amine_eyes: (act shifty and create scandals)
[personal profile] amine_eyes
Title: "Fever and Silk"
Fandom: Horrible Histories
Pairing: Charles II/Sotheby
Rating: NC-17
Beta: None
Prompts used: Charles II/Sotheby, restraints, attention
Warnings: Bondage, complete lack of historical accuracy
Summary: Charles II's attempt to make Sotheby not worry anymore. So far, it's working.

A/N: So after I wrote "Last one to the enemy buys the drinks in Berlin", I decided I wanted to write some smut. Smut involving Charles II and Sotheby, to be more precise. It ended up being completely late for the Porn Battle, had a number of goes (Charles II is no longer a complete Texts From Last Night Guy in better clothes), but here it is :). For those not in the know, here are Charles II and Sotheby being ridiculously adorable :)

Disclaimer: Don't own, never will own!



“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were enjoying this Sothers,” he murmurs, kissing just below Sotheby’s ear, and Sotheby groans, hands tightening round the silk bonds on his wrists as he arches towards the king’s mouth.
 
He feels rather than hears him chuckle against his skin, the vibrations through the already sensitive skin making him shudder slightly.
 
“You know, I think I should invite the Sicilian Ambassador back,” his majesty says, as though he is discussing the weather, and it takes a moment for Sotheby to remember who the Sicilian Ambassador is. It doesn’t help that the king has bit down gently on his collarbone, one of his hands is in Sotheby’s hair, and the other is rested on his chest.
 
He opens his eyes, and looks at the king, who as usual completely ignores Sotheby’s half-hearted glare and tugs slightly on Sotheby’s hair.
 
Sotheby gasps, arches his back, feels his majesty chuckle again, and he knows he should feel embarrassed about how easy it’s been for his majesty to do this to him, but the tingle of heat in his stomach is too welcome.
 
He does try to reply to his majesty’s comment though.
 
“The Sicilian ambassador, sire? The one who – who – oh God – the one who tried to set fire to the peacock coop? Are you sure that it’s – Ohhhhh – it’s a good idea?”
 
His majesty pulls away, and Sotheby tries to follow, which only makes the king laugh louder as he sits up, his hair mussed and his clothing rumpled from the party the night before. He leans back, rests his weight on Sotheby’s legs, and raises an eyebrow.
 
“Well, he was the one who gave me the idea about this.”
 
He waves a hand in the direction of Sotheby’s hands – tied to the headboard with some silk handkerchiefs, and the heat in Sotheby’s stomach grows at the nonchalant look on his majesty’s face.
 
He retaliates by digging his heels into the mattress and arching, pushing the king backwards with an “oof!” and an arched eyebrow, but he sees his majesty’s mouth fall open at the same time, and takes a bit of pride in knowing that he’s caused that, not any of the serving girls that normally cause that look of want to appear on his face.
 
“Sotheby,” the king replies as he sits back upright - a smirk appearing on his face, which doesn’t help the pool of heat in Sotheby’s stomach at all, “if you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so.”
 
At this, Sotheby falls back on the bed, thoughts whirring in his head, the fog of lust and want and need disappearing at the half-joking, half-serious tone in his majesty’s voice.
 
If he says stop, he knows that his majesty won’t push it. He’ll untie him, head off to breakfast, and won’t say anything on the subject.
 
They’ll go back to Sotheby having a permanent headache from dealing with Parliament, the king, visitors, his mistresses, the parties, and keeping everyone in one piece. They’ll go back to Sotheby waking with the cockerel to start the process of getting the palace moving, going to bed with the dawn due to trying to keep the parties from getting out of hand, sorting out the order of the next day, dealing with the business of the day before, and planning ahead for the next six months as much as he can. He’ll go back to surviving on coffee and a few hours sleep so that he can be there when his majesty needs him.
 
He’ll go back to never getting to relax, never getting a chance to lie in bed for longer than three hours, never getting a chance to let someone else take charge.
 
He looks at the king, his king, who’s sitting back, the smirk gone and replaced with a look of seriousness that only gets used in Parliament, and makes his decision.
 
“If you untie me, Sire,” and he thanks God that his voice stays steady, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
 
“Well, if you’re absolutely sure,” the king says, but a grin has appeared on his face, and he leans down towards Sotheby as he speaks – Sotheby pushing up as much as he can with his bonds to meet him part of the way.
 
His majesty pushes him down on the bed, and goes back to kissing Sotheby’s neck, but it’s more urgent than before. Sotheby’s cock gets harder as teeth are scraped along the pulse point, as he tangles a hand in Sotheby’s hair, and Sotheby moans loudly as he pulls on Sotheby’s hair, making him arch in his bonds and the silk rub across his wrists.
 
At that, the king shifts across, covering Sotheby with his body and he edges Sotheby’s legs apart, grinding down as he moves his attentions from Sotheby’s neck to Sotheby’s chest, and Sotheby is gasping now, his cock fully hard as he pushes up into his majesty’s body, sweat starting to darken his hair and his majesty’s clothes and it feels glorious.
 
He can feel his majesty’s chest pressing against him, his mouth moving down his body and his legs tangling with his, and the pressure of his body against Sotheby’s cock makes him whimper.
 
Embarrassment makes a last attempt to rear its head at the whimper, but then one of the king’s hands – his sinful sinful hands – wrap around his cock, and it gets thoroughly destroyed by the lust and want and need that takes over.
 
He pushes up into the king’s grip, eyes shut, head back, gripping for dear life onto the restraints and thanks God so many times that some of them escape his mouth and cause his majesty to laugh even as he grants Sotheby’s gabbled prayers and moves, those impossibly long fingers moving up and down his cock in a way that makes Sotheby ache with need.
 
He can feel the sweat on his body, knows that there’ll be a flush appearing on his chest, knows that the bites will be a brilliant red compared to the flush, and his lust starts to consume him.
 
He opens his eyes, and catches his majesty biting his lip, pushing down onto Sotheby’s legs as he continues to stroke, and it hurts slightly – there’s no lotion to smooth the path – but Sotheby doesn’t care. After god-knows how long of his own hand, it feels amazing.
 
He can feel the flood of heat pool between his legs, and he knows he sounds like a whore with the way that he’s moaning, but as his majesty lets a moan of his own escape as his strokes get faster, all he can think is more.
 
 He’s pushing up in time with the strokes now, feels himself start to tighten and knows he’s close, so close. The restraints are rubbing on his hands as he grips on with white knuckles, his hair is stuck against his head, his legs are aching with the full weight of the king on them, but he needs more, just that little bit more, just that last bit to go.
 
Sotheby looks at the king, sees his muscles twitch as they struggle to stay still and focused, and he feels no shame at keening, begging shamelessly for more from his majesty.
 
He speaks then, hoarse with keeping control, clenching his hand round his cock and not moving, resisting Sotheby pushing into his grip to try and get over the precipice.
 
“You know Sothers, you can call me Charles.”
 
At that, he releases his grip slightly, strokes once, and that’s it.
 
“Charles!”
 
With Charles’ name leaving his lips, Sotheby tenses and is pushed over that edge, feels himself release, his whole body arched, trying to reach Charles as he orgasms, his mind lost completely. He briefly notes Charles shudder above him, hears his groan, but it’s drowned out by the sheer rush of pleasure coursing through his body.
 
As he comes back to himself, he can feel hands working at removing the bonds round his wrists, and they come loose, his hands flopping to the bed with no resistance. He looks up, and - and he doesn’t know what to call him now – the king flops down on the bed next to him, stretching like a cat as he does so.
 
They lie there in comfortable silence, and Sotheby can feel his body sink into the mattress and blankets. The lust and want has receded, but left in its place a tiredness that floods his body, and all he wants to do is sleep.
 
He forces his eyes to stay open, rolling over and looking at the king who is gazing up at the ceiling with a contented smile on his face, and doesn’t know what to say.
 
He’s never had to know the correct way to address a monarch after they’d given you an orgasm before. Did he say ‘Sire’, ‘Your Majesty’, or simply avoid the subject?
 
As if he can read his mind, the king speaks.
 
“Stop worrying Sothers.”
 
“I wasn’t worrying sire,” he retorts, almost automatically, and the king turns his head to the side and looks at him.
 
“Yes you were, it’s what you do. Worry worry worry,” he says, and the tone is indulgent.
 
Sotheby blinks and tries to shift himself up into a sitting position, but his legs are having none of it, they just twitch feebly.
 
“I wouldn’t need to worry if – Mph!”
 
His majesty raises an eyebrow, smiling even as his hand plasters itself over Sotheby’s mouth.
 
“I’m not going to let you talk if you’re going to worry Sothers,” he says, and damn if that doesn’t spark an interest in a far corner of Sotheby’s brain.
 
He hides it though. No need for the king to know that.
 
“Now, Sothers, are you worrying?” he asks, rolling onto his side to face Sotheby.
 
Sotheby rolls his eyes, and the king just ignores it, waiting.
 
His shoulders slump down, and he shakes his head, and the king lets go of his mouth, drawing back and continuing to look at him.
 
“Are you alright?”
 
Sotheby goes to open his mouth to say that that’s a ridiculous question to ask in these circumstances, but the king gives him a warning look, and he changes his answer.
 
“Yes, your majesty. Very tired, but I am fine.”
 
The king nods, one of his hands playing with the ragged scarf that had served as a restraint, and Sotheby feels a flash of lust again, coupled with the burning desire to sleep.
 
“Good, good,” he says absent-mindedly, and Sotheby is having trouble keeping his eyes open.
 
“We’ll have to do this again,” he says in the same absent-minded tone, and Sotheby claws himself back up from the depths of sleep trying to claim him.
 
“Sire?”
 
His majesty looks at him, shrugging – and a flash of something behind his eyes.
 
“We’ll have to do this again – once is clearly not going to be enough if you start worrying again straight away.”
 
Sotheby’s throat tightens and he somehow manages to stop himself from moaning at the thought of a repeat.
 
“As you wish, Sire,” he replies, voice thick.
 
The king nods again, a smile playing across his face, and he rolls back to face the ceiling again.
 
Silence reclaims the room, and Sotheby gives up on trying to fight off sleep, ignores the mountain of stuff that he has to do in order to keep everything running normally.
 
Let everyone else deal with it for a change, he thinks sleepily.
 
The king speaks again, his hand still playing with the silk scarf bond.
 
“By the way Sothers, you can call me Charles.”
 
Sotheby nods, drifting off.
 
“Of course Charles,” he murmurs, and as his eyelids flutter close, he catches a glimpse of a smile on Charles’ face.
 

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