It was just some rocks, Anya insisted; it was just rude children with rocks, too young to do any real damage (let alone to a minotaur), and too young to know the youngest prince of Charn by his house’s arms. Nonetheless, under the wide eye of the crowned rabbit that represented his family, stitched in beautiful gold and black upon his tunic, Fray had given furious chastisement to the children right there in the street. Then he had led a nonplussed Anya directly back out of the village. “It’s summer,” he’d said with a forced smile at Anya’s inquisitive looks. “Won’t be as cold as all that tonight.”
In answer, she had looked back over her shoulder at the village, where Fray knew a perfectly good inn stood with vacancies. He does not care, he repeats to himself irately as he once again arranges his bedroll. Any town backwater enough to hold onto the idea that bullfolk are wicked monsters hardly deserves his coin.
It is not, to his frustration, all that warm. Here in high summer it ought to be, but they’re further north than he’s used to. It’s easy enough to make a fire now at least, even for him, and when he looks up from his fussing Anya pats the log where she sits. His silly daydream of having to share a bed with his handsome bodyguard already dashed for tonight, he happily takes a new outlet when offered.
Sitting next to Anya ensures he doesn’t go cold. She’s a furnace, and a soft, pleasant-smelling one at that. “So,” Fray says, grateful he’s been able to keep his damn voice under control so far. “It’s been a tenday. How do you like my odds?”
Her ears flick thoughtfully. “In the pilgrimage?” she asks, and Fray nods. “Seems good.”
It’s hard for him to intuit whatever else she might be saying. Anya seems to speak mostly in subtle body motions and head tosses, and he’s not quite fluent in it yet. He can’t tell if this judgement is simply one of politeness, and as a result finds himself staring distantly into the fire. He’ll be fine, he reminds himself. He’ll make the pilgrimage. He’ll bring peace and return a hero. He won’t be just the bastard son anymore.
But it doesn’t do to focus on that right now. “I’ve brought some wine,” he says eventually, a bit tentatively. “I might have some. If you’d like to share.”
Anya’s ears flick again, differently, and this time she smiles.
“And I told him right there, teach me swordplay and I’ll do whatever you ask. And he!” Fray snorts hugely, throwing back another mouthful of the mead in his cup. “He told me I could start by walking myself home and never coming back! Prick!”
An hour later and Fray knows he’s had a bit too much. He can’t find it in him to care. He’d been matching Anya’s drinks, until he realized what a dreadful idea it was to try and match drinks with someone three times his body weight. He caught himself eventually, but it was too late. Now he’s past the line of tipsy, and everything seems like a good idea.
“Did you?” asks Anya politely. He can just see her eyes through the mop of hair that falls over her brow. He feels his face flush. He has to look away.
“No!” he says, firmly putting the cup on the ground by the fire. He should not have any more. He should not. “I kept at bothering him, until he got so sick of me he refused to see me at all and eventually I had to return home. But he was the best swordsman I’d ever seen. I had to try.”
Anya makes a sound of understanding, and Fray uses it as an excuse to look at her again. She’s enormous in every way, and that longing that’s been mounting in him all week threatens to burst from his chest. Fray pulls his braid over his shoulder to fuss with it. “Anyway,” he says, “I was wondering about you. Your life, you know. I’d like to, to know more about you.” She looks at him expectantly, and he panics. “Like—you know—do you have anyone at home?”
“My wife,” Anya says warmly, and Fray feels his heart sink. “A little kobold. Beautiful woman.”
Fine. Of course. Nothing worth getting upset over. His fantasies will simply stay fantasies. “Tell me about her,” he says, and makes what he hopes is a casual slide slightly away from the minotaur. And she does tell him, using more words than he’s yet heard from her. It’s sweet, the clear devotion she has, even if it does make his heart ache. It’s fine, after all. He should be used to disappointment by now. And it’s not even like his … appetites are something he can indulge. Not in his precarious position.
“She sounds lovely,” he tells her, as earnestly as he can, when she’s done. “She’s very—you’re both very lucky. I’m glad for you. I hope you can get back to her soon.”
Another soft low from Anya, which he’s learned is a noise of agreement. “Me too,” she says. “I go a long time between seeing her. At least makes it nice that she doesn’t mind sharing.”
It takes Fray a moment to parse what she’s said, and by the time he has, it’s too late. She’s already reached out an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, and as she pulls him back in her muzzle brushes the crown of his head. If it had been any more than that he might have truly panicked. As it is, though, she stills after this, waiting to see what he will do.
Fray’s mind races rabbit-like through this new development. He feels sluggish and stupid with the wine. He needs to stop this before it begins. He opens his mouth to tell her she had best not touch him for both their sakes, but it is not what he says. Instead, he says quietly, “This will sound funny, but I’ve never been with anyone.”
“No?”
“No,” he admits, shaking his head, trying not to focus on the weight of her arm on his shoulders. “Never seemed to find the right person. I don’t know. Maybe after I return home …”
He does not add that it’s difficult for someone in his position to meet others to begin with. He does not add the part about the long, lonely nights, the bitter envy of his full-blooded siblings, the forbidden hunger he feels. He shouldn’t be doing this, whatever “this” is.
Anya says nothing. Her hand remains where it is.
“Sorry,” Fray says with no small timidity.
“For?”
“You di …” His tongue gets stuck. He fights it for a moment before giving up. A lifetime of training cannot, apparently, overcome poor breeding. His arch court speech crumples into the much easier slurred consonants and imperfect grammar he’s forbidden from using at home. “Shouldn’t be bothering you with it,” he falls back on. “My cross to bear.”
Yet again she simply looks at him. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. He’s normally good at reading people; even the subtle spymaster isn’t immune to his attentive eye. But Spymaster Bajpur is human too. That’s all it is, Fray tells himself, unease at not being able to read her. Don’t get tripped up.
He is very much tripped up when she blows a few strands of hair from his face and tilts his head up enough to press her lips to his. One could call him in shock. Her mouth is a good deal bigger than his, to say nothing of that broad tongue. He feels overwhelmed by her kisses, in a good way, a way that makes his head spin. She bites at his lips once, very gently, and he does the most embarrassing thing imaginable: he moans.
That shocks him out of it. With agony he pulls himself away from the kiss and finds his hands tangled in her fur. He’s panting from the kiss. He’s struggling his hardest to think of compelling reasons to stop this, but none come.
“I like you,” says Anya, in her signature straightforward approach. “You’re kind. And if you want your first to be me,” she adds with no suggestiveness whatsoever, “I’d be happy to.”
Fray stares up at her for a long moment. Exactly one part of him tries to pull away. It fails in the face of the rest of him standing up on his knees to better meet her kisses. Her breath is sweet and grassy.
Fray says against her mouth, low and desperate, “Yes,” and “But now, and quickly.”
Title: Rabbit, Run (WIP)
Tags: prince fray, original work, 18+, wip
It was just some rocks, Anya insisted; it was just rude children with rocks, too young to do any real damage (let alone to a minotaur), and too young to know the youngest prince of Charn by his house’s arms. Nonetheless, under the wide eye of the crowned rabbit that represented his family, stitched in beautiful gold and black upon his tunic, Fray had given furious chastisement to the children right there in the street. Then he had led a nonplussed Anya directly back out of the village. “It’s summer,” he’d said with a forced smile at Anya’s inquisitive looks. “Won’t be as cold as all that tonight.”
In answer, she had looked back over her shoulder at the village, where Fray knew a perfectly good inn stood with vacancies. He does not care, he repeats to himself irately as he once again arranges his bedroll. Any town backwater enough to hold onto the idea that bullfolk are wicked monsters hardly deserves his coin.
It is not, to his frustration, all that warm. Here in high summer it ought to be, but they’re further north than he’s used to. It’s easy enough to make a fire now at least, even for him, and when he looks up from his fussing Anya pats the log where she sits. His silly daydream of having to share a bed with his handsome bodyguard already dashed for tonight, he happily takes a new outlet when offered.
Sitting next to Anya ensures he doesn’t go cold. She’s a furnace, and a soft, pleasant-smelling one at that. “So,” Fray says, grateful he’s been able to keep his damn voice under control so far. “It’s been a tenday. How do you like my odds?”
Her ears flick thoughtfully. “In the pilgrimage?” she asks, and Fray nods. “Seems good.”
It’s hard for him to intuit whatever else she might be saying. Anya seems to speak mostly in subtle body motions and head tosses, and he’s not quite fluent in it yet. He can’t tell if this judgement is simply one of politeness, and as a result finds himself staring distantly into the fire. He’ll be fine, he reminds himself. He’ll make the pilgrimage. He’ll bring peace and return a hero. He won’t be just the bastard son anymore.
But it doesn’t do to focus on that right now. “I’ve brought some wine,” he says eventually, a bit tentatively. “I might have some. If you’d like to share.”
Anya’s ears flick again, differently, and this time she smiles.
“And I told him right there, teach me swordplay and I’ll do whatever you ask. And he!” Fray snorts hugely, throwing back another mouthful of the mead in his cup. “He told me I could start by walking myself home and never coming back! Prick!”
An hour later and Fray knows he’s had a bit too much. He can’t find it in him to care. He’d been matching Anya’s drinks, until he realized what a dreadful idea it was to try and match drinks with someone three times his body weight. He caught himself eventually, but it was too late. Now he’s past the line of tipsy, and everything seems like a good idea.
“Did you?” asks Anya politely. He can just see her eyes through the mop of hair that falls over her brow. He feels his face flush. He has to look away.
“No!” he says, firmly putting the cup on the ground by the fire. He should not have any more. He should not. “I kept at bothering him, until he got so sick of me he refused to see me at all and eventually I had to return home. But he was the best swordsman I’d ever seen. I had to try.”
Anya makes a sound of understanding, and Fray uses it as an excuse to look at her again. She’s enormous in every way, and that longing that’s been mounting in him all week threatens to burst from his chest. Fray pulls his braid over his shoulder to fuss with it. “Anyway,” he says, “I was wondering about you. Your life, you know. I’d like to, to know more about you.” She looks at him expectantly, and he panics. “Like—you know—do you have anyone at home?”
“My wife,” Anya says warmly, and Fray feels his heart sink. “A little kobold. Beautiful woman.”
Fine. Of course. Nothing worth getting upset over. His fantasies will simply stay fantasies. “Tell me about her,” he says, and makes what he hopes is a casual slide slightly away from the minotaur. And she does tell him, using more words than he’s yet heard from her. It’s sweet, the clear devotion she has, even if it does make his heart ache. It’s fine, after all. He should be used to disappointment by now. And it’s not even like his … appetites are something he can indulge. Not in his precarious position.
“She sounds lovely,” he tells her, as earnestly as he can, when she’s done. “She’s very—you’re both very lucky. I’m glad for you. I hope you can get back to her soon.”
Another soft low from Anya, which he’s learned is a noise of agreement. “Me too,” she says. “I go a long time between seeing her. At least makes it nice that she doesn’t mind sharing.”
It takes Fray a moment to parse what she’s said, and by the time he has, it’s too late. She’s already reached out an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, and as she pulls him back in her muzzle brushes the crown of his head. If it had been any more than that he might have truly panicked. As it is, though, she stills after this, waiting to see what he will do.
Fray’s mind races rabbit-like through this new development. He feels sluggish and stupid with the wine. He needs to stop this before it begins. He opens his mouth to tell her she had best not touch him for both their sakes, but it is not what he says. Instead, he says quietly, “This will sound funny, but I’ve never been with anyone.”
“No?”
“No,” he admits, shaking his head, trying not to focus on the weight of her arm on his shoulders. “Never seemed to find the right person. I don’t know. Maybe after I return home …”
He does not add that it’s difficult for someone in his position to meet others to begin with. He does not add the part about the long, lonely nights, the bitter envy of his full-blooded siblings, the forbidden hunger he feels. He shouldn’t be doing this, whatever “this” is.
Anya says nothing. Her hand remains where it is.
“Sorry,” Fray says with no small timidity.
“For?”
“You di …” His tongue gets stuck. He fights it for a moment before giving up. A lifetime of training cannot, apparently, overcome poor breeding. His arch court speech crumples into the much easier slurred consonants and imperfect grammar he’s forbidden from using at home. “Shouldn’t be bothering you with it,” he falls back on. “My cross to bear.”
Yet again she simply looks at him. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. He’s normally good at reading people; even the subtle spymaster isn’t immune to his attentive eye. But Spymaster Bajpur is human too. That’s all it is, Fray tells himself, unease at not being able to read her. Don’t get tripped up.
He is very much tripped up when she blows a few strands of hair from his face and tilts his head up enough to press her lips to his. One could call him in shock. Her mouth is a good deal bigger than his, to say nothing of that broad tongue. He feels overwhelmed by her kisses, in a good way, a way that makes his head spin. She bites at his lips once, very gently, and he does the most embarrassing thing imaginable: he moans.
That shocks him out of it. With agony he pulls himself away from the kiss and finds his hands tangled in her fur. He’s panting from the kiss. He’s struggling his hardest to think of compelling reasons to stop this, but none come.
“I like you,” says Anya, in her signature straightforward approach. “You’re kind. And if you want your first to be me,” she adds with no suggestiveness whatsoever, “I’d be happy to.”
Fray stares up at her for a long moment. Exactly one part of him tries to pull away. It fails in the face of the rest of him standing up on his knees to better meet her kisses. Her breath is sweet and grassy.
Fray says against her mouth, low and desperate, “Yes,” and “But now, and quickly.”
She treats him like he’s truly a prince. As this has happened very rarely in his life, Fray is helpless against it. She’d caught him up in one arm and carried him as if he weighed nothing to a clear spot in the still-watm grass. Here she sat down carefully and slid him into her lap. His legs slip wide to accommodate hers, and he flinches with the way it stretches his suddenly sensitive body. He tries to brace himself and get more comfortable, or at least less embarrassed, only to realize he’s dug his fingers into the fur of her chest. This does little to quell his pounding blood.
Anya gives him a gentle bump with her snout. “You can touch,” she says easily. “It’s nice.”
So Fray tries to relax, tries to focus on the silken fur under his hands. All the while Anya noses at his brow, rubbing a circle into his back. It feels exquisite. He doesn’t know how to tell her not to stop, his tongue won’t work—but his body knows. It arches his back into her touch and draws a soft moan from him. In response, Anya pushes her fingers harder. Despite his best efforts, Fray’s hips jerk.
He bumps against something that wasn’t there a moment ago, beneath him. It’s hard, it’s long, and as his hips twitch again it gives its own twitch in answer. He realizes what it is almost as soon as he begins wondering, and must bite his lip to keep from making another humiliating sound.
Anya gives a whuff of a laugh. “Come here,” she says, and pulls him into another kiss.
It is not his first kiss, but it’s his first impassioned one. He does his damnedest to keep up with Anya’s shamelessly hungry kisses. Something wicked overcomes him, and he grinds down, forward-backward, on the fat bulge in Anya’s trousers. For his trouble he gets a sharp little snort and a hand gripping him by the hip. The other hand slides under his shirt.
The only thing Fray can do is hold on for dear life as Anya finds his scarce breast. Her clawed fingers drag gently over the center of each, meeting over the nipple. It is possible he will pass out. Nearly two minutes of this go by, unmerciful. By the time Fray has begun openly moaning into Anya’s mouth his nipples are puffy and sensitive, dragging against the surface of his shirt. She switches to kneading the surrounding flesh. This is somehow worse: she’d read him very, very easily.