A Suitable Consort (For the King and His Husband)

by R. Cooper

  Mil had several scars and a mole and freckles, and a line of hair from his chest to his navel, and he let Mattin look his fill while he pulled his belt loose, although he left his pants on.

  “I am imagining if I had been a few years younger, and I’d gone into that library and found you.” Mil rested a hand on Mattin’s trembling thigh, then leaned down to run his thumb over a spot on Mattin’s neck that was especially sensitive, leaving Mattin to shudder. “Though I can’t imagine you having much interest in a rough and dirty outguard.”

  Someone, Arden, snorted, but Mattin kept his gaze on Mil as he finally reached out to touch him. “I think you are lovely,” Mattin confessed, parting his legs a little wider in invitation and splaying a hand over Mil’s collarbone and then up, over his shoulder to urge him down. Muscle moved beneath his palm. “Lovely,” he said again, dreaming.

  Mil kissed his throat, right at that spot, making Mattin throw back his head to gasp and tighten his legs around him. They would leave marks, the two of them, with how they kept kissing him there again and again, and putting their hands on him to move him how they pleased. Mattin could not seem to mind. He bit his lip to keep himself from asking them to do it, then could not remember why he would worry, and angled his head to let Mil mark as he pleased.

  Arden stood by the bed, watching them.

  Mattin dug his nails into Mil’s skin.

  Arden inhaled sharply, said, “His hair,” in a roughened voice, and Mattin obeyed, moving his hand to slide it into Mil’s hair, then tightening his grip. Mil shuddered against him before kissing down Mattin’s throat to his chest, then to his stomach.

  “Lovely Mil,” Mattin murmured, hot yet shivering, tugging Mil’s hair free of the single band holding it back before carding it again. Mil was breathing hard, holding still above Mattin’s bared hip.

  “He is the most trustworthy person you will ever meet in your life,” Arden praised, as if he knew it would make Mil quiver beneath Mattin’s hand. Mattin touched Mil’s shoulder too, then the back of Mil’s neck, light and careful, although the hand in Mil’s hair was anything but.

  “You’ll share him with me?” Mattin asked, focused on Mil now, and the tremors under his palm.

  “Please.” Mil was hoarse. He did not raise his head. He was a fine, fragile thing.

  “Better than a crown,” Arden told Mattin, stroking Mil without lifting a hand, kissing Mattin without bending from his great height. “But like a crown you must take him.”

  Oh, Mattin thought, and tugged on the oddly silky strands of Mil’s hair until Mil was above him again. Then he took Mil’s face in his hands and brought their mouths together. Mil’s palms were rough, sweeping all over Mattin’s body. He was hot and heavy. His legs were like iron. Mattin kissed him until Mil was moaning and his cock was hard, but that did not seem to matter with Mil’s face at his shoulder. Mattin did not recall choosing, but he must have. “You’re mine,” he breathed, a beat-of-four in his bones, and directed his gaze to Arden.

  Arden smiled, sharp as a crow.

  Arden was beloved of the fae, Mattin remembered from nowhere, and wondered how much of Arden’s behavior in this had been truly artless, and then if it mattered. Arden had followed Mattin’s rules, as he must have followed Mil’s to win him. But he could have just taken, and his gaze said he knew it, that he would, later, when it suited him.

  Mattin swallowed. “Come here,” he ordered, his voice surprisingly clear.

  With another sharp smile, Arden inclined his head before returning. He kneeled next to them, and placed his hand gently at the top of Mil’s spine before pulling back.

  Mil raised his head to study him, his husband and his king, and then sat up. “Sitting there…” he muttered, before frowning. “Are you well?”

  Arden waved this off, softening his smile for Mil’s concern, then offering Mattin an explanation. “Sometimes, I feel twinges.” He gestured at his chest. “It’s likely in my head. The fae did a good job and time did the rest. There is nothing here to be harmed now, but I thought—ah, don’t stare at me like that Mattin.”

  Mattin would stare at him however he wished. “Dear heart?” he asked hopefully, although he did not mind being only Mattin at last.

  Arden nodded, his smile faint but still there. “Yes.”

  “As your dear heart,” Mattin began tentatively, propping himself up on his elbows, “may I see the scars the fae gifted you with?”

  “You may do anything you like,” Arden said with an expelled breath, and pulled his shirt away to reveal a broad chest, paler than the rest of him and dusted with hair. Across his stomach were raised, dark scars, although the original, mortal wound was a scarred-over line, where a knife had slipped past armor. There were other old injuries as well, smaller, insignificant. From that day or some time earlier.

  Mattin lifted his gaze to Arden’s face and the scar at his cheek. He was touching it only moments later, after rising and turning to cross the space between them and pull Arden’s mouth to his. Mattin was clumsy. His kiss was perhaps too wet. He only held Arden tighter, letting Arden’s hands go where they pleased, down his back, between his legs. Arden groaned as though Mattin’s hard kiss and soft thighs pained him, but he did not urge Mattin to stop.

  Mattin finally did that on his own, gentling his kisses before turning around and settling himself in Arden’s lap. Arden remained half-dressed, but Mattin pressed himself to Arden’s growing arousal as he looked at Mil.

  “We will be careful,” Mattin told Mil, knowing Mil would understand the concern for Arden’s well-being, and then reached out for him.

  Mil came forward on his hands and knees to hungrily take Mattin’s cock into his mouth.

  Mattin retangled his hand in Mil’s hair and tipped his head back against Arden’s shoulder. He shifted his hips, expecting to be chided, or held down, but Mil accepted this with an eager, desperate sound that carried from his throat through Mattin’s body. Mattin watched, mesmerized by Mil sucking his cock, and turned his head without looking away.

  “I will… I will…” The warning felt foolish. Mil must want him to finish, taking him this way. One of his hands settled on Mattin’s thigh, nearly shaking. Mattin closed his eyes then opened them again, for the sight was sweet. Mil’s hair was a silken slide. Mattin continued to pet it, pet him, because Arden watched this too, over Mattin’s shoulder, while whispering that Mattin ought to praise him, their Mil, who was worth a country, worth dying for.

  Mattin called Mil beautiful, called him lovely and soft and sparkling, his voice hitching, rising, because Arden’s hand curled around his throat to tease skin raw from kisses and beards and teeth. Mil’s eyes fell shut, his brow smoothed. Mattin wanted to ask if Mil was always like this, or only sometimes, and if strangers had been trusted with this. His thoughts were too shattered to let him form the questions.

  “Didn’t you…” He could not finish that question either, his legs spread to fit Mil’s bulk between them. It took him several tries, broken by gasps and his hand clenching in Mil’s hair as he fought not to force Mil’s head down. “Didn’t you want…?”

  Arden nipped the shell of his ear. It sent an arc through Mattin’s body, making him arch up from Arden’s heat, and then Mil’s hands were at his hips, pulling him forward to fill Mil’s throat. Mattin did not have to push him down. Mil took all of his cock and growled for it, and Mattin’s cry carried through the room.

  He finished, flushed and aching, held tight in Arden’s arms, while Mil swallowed and swallowed and then closed his eyes to catch his breath. Mattin protested wordlessly when Mil pulled away, holding him there for another moment with the fingers still caught in Mil’s hair. Then Mattin finally let his hand fall and looked up to watch Mil drift toward his husband with heavy-lidded eyes.

  Arden kissed Mil slowly, uncaring, or desiring, the taste in Mil’s mouth.

  The knot in Mattin’s chest felt like it was on fire.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he told them in a way that wou
ld have anguished him with anyone else. His words stuck together. His hair was likely all fly-aways. He could not seem to care. He was not worrying. It would not last, but what a blessing.

  Mil sat back. Arden held his gaze for a beat longer, and then Mil focused on Mattin with the same pleased-yet-hungry stare he had given his husband. His hair was mussed, his lips very red. Still trapped in his pants, his cock was straining.

  Mattin imagined it was also red.

  He swallowed. “Are you two going to tup me at last?”

  “Oh, yes,” Arden promised him, too rough to be amused. His hand remained possessively at Mattin’s throat and Mattin could not seem to mind that, either. “But don’t you think our love could use some attention?”

  “Oh.” Mattin sighed his agreement while staring at Mil’s cock. He peeled away from Arden to fall in front of Mil on his hands and knees, and looked up, beseeching, until Mil tugged his pants down. Mil’s cock was indeed red, and as lovely as the rest of him. Mattin thought of it against his stomach, in his hand, inside him, or standing like this while he dragged his hair over it. For now, he held the base in one hand and took the rest into his mouth.

  He wished to be as good or skilled as they were, to be what they were used to, but Mil put his hand tentatively on Mattin’s head before moving it to his shoulder, and then familiar hot hands returned to Mattin’s hips to lift them and spread his legs over Arden’s lap as Arden resettled behind him.

  It would not matter if Mattin was skilled, Mattin realized, somehow pleased by this, even while he burned at being arranged so. Arden’s voice washed over him while Mattin shivered under his attentions and stuttered beneath Mil’s careful touch.

  Mil said, “Sass,” in a softly shaken voice, as if the sight of Arden’s fingers pushing into Mattin put an ache in Mil too.

  Mattin imagined them exchanging a look over him, but they had thought of this where he had not, and where he faltered, they would take care of him. He paused to wipe his chin and hold his breath as oil slicked down his inner thigh, and then he arched into Mil’s soothing strokes down his back.

  “Mil,” Mattin said it once, then again, “Mil.” He did not think he was complaining. Arden was thorough, torturous, always. His fingers were large and Mattin could not breathe, then could only moan. Arden was so hot.

  Mattin put his mouth to use as much as he could with how he was being teased, opened, displayed. Mil did not seem to mind much when Mattin pulled off to gasp again. Mil continued to pet him though Mattin’s tongue faltered for every spark of pleasure, and Mattin did his best to keep pleasing him, but he was floating, and finally just shuddered and dropped down to kiss the crease of Mil’s hip. Mil was watching. Arden was teasing him, too.

  Mattin held Mil tight. “Arden, please. I would…” He did not know what he meant to say and abandoned words to push back into Arden’s hands, onto Arden’s fingers.

  Mil and Arden did not seem to have the same trouble. Somewhere, distantly, Mattin wondered what it meant that they would plead for him when he was the one about to take them both. They did not praise him as he and Arden had praised Mil. Mil whispered, “More,” and Arden crooked his fingers to make Mattin gasp, and Arden said, “Watch,” and Mil grunted as if pained, and with each order and action, they would both stroke Mattin’s skin and say, “Please,” until Mattin returned the word.

  “Now,” he demanded, throat raw as if he had been moaning against Mil’s hip. “Please.”

  He would not have protested if Arden had kept going. Or did not think he would have. But Arden obeyed him. His king, withdrawing his fingers to apply more oil, and then bending Mattin to him before finally pushing his cock into Mattin’s waiting body.

  “A pretty sight.” Mil cupped Mattin’s cheek. Arden was slow and kind and Mattin was grateful and also wished Arden would simply have him. Like he wanted to, Mattin thought, although the thought was half-formed. Arden’s hold on him was firm, but they were being careful because Mattin had insisted. Mattin was a fool and so were they.

  He shifted back, as much as he could when he was so blessedly full, and then turned his head to nuzzle Mil’s palm.

  “A pretty sight indeed,” Arden spoke hoarsely, moving slowly again. Mattin did not think it was torment now, although it remained a display. Mattin on Arden’s cock was a pleasure for them all. Mattin was warm and pleased as he stretched toward Mil’s cock again. Mil obligingly guided the head between his lips and Mattin sucked without skill, happy to feel Mil’s hand sink into his hair and to hear Mil groan.

  Arden moved him, not as careful as he might have been, pushing deeper but no faster, and Mil groaned again.

  “He wants us both to take him,” Mil panted, his thumb restless at Mattin’s cheekbone, his temple. “I can’t—”

  “You will,” Arden ordered calmly, if breathlessly, “but if you need a moment, come and kiss me.”

  Mattin dropped his hot face to the bed and moaned as Mil leaned forward, one hand still tangled in Mattin’s braid. Mattin listened to the sounds of their kisses, their whispers, and shuddered when Arden went still. He worried, just for a moment, a helpless reflex, hoping he had not done something wrong. Then there was a gentle touch to where Mattin was stretched around Arden’s cock, and he twitched as Mil sighed.

  “...See you.” Mattin demanded, or tried to, while still swallowing spit and the taste of Mil’s cock. “I want to see you.”

  He regretted it when they pulled away, when he was abruptly empty and cold.

  Then he was on his back, on soft bedding with pillows being tucked beneath him, and Arden was gazing down at him with a Canamorra’s greed all over his face.

  Mattin bent his knees without thought.

  “Show me,” he said while words could still fall out of him, and dragged a hand down his stomach as Arden reeled Mil in for a deep kiss. Mil was flushed across his neck and chest and had one hand wrapped around his cock. “Mil,” Mattin sighed, wriggling a little at how pleasant it was to have them both immediately turn to him. “My king first,” he said, lazy and humming, and had the urge to laugh again for what flashed in Arden’s eyes. “My king and then my Mil.”

  But his breath was pushed from him when Arden made room for himself between Mattin’s legs and then spilled oil onto his palm so he could slick his cock more under Mattin’s rapt attention. When he was satisfied, he tossed the bottle to Mil before leaning down to pin Mattin easily, one hand over Mattin’s wrist. Mattin let his eyes flutter closed at the strength in the gesture, and then opened them to turn his head and watch Mil while Arden slid back inside of him.

  Mattin took him smoothly this time, with a small sound of pleasure that quickly grew louder. The way Mil stared and slowly worked his cock made Mattin’s mouth water, but Mil did not move closer. Mattin could only imagine the someday when he might.

  The muscles of Arden’s shoulder flexed beneath Mattin’s free hand. His mouth was open at Mattin’s neck. Mattin held him close, scratching through his short curls, digging his nails into Arden’s shoulder blade. He kept watching Mil, whose gaze darted from Mattin’s face to the press of their bodies, how Arden filled him. Mattin imagined watching Mil like this and made a thrillingly animal noise before tightening his thighs to urge Arden deeper. He liked being watched when it was Mil doing the watching, and would blush for that thought later, as well as all the others about what Mattin might witness in turn. For what he might do and what might be done to him. Mattin was as greedy as Arden. Greedier, for Mattin would have them both. He would take them, like a crown, like a throne.

  He did not think he would finish again, but he was alight, groaning shamelessly with every thrust, and when Arden finally pulled out of him to spend thick across his stomach, he whined. He was shameless about that, too, and about carding his fingers through Arden’s hair under Mil’s hungry stare to make Mil shiver.

  Mattin won soft words over his collarbone as Arden caught his breath, dear heart and Mattin and once, so quietly Mattin nearly did not hear it over his own p
anting, ours.

  Mil watched them both with glassy eyes, one hand still on his cock. Mattin wondered if he would finish for a second time with Mil in him, or if he would know Mil’s mouth again. Or Arden’s.

  He put his fingertips to Arden’s lips at the thought, and smiled at Mil as they were kissed.

  “Our love is ready,” Mattin informed Arden huskily, all of him loose and tired, all of him on fire. Arden gave a short laugh and, smiling, kissed Mattin on the mouth.

  “The fae have blessed me many times over,” Arden groaned as he pulled back. He did not go far. He picked up the bottle of oil and kissed Mil’s neck as he stroked the warmed oil onto Mil’s cock for him. Mil allowed it, though it must have been agony. All that care. All that service. Perhaps this display was for Mattin.

  Mattin shivered. He did not know how Mil would want him, but he dropped one knee to the bed and wet his bottom lip.

  Mil was over him within moments, his big hands spread out over Mattin’s hips as he ground against Mattin’s thigh.

  “No,” Mattin commanded, sleepy and yet sharp, tugging on Mil’s hair. “I would take you.”

  Mil was big. Mattin threw his head back to gasp as Mil obeyed, then turned his head until he found Arden looming over them again, pleased and possessive.

  Mattin rather dizzily reconsidered who was taking whom as he dreamed of what they would be like on some other night, without exhaustion or worry or danger. When they would be what Arden had promised.

  Then Mil moved in him, and Arden offered two large, hot fingers for Mattin to take in his mouth, and Mattin was nothing but pleasure.

  Mattin did not pay much attention to the movement around him as Arden and Mil finished straightening up or whatever else it was they did before they finally climbed beneath the blankets of their bed. They had already seen to him quite thoroughly; carrying him to the bathing room, trying to fuss with his hair for him, carrying him back to their bed after harrumphing about his sleepy insistence that he could see to himself. They did not sprawl over him or pull him closer as they settled in. Mattin was both vexed over this and grateful. Curled up between them, he was already more warm than he had been since last summer. In time, he might become too warm. He still did not wriggle away or open his eyes. He did not think he could.