Work Text:
Tristan was to be crowned on the last day of his nineteenth spring.
He’d never expected to be the king. He was the last of four, and—since his mother had been the second wife—he was brought up away from the court, in a small monastery near the eastern coast. Protected and isolated, and maybe lonely, his days filled with learning from dawn to dusk—mathematics, literature, history, politics—as an heir’s days should, he lived a quiet life. Fourth in the line to the throne, he wasn’t even a spare. There was no way he could inherit the crown. No way.
A plague rolled through the capital like an angry death god. It only lasted till the first snows, but it was merciless. And random—took entire families while sparing others for no apparent reason.
All of Tristan’s brothers succumbed. The king fought, but died a few days after the snows melted.
Tristan knew he should grieve their deaths, but he’d met his brothers all of five times, and he’d talked to his father twice. He performed his duties. Living in the monastery, he was familiar with all the small rituals of mourning—he went through it once before, in his childhood, grieving for the mother he also barely knew—but he was forbidden from attending the funerals. He was the sole heir now, their country’s last hope, and the medics weren’t certain if the plague had truly passed, so the council decided he should stay on the outskirts of things for as long as possible.
He was to be the king.
The succession was going to be the issue.
He was the last of his line, and a ruler of a vast and rich nation; it mattered not only who he married, but that he didn’t sire children out of wedlock; that no one could claim that he did. Since he’d spent his childhood and youth among ascetic monks, none would question his behavior until now, but every moment outside of the monastery’s impenetrable walls could make him vulnerable to manipulations of clever women and their power-hungry families. It had happened before. There were insurrections. There were wars.
The council had written to him with explanations. They’d said that, in such uncertain times, they just couldn’t risk it.
There was a way to ensure he couldn’t be accused. An ancient, well-tested way, which was used successfully many times in the past. It will ensure that—from this point onwards, until his marriage was decided upon, negotiated, then finalized—he’d be unable to take a woman and sire a child.
They’d sent Lord Cirus da’Verne with the letter, to supervise. At thirty, Lord Cirus was already an influential man, well-educated, also in the field of medicine, although not yet a council member. He had an intense air to him, of a man you couldn’t dismiss. Some of it must be because of his impressive physique—his tall, rigid frame, his long limbs seemingly cast of iron; some was because of the way he dressed—black, shades of midnight blue and garnet—but mostly it was the eyes.
Piercing through clothes and skin.
Tristan was always aware of him. When Lord Cirus was unlocking the small, heavily encrusted chest the letter had described, Tristan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the precise movements of his elegant fingers.
Lord Cirus looked straight into Tristan when the contents were revealed, and, under that dark, piercing gaze, Tristan could barely stop himself from squirming.
“Your Highness, this is a cage for your manhood,” Lord Cirus said.
After a long pause, Tristan managed to look down again.
The contraption was made entirely of gold. It curled in delicate circles, all smooth and shining, with a heavier part at the—top?—where a small, stylized lock was inserted. Beside it lay ten golden rods. They differed in length and thickness, and in the sharpness of the angle at which each of them curved.
Tristan touched them curiously with the tips of his fingers.
“Those are to block your excretions.” Lord Cirus picked one up and demonstrated how the rod could be secured to the cage with another tiny lock. “We’ll have to see which one is the best fit.”
The smallest was the length of Tristan’s pinky and half as thick.
“Isn’t this… excessive?”
“If adequately stimulated, a man can still produce seed without hardening. These rods will ensure that, even if that happens, your seed has nowhere to go.”
Tristan immediately saw the problem with that.
“What about other… urges? I’m but a man. There are times when I need the toilet.”
“I’ll unplug you then.”
“You—” Wide-eyed, Tristan stared at him.
“The council has appointed me as your personal attendant. They’ll believe you haven’t spilled your seed unlawfully by my testimony. The key to the cage itself will be kept in the royal vault, but I’ll be keeping the key to the rod and removing it as necessary. I’ll also need to be present at all the times your manhood remains unplugged. I will see to your daily hygiene and also to your health, ensuring monthly spilling.”
“Pardon?”
“Since at one point you’ll have to sire an heir, your testes need to remain healthy and productive despite your bondage. As I said, it is possible to spill without hardening, and it’ll be one of my duties to ensure that it happens at least once a month. Also, during each such procedure, three councilmen will witness your reproductive health, and then a trained medic other than me will examine the health of your seed.”
Tristan closed his eyes and took a slow breath. “Seems like a very public affair.”
One corner of Lord Cirus’ lips curved up. “Being a king is a very public function.”
“Right.”
“If I may inquire—”
“Yes?”
“How often do you indulge yourself currently?”
Tristan’s face heated. “I… that is…”
“I understand this environment”—Lord Cirus gestured at the plain walls of the small room Tristan called his—"isn’t exactly conducive to seeking pleasure, but…"
“The monks would never… I’d never!”
“I meant by your own hand.”
Tristan hid his face in his palms and groaned.
What must Lord Cirus think of him now!
“About every other day,” he said, not being entirely truthful.
There was hardly a woman Tristan could fantasize about, but some of the younger monks were… well.
From his window, he could see the baths.
Lord Cirus smiled like he knew. “This would be an adjustment, then,” he said. “Unlike here, the situation outside our borders is surprisingly stable, and not many will risk seeking new alliances when it could undermine the old ones. Finding you a wife may take a while.”
“I’ll be uncaged, then?”
“Nightly, only for marital conduct—at least until you produce an heir. Maybe two heirs. There will be a vote even then. As our current situation proves, fates could be fickle.”
Tristan, very un-princely—certainly un-kingly—flopped onto his spartan bed. “Then I am to live a life without pleasure.”
“I... haven’t necessarily said that.” Lord Cirus, very primly, sat beside him on the simple but pristine bedding. “There are ways. Even with his manhood restrained, a man can still experience pleasure.”
Again, Tristan felt his cheeks heating.
He was isolated, but he wasn’t stupid, and the monks collected books—on every subject. Also, Tristan knew, some of them weren’t as ascetic as the doctrine demanded, not amongst themselves. They would’ve never touched a prince, but Tristan had eyes.
And he lived opposite the baths.
“Will that also be public and controlled by the council?”
“Your pool of potential lovers will be small if you don’t wish it to be so. Bedding a king is a privilege worth bragging about, after all.”
“And if I don’t wish to be the subject of rumors, scandals, and investigations?”
“Then hired men, preferably blindfolded, your sworn guards, once we’re certain of their reliability and loyalties. Maybe a foreigner, from time to time, one who’s never seen you—and will never see you again—up close. And, well.” Lord Cirus paused. “Me.”
At that, Tristan looked up at him sharply. He narrowed his eyes, gave him a long look, then raised an eyebrow. “Is that so, my lord?”
Lord Cirus raised an eyebrow right back. “That is so, Your Highness,” he said. “By the council’s own edict, I’ll be the closest to you, most intimate, and my presence will never be questioned.” He smiled. “And you’ll already be used to my touch.”
Tristan hastily looked down, face on fire.
He couldn’t argue that Lord Cirus was attractive. Just the thought of having him in that way tightened Tristan’s pants—a sensation he’ll soon miss if not outright forget—but the fact that he was appointed…
“I’ll not require that of you if you’re not willing.”
Elegant fingers pushed Tristan’s long hair behind his ear, then lingered on his neck. “Oh, believe me, I’m willing.”
Heat flooded Tristan’s belly.
“Shall we try the fit?” Lord Cirus asked.
A laugh escaped Tristan. “Right now—it won’t.”
Lord Cirus slid to the floor. “Then I shall take care of you first.” He kneeled in front of Tristan and slipped his long fingers between the prince’s knees. He pressed on his inner thighs, and Tristan’s legs fell open. “Would you enjoy my mouth?”
Tristan stared at the body part in question. His lungs hurt, and his limbs felt heavy, but he lifted a hand and put two fingers to Lord Cirus’ lips. “Yes,” he said, breathless.
Gazing up at him, Lord Cirus opened his lips, and the tips of Tristan’s fingers slid in. A tongue flickered over them. “Then, by all means.”
Hands shaking, Tristan unlaced his plain linen trousers—brushing his hardened cock with his knuckles, and moaning. He had nothing underneath, and how Lord Cirus hadn’t noticed—
Oh.
Lord Cirus smiled at him knowingly.
Oh.
He had.
Still holding eye contact—eyes blazing like fire—Lord Cirus lowered his head and licked Tristan’s leaking tip.
The unfamiliar sensation jolted Tristan’s entire body. His cock slipped past Lord Cirus’ lips.
The man sucked on the tip—hot bliss—then released Tristan and licked him from the balls up. His hand found Tristan’s palm, clenched desperately on the sheets, and gently unwound it from the cloth. Then Lord Cirus lifted it and placed it in his own hair. “I’m here to serve my king,” he said, breath hot on the underside of Tristan’s cock. “Do not be afraid to demand—whatever you need.”
Tristan tightened his fist, then his other hand joined in.
These were the last moments of his freedom.
And Lord Cirus had offered.
His mouth.
Tristan pulled.
He was going to make use of it.