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“What do you mean I’m not allowed outside the castle,” Inigo had said, aghast. “Am I supposed to just—just sit in your office?”
“Yes,” Xander said simply, and that was that.
It’s now the third day of Inigo’s house arrest—three days of pacing around the inside of Xander’s office, staring at the wallpaper, and going out of his mind with boredom. He scowls in Xander’s direction. His blonde head is bowed over the neat stacks of paperwork on his desk, and subsequently pays Inigo no mind. Inigo is annoyed enough to stick out his tongue or stamp his foot like a child. Yesterday he finished counting all the flowers in the wallpaper, and by his measure, that means that there is absolutely nothing to do.
Except. Inigo eyes Xander, whose gaze never wavers from his work. When Xander thought up this particular punishment, surely he didn’t think Inigo would sit silently in the corner all day, did he? After all they’ve been through together, Xander must know him better by now.
“Say, milord.” Inigo twirls and paces closer to the desk. He looks over the stacks of parchment. Columns of numbers, missives, charts. Xander works like the magical automaton a merchant brought to the castle last winter. “What are we working on today? Policy rewrites? Tax credits for the adoring masses?”
“I’m working currently,” Xander says, not even sparing him a glance. His quill pauses for a moment, then resumes. “If you’re going to do nothing but ask questions, please give me some quiet.”
Even politely phrased, the comment cuts Inigo through. He huffs in annoyance and flops down dramatically on the chaise-lounge. He’s seen Camilla do the exact same thing; maybe Xander had it put in his office specifically for dramatic flopping. In any case, Xander isn’t currently using it.
Somewhere in the distance, down in the castle town, music is playing. Inigo’s foot starts tapping to the beat despite himself. It’s cruel injustice. Xander won’t even give him polite conversation, and now he has to sit up here in this stuffy office while people are dancing. He lets out a truly impressive sigh.
Xander puts his quill down. “I understand you think you have better things to do, but while you’re being punished, please refrain from disturbing my work.”
His gaze would turn lesser men to stone. Luckily Inigo knows that Xander is a 60 year old librarian in the body of a strapping prince, and is not moved.
“Well I’ll go ahead and suffocate next time I have to cough, then.” He doesn’t try to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “What am I supposed to do, kneel silent on the floor?”
Inigo expects a withering glare or something similarly stuffy and dignified. What he doesn’t expect is a moment of tense silence, for Xander’s face to freeze with an unfathomable expression. It stretches on just to the point of being unbearable.
“Do what you will,” Xander says finally, and lowers his head back down to his work.
Inigo’s heart kicks up inexplicably. Is this a challenge? Inigo’s been around royalty for most of his life, and knows that behind all the pomp and circumstance they’re regular humans—well, sometimes dragons—and doesn’t kneel for anyone out of a respect for authority. But, what would happen if he knelt for Xander now? Would his expression finally crack—would he laugh, or scowl? For some reason, the thought turns his stomach in knots.
Well—maybe if he annoys Xander enough, he’ll decide sending Inigo away is better than continuing to punish him.
So Inigo, halfway embarrassed and halfway defiant, gets on his knees.
Xander doesn’t even look up.
The sound of his quill scratching back and forth across paper stretches in the air between them. Inigo tries to make some kind of snide remark, but the words die in his throat. Xander has never been cold to him. Guarded, exacting, longsuffering, yes—but never cold. Despite their differences in rank, and Inigo’s flippant attitude, he truly thought he and Xander had managed to build some kind of rapport. That he could be ignored like a common maidservant… it smarts more than it should.
He shifts around on his knees. There’s no way to get comfortable on the polished hardwood.
His squirming must have made some kind of sound, because Xander finally looks up. His gaze is inscrutable; his eyes are dark, fathomless pits. They stare at each other long enough that Inigo gets hot, then cold, shame squirming around in his gut.
Then Xander gets up from his chair. He walks over to the chaise-lounge, heels clicking neatly on the hardwood, and picks up a square cushion. Inigo doesn’t get a single glance as Xander returns to the desk. He drops the cushion on the floor next to his chair.
“If you’re going to do that, do it over here,” Xander says as he sits. Something in his voice is quieter, gentler, as if the atmosphere between them is made of cotton. He still doesn’t look at Inigo when he returns to his work.
Inigo doesn’t move for a long moment. Xander is studiously pretending not to look at him. He’s not sure how, but in between one moment and the next, his ploy for petty rebellion had been flipped completely on its head. Expecting annoyance or at least some other token of attention, kneeling had felt like its own little power play. But now he’s spinning on a different axis, unsure and hesitant.
Xander wants him to kneel by the desk. Doesn’t he? He moved the cushion. And while his voice was mild, Inigo recognizes the order that lies beneath. Inigo is good at following Xander’s orders. At least on the battlefield, he trusts Xander to lead them through deadly violence and out the other side safely. He trusts Xander. So why does this request make Inigo’s head spin?
Hesitantly, he gets up and moves to the desk. The cushion is close, but not close enough for them to touch when Inigo gets on his knees.
The action bleeds away some of the tension he was feeling. He lets out a long exhale, hanging his head down. The scratch of quill on paper is a nice enough sound; it’s even somewhat lulling now that Inigo is not so tense. He focuses on his breathing, eyes closed. Xander isn’t close enough to touch, but he can feel his presence just outside his senses—large and warm.
Inigo is good. He followed this order. This is something that Xander wanted. He doesn’t know why making Xander happy in this situation is so important to him. It just… feels important. Like something in their relationship was balanced on a knife’s edge before, and has tipped over into something new and unknown.
Inigo can’t let go of the thought. Usually it’s just annoying, having to carry out punishments. He doesn’t even feel guilty about whatever slip-up prompted this most recent imprisonment in Xander’s office. But the idea that he could—could be flighty and forward and rude, and then come back up to Xander’s office and purge all of it—that Xander could look at him the way he does when Inigo manages to get the upper hand with a sword, with his stony expression gentling, and say “that’s it,” or, “you’ve done well”—
It’s an innocuous enough thought, but Inigo is burning up.
It doesn’t help when Xander puts his hand on the back of Inigo’s neck. The touch fizzes through his body, warm and sparkling like sunshine. At once every hair on his body stands on end. He barely manages to keep in a gasp.
Xander’s hand is broad and warm, and Inigo can feel the roughened skin of his sword-wielding callouses. His grip is firm but not crushing. Inigo has seen Xander’s hand cup like this over the necks of hunting dogs ready to bolt. Inigo feels a little like those dogs. He sits there and shakes, filled with some kind of tension he hardly knows the name for, like he’ll fly to pieces if Xander moves.
He knelt to get some kind of hand over Xander. It’s like he’s tumbled head over ass instead, and his head won’t stop spinning. Kneeling with his head forced down, neck scruffed, his body pulses. Shame and indignation drive a prickling, spreading heat that feels more like arousal than he cares to admit.
What would Xander do if he looked down from his work and saw the state of Inigo’s trousers? The thought only shames him further. It washes through him in sick pulses, making his stomach swoop, driving heat out to his fingertips. He has to fight just to keep his breath even.
Why is this affecting him so much? He’s never felt any particular need to bow down to Xander, outside of the battlefield where his orders keep the both of them alive. They argued just last week about the purpose of nobility in larger society. The concept of bowing down to Xander like a servant to master would have made Inigo laugh to stitches just a few hours before. But now he can’t stop thinking about it.
Eventually his heart rate settles and his limbs stop trembling. The scratch of Xander’s quill across the paper is almost meditative. When Xander finally speaks Inigo feels like he’s emerging from a deep pool just to open his eyes.
“That’s enough,” Xander says. His voice has a strangely muffled quality, as if the atmosphere in the room is trying to keep him quiet. “You’re free to go get into more mischief, if you wish.”
Inigo stands on shaky legs and can’t bring himself to speak. There’s some sort of spell between them that would be broken if he said anything. They spend a long moment looking at each other before Inigo moves to leave.
“Laslow,” Xander says, voice low. Inigo stops in his track as if Xander’s voice was a steel trap around his legs. “You did well. At keeping quiet, I mean.”
Inigo feels the flush crawl all the way up from the depth of his abdomen. If he was any hotter he could light fires with just his face.
Xander clears his throat quietly. “Consider the term of your punishment ended. You’re free to go.”
Inigo leaves with a nod, still unable to speak.
He’s… disappointed.
He doesn’t know why he would want to be punished. It’s objectively terrible. And none of his other punishments has had the same effect on him as that one had. But all the same, he can’t stop thinking about it. Every time he flirts too conspicuously, or breaches some obtuse Nohrian rule of etiquette, he wonders. Will Xander make him kneel again? Would he make him kneel in front of the whole court, at his feet by the throne like a dog? Would he make him kneel—under that huge desk in Xander’s office, where Inigo would barely have room to run his hands up Xander’s thighs—
The first time he brings himself off to these fantasies, he’s so ashamed of himself that he thinks he might sink right through his bed frame and into the earth below. But it’s like tumbling off a runaway horse. He can’t stop himself.
Worst of all, he’s sure Xander notices. Every time Inigo doesn’t close his mouth in time to stop some awful comment, he can feel Xander’s eyes on him. Throughout it all, the more and more badly behaved Inigo becomes, the calmer Xander gets. He might as well be a statue.
And every time Inigo thinks, “surely, this time he’ll snap,” Xander just looks at him with his dark, fathomless eyes and says nothing.
Of course it’s a comment about the king that brings it all to an end. Inigo has been around his fair share of royals and aristocrats, and should think he knows corruption when he sees it. And Lucina never stood on formality—much less Chrom. His casual attitude around Xander was probably always going to be his downfall in the end. No matter how much they argue amicably about science and politics and literature, you can’t just insult the king to the man’s son.
The silence stretches sticky and awful between them. Inigo’s stomach sinks. He’s gone too far this time, he knows it. He knows it in the way Xander’s eyes widen before tightening, making the premature wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stand out. The moment of shock is buried quickly and expertly. All that’s left is a smooth blank wall.
Laslow.” Xander’s voice is deep and rasping. Inigo shivers. “Come here.”
Inigo obeys. How can he not? But why, why did he start this foolish game in the first place? He never wanted to seriously upset Xander; all he was doing was chasing his own selfish desires. He feels his own nastiness, selfishness, pettiness sitting leaden in the pit of his stomach. And, despite everything, he’s aroused, cock firming up with every step he takes under Xander’s implacable gaze.
“Stand here,” Xander says, voice still deceptively mild. He places his hands on Inigo’s waist and turns him so he’s facing away, with his back to Xander’s front. “Elbows on the desk.”
Inigo’s heart sputters, then kicks into a frenzy. He’s frozen for a moment, until Xander’s hand scruffs the back of his neck and pushes inexorably down.
Inigo smacks his elbows onto the desk with a gasp. Face down, back ramrod straight, he’s held in place by Xander’s hand on his neck. He’s hyperaware of how his ass stands out like this. Even clothed it’s a maddeningly vulnerable position, like Xander’s gaze is slipping below his skin. He’s hard as steel in his trousers. Like this he’s just far enough away from the desk that he has no friction, just the pulse of arousal making him dizzy.
“Stay,” Xander commands. When he lifts his hand, Inigo stays obligingly still.
Xander’s hands frame his waist. He digs his thumbs into the muscle as he drags his hands downward, until they’re bracketing his hips. If he didn’t know better, Inigo would say it was a lover’s touch. It’s slow, lingering, hot. It makes Inigo shiver.
Then Xander grabs Inigo’s waistband and pulls both his pants and trousers down to the crease of his thighs. Inigo gasps; the office air is slightly chilly against his bared skin. His face flames. He’s childishly embarrassed; he’s glad he doesn’t have to look Xander in the eye for this. Xander barely touches him, and somehow that’s worse. If Xander were touching him, he could pretend that this was something reciprocal—but the weight of Xander’s eyes makes him feel as though he’s being appraised and coming up short.
It’s a complete shock when Xander’s hand comes down on his ass. He doesn’t spare any force. The pain is sudden and overwhelming and takes over his whole brain for a singular moment—Inigo can’t help the cry that escapes him. He claps a hand over his mouth as if he could stuff the shameful sound back inside.
Before he has any time to collect himself, Xander’s other hand comes down. The pain is amplified even though the skin there was untouched; Inigo tries and fails to suppress a whimper. Barely two hits and his skin is already smarting something fierce. This can’t be the last of it, either. How much will he be made to endure?
It’s perverse, the way his heart kicks up at the thought. He acted shamefully; he deserves this treatment. More than that, he wants it—he wants it so much he can feel it in the back of his teeth. The stinging imprint of Xander’s hand is a crucible that will burn away his faults.
Xander gets a good handful of Inigo’s ass and massages, rubbing the pain in so it melts from sharp and stinging to something hot and deep . It rolls through Inigo’s body, all heady warmth. The pain tips over into pleasure, all the more intense for the contrast. He pulls his own hair and groans. He’s more aroused than he’s ever been in his life.
Xander’s hand comes down again and again. He layers new smacks, bright and stinging, against the rolling deeper pain, until Inigo’s thighs are trembling so hard he has to let the desk take his weight. Xander always pauses politely between smacks for Inigo to sob and work his hips against nothing.
He wants to come. But reaching his hand down to get a grip on his cock feels forbidden, so he continues to suffer. His ass hurts . Every part of him is throbbing and hot, and he’s full of some strange emotion—full enough that any movement is going to knock it over and he’ll spill messily all over everything.
It’s desperate; it’s pathetic; it’s far more intimate than he could ever have expected.
“Laslow,” Xander grits out. He sounds—he sounds wrecked. His voice is low and raspy like he’s been gasping for breath this whole time. There’s a note of desperation to it. Like he forced it out from between clenched teeth.
Inigo whole body shudders. Had he done that? Xander’s unfailing facade had never been broken; if Inigo had managed to shake him it would put the world on a new axis.
“Ah, Laslow,” Xander says, running his palm over Inigo’s stinging skin, each pass traveling inward until his thumb is pressing against Inigo’s hole. “Is this what you want? Is this how you want me to treat you?”
So Xander had known the whole time. This is what Inigo has been angling for, after all. Midnight fantasies hadn’t prepared him for this at all; he’s half out of his mind, hazy and desperate. Inigo arches backward into Xander’s touch. “Please,” he chokes out, hardly knowing what he’s asking for. “Please.”
There’s a hiss as Xander exhales through his nose, then the hot brand of his hand disappears from Inigo’s skin. Inigo holds himself stock still, ears straining to catch every noise. The desk shakes underneath him as Xander slams open a drawer.
Then Xander’s hand is back on him, grabbing a handful of cheek to spread him open. Inigo stifles a yelp; his fingers are cold. Xander wastes no time. The words they aren’t saying hang heavy in the air between them. Inigo’s heart pounds all the way out to his fingertips.
Xander stretches him perfunctorily with a pace that belies his own impatience; Inigo clings to the desk and tries not to make any embarrassing sounds. That effort is completely lost when Xander finally presses against him. He’s blood hot and hard enough to cut diamonds. The first push of his cock against Inigo’s hole has him groaning against his palm.
His embarrassment from earlier has vanished, and he wishes badly in that moment that they could be in another position, so he could see Xander’s face. He can’t gauge what his mood is. Would it be better or worse if Xander was still genuinely upset with him? In any case, the hard line of his cock in Inigo’s ass is some proof that Xander is, if not enjoying this, at least okay with it. The floaty feeling from earlier is starting to dissipate with his nerves. It’s been a while since he’s done anything like this and Xander is big , and it’s hard to think of anything else. The only sound is Xander quietly panting.
Inigo only gets a brief moment of respite when Xander is bottomed out, pressed together thigh to thigh, impossibly hot. The space between his face and the desk is humid and smells overwhelmingly of wood.
Then Xander pulls out, and Inigo swears against the desk. It’s just on the edge of overwhelming. For a moment he’s inexplicably gutted, on the edge of tears. He scrambles and barely manages to catch the edge of the desk before Xander grabs his hips and slams back in. Then he quickly catches his rhythm and sets about riding Inigo like he’s a fucking horse.
Inigo will admit he’s often watched Xander’s formidable thighs flex while riding and thought he would make a good lay, but this is a fucking he’d never dared to dream of. The pace is brutal. Xander has so much control; he finds the spot that makes Inigo cry out and hits it over and over with only the sound of panting to show that he’s spending effort at all .
The edges of Inigo’s thoughts fuzz out into bliss; with every stroke he’s slipping into the floaty state from earlier. Everything is close, hot pleasure. He finally has the fullness of Xander’s attention, and it’s better than he could have hoped for. Xander’s hands on the scruff of his neck, Xander's hands on the crease between ass and thigh, Xander's hands on the dip where his rib cage becomes stomach. He wants to give up every tender place. He wants Xander to look at the inside of him—the sick, anemic, pathetic, attention-seeking, insecure, desperate inside of him—and say “it’s okay, you’re a good thing anyway.” And something about the gentle way Xander slides his hands across his skin makes him feel like he’s a good thing anyway.
And then Xander’s hand comes down on his ass again, and Inigo’s brain flies like an arrow loosed. It’s so perversely good. The pain sparks through him sharp and cruel and flaring with each thrust, like flint striking steel. The blaze ramps higher and higher until he’s desperate with pleasure. He can’t control the sounds he’s making; distantly, he hopes to god that the hallway—no, this entire section of the castle—is empty.
“Laslow,” Xander gasps out, pace momentarily faltering. His voice barely manages to reach Inigo through the fog of euphoria. “You have to—you have to tell me what you want.”
He regains his pace and drives forward almost as if he’s desperate to get Inigo to come. Inigo can feel it too—it’s close, stuck in his throat, his whole body tightening in anticipation. The pain feels good, but what Inigo really wants is— “Touch me,” he manages to gasp out.
Xander’s hand is immediately on his cock. It barely takes another touch before Inigo is coming, loud and hard as Xander works him through it. His thoughts are floating away somewhere; pleasure rolls through his body in waves between each jolt of pain from Xander’s thighs slapping against his ass. It goes on forever, until nothing hurts, and his head is blessedly empty.
His thighs give out and he slumps, panting, against the desk. Everything is pleasant white noise for a good long moment. It takes him a while to realize that Xander has stilled, the only sound his shaky breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth. His hands are still around Inigo’s hips. The grip is bruising. Inigo can feel the impression of each fingertip; he’s sure the marks are going to show for days.
Xander begins to pull away. Even after fucking his retainer over his desk, he’s still trying to preserve Inigo’s decency? There’s something cute about that. Inigo’s sure there’s not anything decent about him worth preserving in any case. His hand shoots out to grab Xander by the hip.
“Wait,” he breathes out, whole body still shaky-weak with orgasm. “You can keep going.”
Xander huffs out through his nose. His hands flex on Inigo’s hips. Inigo pats him reassuringly and shifts to prop his head up on his arms, getting comfortable on the desk. Everything still feels good, even the muscle-deep ache in his ass.
It’s another long moment before Xander gets going again. He’s much slower this time, stroking long and deep in time to his breathing. Inigo is warm all the way through. There’s a little bit of discomfort since he’s somewhat oversensitive, but it feels like his whole body is sparkling like the magic-lit lanterns they string up at new years.
Xander’s hands move from their place on his hips and stroke up his back. It’s just—nice, to be touched, and comforted, and fucked slow and close like this. Xander’s pace slows so much that Inigo almost thinks he’s stopped before he hears the catch in Xander’s breath and feels his cock pulse. The room is hot and silent; it’s unbearably intimate.
Inigo floats happily while Xander pulls out and cleans him up with a handkerchief. As soon as Xander is seated back at the desk Inigo climbs into his lap. The chair is ridiculous anyway. Too big for one person—but barely big enough for two, as long as he curls up and tucks his head against Xander’s shoulder.
Xander surveys the wreckage of the desk with a dismayed eye. All of his paperwork is rumpled or pushed onto the floor in a hopeless pile; the dark wood is shiny with some unspeakable stain. This whole thing is a fucking mess. Their relationship is a fucking mess. He’s gone and fucked it all up, hasn’t he? But he can’t help that he still feels dreamy-good, floating on something. His ass is going to hurt like hell later; maybe he’ll be remorseful then. All he can do currently is stifle a laugh into Xander’s shoulder.
Xander visibly gives up on the idea of cleaning his desk and leans back. He rests his head against Inigo’s, and they sit in quiet for a long moment.
It’s just… nice. Inigo, who expected to be dismissed as soon as his punishment was over, selfishly luxuriates in it for as long as he can. It’s strange to feel almost like lovers, after everything.
It can’t last forever. The pain in his ass slowly tips over from “kinda nice” to “seriously, ouch.” Inigo sighs petulantly and wriggles around trying to find a more comfortable position. Maybe if he clings to this moment, he won’t have to go back to the reality where he made his lord so mad he got bent over a desk and spanked like a disobedient child.
Xander jostles his shoulder, getting Inigo’s attention. “Listen, Laslow—” He has to stop and clear his throat; his voice rasps and catches. His hand strokes up Inigo’s back. “You don’t have to—to act out just to get my attention,” he says softly.
Inigo’s good mood vanishes. Shame spikes through him cold and cruel like being dunked in a vat of ice. Of course that’s what this whole thing was, at the heart of it—prickling at Xander’s boundaries just to get eyes on him. Approval, praise; it makes him feel hot and tingly all over. It makes his heart pound. But most of all he wanted to feel the way he did kneeling in Xander’s office—not having to think, not having to feel anything but useful, safe, loved, euphoric, floating on pain and approval.
It’s enough to make tears of shame prick at the corner of his eyes. Phrased like that, it’s abundantly clear he was just using Xander for his own gratification, not even stopping to consider what Xander wanted. How does that make him better than a drunkard who gropes people in alleyways?
He turns and pushes off Xander’s lap. “You’re right. I—this won’t happen again. Milord.”
Before he can take a step, Xander’s hand is around his wrist. It stops him dead in his tracks.
“Wait,” Xander says, and something about the quality of his voice makes Inigo turn around. His expression is more open than Inigo’s ever seen it, those dark eyes suddenly far less fathomless—filled with fear, embarrassment, and beneath it all, desperate want. It spears Inigo through.
“I meant,” Xander continues, “that you already—have my attention.”
“I, that’s—” Inigo stammers, face heating. He’s always wanted attention. Feeling useful, making other people happy—that’s what he’s always chased after. So why is this moment so unbearable? He’s caught between euphoria and bone-deep embarrassment for the both of them.
“Laslow,” Xander says softly, catching Inigo’s other hand and holding them to his heart. “I can’t stop looking at you.”
He says it like he’s saying something else—like he’s confessing at the foot of an altar.
Inigo’s need for attention has always been a shallow and selfish part of his personality, one that he couldn’t help but indulge no matter how much trouble it got him in. But, in Xander’s eyes, it feels infinitely different. How could he not have noticed before? The way Xander looks at him, it’s like he’s laying out the entirety of his heart—just without words.
The vulnerability of the confession must occur to Xander, because a look of panic flits across his face. “What I mean to say is—you don’t have to—agh.” He looks down at their joined hands. His face looks distinctly flushed behind the curtain of his curls. “If you want something from me, you can just ask.”
Inigo feels the absurd urge to laugh. If that was truly the case—if he could have just gone up to Xander and said, “I like when you punish me, could you perhaps bend me over your desk,” then he’s truly made a fool of himself.
But if Xander had felt this way the whole time, and still needed Inigo to basically throw himself in his lap and beg for a fucking before confessing his feelings, then he’s made a fool of himself as well.
It makes Inigo smile to himself, fond.
“If so,” Inigo says, releasing his hands so he can tip Xander’s face up, revealing his flushed face. “I have a request.”
“Anything,” Xander says, his low, serious voice lending the word weight.
The impulse to ask for something truly n crosses Inigo’s mind. He’s halfway convinced that Xander would hand over the kingdom or something equally nonsensical. But as nice as a roomful of jewels would be, he wants his relationship with Xander to be something deeper. He wants Xander to look at him. He wants Xander to see the nastier parts of him and still choose to be with him. He wants Xander to see who he truly is. Frivolous, selfish, sensitive; a soldier, a dancer, a boy who saved the world and then had to decide what to do after that.
He’s kept parts of himself locked away for so long it’s hard not to hesitate in the end. Well—Xander has already seen his humiliation kink and blatant masochism, so what’s the weight of other secrets in the grand scheme of things?
“Please... call me Inigo."