance of fire that kept them warm in the surprisingly cold evening.

"You're far from fragile, Your Highness. Their intent was to make you suffer, to watch you die, slowly. But you survived a great ordeal, and now you command respect of their own people. If I donned their linens and soft shoes, I'd be riddled with fear to see you enjoy an invitation to the capital."

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander sat with his spine straight and his hands resting in his lap, the way the Pryor ought to. It was easier not to speak at all than to say something that might be misunderstood, but Rhiannon’s voice pulled something loose in him - something that had been fraying since they arrived.

He watched the fighters in the pit: muscle and bone and noise, no strategy beyond survival. “I don’t think they care whether we’re soft,” he said finally, eyes still fixed below. “They only care if we’re weak enough to kill without consequence.” His voice was mild, almost distant. Bergia would have an answer, Iskander was confident in that, their arrow would meet its mark.

Iskander turned his head then, just slightly, enough to meet his mother's gaze from the corner of his eye. “Vengeance.” He repeated the word, tasting it across the tarmac of his tongue as his mother proposed the gods along their guiding hand. Even this didn't feel satisfying - vengeance fell short of what he'd see inflicted on these foreigners. "There's nothing more foreign to the Gods than pain, so nothing they long more to see." Iskander had been tested - alive - and dedicated to the path ahead. "For what will befall the men responsible when I find them, the Gods themselves will avert their eyes."

Iskander took a bitter drink of the wine - as distasteful as the Valtolian vintages - though perhaps the Bergian had just grown sour to comforts found beyond their borders. “I’m not afraid to be watched, Mother." Iskander was a rope pulled taut, ready to tie a noose at a moment's notice. "I'll be more careful this time."

closed for @iskanderpryor setting the colosseum

There was that part of Rhiannon who wanted to keep Bergia back at home in the mountain, away from the rest of the world. After the events of the Dove Concord, he wasn't sure an active relationship with the other kingdoms was ideal but it was a necessity. Iskander was still recovering, but he could walk.. and then there was that part of Rhiannon who still wanted answers for the assassination attempt. Nothing came back as to who it would have been and perhaps this was the key to finding it, if none of them could find it back in west... maybe the culprit was the power who just reintroduced themselves to the world.

Rhiannon remained stoic as they entered the kingdom, holding his five children close to him as they were gracefully brought to where they would be staying. He kept Iskander on a tight leash, not that he believe his son would do something stupid but because he didn't trust this mysterious sixth power. If they attempted once, they could attempt it again.

"I don't know if it was a good idea to come here," Rhiannon admitted out loud to his middle child as they sat in the booth that had been assigned to them. "But I refuse to let them believe we've become soft since the war ended." He watched one of the fights, tugging on the collar of his fabrics from the humid heat of the Argonian peninsula. "I hope we find whoever harmed you here... may the old gods guide us to vengeance."

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander didn’t reach for a cup. He hadn’t touched a drop since he’d tasted blood in his mouth on the floor of that Valtolian tomb. His hands remained folded neatly in his lap, his posture straight despite the ache still thrumming through his side. His eyes, however, glinted with something colder than pain - an old storm barely held at bay.

“If they think this a viper’s nest,” he said, voice low and clipped, “and they’ve mistaken the nature of their own teeth. I see peacocks, Irwys. Silk-skinned things grown fat on stories of their ancestors. Let them play at danger. Nobody whose yet to weather a Bergian winter know what danger feels like, it doesn't come dressed in linen.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. “I couldn't be connected to anything like that.” What? Hire an assassin? No, that was their game - clearly - Iskander would see them found, brought forth, humiliated, and then would watch as their lungs were ripped from their back. No shadows wanted.

He finally turned to face Irwys fully, expression unreadable, though there was something half-fond in the set of his mouth. “Your concern is noted. Even appreciated. But I’m not here for caution. I’m here for theater. Let them see Bergia’s prince in all his fragile glory. Let them whisper about the limp, the paleness, the scar. Let them mistake my restraint for weakness.” His gaze sharpened. “When the time comes, I want their fear to feel like recognition.”

Iskander leaned back just slightly in the cushioned seat, gaze sliding once more to the flickering firelight that danced across the wall. “Until then,” he murmured, almost to himself, “let them host their little games.”

For the first time during the long-winded and frankly tedious proceedings, Irwys found himself a moment of respite, a quiet room in the impressive abode. The soft furnishings and gentle candlelight contrasted Argonia's infernal climate, much to the warrior's contentment.

His steely gaze, filled with intrigue, peered over the rim of his cup and for the few heartbeats of silence that befell the room, sweet mead lingered on soft lips. "I am, Your Highness. I, too, feel your disdain for our hosts, but I doubt they'll put any of their soldiers in any real harm." He'd built up enough of a rapport with Iskander Pryor but still walked the line of showing respect for his title and bloodline. "Perhaps enough gold would entice someone to heed your wish in a less public display?"

Irwys smirked, although ice-blue orbs blunted by the reflection of dancing flames still conveyed the achievability of his words. Every kingdom harboured desperate fools who would trade their manner of living for gold, not just the peasants.

"I'm certain you'll avenge the attempt on your life. Just not when you're sat in the viper's nest," he offered, gesturing exaggeratedly to their surroundings. "Enjoy the competition for what it is; you won't be long in spilling the blood of those who wished you harm. I promise you that."

[iskanderpryor]

@irwysgaunt location: up to you! notes: two bergians chit chatting at the function

Far from home, once again. The lingering injury from the assassin's failed strike would've been reason enough for the Pryor to remain in Bergia, but he wouldn't duck his head and hide from the assailants. If they wished to see the resilience of the Northernmost Kingdom, then the Argonians - hidden behind their failure - could stare at the Pryor to testament to what they failed to finish.

"You'll be fighting?" It was phrased as a question but it wasn't much of one, where the Bergian once didn't have much in his heart for vengeance, that was abandoned. "Good. I'm eager to see some of this Argonian blood hit the sand." Enough of his ichor stained the ground of that Valtolian labyrinth - if misfortune intended to follow him over yet another border, then Iskander would see it land on someone else's head.

[iskanderpryor]

The warning came too late - Iskander felt Daven tense, heard that ragged growl tear from his throat before he spilled thick and hot down Iskander’s throat, the sudden pulse of it making Iskander's breath hitch. He swallowed on instinct, his throat working to milk the few thick drops that spilled from the bear's crown, tasting him on his tongue and committing Daven to himself. Before he could so much as catch his breath, strong fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him forward. The kiss crashed into him, messy, desperate, the sharp taste of salt and heat and Daven’s own desire still lingering on Iskander’s lips. He moaned into it, letting himself be taken, letting himself be devoured, knowing - knowing - that this was only the beginning.

Iskander barely had the breath to laugh, but the sound was there - low, ragged, threaded with something dark and delirious. He felt the damp wood of the table bite against his chest, his body splayed, his muscles trembling in the aftermath of Daven’s touch, of the wreckage he had already made of him.

The heat of him pressed flush against Iskander’s backside, heavy and insistent, and gods, he could feel it - every pulse, every twitch, every ounce of need thrumming through the beast at his back. His fingers curled against the wood, breath catching as Daven rutted against him, his cock sliding slick between the cleft of his ass, teasing, demanding. The weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer presence of him - it left Iskander dizzy.

The words at his ear sent something electric through him, something primal. Dangerous. A lesser man might have hesitated, might have shied away from the sheer force of Daven’s desire, but Iskander was not a lesser man. He was greedy. Reckless. Built for ruin. His breath hitched, his lashes fluttering as his head turned just enough to catch the edge of Daven’s jaw, to feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of his breath. His lips parted, his voice a rasp of sound, hoarse and wanting.

"Stop you?" Daven should know better by now that Iskander would only do the opposite - the Bergian was more liable to tie the other down and draw ever last droplet of the witcher's seed from him. A shudder wracked Iskander's frame, his fingers tightening their grip. His back arched, pressing himself harder against Daven, against the rigid heat poised at his entrance. He turned fully then, his gaze catching the witcher’s with a smirk that was entirely wicked. Breathless, and daring.

"Now why," he murmured, voice a ghost of sound, tone still a ruin after Daven had had his way, "would I ever do that?"

Instead Iskander offered surrender to the inevitable as his leg hitched higher onto the desk, his back arching into Daven’s grip. He was so open, so wrecked and raw, body still trembling, throat still aching from the earlier onslaught - but none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was this, the heat of Daven’s body caging him in, the way his cock ached against him, the way his hands were so big around his waist, his thighs, the way he could feel the tension thrumming in the witcher’s muscles, barely leashed, barely held back.

He reached back, fingers tangling in Daven’s hair, tugging him down until his lips were ghosting against the witcher’s ear, "Take what’s yours, Bjarki."

daven was—overtaken, overwhelmed, teeth gnashed as he chased that divine pleasure brought on by his lover’s throat, a perfect sleeve for him to plunge into and ruin. and ruin he did, in punishing movements, heavy balls tapping the other’s chin rhythmically, thud, thud, thudding throughout the bath chamber.

“isk—” daven gasped, his body locking up as he spilled a burst of seed down the other’s throat. not his climax, but a prelude, enough for iskander to taste and savor the salt of it as daven slowly slid himself free with a wet, sinful pop. he looked down at the masterpiece he had created—the swollen lips, the reddened eyes, the flushed cheeks.

of course, he couldn’t resist a kiss. the bear leaned down, cupping the back of iskander’s head as he pulled him in for a filthy press of their lips, tasting himself in his lover’s mouth—salt and leathery musk. his hand dropped to take the prince’s.

“yeah,” he breathed, wispy. “not done with you yet.”

still in a daze, daven led them toward the bedroom. he found it by half-luck, half-instinct, nudging open the wooden doors with a foot while his lips marked the other’s neck deep. the bed was only a few feet away, but daven couldn’t wait. he spun iskander around, pressing his bare cock to his lover’s shapely ass, and shoved him up against the first study table he saw.

“you need to stop me,” daven rasped, voice hoarse against iskander’s ear, delirious. his cock rutted desperately up and down that cleft, eager, wanting ... gods, he shivered, the cockhead pulsing with pleasure, with raw excitement. “i don’t know what i’ll do to ya’ otherwise,” he breathed, propping one of iskander’s legs up onto the table, widening the gap. his cockhead now nearly kissed the ring of muscle nestled between those thick cheeks. “by the gods, isk, i wanna breed you, plow so many children into you-”

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander had never been anything less than reckless. He lived at the very edge of indulgence, sought to test his own limits, to taste the danger in every pleasure, every risk. But Daven - Daven was something else entirely. He was obliteration - the high, the love that left the void Iskander had been desperate to fill for an age. Taking him was a pleasure, his pleasure, and he'd have him again and again until his body betrayed him and he spent every last drop the witcher could conjure.

His body jerked with each merciless thrust, throat forced open, tears pricking the corners of his lashes as he struggled to breathe through it. Daven gave no reprieve, no escape from the brutal rhythm of his hips, and gods, Iskander didn’t want one. He wanted to be used by his beast - his bear - to be devoured. His hands clawed at the witcher’s thighs, nails digging crescent moons into flexing muscle, desperate to anchor himself as his body trembled beneath the onslaught.

Each roll of Daven’s hips left him hollow and aching, only to be filled again, ruined again, spit and pre dribbling down his chin, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps each time Daven gave him a moment to recover, each time his cock dragged free just enough for Iskander to suck in a quick, shuddering breath before the next plunge stole it away again.

The force of it left him dizzy, his throat raw, his body overwhelmed by the sheer dominance of it, by the weight of Daven’s possession. He could feel his own arousal, unbearably hard, his neglected cock throbbing against his stomach, weeping with the need for touch, for friction. He wanted to reach for it, to stroke himself in time with Daven’s thrusts, but the strength of the witcher’s grip in his hair kept him pinned, kept him obedient.

His lashes fluttered as he forced his gaze upward, looking up at Daven through the haze of his own ruin. He didn’t need words. He was certain his expression told the story well enough - his lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed, the sweat-slicked tremble of his limbs betraying just how far he was being pushed. And still, he moaned around him, still he tried to take more, to offer more.

When Daven pulled back again, when his thick length slapped against Iskander’s spit-slick lips, the prince sucked in a ragged breath, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of him. His voice was hoarse, throat wrecked, but still, he managed to rasp, “More.” His nails curled against the stone, bracing himself, eyes burning with something dark, something wanting. “I didn't ask you to stop.” A life here, together, that was the fantasy - the dream - but his mind's eye had played a thousand-thousand scenarios of where and how Daven would take him. For now, he got to see those dreams realized.

having iskander completely at his disposal unlocked something deep within him, something he hadn’t known before. greed? selfishness? those were the ugly parts of him, always so heavily repressed yet still lurking beneath the surface. but the need to possess, to own, to make the prince his very own tether and consort... it was akin to a hunger long numbed, long forgotten. the instant it returned, it overtook him completely. he was nothing but pure need.

and iskander was nothing if not purely his. his to protect, his to love and care for, and "ugh," his to fuck, he thought as his hips torqued forward with unchecked strength, driving his veined length down that eager throat. a hand rose immediately, gripping the soft strands of iskander’s hair at the back of his head—a vice that tightened, bracing him. for what, exactly?

for the first roll of his hips, dragging his length nearly out before slamming it back in with a merciless thrust, cockhead pressing against the innermost heat of the other’s throat. he groaned aloud at that, head snapping back before he forced himself to look down again. down to see iskander’s lips stretched, buried in his dark bush, cheeks hollowing as daven kept himself rooted in that velvet warmth.

some claimed the bodies of witchers had been mutated to operate differently. enhanced reflexes, enhanced strength. it wouldn’t be unlikely for their metabolism to be enhanced as well, especially when daven could produce more semen than any normal man. the thick globules of precome leaking down iskander’s throat were evidence enough.

his grip slackened, finally allowing his lover to breathe. he slid his cock back out with a deep, guttural groan, slick and ruddy, then gave a few wet taps against the prince’s swollen lips, savoring the sight before him. “always wanted to fuck you here,” he muttered with a breathless chuckle. “your ancestral home.” i want it to be ours.

that forgotten need pulsed in his chest, frantic as the wingbeats of a caged bird. it begged to be freed.

daven swiped a thumb across iskander’s lower lip, wiping away a strand of spit before he aligned himself once more. groaning low, the beast took the prince’s mouth again, swallowing his breath in one thrust. a second quickly followed. then a third, fourth—until his hips were pumping with brutal force, wild and uncoordinated, staccato in rhythm and punishing in strength, bruising that throat well.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander's body still trembled, wracked with the aftershocks of Daven’s hunger, his own pleasure curling low and tight in his belly like a brand. The witcher's lips were swollen, slick with spit as Iskander's breath ran ragged - dragging his tongue over his lover, tasting himself, tasting Daven. He shuddered at the memory of that mouth, the wet heat of it, the ruin, the desperation. Iskander could never be satisfied by anything less than him, anything less than a love that consumed him completely.

And Daven - his beast, his bear - stood over him now, looming, all muscle and raw need, stroking himself with slow, indulgent drags of his palm. Iskander’s gaze latched onto the sight, his stomach twisting, his pulse hammering in response. The demand in Daven’s voice managed to raise the small hairs on the back of Iskander's neck, mouth parting just slightly as he felt his throat go dry.

Daven's prince had no shame. He should have. But where the witcher was concerned, Iskander would always been a greedy thing.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips as he shifted, deliberate in his movements. He stretched, his muscles tight, his body still humming, and then, with agonizing slowness - because he could - Iskander obeyed. His knees slid against the stone, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets as he rose to kneel before Daven, back arched, shoulders drawn. He let his hands drag up the length of Daven’s thighs, nails scraping lightly over heated flesh, half-lidded eyes and soft lashes - it was through these that the warm gaze of the Bergian looked up at the beast above him.

His mouth still parted slightly, breath ghosting hot against the slick, flushed head of Daven’s cock. Iskander held that gaze, letting Daven see the anticipation in his eyes, the way his lips tingled with want, the way his tongue darted out, teasing, before he whispered, “I am... at your disposal.”

the musk of his prince mixed with his own, a heady concoction that left daven reeling from unbridled desire — a need for more, a want for everything. and here, within the ancient walls of hornkeep, there were no prying eyes, no eavesdropping servants to report back on them. here, daven’s desires could roam freely, unpunished.

it was a near impossible chance, and he took it. he gave in earnestly, moaning low in his throat as his mouth worked to loosen the other’s entrance, lapping to ease the tight ring of muscle but also indulging in the taste of his lover, sweetness like honey, calling to the animal impulses within him. his hands anchored onto thighs, his mouth picked up pace, and daven fell into a heated rhythm, one set by hunger and hunger alone.

by the end of it, as his lungs burned for air, the witcher pulled back with a heavy gasp, chest heaving, lips slick. he wiped his mouth with bruised knuckles before leaning down to kiss iskander, feeding his own taste back to him. daven’s throat rumbled into the kiss, a tremor of a note reverberating between their scraped lips, a signal of further hunger. he was starving. he had been starving for so long. his hand gripped the slant of iskander’s jaw, pulling him closer to deepen the press of their mouths.

he didn’t register when they broke apart. everything was a haze, everything but the warmth of iskander’s body and the pulsing of his own hardness, now rubbing keenly against the ravished hole. it selfishly demanded attention, demanded touch.

daven pushed up onto his feet, wobbling slightly, then stared down at the other with his engorged length at full mast, on full display. he dragged a slow, indulgent stroke down the veined surface, groaning at the shock of pleasure. then, he tapped the thick, ruddy head against his palm, the movement ringing sharply through the air.

“get up and on your knees,” he commanded through gritted teeth, gaze locked onto the other. but one more stroke had him lulling his head back, eyes rolling from sheer need. his next words came rougher, more desperate — a plea — as he looked down.

“present your mouth to me, baby. let me fuck it.”

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander felt the hesitation in Alfynn, the way his body tried to retreat even as his hands betrayed him, resting against bare hips, pulling - just enough. It was that hesitation that made Iskander smile against his lips, slow and knowing, distracted and pleasantly so. Daven might have behaved differently but there was, at times, an equal measure of uncertainty in the witcher. Iskander wasn’t deterred. No, he leaned in further, pressing his body flush against Alfynn’s, pressing the heat of his skin and the subtle tremble of pleasure still echoing through his limbs.

His lips dragged against Alfynn’s jaw, teasing, the ghost of a touch before his teeth followed, nipping at the delicate skin beneath his ear. “Don’t hold back,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, smooth as silk as he reached behind himself and took a firm grip on the spit-licked heft of Alfynn's cock, aligning it, bridging it, and maneuvering it against his hole. “I can take it.” A hand slid up Alfynn’s chest, nails just barely scraping over his skin, that weighty crown breaching only just as the familiar burn sent a ripple of something through Iskander's body - cock twitching, leaking, back arching. “All of it.”

He kissed Alfynn again, but this time he let it deepen, let it devour, rolling his hips as he did, encouraging the inevitable as he broke in an inch, then a second - a sigh following.

"oh."

the vision of iskander so debauched. ruined, in some ways, but not unrecoverable; no, almost more appreciable, in how temporary the state would be. splotched with red, streaked with what he assumed were the start of tears. was iskander in pain? and if so... why did he want to go through that a second time?

was this what iskander loved? was this what he got from the man he loved?

that curling thing low in the rear of alfynn's mind tried to perk up again, but alfynn slammed every door in its face that he could. he was a nyghtshade in name. he did not need to be a nyghtshade in actions or efforts. the feel of iskander's steady, if not slightly elevated pulse, did bring alfynn some sort of comfort. his shoulders beginning to sink down from his ears.

and that lasted all the way until iskander stripped off his clothes and all but climbed atop alfynn, who tried to start to lean away, but that kiss had him trapped rather easily. almost willingly. unsteady hands slowly coming to rest on now-bare hips, pulling just so, to get iskander off his feet. he could sit, if he liked.

even if the nearest seat was alfynn's own lap, looking about ready for a second round.

[iskanderpryor]

They had to be possessed.

Their bodies crashed together, slick and writhing, water sloshing over the rim of the bath, forgotten in the extensiveness of their need. Iskander rolled his hips against Daven’s, demanding friction, demanding more, his breath coming in ragged gasps against the other man’s mouth. Prey recognizing his doom — his beast, his bear, claimed by fang and claw, by lips and tongue, by every ragged breath shared between them.

Daven might as well have been imprinting himself into Iskander’s very skin, ensuring no part of him went untouched, unmarked. Iskander bucked into the kiss, all sharp and desperate, his body arching against Daven’s as if he could mold himself into the brute force of him. He bit the curve of Daven’s jaw, the thick muscle of his neck - his tongue chasing the salt and sweat left in his wake. His nails raked down Daven’s back staking his claim in red trails across the beast that was taking him.

His head tipped back against the stone, lips parting around a breathless curse, fingers twisting in Daven’s hair, tugging, needing. And Daven - "-Fuck, Daven-." Iskander would feel the ghost of those kisses lingering along his skin for days, the imprint of lips and teeth branding his throat, his collarbones. The dull ache of bites blooming across his chest where Daven had suckled at him, where that mouth had closed over a nipple and taken - hot and hungry, tongue rolling over sensitive flesh, pulling until the pleasure had sharpened into something near painful, something that had left him writhing, begging for more.

Slipping below his waist, feral eyes and hungry lips feasted below and Iskander bucked again, moaning Daven's name into the steamy air of the bath chamber. Gods, he was going to break him, and Wylla help him, Iskander would let him.

Unraveling, undone by the wet, ravenous heat of Daven’s mouth. The sensation was devastating - soft and slick, hot and unyielding, every motion sending sharp, electric pleasure thrumming up his spine. His thighs trembled, spread wide, braced over the broad expanse of Daven’s shoulders, but there was no stability to be found.

But nothing - nothing - compared to this. To the wet heat of Daven’s mouth between his thighs, to the rhythmic push of that tongue, licking, circling, probing, until Iskander was nothing but sensation, nothing but desperate, ruined sound.

"Daven - " His voice broke again, ragged, a plea and a demand in one. His fingers clawed at strong shoulders, nails leaving red crescents in their wake, the other threaded through the den of curls atop his lover's head. "Fuck- you’re- gods, please-"

before he could register anything, his lips were on iskander’s again, hot and wanting, desperately consuming the other’s in greed. a kiss of years-old longing, it pulled all breath out of him and made him live only on the mercy of his lover, of his prince. he was all daven wanted, all daven needed. every means to his end. iskander returned that sentiment tenfold, pulling at his hair, refusing to let go. 

their passion did not burn, it razed through them like a forest fire, brightly and unstoppably. at the other’s tease of both words and hips, daven lowered him onto the edge of the stony bath, burying his lips in the sweet flesh of the other’s neck. he bit down, suckled, kissed the skin, all before he dragged his mouth downwards to a nipple perked by heat. lips opened hotly over it, before closing together to feast. it was nearly a minute of this: mouth over flesh, suckling, ravishing. 

then he descended further. his lips followed the trail marked by dark hairs, straying from the path only a second to kiss the scar on iskander’s abdomen, before they reached lower. arms pried the other’s thighs apart, between which daven inserted himself. eyes brushing against iskander’s own gaze, daven smirked. “gonna’ make you feel better than what a nobleman can do to you,” he muttered against the other’s skin, kissed it to brand and mark. all of this porcelain skin and beautiful muscles? his. 

“mine,” daven nodded in but a daze, all before leaning down to the cleft between the other’s shapely ass. he greeted the ring of muscle there with fervor, with lip and tongue, jaw slackening as he teased the puckered entrance. then he licked, probed, pushed through in a rhythmic motion guided by his tongue and supported by his lips, making a damn performance out of it and letting iskander feel every lap of the bear tongue. 

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander barely had a moment to react before he was hauled into the bath, pulled into Daven’s gravity like a star swallowed whole. The water surged around them, sloshing over the edge in reckless waves, but Iskander hardly noticed - not when Daven's hands were on him, firm and unyielding, dragging him closer, gripping his thighs in the clenching vice of those bear-like hands.

A sharp inhale hitched in his throat as he was lifted, thighs spreading instinctively around Daven’s waist, forced to brace against the broad, unshakable strength of him. The heat of their bodies pressed flush, slick with water and want, chest to chest, pulse against pulse. The aching hardness of Daven’s cock dragged against his - pressed to his stomach - rippling molten pleasure through his spine, a shudder escaping him before he could swallow it down.

Daven kissed him as Iskander had become accustomed, how he wanted. Bruising, breath-stealing, all hunger and greed. Iskander met it with equal fervor, fingers threading into damp, tangled hair, anchoring himself even as he felt himself unravel. He could taste how much Daven wanted him, could feel it burning through , the sharp edge of longing tempered by years of restraint now broken open like a dam, spilling into every touch, every growled breath between them. More teeth than tongue, lips crashing against lips, drinking and consuming. All want. All hope. It could be this, Iskander thought, Wylla let it always be this.

Iskander’s lips parted on a breathless exhale, a sharp, wicked smirk curling the edges of his mouth as he pressed in closer, rolling his hips just enough to tease. "Then what are you waiting for?" he teased without caution or reprise. "The sun isn’t going to wait for us."

he melted under all the attention. how could he not? daven had waited years, if not more, to even make the first move, fearing reprimand and misreading signals. the last few weeks had been a dice's turn of events: wild, unpredictable, and oh so chaotic. and although he put his best efforts into keeping up, iskander proved to be a whirlwind that whisked him away wherever he went. 

now his hand was sliding up and down the engorged cock, breaths coming low and ragged as he worked at his erection, hardening every passing second from the other’s ministrations. daven’s head fell back, throat bared, shivering where the other’s lips skimmed his skin. i’ll take care of you. he met the words with a near animalistic grunt. 

it was through a thin haze that daven turned to look at the other, eyes half-lidded in desire and lust. but both irises soon sharpened and turned yellow at the silvers of flesh being teased, shown through fabric like the contents of a gift seen through ribbons. his gaze slowly crept up his prince’s body, not hurried, not cursory, but rather indulgent, drinking in the details he would have otherwise not been privy to. 

torchlight pooled across his collarbone, flickered over the dusky pink of his nipples, danced along the carved lines of his torso.

then that damned scar. his heart still smarted at the sight, but the desire already clouding his head was stronger, thicker. daven thought of someone else — like a sleazy nobleman or an insolent prince — being teased like this, being shown the statuesque body before him, and felt his envy flare. 

wordlessly, he rose from the bath, water sluicing down his skin, and caught iskander’s wrist, pulling him into the warmth with him. daven’s breath hitched as he took in the other’s face up close. then, in one swift motion, he lifted him, strong hands hooking under his thighs, hoisting him up against his chest. body to body, cock against torso. lips crashing, bruising, as daven kissed him: hungry, greedy, like something starved.

between ragged breaths, he muttered, “‘m gonna fuck you until the sun comes up again. alright?” 

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander hummed low in his throat, letting his touch linger as he kneaded the tension from Daven’s muscles. His fingers pressed deep into the hard ridges of his shoulders, the heat of the water loosening tightness as he worked slow, deliberate circles while the other was led across Daven's considerable chest. Strong, responsive, chorded skin and mouthwatering desire.

"You’re so wound up," he watched as the witcher reached below the water, saw the less-than-subtle bob of the other poking from below. His hand abandoned Daven's shoulder entirely to join the other and move lower, palms smoothing over the solid curve of Daven’s chest, thumbs pressing into the firm muscle of his pectorals, dragging down with aching patience. His lips found the line of Daven's jaw, pressing in as Daven craned backward. "I'll take care of you."

He lingered, fully clothed despite the obvious threat in the bear's voice, teasing and relishing in it before Iskander acquiesced and pulled pack - straightening to stand at full height. Deliberate movements brought the Bergian in Daven's clear line of view, willing prey as fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, slow and practiced, slips of fabric revealing warmed skin - pinkening from the chamber's steam.

He watched Daven as he worked, unhurried, hazel eyes tracing the lines of the witcher's subtle strokes below the water. Iskander's own desire filled, pressed, waited. Torchlight revealed ridges of Iskander's collarbone, another slip of fabric left him standing bare-chested with the lean definition of his abdomen - and the scars it now carried - on full display.

His fingers moved next to the fastenings of his trousers, undoing them with a practiced ease, peeling the fabric away inch by inch. He stepped out of them, bare now, unashamed, erection finding his palm as the prince raised a brow - prey once more staring down the waiting, impatient bear.

"Better?"

the softness of the other’s hands proved to be quite exceptional, especially when undoing the knots of muscles that daven had plenty of. the witcher’s breath escaped in a contented sigh, mingling with the rising steam of the bath, as he leaned back against that capable touch in twists and ripples of muscles. daven could never not pursue more if it came from iskander. his hunger towards the prince was deepened by the years, then turned boundless through recent events. he wanted the other with a devout greed that he could not pray away.

“very, very devious,” daven murmured, voice originating from the depths of the throat in a deep timbre. low and intimate, like what the atmosphere was now thickened by. something else was thickening for daven as well, the hint of a head poking out shallowly from the surface of the water.

in the space meant only for them, a luxury daven once thought was impossible, he rasped, “stop putting words in my mouth. instead, you should be putting your mouth on it.” he tilted his head back a little, jaw strong and clenched … all until his mouth fell open in another sigh as a hand ran down his broad chest. daven’s one hand guided the other’s down his large, powerfully sculpted pectoral, while his other hand lowered itself to grasp his cock under water.

“you better be undressing now. got three more seconds before i pull you in here with me.” a chuckle accompanied the words.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander’s breath came in ragged, shallow pulls, his chest rising and falling as he blinked up at Alfynn through a haze of heat and satisfaction. His lips were wet, swollen, his jaw ached, and his throat - wyla help him - his throat burned in a way that made his fingers twitch.

Iskander swallowed thickly, feeling the raw stretch of his throat as he did before he licked his lips, tasting the remnants of his own ruin on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, body still trembling in the aftershocks of pleasure, before tilting his head in something almost like amusement. His voice was hoarse, predictably, but there was laughter beneath the rasp - breathy, indulgent. "Like I want to do that again."

His fingers, still splayed over Alfynn’s thigh, flexed slightly, nails dragging against the skin before settling. He let his gaze flick over Alfynn’s face, taking in the cautious scrutiny there, the way his hands still hovered like he expected Iskander to crumble beneath him. It was sweet and unnecessary - but still sweet. Another reminder.

Iskander smirked, pushing up onto his elbows with a languid stretch, as if his own limbs weren’t still trembling slightly. His pulse was high but steady, his lips a little tinged, but not nearly enough to worry over. He was fine. Better than fine. His body was still thrumming with the ghost of it. "You worry too much," he murmured, reaching for Alfynn’s wrist and pressing two fingers against the inside of his own throat, guiding his hand to feel the steady beat beneath his skin.

"See? Alive. Well. Thrilled." He let his gaze half-lid, considerate, then he peeled off his jacket, the silk and stepped out of his trousers. Bare, raw, exposed, he leaned forward and caught Alfynn's lips again with his own - tongue rolling against tongue, breath mingling with breath. The escape was easy, good, earnest - pleasurable. It wasn't the same - could never be the same - but Iskander was enjoying the act of pretending.

feeling iskander's breath flapping, and failing, around himself still-buried, was impossible to describe. some unknown, untouched part of himself seemed to perk up, but alfynn shut the door so hard on that aspect that he jolted to awareness. terrifyingly sobered, even while smearing in the just-creamed throat he was fucking. iskander pushed, and strained, and tried to groan, but alfynn was likely too thick and lodged there to let the air release anything other than a buzz.

once iskander's apparent climax started to close, alfynn tried to -- carefully -- help lift his throat, and then his face, off of him. checking his pulse, his eyes, the color of lips, every and any indicator of health, for losing access to air for that long.

that some long-slumbering thing within him began to uncoil, at feeling a man lose his breath around him? alfynn was still trying to stuff that back into as many mental boxes as he could get his hands on.

"how do you.... feel?" cautiously, as he continued his examination, before declaring that he can't tell if anything was wrong with iskander. aside from the fact that choking on him apparently made him cum. which made alfynn shudder, a little.

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander was amused by the way Daven so effortlessly melted beneath his hands despite the teasing bite of his words. "Because I had the good sense to dismiss them," he replied smoothly, fingers gliding below the water as he leaned in so they could smooth down the ridge of Daven’s spine before pressing into the firm muscles of his lower back. "A private retreat loses its appeal when you have to share it with nosy attendants. Besides - "

He let his touch linger, kneading a particularly stubborn knot before dragging his nails lightly up the witcher’s back. " - I don't know if you've noticed... but I quite like having you all to myself."

His hands slid up, palms warm against Daven’s damp skin, before settling at his shoulders again. He let his thumbs press into the space between bone and muscle, deliberately slow, indulgent. "Are you saying you miss being waited on?" Iskander asked, tilting his head. "I could always have someone brought in to scrub your back instead, if I'm insufficient." His hands slid forward again, kneading at the other's chest, voice low, he prompted the other. "Lean back. I can take care of you."

daven’s senses were first awash with warmth only. he let out a slow, indulgent breath at the heat that enveloped his form the further he waded into the springs, balming worn muscles and melting hidden aches. the underground springs at hornwood were known to feed the god trees themselves, divine enough for the growth of such beauties. wylla be damned, he believed it.  

as the witcher leaned back, however, his skin prickled. someone’s here. he took a glance over his shoulder, grinned something low at seeing iskander. it made him feel important in ways indescribable and a little embarrassing, to garner a prince’s attention. so when daven leaned back to rest his arms along the rim of the bath, showcasing the expanse of battle-hardened muscles on his back?

yeah, perhaps he was flexing a bit. 

daven hung his head once he felt the other’s touch, kneading the taut knots in the shoulders loose. “and for pushing our wagon out of the mud while you sat inside,” he scoffed playfully, grinning. the muscles rippled underneath iskander’s hands, a play of tendons and flesh. he let his head lull backwards to meet the other’s gaze upside down. “is there a reason i see no servants in the keep?”

[iskanderpryor]

Iskander just watched. Daven was either too caught up in getting in the bath or playfully ignoring his witcher senses at Iskander's approach, but the prince had gotten his second favourite vantage points for Daven's undress (the back, with the first being the front). He had spent the better part of the journey instructing Daven - push harder, to the left, mind the wheel, don’t let it slip - while keeping himself well clear of the mud and toil, safely parked in the passenger seat of the padded cart. Wrapped neatly in furs and blankets. Now, as he watched his witcher discard the armor he'd worn - piece by piece - the Bergian prince did nothing to subvert his gaze.

His gaze trailed over each new inch of exposed skin, taking in the lithe stretch of muscle, the marks of old battles, the ridges of his spine. Iskander had always appreciated beautiful things, and Daven, whether he knew it or not, was his favourite.

Daven stepped into the water, and Iskander continued to observe until that backside regretfully disappeared into the currents of warm air. Steam curled between them, rising around him like breath from some great beast. So, at last, and with the same easy confidence he carried in all things, Iskander moved forward.

The moisture on the stones padded the bottoms of his boots as he approached and then knelt by the edge behind Daven. Iskander dipped his hands into the warmth before trailing them across Daven’s back. Slow, deliberate, unhurried. His fingers pressed firmly along the taut muscles of his shoulders, kneading where he knew the strain of travel had settled. "Wow... you are just filthy." Iskander chastised, fingers digging in a bit more before a hand gathered some of the water in his palm and draped it across Daven's shoulders, returning to their knead as he massaged the other's tense frame. "Thank you for getting us here," he added, "let me take care of you."

* for 🡪 @iskanderpryor * location 🡪 near hornwood keep, bergia

serenity at hornwood was held in place by the patterns of frost on the cottage windows, unbroken. the world existed solely at a standstill here, frozen in ice, less quiet and more absent of sound.

daven found it all extremely delightful. memories of his own days spent atop treacherous mountain peaks returned, bringing with it a dull edge of panic, but there were lighter memories of childhood days spent in hornwood keep, days amongst the snow and nights by the fire. he remembered the cottage that they were now hosting him and iskander in – once, it had been full of pryor children and other nobles, cluttered all over, but now the keys had been handed over only to iskander.

a getaway, rhiannon called it. a small gift as a way for the prince to restore himself after the ordeals that had taken place a few weeks ago. an empty cottage with only the two of them. a brief moment of stolen paradise. daven wanted to enjoy it, but only after he had done some proper ablutions. the road to hornwood had been hard, the terrain offering little kindness to its travelers, and his body was covered in literal muck from having to push their wagon out of snow-thickened mud numerous times.

he now ran his fingers through the warm, thermal waters in the cottage’s impressively spacious underground bath chamber, all smoothed stone and alabaster accents. it was connected to hot springs nearby, evident from how the water let out dragon-plumes of steam in the low magical lantern light.

wordlessly, the witcher shed himself free of his armor first, letting it fall to the ground with a loud thud. then came the leather jerkins, the leather straps, the hide trousers, all before he was completed bare. unburdened. he wasted no time in stepping into the springs, eager to clean himself quickly and get back to helping iskander settle in.

[iskanderpryor]

END

A miniscule, nearly imperceptible breath hitched as Daven affirmed what Iskander had been wanting to hear for years. It had been there for as long as Iskander could remember, lurking beneath the surface. It felt - for all the Bergian's skill with words - indescribable. To be done searching, hoping, yearning. Maybe it was the healing that kept him weak to the tender tides of change, but were it not for the dull and constant pain resonating from his abdomen, Iskander might have thought this was a dream.

Years wading through courtly affections, witticisms polished sharp, devotion bartered like coin. Daven came to him unvarnished, without pretense, and freely given.

He did not answer at first. Instead, his fingers mapped the planes of Daven’s back, slow, deliberate, memorizing the warmth, the slight tremor in his breath, the way his body curled unconsciously toward Iskander’s own. Daven had never lied to him - not in the maze, not in the throes of pleasure, not here in the hush of the dimly lit chamber. And yet, the part of Iskander that knew the world, that had seen how fate dealt its hands with cruel indifference, curled its claws into his mind, whispered: And how long will that last?

There were a thousand things that could change, or go wrong. Some Lord could make an offer that the Bergians couldn't refuse - and as they'd learned tonight, there were worse and more uncertain things in life than lords and marriage.

But he ignored it. He had no use for reality when it was at odds with what he wanted. "You are mine, then," he said simply, as if it were fact, as if it had always been. His thumb brushed over Daven’s lower lip, a touch too soft for the claim he had just laid. "And I - " He exhaled, eyes flickering, lashes low. The words were poised on the precipice, treasonous as his dreams. But what was one more crime to a man who had already surrendered? "And I love you, Daven." A question came in the quiet between them, as Iskander's long lashes drifted hazily - framing the warmth of dreamy eyes. "I don't want to have to marry anyone else," Iskander told Daven that he'd hate whoever he ended up with, that still felt true.

[iskanderpryor]

A miniscule, nearly imperceptible breath hitched as Daven affirmed what Iskander had been wanting to hear for years. It had been there for as long as Iskander could remember, lurking beneath the surface. It felt - for all the Bergian's skill with words - indescribable. To be done searching, hoping, yearning. Maybe it was the healing that kept him weak to the tender tides of change, but were it not for the dull and constant pain resonating from his abdomen, Iskander might have thought this was a dream.

Years wading through courtly affections, witticisms polished sharp, devotion bartered like coin. Daven came to him unvarnished, without pretense, and freely given.

He did not answer at first. Instead, his fingers mapped the planes of Daven’s back, slow, deliberate, memorizing the warmth, the slight tremor in his breath, the way his body curled unconsciously toward Iskander’s own. Daven had never lied to him - not in the maze, not in the throes of pleasure, not here in the hush of the dimly lit chamber. And yet, the part of Iskander that knew the world, that had seen how fate dealt its hands with cruel indifference, curled its claws into his mind, whispered: And how long will that last?

There were a thousand things that could change, or go wrong. Some Lord could make an offer that the Bergians couldn't refuse - and as they'd learned tonight, there were worse and more uncertain things in life than lords and marriage.

But he ignored it. He had no use for reality when it was at odds with what he wanted. "You are mine, then," he said simply, as if it were fact, as if it had always been. His thumb brushed over Daven’s lower lip, a touch too soft for the claim he had just laid. "And I - " He exhaled, eyes flickering, lashes low. The words were poised on the precipice, treasonous as his dreams. But what was one more crime to a man who had already surrendered? "And I love you, Daven." A question came in the quiet between them, as Iskander's long lashes drifted hazily - framing the warmth of dreamy eyes. "I don't want to have to marry anyone else," Iskander told Daven that he'd hate whoever he ended up with, that still felt true.

his fingers smoothed down the hair at the back of iskander’s head, relishing their silky feel against the callouses on his palm. every part of iskander was as soft, lined by velvet and stitched with tulle. a life with daven? it would inevitably roughen up all of that, steal away all the comforts the prince had once known. a life with daven? it was more danger, more peril, more hurt. 

but again, if a noble had been accompanying iskander in the maze, they would have likely fled at the first sign of an assassin. daven swallowed his despair, his guilt, all the way down like bile that had risen in his throat. he rooted himself to the present, to the warmth of skin against skin, shuffling closer towards the other’s body. the weariness from the last twentieth hours caught up quickly, holding him captive as his eyes sagged a little, soothed by iskander’s warmth, scent, and feel. 

when daven spoke next, the words were slurred a little by exhaustion. “do i even have a choice to not accompany you?” he chuckled lowly, prickling with gooseflesh as fingers trailed down his spine. his head ducked low, buried itself in the matted brown curls of the other so that the following words came out muffled, “i know.”

a pause. then, “i meant it, too. every single word.” through their interlaced fingers, he gave a squeeze. again he said it, low yet true, a secret of a secret, “i love you, iskander pryor.” the witcher’s golden eyes fluttered open to half lids, head pulled back an inch to look at the prince’s face. with reverence.

“i will guard you till the end of my days.”