The archery range was silent in the pre-dawn light.
Rhys stood alone, his bow drawn, his breathing steady and controlled. The target was fifty yards away—a respectable distance—and he'd already put three arrows in the outer rings. Not bad for someone who hadn't practiced seriously in weeks.
He nocked another arrow, feeling the familiar weight of the bow in his hands. This had always been his escape back home—the quiet focus of archery, the satisfaction of hitting a target, the way the world narrowed down to just him and the shot.
He drew back, exhaled slowly, and released.
The arrow flew true, sinking into the target just outside the bullseye.
"Better," he murmured to himself.
The past few days had been a whirlwind. The King's recovery had brought relief, but also a strange tension. The court was preparing to leave for a tournament hosted by Lord Harren, a minor noble whose castle lay three days' ride from the capital. It was meant to be a celebration—a show of strength and unity after the crisis—but Rhys could feel the undercurrents of political maneuvering beneath the surface.
And Elias... Elias had been distant.
Not cold, exactly. But busy. Consumed by preparations, by training for the joust and hand-to-hand combat, by meetings with advisors and nobles. In public, he treated Rhys like a friend—a companion, nothing more. No lingering touches, no heated glances. Just easy camaraderie.
It was only when they were alone that the mask dropped. Only in the privacy of Elias's chambers that the Prince would pull Rhys into his arms and kiss him like he was drowning.
Rhys understood. He did. Elias was the crown prince, and the kingdom was watching. But it still stung.
He nocked another arrow, drew back—
And felt strong arms wrap around his waist from behind.
"You're up early," Elias's voice rumbled in his ear, low and rough with sleep.
Rhys's breath caught. He could feel the heat of Elias's body pressed against his back, could smell the warm, masculine scent of him—clean sweat and something uniquely Elias. The Prince's massive chest was bare, his skin still warm from bed, and Rhys could feel the hard planes of muscle shifting as Elias tightened his hold.
"Couldn't sleep," Rhys said, his voice coming out breathier than he intended. "Thought I'd get some practice in."
"Mmm." Elias's lips brushed against the side of Rhys's neck, just below his ear. "You're good at this. Really good. You should enter the archery competition at the tournament."
"I'm not competing," Rhys said, even as his body melted back against Elias's. "I'm just... I'm just there to watch you."
"You could represent your house," Elias murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on Rhys's hips. "Show everyone how talented you are."
Rhys shivered as Elias's lips found the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder. "I don't need to show anyone anything."
"But I want to watch you," Elias said, his voice dropping even lower. "Want to see you draw that bow, all focused and intense. Want to see everyone else realize how incredible you are."
Rhys's heart clenched. This—this was the Elias he loved. The one who saw him, who valued him, who made him feel like he mattered.
"Maybe," Rhys whispered.
Elias hummed in approval and kissed his neck again, this time with more heat. His hands tightened on Rhys's hips, pulling him back more firmly, and Rhys felt it—the thick, hard length of Elias's morning wood pressing against his lower back.
"Elias," Rhys breathed.
"Shoot," Elias said, his voice rough. "I want to see you hit the bullseye."
Rhys's hands were trembling slightly as he raised the bow again. Elias's body was a solid wall of heat behind him, his arms still wrapped around Rhys's waist, his lips trailing soft kisses along the side of his neck. It was impossible to focus, impossible to think about anything except the feel of Elias's cock hardening against him, the way his breath was coming faster, the low groans rumbling in his chest.
"I can't—" Rhys started.
"Yes, you can," Elias murmured. "You're so good at this.”
Rhys drew back the bowstring, his whole body trembling. Elias's hands slid lower, gripping his hips possessively, and Rhys pushed back against him, grinding his bubble butt against that massive bulge. Elias groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and Rhys felt a rush of heat flood through him.
He released the arrow.
It flew straight and true, sinking into the dead center of the bullseye with a satisfying thunk.
"Fuck," Elias breathed.
Rhys dropped the bow and turned in Elias's arms, and then they were kissing—hard and desperate and hungry. Elias's hands came up to cup Rhys's face, his massive body pressing Rhys back against the archery stand. Rhys could feel every inch of him—the broad shoulders, the thick pecs, the ridges of his abs, and that huge cock straining against his breeches.
"You've been busy," Rhys said, trying to keep his tone light even as his hands slid up Elias's bare chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath smooth skin.
"I know. I'm sorry." Elias kissed him again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding into Rhys's mouth.
Rhys moaned into the kiss, his hands exploring the familiar terrain of Elias's body. The morning light was just beginning to break over the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and pink. Elias looked like a god in that light—his golden hair tousled from sleep, his blue eyes dark with desire, his skin glowing warm and perfect.
Rhys's hands slid down to the front of Elias's breeches, feeling the thick, hard length of him straining against the fabric. Elias groaned, his hips pushing forward into Rhys's touch.
"Didn't get to play with my favorite toy this morning," Rhys said with a teasing grin. "Woke up and you were already gone."
"Had to get up early for—fuck—" Elias's words cut off in a groan as Rhys squeezed him through the fabric. "For training."
"Well, I think I deserve some attention," Rhys murmured, his fingers working at the laces of Elias's breeches. "Don't you?"
"Yes," Elias breathed. "Fuck, yes."
Rhys unlaced the breeches and pulled them down just enough to free Elias's cock. It sprang out, thick and hard and already leaking pre-cum from the swollen head. Twelve inches of perfect, veiny perfection, flushed dark red and throbbing visibly.
"Gods," Rhys whispered, wrapping his hand around the base. "You're so fucking big."
Elias groaned, his head falling back. "Rhys—"
Rhys leaned in and let a long, hot string of spit drip from his lips onto Elias's cock. It landed on the head and dripped down the shaft, and Rhys used it to slick his hand as he started stroking—slow and sensual, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.
"Fuck," Elias gasped, his hips jerking. "That feels so good."
Rhys kept stroking, his other hand coming up to play with Elias's balls—heavy and full and tight against his body. Elias's hands found Rhys's ass, gripping and squeezing those perfect globes, kneading them possessively.
"Love this ass," Elias groaned. "So fucking perfect."
Rhys pushed back into his hands, grinding against him as he stroked faster. Elias's cock was leaking steadily now, pre-cum mixing with the spit to make everything slick and wet. The sounds were obscene—the wet slide of Rhys's hand, Elias's ragged breathing, the low groans rumbling in his chest.
"Gonna make you cum," Rhys whispered, leaning in to kiss along Elias's jaw. "Gonna make you cum so hard."
"Yes," Elias breathed. "Fuck, yes, don't stop."
Rhys stroked faster, his hand flying over Elias's cock, and he could feel the Prince getting close—his balls drawing up tight, his cock swelling even thicker, his whole body tensing.
"Rhys," Elias gasped. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
A throat cleared nearby.
Rhys froze.
Elias's eyes flew open, his whole body going rigid.
They both turned to see a young squire standing a respectful distance away, his face bright red, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
"Your Highness," the squire said, his voice strained. "I apologize for the interruption, but—"
Rhys moved with lightning speed, tucking Elias's still-hard cock back into his breeches and lacing them up. Elias stood there, breathing hard, his face flushed with a mixture of arousal and frustration.
"What is it?" Elias said, his voice coming out rougher than usual.
"The palace received word from the blacksmith, Your Highness," the squire said, still not looking at them. "Lord Rhys's custom armour is ready for collection."
Rhys blinked. "Custom armour?"
Elias's expression shifted, a sheepish smile crossing his face. "Surprise?"
"You... you commissioned armour for me?"
"Ceremonial armour," Elias said. "For the tournament. I wanted you to have something special. Something that represents your house."
Rhys felt his chest tighten with emotion. "Elias..."
"I used my favorite blacksmith in the capital," Elias continued. "He does incredible work. I was going to give it to you as a gift before we left, but—" He turned to the squire. "Go fetch it and bring it to—"
"Actually," Rhys interrupted, "I'd like to go pick it up myself. Make sure it fits properly before we leave."
Elias looked at him, surprised. "You don't have to do that. I can send—"
"I want to," Rhys said firmly. "It's my armour. I should make sure it's right."
Elias studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. The shop is in the craftsman's quarter. Just ask for Warren's forge."
Rhys's heart skipped a beat. Warren.
"Thank you," the squire said, bowing quickly before hurrying away.
As soon as he was gone, Rhys turned back to Elias with a wicked grin. "Now, where were we?"
Elias groaned. "Rhys, I have to—"
"Just a minute," Rhys murmured, pressing close again. His hands slid down to Elias's breeches, feeling the still-hard bulge beneath. "You're still so hard."
"Because you were about to make me cum," Elias said, his voice strained.
Rhys kissed him, slow and deep, his hand rubbing over Elias's cock through the fabric. He could feel it throbbing, could feel how desperate Elias was for release. He worked him through the breeches, stroking and squeezing until Elias was panting into his mouth.
"Fuck," Elias gasped. "Rhys, I can't—I have to go—"
"I know," Rhys whispered, giving him one last squeeze before stepping back. "But now you'll be thinking about this all day."
Elias stared at him, his cock visibly tenting his breeches, his face flushed. "You're evil."
Rhys grinned and kissed him one more time. "I'll see you later."
He walked away, leaving Elias standing there hard as a rock, and tried not to think about the fact that he was about to see Warren again.
The craftsman's quarter was bustling even in the early morning.
Rhys made his way through the narrow streets, past shops selling everything from fine fabrics to intricate jewelry. The smell of metal and fire grew stronger as he approached the forges, and he found Warren's shop easily—a large building with an open front, the sound of hammering echoing from within.
He stepped inside and stopped.
Warren was at the forge, his back to the door, hammering a piece of glowing metal. He was wearing a loose chemise that hung open, revealing his massive chest—two huge pecs that flexed and bounced with each strike of the hammer. His long dark hair was tied back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame his rugged, handsome face.
And his breeches—gods, his breeches were obscenely tight, showing off the massive bulge between his legs.
Warren set down the hammer and turned, and when he saw Rhys, a slow, sexy grin spread across his face.
"Well, well," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Look who it is. The pretty noble boy."
Rhys felt his face heat. "Hello, Warren."
Warren wiped his hands on a rag and walked over, his movements confident and predatory. Up close, he was even more impressive—taller than Rhys by several inches, his body thick with muscle, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The smell of him was intoxicating—hot metal and smoke and something raw and masculine.
"I knew you were highborn," Warren said, his eyes raking over Rhys appreciatively. "The way you carried yourself. The way you talked. But I didn't realize you were that highborn."
"I'm not—"
"The Prince's companion," Warren interrupted, his grin widening. "Everyone in the capital knows about you. The beautiful boy from the eastern coast who's caught the Prince's eye."
Rhys swallowed. "I'm here to pick up my armour."
"Of course you are." Warren's gaze was intense, almost predatory. "Come on. It's in the back."
He led Rhys through the shop, past racks of weapons and pieces of armour in various stages of completion. The back room was quieter, cooler, and there on a large wooden table sat the most beautiful piece of armour Rhys had ever seen.
The breastplate gleamed in the dim light, polished to a mirror shine. Rhys's family crest was embossed on the chest—the deep navy and white flowers of his house—and around the edges was a delicate trim of more flowers, each one perfectly detailed.
"It's beautiful," Rhys breathed.
"The Prince wanted the best," Warren said, moving to stand beside him. "And I always deliver the best."
He picked up the breastplate and held it out. "Try it on."
Rhys pulled off his shirt and let Warren help him into the armour. The metal was cool against his skin, and Warren's hands were warm as he fastened the straps from behind. But then Warren pressed closer, his chest against Rhys's back, his breath hot on Rhys's neck.
"Perfect fit," Warren murmured.
Rhys could feel it—the massive length of Warren's cock pressing against his lower back through the blacksmith's breeches. It was huge, even bigger than Elias's, and Rhys couldn't help the way his body responded, pushing back slightly against it.
Warren's hands slid around to Rhys's waist, holding him in place. "Good boy prince," he said, his voice a low growl.
The words sent a jolt of heat straight through Rhys. His hole clenched and tingled, his cock hardening in his breeches. Warren's musk was overwhelming this close—sweat and smoke and raw male heat—and Rhys felt his knees go weak.
"Warren," he breathed.
"Let's get this off you," Warren said, his hands already working at the straps.
He removed the armour carefully, setting it aside, and then turned Rhys around. Before Rhys could react, Warren's hands were on his waist, lifting him effortlessly onto the large stone table. Rhys's legs spread automatically, and Warren stepped between them, his massive body crowding close.
"I can make you cum harder than he ever could," Warren said, tilting Rhys's chin up with one finger. His dark eyes were intense, hungry. "Make you see stars. Make you forget your own name."
"I shouldn't," Rhys gasped, but his body was betraying him—his cock hard, his hole clenching with need.
Warren pulled his chemise off over his head, and Rhys's breath caught.
The blacksmith's body was incredible—massive pecs that jutted out proudly, thick and heavy, with small dark nipples already hard. His abs were deeply cut, a six-pack that flexed and rippled with every breath. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle. He looked like he could break Rhys in half.
And he was so fucking sexy.
Warren leaned in, his lips hovering just above Rhys's. "Tell me to stop," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."
Rhys opened his mouth to say it, to push him away, to be loyal to Elias—
But he couldn't.
Warren kissed him, and it was nothing like kissing Elias. This was raw and hungry and almost violent—Warren's tongue plunging into his mouth, his teeth nipping at Rhys's lips, his hands gripping Rhys's hair and pulling his head back to deepen the kiss.
Rhys moaned into it, his hands coming up to grip Warren's massive shoulders. The blacksmith's body was so hot, so solid, and Rhys felt himself melting into the kiss, into the heat of it.
His hands were on Rhys's breeches, unlacing them and pulling them down. Rhys lifted his hips to help, and then he was naked, sitting on the table with his legs spread, his cock hard and leaking.
"Fuck," Warren breathed, his eyes roaming over Rhys's body. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
He leaned down and kissed Rhys's neck, his lips hot and wet, his stubble scraping against sensitive skin. Rhys arched into it, gasping, and Warren's mouth moved lower—kissing across his collarbones, down to his chest, sucking one of Rhys's nipples into his mouth.
"Oh fuck," Rhys gasped.
Warren's hands were everywhere—gripping Rhys's thighs, sliding up to squeeze his pecs, moving around to grab his ass. He kneaded those perfect globes, his fingers digging in possessively, and Rhys felt his hole clench again.
"I should get back," Rhys said weakly, even as he arched his back to give Warren better access. "The palace—"
"You're not going anywhere," Warren growled against his skin. "Not until I've had my fill of you."
He kissed down Rhys's stomach, his tongue dipping into his navel, and then he was kneeling between Rhys's spread legs. He looked up at Rhys with a wicked grin, his hands gripping Rhys's thighs and pushing them wider.
"Gonna eat this pretty hole," Warren said. "Gonna make you scream."
And then his mouth was on Rhys.
Rhys cried out as Warren's tongue licked over his hole—hot and wet and so fucking good. Warren didn't tease, didn't go slow. He dove in like a man starving, his tongue circling and pressing and then pushing inside.
"Fuck!" Rhys gasped, his hands flying to Warren's hair.
Warren groaned against him, the vibrations traveling straight into Rhys's core. His tongue pushed deeper, fucking into Rhys's hole with relentless intensity. It was more than Elias had ever done—more aggressive, more hungry, more everything.
Warren's hands came up to grip Rhys's pecs, squeezing and kneading as his tongue worked deeper. Rhys was gasping and moaning, his whole body trembling, his cock leaking steadily onto his stomach.
"Yes," Rhys moaned. "Fuck, yes, don't stop."
Warren pulled back just long enough to spit on Rhys's hole—a hot, wet glob—and then he was back, his tongue pushing the spit inside, fucking Rhys open with obscene wet sounds. Rhys gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, and Warren groaned in approval.
The blacksmith ate him out like it was his job, like he'd been dreaming about this, and Rhys felt himself losing control. His hips were rocking, fucking himself on Warren's tongue, and he was making sounds he'd never made before—high, desperate whimpers and gasps.
Finally, Warren pulled back. His lips were wet and swollen, his eyes dark with lust. He stood up slowly, and Rhys watched as he reached down and unlaced his breeches.
Warren's cock sprang free, and Rhys's eyes went wide.
It was massive, and thick as a beer can—thicker than Elias's, longer than Elias's, the head swollen and dark red and already drooling long strands of hot, sticky pre-cum.
"Oh fuck," Rhys breathed.
Warren reached up and pulled his hair free, letting it fall in dark waves around his shoulders. He looked like the sexiest bad boy stud Rhys had ever seen—rugged and dangerous and absolutely irresistible.
"You like what you see?" Warren asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes," Rhys whispered.
Warren stepped closer, his cock bobbing between them, and he smacked it against Rhys's hole. The wet slap made Rhys gasp, and Warren did it again, teasing him.
"I bet you're such a pretty tease," Warren said, his voice dripping with filth. "Love showing off that bubble butt, don't you? Love making men hard. But you need to learn how to be a good boy prince. Need someone to put you in your place."
Rhys was nodding, his whole body trembling with need. "Please," he begged. "Please fuck me."
Warren grinned. "Say it again."
"Please fuck me," Rhys gasped. "I need it. I need your cock."
Warren lined himself up, the thick head pressing against Rhys's hole. "Today," he growled, "I'm your king."
And then he pushed inside.
Rhys's mouth fell open in a silent scream as Warren's cock stretched him wider than he'd ever been stretched before. It was so thick, so long, and Warren didn't stop—he just kept pushing, inch after inch, until Rhys felt like he was being split in half.
"Fuck," Warren groaned. "So tight. So fucking tight."
He pushed deeper, and Rhys felt it—the head of Warren's cock hitting his second hole, that deep spot that Elias had only touched once or twice. And Warren didn't stop. He kept pushing, kept sinking deeper, until he was balls-deep inside Rhys.
"Oh my god," Rhys gasped, his whole body shaking. "You're so deep."
"That's right," Warren grunted. "Taking every inch like a good boy."
He started to move, pulling out slowly and then pushing back in, and Rhys felt every ridge, every vein, every inch of that massive cock. Warren's hands gripped his hips, holding him in place, and he started to fuck harder.
"Look at you," Warren said, his voice rough. "Taking my cock so well. Such a pretty little prince."
Rhys stared up at him, mesmerized. Warren's body was incredible in motion—his huge pecs bouncing with each thrust, his abs flexing and contracting, sweat beginning to bead on his skin. His long hair fell around his face, and his expression was one of pure, animalistic lust.
The smell of him filled the room—hot musk and sweat and sex—and Rhys felt himself drowning in it.
Warren fucked harder, his hips snapping forward with brutal force. The table creaked beneath them, and Rhys's moans grew louder, more desperate.
"That's it," Warren growled. "Let me hear you. Let everyone know who's fucking you."
Rhys couldn't help it—he was moaning and gasping and begging for more. Warren's cock was hitting spots inside him that made him see stars, made his whole body light up with pleasure.
"Fuck me," Rhys gasped. "Fuck me harder."
Warren grinned and pulled Rhys up, wrapping Rhys's legs around his waist. He bounced Rhys on his cock, using his strength to lift him up and slam him back down, and Rhys clung to his shoulders, his head falling back.
"Yes!" Rhys cried. "Fuck, yes!"
Warren's hands gripped Rhys's wavy auburn hair, pulling his face up, and he kissed him hard and deep. Their tongues tangled as Warren fucked even harder, even rougher, and Rhys felt his orgasm building.
"Gonna cum," Rhys gasped against Warren's lips. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."
"Cum for me," Warren growled. "Cum on my cock like a good boy."
Rhys's orgasm hit him like a lightning strike. He screamed, his whole body convulsing, his cock spurting hot cum between their abs. Warren didn't stop—he kept fucking through it, prolonging Rhys's pleasure until he was sobbing.
And then Warren was moving again, carrying Rhys across the room and pinning him against the stone wall. The cold stone against Rhys's back was a sharp contrast to the heat of Warren's body, and Warren fucked him hard and rough, chasing his own release.
"Breed me," Rhys heard himself begging. "Please, breed your prince."
Warren groaned, his rhythm faltering. "Fuck, you want my cum?"
"Yes," Rhys gasped. "Fill me up. Breed me."
"Gonna give you every drop," Warren grunted, slamming in harder. "Gonna fill this tight hole. Gonna make you mine."
He fucked faster, rougher, his cock swelling even thicker inside Rhys. And then he roared, his whole body going rigid as he came.
Rhys felt it—the hot flood of cum deep inside him, pulse after pulse, so much that it started to leak out around Warren's cock. Warren kept fucking through it, his hips jerking erratically, and Rhys felt another smaller orgasm ripple through him at the sensation.
Finally, Warren stilled, both of them panting and trembling. He leaned in and kissed Rhys again—softer this time, almost tender—and then he pulled out slowly.
Rhys whimpered at the loss, feeling Warren's cum dripping out of him.
Warren set him down carefully, steadying him when his legs threatened to give out. He winked, that cocky grin back on his face.
"Enjoy the tournament, prince," he said.
Rhys could only nod, his whole body still trembling. He dressed on shaky legs, his mind spinning, and collected his new armour.
As he walked out of the shop and into the bright morning sunlight, reality came crashing back.
Rhys walked through the capital streets in a daze, his body still aching pleasantly, Warren's cum still leaking out of him. He thought of Elias waiting for him at the palace, thought of the tournament, thought of what would happen if Elias ever found out.