Chapter Text
“You damned – incompetent – dreadful –” The prince breaks off, hand clenching hard enough on the brush that Kiyan can hear it.
Kiyan leans back, affecting his best insouciant look. Maybe he should be worried, considering the prince is an actual, y’know, prince, but he’s just a man, and Kiyan is a Witcher with no compunctions about using his strength and speed. It would be a different story if the prince had a court mage, but without one? None of his men will be any sort of match for Kiyan.
Also, the prince is swearing instead of calling for the guards, using what sounds like the worst words he knows in a downright adorable manner – though saying so out loud would doubtlessly give him a conniption, so Kiyan for once holds his tongue. Still, he’s undeniably charmed.
“Pretty sure I forsook my existence when I was changed into this.”
The prince actually bares his teeth, growling. It’s not even close to a Witcher’s growl, of course, but. Well. It’s the though that counts, isn’t it?
Kiyan shamelessly lets that thought colour his smile.
“Get. Back. Into. Position,” the prince says through clenched teeth, brush in his hand still groaning.
Huh. Now that would be fun to hear in… other contexts. Such as the prince’s bed. Instead of draped artfully over a dainty fainting couch.
“You picked a Witcher for this sort of work,” Kiyan says mercilessly. “Make me.”
The prince goes very, very still for a moment before he throws the brush at Kiyan, surprisingly fast and with a lot more strength than Kiyan had thought him capable of. Huh indeed. The prince is getting more intriguing by the second.
“Don’t you still need this?” Kiyan raises one eyebrow, studying the brush. Out of the corner of his eye he can still see the prince, and it’s a wonder worthy of the goddess herself that the man isn’t yet visibly fuming. Oh, he’s doing the metaphorical thing alright, but with so much concentrated fury written into the lines of his face and his dark eyes, Kiyan expects something… tangible. Physical.
And still, he hasn’t called for the guard. Will he call them? There’s a window a few steps away from Kiyan, so there’s nothing really keeping him from trying out.
Presently, the prince is stalking towards him, moving like nothing so much as a predator on the prowl. It’s… doing things to Kiyan he hadn’t known a human could, but then again – this prince has power at his beck and call, fury flowing through his veins, and yet is still so very intriguing that probably, Kiyan shouldn’t be overly surprised.
He’s always had a thing for things just that side of dangerous.
“If you do not take this seriously,” the prince growls, stopping inches away from Kiyan – closer than humans usually do, like the prince isn’t even noticing that he’s tempting a monster – and then doesn’t continue, clearly content to let the threat hang in the air.
“Then what?”
“I could have you whipped.”
Kiyan lets himself tremble at the thought. “Intriguing. Though usually, I’m more into being the one wielding the whip. Or other things that can be wielded with a willing partner at my mercy.”
This brings the prince up short.
“You would – just admit to such things?” His anger isn’t so much forgotten as briefly banked.
Kiyan smirks, letting his legs fall open and tilting his head up at the prince in a way he’s pretty sure accentuates some shite like the long lean lines of his body, or whatever Aiden, the tosser, would say. “My lovely, innocent prince,” he purrs, smirk widening when the prince’s expression grows even stormier, “I’m a Witcher. If we can’t admit to such things, then who can?”
“Are you not afraid of what I can do to you?”
“My lovely, innocent prince,” Kiyan repeats in the same tone of voice, “I’m a Witcher. Whatever you think you can do has probably already been done to me. Tenfold.”
“Even this?” The prince grabs Kiyan’s chin with his faintly callused but still so fucking soft hands, yanking him closer and crashing their lips together. One thumb worms its way into the corner of Kiyan’s mouth, pressing his lip against the sharp ridges of his teeth for just a hint of pain, the bitterness from the prince’s paints flooding Kiyan’s mouth as a welcome counterpoint to the arousal and elation coursing through him.
Kiyan drops the brush, uncaring that it will get paint all over the couch – it had already been a lost cause, what with the prince throwing the dripping thing across the room – and snags the prince by the hips, pulling him closer until he’s kneeling above Kiyan. The prince still has control over the kiss, but that’s not something Kiyan’s necessarily looking to change, and so while he yields to the prince’s tongue and teeth and demanding lips, he keeps hold of his hips just a smidge too tightly.
The whole room smells like delicious arousal, and he’s suddenly so very glad the prince insisted on comfortable clothes, because if he were wearing his codpiece, it would be painfully uncomfortable – and not the fun kind of pain or discomfort – by now.
“Isn’t that much more pleasurable?” Kiyan asks when the prince lets up, breathing heavily. His own voice is scratchy, and he has no doubt his pupils are entirely round, just like prince’s.
The prince growls in response and slides one hand into Kiyan’s hair, yanking. Kiyan hisses, letting the sound trail off into an almost-moan. This discomfort, on the other hand, is definitely the fun kind.
“I could just ravish you,” the prince says, and Kiyan’s pretty sure he means it as a threat. It’s not.
“You could,” he agrees evenly. “And if you ask me very nicely, I’ll even pretend it’s punishment for me.”
The prince’s nails dig into Kiyan’s scalp in sharp reprimand – possibly sharp enough to draw actual blood – and then his hands are around Kiyan’s throat, which–
“No such thing,” Kiyan says, wiping all levity from his tone and body language as he wraps his fingers around the prince’s wrists and manoeuvres them in one inhumanly fast, Cat-smooth motion that ends with the prince pressed into the couch and Kiyan kneeling over him.
The prince’s eyes go even wide, but instead of fear or fury, it’s arousal that hits Kiyan, strong enough to almost bowl him over.
“Oh, you like this,” Kiyan remarks, mostly to himself, and experimentally tightens his hands on the prince’s wrists. He feels the bones and sinews grind under his fingers as the prince struggles, but there’s still no fear. There is, however, the sharp scent of anger back in the air.
“If all you spew is inanities, put your mouth to good use,” the prince demands. He does not, to Kiyan’s surprise, deny the assessment.
And, well. He grasps the prince’s wrists in one hand, sliding off the couch so he’s kneeling at hip level, smirking at the hungry expression on the prince’s face. That kind of honesty deserves a reward, doesn’t it?