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Taking Sylvain hostage was better than letting him die. On that front, Claude had gotten everyone to agree with him. Keeping Sylvain hostage when Claude and the Leicester Federation were deep in Fraldarius territory—that would be trickier. He was charming and friendly, and already, he had gotten his minders to lead him around on walks. On a leash, sure, but without manacles or hobbles. Lorenz and Holst were the only people who still mustered active dislike for Sylvain, and Claude was pretty sure Holst only disliked him because he had made eyes at Hilda.
Claude wasn’t letting Sylvain run home. They could exchange Sylvain for food, a safe passage, more money—tons of things, really. And if Sylvain escaped, it wouldn’t take long for him to find home and tell Dimitri their positions and supplies. Claude considered a few ways of keeping Sylvain in his place. More chains? It wouldn’t be popular. Kept strung up on hallucinogens? Too expensive. And Claude would rather save those for another day.
In the end, Claude went with drugging his water with aphrodisiacs. Quick, simple, and more importantly, it wasn’t like Sylvain didn’t already have a reputation for it. No one was going to let him walk around camp if he had a boner, and the constant tent in his pants would keep Sylvain distracted while they moved from one region to another.
Perfect plan.
***
Sylvain reacted better than Claude expected. He barely had to use more than a pinch a day to keep Sylvain locked away in his tent. The rank smell of sour sweat and old semen leaked through the flaps.
Claude had never dosed anyone continuously for longer than a few hours. It’d be irresponsible for him to not check in. He packed a bag of necessities and stepped inside.
“Damn,” Claude said.
Sylvain was naked on the bed, legs spread and three fingers up his ass. Come covered his chest and thighs and soaked in the sheets. His cock was dark red, soft and leaking. Sylvain barely looked up at him. He tried to stand, but couldn’t figure out how without taking his fingers out of his hole. He fell forward onto the bed and kept thrusting away.
Claude should have felt sorry for him. And he was, a little. Mostly, his cock was hard and his front hole was wet. And he was impressed. Sylvain was fingering himself with his off-hand, and pretty successfully, too.
“I heard you had reformed after going back home, but I guess old habits are hard to break,” he said. “If you were that bored, I could’ve just gotten you a book to read.”
“Fuck you,” Sylvain said. He groaned and twisted his hips back into the bed. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“Listen, Sylvain,” Claude said. He put the bag on the ground and, casually, took out a dildo, the one he liked to think of as his cock. He hadn’t had the time to fuck anyone with it yet, but when he jerked off, this was the one he imagined was his: the polished wood was close enough to his skin color, and size-wise, it was more than fair. Probably too big, but never let it be said that Claude von Riegan wasn’t an ambitious man. “We’re moving camp tomorrow. I’m happy to take you with us, but you have to keep this whole thing under control. Do you need a helping hand?”
Sylvain glared at him. He wasn’t a dumb guy. He had to know what Claude was doing. But the whole time he thought, he had his fingers working in and out of his hole. And his eyes were fixed on the cock in Claude’s fist.
“You’re not going to fuck me?” Sylvain said.
“I’d never treat a prisoner like that. I’m not a monster, you know.” As he said it, he regretted it. Why couldn’t he fuck Sylvain? He was asking for it. Claude was trying to be a better, less brutal king than Shahid would have been (never mind that he had killed Shahid to learn it), but wouldn’t it be worse to keep Sylvain needy? He took the waterskin from his bag and dangled it in front of Sylvain. “Come here. Have a drink.”
Sylvain didn’t even bother standing on his feet. He dropped to the ground and crawled on his hands and knees. Claude opened the waterskin and let it spill over his face and neck—Sylvain sputtered and coughed, but swallowed eagerly. When Claude pulled the water away, Sylvain lunged for the dildo in his hand, sucking on it like it was made of ice and he was trying to melt it with his mouth. When that didn’t do anything, he put his mouth hot against Claude’s groin, searching for his cock.
“Whoa, whoa, horseboy,” Claude said. He grabbed Sylvain’s hair and pulled him off. No need to give Sylvain more than he needed. He put the waterskin back in his face. “Come on, sip.”
Sylvain drank. He had his cock in his hand, rolling his hips as Claude spilled the water over his face. Claude let him jerk it until the water ran out. He squeezed the skin over Sylvain’s face, like he was squeezing the last bits of come out of his cock, while Sylvain looked up at him, glazed eyes and desperate. A wet little slut for sure. Claude ran his palm across Sylvain’s wet hair, rolled Sylvain’s head around, tilted it back all the way.
Claude put his cock in Sylvain’s mouth. Sylvain moaned out loud. His eyes squeezed shut.
“Get more in,” Claude said. He moved his hand down his cock, right about to the halfway point. “This much and I’ll call you pretty.”
Sylvain moaned again. He wrapped his hands around Claude’s hips and moved forward on his cock, taking it deeper and deeper, until he had to swallow and suck around it. An inch, half an inch, an inch, half, and then his lips touched Claude’s thumb and index finger in a perverse kiss. Claude braced the dildo against his thigh. He took Sylvain by the hair and slid his hand down the dildo while pushing Sylvain even further down. His dick throbbed in his pants. Sylvain looked at him, drooling around Claude’s cock. Something pathetic and wet glistened in his eyes and down his cheeks.
“Pretty boy,” Claude said. Sylvain groaned. He took more of Claude’s cock in his mouth. Claude rested his weight back on his heels then thrust forward and he felt Sylvain’s moan on his hand, through his pants, right in his cock and up his soaking hole. Not that Sylvain deserved to get anywhere near him. Claude thrust forward again. “Don’t scrape your teeth on it. Come on, treat it nice. And stop touching yourself. Slut.”
Sylvain released his cock, half-hard and bright red at the tip. It was leaking again, dripping on the thin rug. He reached for Claude’s crotch; Claude knocked it away and thrust again, this time until Sylvain choked. Did that count as fucking? Did shoving his cock in Sylvain’s mouth until he gagged and cried mean they were fucking, even if Claude wasn’t wearing it?
Claude shoved Sylvain off him. Sylvain fell on his hands. He must have seen Claude thinking about leaving, because he grabbed Claude’s shins and hugged them.
“Please,” he said, his voice hoarse and quiet. “Please, make me come, I’ll be pretty, I’ll be a pretty horse for you, please—”
“How do I lower the bridges in Fhirdiad?” Claude said. Sylvain moaned. He shivered. Resisting. Claude didn’t know if he felt better for playing the interrogator or worse. Sylvain had made a good point. Claude had him under his thumb. It’d be foolish to not take advantage, and especially when doing it was basically harmless. Claude kicked Sylvain’s arms off him. “Come on, slut. How do I lower the bridges?”
“Go to hell,” Sylvain said.
“Sure.” Claude pocketed his cock. Sylvain lay on the ground, too tired to move. Maybe too unmotivated, without the promise of getting something big and hard in his mouth. Claude rooted around his bag until he found a what he was looking for: fresh ginger, cut into a nice plug, and some spicy oil. He kneeled down and spread Sylvain’s legs. Sylvain let him. He looked at Claude with a mix of anticipation and dislike, even more when he saw the little plug in Claude’s hand. His hole was a mess: puffy and reddened from Sylvain’s relentless masturbation. It opened up for the ginger easily. Sylvain didn’t fight it, not a bit. “Good horsey.”
Sylvain squeezed tight around it. Claude drizzled the chili oil onto his glove, then grabbed Sylvain’s sensitive cock and smeared the hot oil all over. He made sure to rub the head of Sylvain’s cock and get the oil into his urethra. Sylvain shifted uncomfortably under his attention. The pain from that hit him just as the juices from the ginger leaked into his hole. Sylvain cried out.
“Fuck!” he said. A vein popped in his forehead, his neck, halfway down his chest.
Claude unpeeled the glove off his hand. Sylvain curled up on the ground, reaching for the ginger. Just as Claude thought: he moved to take it out, then thrust it back into his hole, then cried and tried to get it out. His cock was hard again.
“Don’t do that,” Claude said. He got his bag back together. His arm brushed against his cock in his pocket, and he felt it, right in his dick. “You’ll feel better this way, see? The more you touch it, the more it’ll hurt.”
Sylvain nodded. He put his hands on either side of him. Sweat covered his forehead.
“See?” Claude said. “Feels better when you’re being pretty for me, right?”
He should go. He should wash his hand, at least. He shouldn’t take it too far.
Claude didn’t leave. He straddled Sylvain’s chest and sat down. Sylvain was burning hot underneath him. He put his hand in front of Sylvain’s mouth. His fingers were still orange from the oil, and it was starting to tingle unpleasantly, if he was honest. He ought to use soap—but this would be more fun.
“Come on,” Claude said softly. “Lick it off.”
And, though fat tears were rolling down his cheeks, Sylvain opened his mouth and wrapped his tongue around Claude’s fingers.