Liege

A Romance Between Sir Jannik Sinner & His Highness Don Carlos Alcaraz Garfia, Prince of Murcia, Heir to the Crown of Spain

Chapter Fourteen: Los esponsales

The wool of the rug was supple against Jannik's palms. He felt the weave of it against his knees, the slight scratch where it had been worn by years of soles. He settled his hands flat, slightly wider than his shoulders, and bowed his head.

Above him, Carlos made a sound. Barely a breath. It might have been Jannik's name.

Jannik stayed where he was. He did not look up. He had put himself there and he would wait.

Carlos did not move. Jannik could hear his own breathing, the faint crackle of the candle on the chest, the distant sound of the fountain in the courtyard below.

Then Carlos moved. The wool rustled as he shifted his weight. And then the boots appeared in Jannik's field of vision. Good leather, dark and scuffed at the toes, the mud from the cell still drying in the cracks of the heels.

Carlos stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that Jannik could smell him -- the rosemary and salt of the capons from dinner, the mildew of the cells. He had not had occasion to bathe tonight, and the whiff of his sweat made something clench in Jannik's stomach.

Carlos' hand came to rest on the top of his head. The weight of it was light, almost tentative.

"Look at me."

Jannik lifted his face.

Carlos looked down at him. The candlelight was behind him, casting his face in shadow, but Jannik could see the gleam of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips. He looked the way he had looked on the Feast of Santiago, when he had winked at Jannik across the heads of the court -- pleased, and hungry, and sure.

But there was something else underneath it. Something like wonder.

"You are beautiful," Carlos said.

Jannik's throat tightened.

Carlos' hand slid from the top of Jannik's head down the back of his skull, cupping the nape of his neck. The thumb traced where his hair met his skin.

"I have dreamed of this," Carlos said. He leaned in and whispered in Jannik's ear, "Do you know that? I have dreamed of you on your knees in front of me, and I have woken hard and wanting."

Jannik's eyes burned. He blinked. The candlelight blurred at the edges.

"Carlos." His voice was hoarse. "Please."

Carlos stepped back. His hands went to the buckle of his belt, which gave a quiet clink. He went slow, each loop releasing with a soft drag of leather. He dropped it on the rug next to Jannik's hand.

Then Carlos reached for the buttons of his doublet. He undid them one by one. From the top. The small, round buttons of polished horn, dark against the silk. Each one came free with a small twist of his fingers.

He did not hurry.

He let Jannik watch.

The doublet fell open. Carlos shrugged it off and let it drop to the floor next to the belt. The shirt followed, and then he was bare from the waist up, skin gold in the candlelight.

Jannik looked at him. The broad shoulders. The dark line of hair below his navel. The pale scar at his ribs.

Jannik shuddered despite the heat of the room.

Carlos braced one hand on Jannik's shoulder and worked off each boot. They hit the floor with the clothes.

He stood in his hose, and then he undid the laces and let them fall.

He was naked. He was hard. He did not hide it.

Jannik looked at the length of him, the curve of it. He had taken this into his mouth. He licked his lips at the memory. Carlos saw the flick of his tongue.

"Do you want to taste me?" Carlos asked.

"Yes."

"Not yet." He stepped closer. His knees brushed Jannik's shoulders. "Crawl to the bed. Then lean up against it."

Jannik crawled forward, the wool of the rug rubbing against his knees, making his skin tender. He felt like a downed buck crawling to its death.

A prickle of sweat started along his spine.

Finally he met the wooden frame of the bed. He set his palms flat on the mattress. The position bowed his back, bared the whole length of him from the nape of his neck to the backs of his knees.

The air of the room found the places where he was most vulnerable -- the insides of his thighs, the curve of his spine, the place where his body opened to receive.

Carlos moved behind him. Then, a hand. Just a touch. Right on Jannik's right buttock.

"You are warm," Carlos observed.

"Mm."

"But I think I can make you warmer."

Jannik closed his eyes.

The hand lifted. Jannik heard the whistle of it moving through the air. And then --

The blow landed flat and hot, the sound of it sharp and wet in the quiet room. Jannik's whole body seized. The pain bloomed outward from the point of impact, spreading like a spark from the brazier.

For a moment, Jannik's vision went hazy. Then, Carlos' voice, loud and sure:

"Count."

Jannik gasped out, "One."

The second landed on the same place. The sting was sharper this time, a stoked flame spreading faster.

"Two."

The third landed on his left cheek next.

Jannik bit his lip.

"Three."

The fourth came right after.

Jannik's sound was more out of surprise -- he had not been expecting it so soon.

"Four," he grunted.

Carlos paused. His hand came to rest on the heated skin, soothing.

"You can be louder than that. The household sleeps. The princess is in her rooms at the other end of the colonnade. She cannot hear you. No one can hear you but me."

Jannik turned his head to look at Carlos.

The prince looked ready to deliver the killing blow.

Jannik whimpered.

The fifth slap fell. Jannik let the count vibrate from his chest. The sixth landed just below it, and he made the sound again, letting it rise.

The next, a bolder moan.

"Seven," he said.

"Good."

The seventh had been the hardest of the set thus far. Jannik's hands tightened on the blanket. 

Then, the eighth harder still. He cried out at the pain of it.

"Sire," he gasped. "Ah, please."

"Please what?"

Jannik closed his eyes. "More," he whispered.

"You will look at me. I have not known you to be a coward." It was the same voice Carlos had used on the corregidor.

Jannik opened his eyes and swallowed the sudden flood of spit in his mouth.

"More, Carlos," he commanded. "Hard. Make it hurt."

Carlos gave it to him.

Nine. Jannik's eyes began to sting.

Ten. Here, his voice cracked open.

Carlos stopped.

Jannik hung his head. His breathing was labored. His backside burned.

He could feel every distinct place a slap had landed. His skin was damp.

Carlos was breathing heavily behind him. Jannik felt a sudden, violent need to hear those same pants of exertion from --

"Inside," he groaned. "I need you inside of me, Carlos. Hurry."

Carlos inhaled sharply.

"You're killing me, Sinner."

Jannik smiled. “Death, then? Inside me.” 

Carlos laughed. He went to the chest.

Jannik stayed where he was, palms flat on the blanket, his skin singing where the blows had landed. He heard the lid lift. He heard a stopper come free.

Jannik turned to look. In the prince’s hands -- not sword oil. A small vial from the botica, almond, the smell warm and strong from living near the candle.

"You keep oil," Jannik said.

"I keep many things." The sound of it being poured. "Since the chair, Sinner. I told you."

Jannik shut his eyes. The picture arrived anyway -- the prince alone in this bed, patient with himself, Jannik's name held between his teeth so the corridor would not learn it.

Then Carlos' hand was on him, slick and warm, and reality replaced all pictures.

"Slowly," Carlos said. “I have been aching for this and will not be hurried.” 

The first finger pressed in.

Jannik had spent his whole life teaching the body to close -- around a hilt, around an order, around its own wanting. It was a new thing to learn. 

The fullness was strange and foreign. He tightened out of habit. 

"Breathe," Carlos said.

He breathed. Carlos’ finger moved, patient and deliberate. 

"More,” Jannik ordered.

"Not yet. You are not ready.” 

"I am.” 

"You are eager." Carlos’ voice was warm. "They are not the same thing, cucciolo."

The word in the prince's mouth did to him what it always did. Jannik pressed his mouth against his forearm to stop the noise that threatened to escape. 

“Let me hear it,” Carlos coaxed. “Jannik, your restraint does you no good here.” 

He pushed in a second finger, and the burn of it drove the sound out of Jannik. 

“Sire,” he moaned. “Carlos.” 

“Good,” Carlos huffed out. “Keep breathing. I have you.” 

Jannik gave himself to the prince. It was its own discipline. 

It was a familiar act, to surrender to Carlos. 

Not once did he think to yield. 

Then Carlos crooked his fingers, and somewhere in Jannik, a bright, high tone sounded. 

The tolling of the bell at vespers. Sung by the whole town. Sacred. 

It went through the length of him -- spine, belly, the backs of his knees -- and his hips jerked against the bedframe and a noise came out of him that he had never made in his life.

"There," Carlos said, reverent. "My love.” 

"Carlos. Carlos.” 

"Again?"

He did it again. Jannik moaned into the bed.

"Not into the linen." A third press, slower, crueler. "To me."

Jannik turned his face and gave it to him, loud and unguarded, and heard the prince's breathing come apart behind him.

"Carlos. I need --"

"Tell me."

"You. Inside. Now. I have desired since -- since the cells --"

The fingers withdrew. Jannik made a sound of protest he would deny until death.

"On the bed," Carlos said. "On your back. I want to look at you as you come undone.” 

Jannik climbed up. His knees trembled. The blanket stung against the marks Carlos had put on him. 

He lay back and slowly, shyly, as if he were some maiden, parted his knees. 

Carlos stood at the edge of the bed and oiled himself with an unsteady hand, and looked.

Jannik was flushed to the sternum, the freckles drowned in color. His eyes brown-green-black and the cool-blue-grey of South Tyrol despite everything.

Carlos thought of his father's letter. A wife was not given to a king. She was chosen by him, even when she has been sent. 

His father had meant it for the princess.

But Carlos had chosen Jannik. 

And Jannik, at ten years old, had chosen Carlos. 

Was choosing him now. 

Every second of this was their receiving of each other. 

Carlos knelt up over him. 

He guided his cock to Jannik’s mouth.

“Taste,” he ordered.

Jannik did, and the almond oil was sweet and bitter all at once.

After letting him lick once, twice, Carlos pulled away. Then, Carlos mounted Jannik and spread his legs apart.

He pushed in.

Slow. Slower than his body howled for. He watched Jannik's face take it -- the resistance, the give, the astonishment -- and felt his own arms begin to tremble.

"You feel -- Jannik. I cannot --"

"Breathe," Jannik said.

The laugh broke out of him, helpless. "You are a quick learner.” 

Jannik nodded. “Master Cahill has always said so.” 

“For God’s sake, do not say his name now.” 

Jannik frowned. “Then do not evoke God.”

Carlos gave a sly smile. “Where else would I but here, in heaven?” 

Jannik laughed, and the loosening of his body at the breath allowed for Carlos to push in more. Jannik groaned at the relentless fullness.

Carlos breathed. He pressed on by degrees, a half-inch given and a half-inch taken back, until Jannik understood that the prince would take the whole night if needed.

"More,” he said through gritted teeth.

"There is no hurry."

"Carlos --"

"Seven years," Carlos said, sinking, watching him, "I have waited. You will too.” 

Jannik made a noise that was almost a whine. He bit his lip and felt the red creep across his cheeks. 

“Yes.” Carlos had that haughty expression reserved for council meetings. “Beg for it, Sinner.” 

He shifted his weight. The head pressed forward, just barely -- the slightest breach, the first give of muscle around the crown. Jannik's breath snagged.

"Tell me," Carlos said. "Do you want more?”

"Yes."

"Then ask."

The words stuck in Jannik's throat. But Carlos was waiting, patient, the pressure of him steady. Neither advancing nor retreating. Laying siege. 

"Please," Jannik said. "More. I want more of you inside me."

Carlos pushed in. An inch. Maybe less. The stretch of it was sharp and good, Jannik’s body becoming more and more familiar with giving way. 

Carlos stopped again.

"More?" Carlos asked.

"Yes."

"Ask."

"Please, Carlos. I want to feel you deeper."

Carlos gave him another inch. The fullness was building through Jannik's body, torturous and slow. He could feel every increment of Carlos' length, each advance a discovery of his own capacity.

"Again," Carlos said.

Jannik's voice was rough. "I want all of you. I want to be filled."

Carlos’ face twitched. Jannik was not the only one being undone. 

Carlos pushed in another inch or two. Then stopped. The stretch was considerable now -- Jannik could feel the pressure spreading, the ache of being opened.

"Tell me what you are thinking,” Carlos said.

Jannik looked at him and sighed. “I am not thinking much of anything. Only that you are…sizeable.” 

Carlos threw his head back and laughed. He reached down and gave Jannik’s member a light squeeze. 

“It is not only I.” He pushed in some more and said, voice strained, “Hm. Halfway there now.” 

Jannik blinked, eyes wet. “You will kill me.” 

“Death then? While I am inside you?”

They smiled at one another. 

Another half-inch. Jannik's body was opening around Carlos, the resistance softening. His mouth dropped open.

"Why do you insist that I beg?" he asked. “Are there no limits to your cruelty?”

“I need --” Carlos looked up at the ceiling. His chest was damp, Jannik noticed. Good. 

“I need to know you want this. That you despair for me as much as I do for you.” 

Jannik nearly laughed, but the anguish in Carlos’ face was that of the boy weeping over a dog bleeding to its death. 

“I would die for you,” Jannik said softly. He brought a hand up and placed it on Carlos’ beating heart. It thudded against his palm, and Jannik counted. One. Two. Three. 

“I would die for this,” he said. He slid his hand down to Carlos’ ribs. To his belly. Pressed against the softness there. “I just did not know. That once you fed me the fig, I would not be able to go without the taste.” 

Carlos groaned, then pushed in all the way. 

Jannik swore. It might have been Italian. Or German. He was too lost to understand himself. For a moment, they both held their breath. 

“¡Válgame Dios!” Carlos muttered. Jannik did not have it in him to scold the blasphemy. In fact, he might have said something similar just before.

Carlos' hand came up and settled on Jannik's throat. Not pressing. Just resting, the heel of it in the hollow above his collarbone, the fingers spread along the muscle of his neck.

"Do you remember," Carlos said, his voice low, "what we agreed. If you want to stop?”

Jannik's throat moved under his palm.

"Yes, Carlos."

"Tell me."

“I say that I yield.” 

“Good. If you cannot speak, knock twice. On my arm. Jannik, tell me.” 

“If I cannot speak I will knock twice on your arm. You are ridiculous.” 

Carlos' thumb traced the line of his jaw. “Yes. I find myself so. For you.” 

Jannik did not want that. A prince should maintain decorum. The passion for a lover was for ordinary people. 

But the opened part of  Jannik wanted nothing more. 

“No, Carlos,” he said. “You cannot lose your head over this. Over me.” 

“Too late,” Carlos said. “I yielded a long time ago.” 

He shifted, ever so slightly. Jannik shut his eyes. He could feel the weight of Carlos’ body pressed against his, the heat of him everywhere. The shape of Carlos' hipbones against his thighs, the sweat of their bodies sticking together, the slight tremor in Carlos' arms where he held himself suspended.

Seconds became minutes. The candle on the chest burned a finger's width lower.

Jannik's body began to ache for motion. Not the sharp ache of strain -- the deeper ache of wanting something that was being withheld. His hips twitched, an involuntary search for friction.

Carlos' hand on his throat tightened just enough to still him.

"Ask for it, Sir Sinner.” 

Jannik forced his body still. He breathed out and felt the hours of a long watch. 

“Your Highness. Fuck me.” 

Carlos’ eyes went the way they do during a lively hunt, when a big mark streaked through the brush. 

He began in earnest. Gentle at first, pulling out the whole length of him, then all the way back in again. Back and forth like this, barely squeezing Jannik’s throat, giving quiet grunts while Jannik let out little Ah, ah, ahs as he did so. 

And then -- there was the place again, the one he had found earlier with his fingers, the one that made Jannik’s whole body sing. Jannik’s whole body tensed and he cried out, “Carlos!” 

He clutched at Carlos’ arms and shuddered in pleasure. 

“There,” he gasped. “There, again. Please.”

“I will give it to you, love.” Carlos was thrusting faster now, breathing hard, as Jannik wished earlier. “Ah, Jannik. You feel so good. My knight. Cariño.”

“Yes,” Jannik cried out. “My prince. Carlos. More. Do not stop.” 

He wrapped his hand around Carlos’ wrist and pressed. His life in Carlos’ hands.

Carlos' hand on his throat tightened. Just a fraction. The pressure narrowed Jannik's vision and sharpened every sensation.

He set a rhythm. Deep drags, flesh against flesh, scent of almond and sweat and the wine in Carlos’ breath. 

Jannik began to grow lightheaded, a floating sensation trickling from his toes and fingertips through his limbs.

An unfamiliar tightness was building in his stomach, his spine. He felt the nearness of release, but unlike the previous times, Jannik felt a fearsome loss of control.

“That’s it, my darling,” Carlos said. “You are going to come for me. Just on my cock alone.”

Jannik was gasping for air now, through the small opening Carlos still left for him. 

"Carlos,” he wheezed. “Mei Gott, I am -- I am --” 

Carlos stayed inside of Jannik, grinding hard against that spot. His hand tightened on Jannik's throat -- a squeeze, brief and precise.

“Come,” he bade. 

Jannik did. 

The pulse of it ran through his whole body, and he felt Carlos feel it, felt the grip of him around Carlos trigger the same release in the man above him.

Carlos followed with a feral exclamation. He kissed Jannik as he spilled into him, his whole body going tight and then soft, his weight coming down against Jannik's chest. Their tongues were lazy, graceless, prolonging what their bodies did for a few more moments.

The candle had burned low. It was silent.

Carlos lifted his head.

"Jannik," he said.

Jannik's hand came up and touched his face.

"I am here."

Carlos withdrew from him, slow and careful, watching Jannik's face for any sign of pain. When he was out, he lay down beside him and put his hand flat on Jannik's chest, over the heart.

After a long moment, Carlos got up. He went to the washbasin and returned with a damp cloth. He cleaned Jannik. He cleaned the mess from Jannik's stomach, the sweat from his chest, the tender skin of his throat where the hand had been. 

He cleaned the place where he had thoroughly ruined Jannik and left his seed.

Jannik laid still and let him.

When Carlos was done, he poured a cup of water and held it to Jannik's lips. Jannik drank. The water was cool and clean.

Carlos set the cup aside. He blew out the candle. The room went dark.

He climbed into the bed and pulled the blanket up over both of them. He did not settle on Jannik's chest. He lay on his side, facing him, and found Jannik's hand under the blanket.

"Stay," he said.

It was not an order. It was a request, small and honest.

"I won’t leave your side.” 

Carlos' eyes searched his face in the dark.

Then he closed them. His grip on Jannik's hand loosened, but did not let go.

Jannik waited. He watched the slow rise and fall of Carlos' chest. He listened to the quiet of the palace, the distant fountain, the soft rhythm of the prince's breathing.

The marks on his body ached. The place where Carlos had been inside him felt empty and full at the same time.

He pressed his thumb to his neck. To the corner of his mouth.