1. The Brattening

Adrien de Guillorystarted his campaign to personally ruin Isiodore de Mortain's day at dawn.

He'd spent two hours prior carefully marking his notes in a series of letters sent from country nobles. A number of them wanted to curry favor with their future king, and while Adrien responded to their letters and invitations with distant if not friendly politeness, he also used them for his own research. He picked apart their attempts at flattery, made careful lists of each positive trait they claimed to have, and then compared them to the often vitriolic missives they sent the royal clerks. It was enlightening but deeply time-consuming, and Isiodore tended to stop Adrien before he spent half the night and morning decrypting his future court. He was, as always, most of Adrien's impulse control when Sabre wasn't there.

Of course, Izzy hadn't been around to do that for some time, had he? And Sabre had Laurent, who was dependable and loyal and didn't ignore him for days after returning from a trip that had taken weeks, leaving him to grumpily undo a complex self-tied bondage harness and scoop flower petals into the bin around midnight.

No. Laurent was thoughtful.

Perhaps Laurent wanted a second submissive. He'd certainly bother to say hello, at least.

Adrien picked up a brush, looked at his disheveled reddish hair in the mirror, and narrowed his eyes.

If Izzy wanted to see the king so badly, perhaps Adrien would give that to him.

He tied his hair back with a spare bit of ribbon—even though it hurt on a deep and primal level not to pick one of his color-coordinated ones by the mirror—and picked his least ostentatious outfit. Adrien always dressed in the royal image his father avoided, these days, but it gave him a slight, vindictive pleasure to deliberately rumple the collar of his shirt.

He stared at it in the mirror.

"Don't," he said to himself. "Leave it alone."

His hands instinctively went to smooth out the wrinkle, and Adrien barely stopped himself in time.

He threw on any old trousers, ignoring his labeled hangers in the closet, put on boots that were only somewhat polished and in fact had a scuff on one side, and only put on two rings. He considered leaving Isiodore's signet ring off, but he knew the court would think that indicated a serious break in their marriage, not just Adrien wanting to wind Izzy up until his springs popped. So he left that one on, tossed his messy hair over his shoulder, and strode out into the hall.

"I believe I'm going to be late to Council," he told Luca, the guard outside the door.

Luca stared at him in shock. "But your highness, you're already twenty minutes early. As usual."

Damn. Adrien's mind raced. "I shall be late because I—Luca, if I give you five gold, will you?—"

"No, your highness," Luca said, rattling to attention. "Duke de Mortain said if you bribed us to sneak out, he'd hang us from the wall by our thumbs."

Adrien narrowed his eyes. "Did he? A duke of Staria, threatening torture?"

Luca gave him a curious look. "Yes? I know he wouldn't actually, but sir, I'm a submissive, and when he's disappointed, I want to dig a hole through the marble and live there, if you understand my meaning."

"He'll have to learn to manage his disappointment better, then," Adrien snapped, and Luca made a soft sound. "But don't worry, you won't be implicated. I'll simply…head to the library for a moment."

The library was a little diverting, at least, but Adrien kept eyeing the clock until Luca gently asked him about it, and in the end, he was only precisely one minute late to Council. Most nobles filed in a few minutes behind regardless, so it ruined his dramatic entrance, but at least he wasn't already sitting at the table when they came in.

Izzy was, of course. He looked painfully handsome, with his dark hair tied back and his clothes perfectly pressed, and Adrien had to clasp his hands behind his back for a breath to stop himself from scampering outside to tidy up a little.

Instead, he breezed in, barely meeting Izzy's curious gaze, and took Izzy's water glass from the table in front of him.

"Thank you for fetching me water, I'm sure, Duke de Mortain," he said. Sabre, who was usually as early as Adrien but never took a seat on principle, made bewildered faces at him from behind Emile's empty seat. Adrien tried to ignore him, and Sabre started gesturing.

"Any time," Izzy said, nodding slowly, "your highness."

Adrien tried not to choke on his water. So Izzy had caught on to his frosty demeanor—of course he would. But had he caught on to the reason for it?

Adrien pointedly didn't look at Izzy as he collapsed on his chair and then, with deliberate care, tilted it back on the rug. It was the sort of thing that his father did so often that Adrien could bet on it, and while Sabre was moving his eyebrows in some kind of code and Izzy watched calmly, Adrien tipped his chair a little further back…

And lost his footing.

There was a second of breathless panic, then he felt a jerk as Izzy's boot caught the chair under the table. Izzy held him there for a second, his gaze boring a hole into Adrien's, before he gently eased Adrien back down.

Adrien waited for Izzy to retreat, then tipped his chair back again.

"Adrien," Sabre hissed.

"Oh, hello, Sabre." Adrien examined his nails. "How is your husband, Lord de Rue?"

Sabre glanced from Adrien to Izzy. "He's…well."

"You see him often?"

Izzy's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"I…yes? Adrien, what?—"

"How nice," Adrien said, in a louder voice, "to have such an attentive husband." He plucked Izzy's ring off his finger and tilted it back and forth, letting it catch the light.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to draw it out, because the rest of the council members came rushing in, a sure sign that the king was on his way. Izzy stood and bowed as was custom, and while Adrien tended to do the same in front of other nobles, he pretended to be too lost in thought to notice his father taking his usual seat.

"Adrien," his father said, looking bemused as he glanced between Adrien and Isiodore.

"Hello, Father." Adrien smiled, matching his father's drawling tone. He lowered his voice, but not enough for Izzy to miss it on the other side of the table. "I hope you haven't been running your left hand ragged since he returned."

Emile smiled. "Oh, he's not the one who's been wrung out."

"Father, please." Adrien liked Bazyli, truly he did, and he knew that his father had to have fucked at least once to produce him, but the concept of him actually having an active sex life was enough to make Adrien's mind go shuddering to a halt.

So instead, he focused on other things.

Like touching Izzy's chair leg while he was giving an argument for shoring up a river in western Staria. He checked to see if Izzy noticed, and when he didn't blink, Adrien subtly moved his foot so his boot brushed against Izzy's inner thigh.

Izzy didn't even glance his way.

"I'm not sure I approve of the autumn harvest festival being taken over by the pleasure district," someone was saying, as Adrien carefully set his ring down on the table and angled it so a spot of light traveled across the polished wood. "It defeats the sacred purpose of the festival in the first place, and diverts attention from the country."

"We can sponsor farms and give them temporary shops along the street," Sabre said.

"And besides." Adrien leaned back in his chair, and the dot of light shone directly in Izzy's left eye, "the harvest festival is about fucking. I'd say the courtesans of the pleasure district are uniquely suited for it, don't you think, Duke de Mortain?"

Izzy looked at him, and Adrien angled the dot to move to his other eye. Miraculously, he didn't blink. Adrien propped his foot between Izzy's thighs across the table and gently put pressure there.

He felt Izzy's hand touch his boot, pushing it down. "We can come to an arrangement with local farms," he said. "I doubt anyone will find it a moral issue."

"You could say the objection is absolutely unnecessary," Adrien said, looking Izzy in the eyes, "unless you take into account that Lord Chant was blacklisted from the House of Gold three months ago and might have a personal motive to see them lose potential funds."

"I didn't—de Valois," Lord Chant said, turning to Sabre. "Did you?—"

"Please direct your questions to your accuser, my lord," Adrien said, placing his foot between Izzy's thighs again. "I'm quite fond of the new proprietor of the House of Silver, you see, and people talk. Loudly," he added, rubbing his foot over Isiodore's cock through his trousers. "Particularly when noble lords are thrown out into the street in their underthings."

"Well," Emile said, grinning, "that is a story I would certainly like to hear."

"Would you?" Adrien flashed a smile. "It's very diverting."

"Oh no, there are two of them," Sabre whispered.

"I have no further objections to the harvest festival," Lord Chant said quickly, his face flushing a deep purplish red.

"Wonderful," Emile said. "Anyone else?"

"Feel free to speak up," Adrien said, looking at Izzy as he pressed the toe of his boot over the head of Izzy's cock. "I, for one, welcome a healthy debate."

* * *

Isiodore was going to end up dead by the end of the week, probably. As much as Emile might have turned a new leaf when he'd fallen in love with a former Mislian pleasure slave, he doubted that newly-awoken tenderness would extend to Isiodore murdering his son for teasing him.

The moment he'd gotten a look at Adrien, it was immediately apparent that he'd done something wrong. He'd sauntered into council doing his level best to mimic his father, attempting to arrive late and with his hair out of sorts and his boots scuffed. Isiodore's dominance had flared like a bonfire the moment he'd seen it—Emile could do what he liked with his appearance, but Adrien would be put together if Isiodore had to dress him himself. Even before Adrien's pointed comment about how nice it was to have an attentive husband, he'd known exactly what the issue was.

Did Adrien really think that Isiodore had wanted to spend the last few days wrangling Emile and the council? Could he really imagine that Isiodore preferred subtly threatening the Minister of Finance into doing what Adrien wanted, over tossing his husband on the bed and fucking him senseless until he couldn't breathe without sobbing and asking permission? Was his husband, a clever man and too bright for his own good—a man who had learned an entire foreign language as a teenager without anyone knowing—really so stupid as to think Isiodore would rather be anywhere but on top of him, with his hand around Adrien's throat?

Apparently so, if Adrien's attempt to undermine his authority and blind him with the signet ring was any indication. Isiodore was going to show him just how wrong he was, shortly after he dealt with the council and the fucking smirk on Emile's face, which was making Isiodore want to stand up and walk out of the room without a word.

He couldn't do that, of course, just like he couldn't concentrate on Adrien's boot so close to his cock—his aching cock, because of course it was aching, he'd been wrangling a threat to the crown in southern Staria for nearly a week. Between the travel there and back and the fallout he'd had to handle when he returned, he'd been rising before dawn and going to bed after midnight for almost a week. He'd done all of that to keep entanglements and petty disagreements away from Adrien and Emile, as he'd always done, serving in his position as the left hand of the king and the consort of the crown prince. Sabre de Valois might serve Adrien as his left hand when Adrien was crowned, but Isiodore would be spymaster until he took his last breath, especially if it kept Adrien safe.

He would have thought that Adrien knew that, but apparently, Isiodore had failed to impart this lesson with any lasting…impact.

A situation he would be more than happy to rectify.

"We would also like to revisit the mandate about allowing an additional day of leisure for palace servants," huffed Lady Montagne.

"It isn't a day of leisure, it's a day to spend with their families," Adrien said, and while his voice lacked Emile's dominance, it did not lack the sharpness. "Surely you can see why that might be appreciated by your domestic staff."

Adrien had also been reading a fair bit of material from both Thalassa and Katoikos, where the word servant was almost nonexistent. In Thalassa, it was because they didn't have nobles, and in Katoikos because it was something for them to argue about in the senate.

Lady Montagne blinked at Adrien. "I certainly do not understand why I—why noble families should be inconvenienced so that servants may lay about eating grapes and gossiping about their betters."

"They'd have to have some to gossip about," Adrien said, without lowering his voice.

Next to him, Emile smiled. "A fair point, Adrien."

"Your Majesty," Lady Montagne said icily, bowing slightly to the king. "We don't all have a submissive to prepare our tea."

"This isn't a matter up for debate," Adrien told Lady Montagne. "It's been decided. If you worked a day in your life, I imagine you'd want more than a day to relax, too–"

"Adrien," Emile drawled. "I believe you've made your point." He sounded like what he was really saying was please, keep making it.

Isiodore opened his mouth, and then he felt Adrien's foot again, teasing at his inner thigh. He shut his mouth. If the de Guillories wanted to be a pain in the ass of the Starian council, let them, then. He settled back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, and said nothing as Lady Montagne finally gave up and sat down in a huff.

He reached down and took Adrien's foot in hand, firmly pushing it to the floor with a slight glance at his husband. Adrien was doing his level best to start acting like Emile again, and while it was amusing as the council realized exactly how mild-mannered Adrien wasn't, Isiodore wasn't in the mood to play along.

Adrien kept leaning back in his chair and tilting his head just so, making certain Isiodore noticed he wasn't wearing his collar all while showing his throat, and he would let him fall next time, he swore to whatever divine spirit kept watch over brats. Isiodore's dominance was nearly roused to a fever pitch, and Emile, damn him, was almost laughing outright, eyes flickering between Isiodore and Adrien, his usually cold eyes bright with unholy amusement.

I am going to retire,Isiodore thought, while Adrien stretched and casually insulted the Minister of Trade, to Diabolos. Perhaps I'll take Xavier up on that offer to be a pirate. It cannot possibly be more annoying than this.

"And another thing," Adrien said, leaning forward, his messy hair falling in his face. "I don't think we need to continue the tariffs on lumber to Gerakia, do we? Considering how many of their scholars have offered to provide economic analysis for reducing our costs in cross-border trade. Why have borders, anyway? Wouldn't it make more sense to simply open them?"

"Wouldn't it just." Emile looked half a second away from clapping. Emile de Guillory, a man who had once refused to allow Mislians to even think the word "Staria," was saying this?

Isiodore kept his face impassive and scribbled a note to Emile, then handed it over without looking at him. Emile read it, and laughed, loudly, right in the middle of the red-faced Minister of Defense's attempt to carefully explain why that might not be a good idea.

He wrote something back, and pushed it across the table. Isiodore was rather surprised Emile hadn't fashioned the paper into a bird and attempted to fly it across the chamber.

Isiodore had written, Is it a good idea to taunt the one man who has stopped every attempt to take your crown from you?

To which Emile had dashed off one simple word in reply—Absolutely.

"Our military is mostly naval, anyway," Adrien was saying, and Isiodore saw a few nobles exchanging glances.

Sabre shifted behind Emile, a hand going to the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed, and Isiodore had a sudden and very vivid image of Aline de Valois a month before she and her daughter had been arrested, exchanging looks with Lord Chastain in the council meeting. He'd thought nothing of it, then—there'd been rumors around the court for months about them having an affair—but he'd learned to be a bit more vigilant about covert glances, since. With Emile being so much more the man Isiodore knew him to be before Lianne's death, and Adrien coming into his own and using his submission as wickedly as Sabre de Valois used a blade, he'd grown careless, and he shouldn't. If it were safe, Adrien wouldn't be annoyed at him, because Isiodore wouldn't have had to leave in the first place.

Sabre met his eyes over Emile's head, and Isiodore gave a slight nod to show he understood and would put a stop to this before the council decided that their ruling monarchy was too absurd to be trusted with the rulership of Staria.

"We could add fishing to our exports. We'd have more use for fishing boats than naval warships, wouldn't we?"

Even Adrien must have known that was a bit too far when the entire council fell quiet.

"Thank you, Prince Adrien, for reminding us that we should be mindful of our capacity to increase our exports to new and different avenues of revenue," Isiodore said, dominance threaded so strongly in his voice that every submissive in the council lowered their gaze—including Adrien, though he lasted longer than most.

"Yes," Emile said, voice clipped. "Perhaps opening talks with Thalassa would be beneficial. I am certain we could find a captain who might be interested in serving as an ambassador. Their king has implied they are open to a formal treaty. King Sior, I believe is his name."

It was, because it was always King Sior. The Thalassans hated the idea of government on principle, so every year they elevated some fisherman to the title and named him Sior, a variation on the old Morrey work for shark, and mostly all he did was sign documents with the same seal they'd been using since before Staria even existed.

"De Mazet would be a good choice for that," Sabre said. "I'll speak to him. He's due back within the month."

That was smart—both the suggestion, and the subtle reminder that the prince's bratty behavior aside, his left hand knew where the Starian navy and her captains were at any given moment. De Mazet was a popular captain and would, Isiodore didn't doubt, make admiral before he was fifty.

"Good thinking," Isiodore said, his approval evident, and he knew what that did to Sabre. Just because he was putting a stop to tomfoolery in the council didn't mean he wasn't above a little bit of revenge. "Thank you for your forethought and attention, Duke de Valois."

Sabre looked both pleased and a bit like he wanted to sink into the floor, which was very much like his father used to look at Isiodore, though for entirely different reasons. "You're, ah. You're welcome, your grace."

"Yes, Sabre, very clever," Adrien drawled, and there was a bite in his voice as he shot Isiodore a glare, practically shoving Isiodore's signet ring on his finger.

"Adrien," Emile said, and this time, there wasn't that thread of encouragement, which was welcome, but a bit too late.

"Yes, father?"

"I think perhaps that's enough for the day," Isiodore said.

"If your highness could deal with your domestic issues before council," Lady Montagne said, sweetly, "that might facilitate a smoother transition."

Emile's eyes went cold, Adrien's expression turned dangerous, and Isiodore felt a headache behind his temples flare unpleasantly to life, thanks to the lack of sleep, lack of sex, the de Guillory family, and the inability to punish his brat of a submissive like he was so clearly begging for.

"Thank you for the suggestion, Lady Montagne," Isiodore interrupted, rising to his feet. "You may take your leave."

She smirked, but left on Lord Chant's arm, and that was unusual enough that Isiodore glanced at Sabre and gave him a pointed look that meant, see that you investigate that. Sabre didn't do anything as amateurish as nod, but his thumb deliberately rubbed over the de Valois crest on his own signet ring, and Isiodore knew he understood.

When the last of the council had taken their leave, Isiodore was surprised to find Sabre turning to Adrien, eyes narrowed, a touch of red on his cheeks.

"I didn't swear my service to you so that you could try and get yourself assassinated, Asa! I can't believe I'm agreeing with a woman who thinks her domestic staff should still come running at the sound of a bell, but keep it in the bedchambers, will you?"

"Oh, believe me, Sab, I'd love to," Adrien said, mulish, looking so much like his father that Isiodore would have laughed, if he wasn't surprised.

"Come, Sabre, let's go have tea," Emile said, for once in his life choosing not to be an instigator. He, at least, must have known that the angriest person in this room wasn't Sabre or his brat of a son, but his own left hand.

He patted Adrien's shoulder on the way out, in a there, there, sort of way, and his gaze briefly met Isiodore's. "Don't be too hard on him. Make him grovel, first." Emile swept out of the room with Sabre at his back, still looking angry.

There was a tense silence in the room when it was only the two of them, and it might have been all right, Isiodore might have kept a leash on his temper…but Adrien, instead of apologizing, tilted his chin so that Isiodore couldn't but stare at the place where his collar should be and drawled, "I look forward to a discussion about this in our rooms, later. If you remember where those are, of course. I'll be happy to send a page with a map. I hear memory loss happens, in a man of your advanced age."

Isiodore had spent his entire life dealing with Emile, who could out-brat Adrien any day of the week with half the effort. But Emile was a dominant, and that meant it was only annoying, not infuriating, as it was when Adrien tried it. He'd never once been this angry at Emile—no, that wasn't right, was it? He had been, the morning he'd watched his lover's son standing trembling on the gallows, not entirely sure if Emile wasn't going to hang him anyway. Isiodore didn't like to think about all the failures that had led to that morning, but he'd knew his own intimately well.

"Everything I have done," Isiodore said, pushing all his emotions down, speaking in clipped, precise words, "has been for you. Your family, this country. I have said it before, have I not, that my duty is to the crown before anything? I am sorry you find it a failing, but when I allow my personal feelings to overshadow that duty, it goes very badly for Staria. You have the luxury of a temper tantrum. I do not."

"Your point is made," he said. "I spent the last few weeks ensuring you do not have to worry about an uprising and taking care of it in a way that would not harm you or the reputation you will enjoy when you take the crown. These are the vows I have taken in your father's name, and the vows Sabre has taken in yours. I"d appreciate it if you did not disparage them, but I suppose I can't stop you. I remain, as ever, in your service."

With that, Isiodore bowed politely, perfectly, and turned to leave.

* * *

Adrien stood there, watching Isiodore stride toward the door with all the dignity of his station, and tossed the last of his self control to the winds.

"Duke de Mortain, I did not give you my leave to go."

Izzy slowed to a halt like a clockwork figurine, mechanical and precise. He didn't turn around, just stayed in place, quiet and still, and Adrien recalled the way he would shift into that same stance while dueling against Sabre. They'd reached the knife's edge, the two of them, when a word from Adrien made Izzy react as though he were facing a sword on the field, and despite Adrien's frustration bubbling to the surface, it made a part of him ache to see it.

"You could have told me," Adrien said to Izzy's back. "Not everything, I know even my father doesn't know everything, but you could send a note, a missive. You could send Sabre to my door at night to tell me you're overworked and could use your husband brewing you a cup of tea in your office. Am I to assume that absolutely every act you do is in my service, without being told?"

"Yes," Isiodore said, in a level tone, "because it is."

"Oh, and that won't lead to resentment," Adrien snapped. Isiodore turned around, dominance flaring around Adrien like a flame, and Adrien grabbed the chair next to him to keep himself steady as he slowly got to his knees.

"I'm only kneeling because Starian culture trains us a certain way and you know what your eyes do to me, but rest assured that I can sass you from the rug as easily as I can and will sass you from the throne."

"Brat," Izzy said, and there was a touch of fondness there, at least.

"Yes. But also, service submissive, and husband. You can't devote yourself utterly to me every moment of the day. You're my father's left hand, not mine—not mine," he added, raising his voice as Izzy opened his mouth to object. "Between us, you are my husband first."

"And as your husband, it is my duty to?—"

"As your husband, I should know when you're overworking yourself on my behalf," Adrien said, well aware that he was poking at Izzy's dominance by interrupting him in a way that no amount of teasing or ring twirling would manage. "So I can make you tea the way you like it, and lay out your clothes, and work out that knot of tension between your shoulder blades that makes you move like that—yes, like that, with your neck."

"And who is causing the tension, Adrien?"

"Right now, me. And you. Both of us. Marriage is a collaborative effort."

Izzy's smile was wry. "And we're collaboratively giving me back pain."

"Apparently. This isn't just about me, it's about you, and what I can do for you—as your husband, Izzy, who wants you to sleep properly and at least tell me why you can't stop to breathe. A little transparency is what I need."

"I don't think that's all you need," Izzy said, and Adrien tilted his head back to show off his collar, realized he didn't have it on, cursed, and fumbled in his back pocket. When he pulled out the collar to put it on again, Izzy raised his brows.

"I'm a brat," Adrien said, "but I'm still a submissive. And I'm still displeased with you."

"Yes, you've made that displeasure known." Izzy took a step toward him, "by nearly derailing your council and giving me more work to do."

"When I'm king, that work becomes a hobby," Adrien said, and Izzy stopped in his tracks, "like men who keep models of their holdings or gain an interest in poker."

"Spycraft isn't the same as playing with models."

"It will be when Sabre becomes the left hand of the king," Adrien said, and he could see the thoughts warring in Izzy's mind. This wasn't going to be something he let go of easily, but Adrien had to make it clear that he would. "You'll be father to my children one day, you know. I want to ensure that you're not an absent one."

Izzy went still again, but not, Adrien thought, out of tension and displeasure. A flicker of understanding crossed his face. He hadn't been particularly active in Adrien's early life, but anyone in the court could have seen that Adrien was a lonely child. It had hurt, to crave the kind of affection he saw between Sabre and his father, only to be met with distant, cold formality. Regardless of his father's reasons, the wounds were still there. He'd be damned if he let his own children feel as though there were a wall between them and their fathers.

Carefully, Izzy nodded. Good. "You still haven't apologized for making a mess of the council," he said.

Adrien tossed his messy hair over his shoulder. "No. I haven't. But I suppose," he added, knowing this, at least, would help Izzy out of his mood, "I might, if you made me."

* * *

It settled his dominance somewhat, to see Adrien wearing his collar. And it hurt his pride, though only a little, when he realized Adrien was right.

Maybe not right in the way he'd chosen to express himself, but Isiodore should be used to that by now. His hurt feelings, Isiodore understood too. It wasn't as if he didn't miss Adrien when he was away, or holed up in his office thinking, just one more hour, he's asleep anyway, then it will be done and I can go home to him.

But it would never be done, would it, the work he did? There would always be a threat in the dark, and it was his job to ferret it out, neutralize it, to keep Adrien safe.

No, not his job, not when Adrien was king. Then it would be Sabre's job. Sabre was likely convinced the reason he wouldn't involve him was because he didn't trust him, that part of him thought Sabre knew more about his mother than he ever said, that he didn't think Sabre deserved to stand at Adrien's left while he stood at his right.

Isiodore was a man of decisiveness, in thought and deed both, and he reached out and tipped Adrien's face up to his. "I shall see to you, your royal brattiness. But first, you're right. I have been acting as your left hand as well as your father's, and that isn't fair. There is a reason my position is never held by a lover or a spouse, and that reason is exactly why you are so cross with me."

Adrien smiled, slowly, and looked far too smug. "I know."

"Mm," Isiodore said, shaking his head. He slipped his fingers into Adrien's mouth, sighing audibly in pleasure as Adrien immediately started to suck on them. "In the next week or two, I shall be working a fair bit, but I promise I shall be home by dinnertime. How's that?"

He drew his fingers out, and Adrien gave him a suspicious look. "I suppose it depends on what time you consider dinner to be."

"No earlier than six, no later than half-past eight. I am going to discuss some of the finer points of my work with Sabre. Let him burn the midnight oil in my—his—office and make his husband cross. It shall be his problem."

"Me," Adrien said, grinning at him. "That's what you mean by it. The goose, right? I'm the goose, and I'll be his problem."

"You've a different name, and you absolutely will not ever know it. Now that you've said it out loud, your father will get another one, too."

"May I please make suggestions? No, let Sabre," Adrien said, and flashed a smile at him. His hair was in his eyes, which Isiodore knew Adrien must hate. "He's earned it."

"Perhaps." Isiodore drew his wet fingers over Adrien's cheek. "Now, brat, let's see about that apology." He stepped back, snapped his fingers, and pointed. "Stand before me. I abhor seeing you disheveled like that."

Adrien's look was almost pitying as he sprang to his feet and came to stand before Isiodore. "Why do you think I did it?"

It was touching, really, how well Adrien knew him. Isiodore was used to being the observant one, who could tell a lie at a glance, who knew what someone liked and didn't like, even people for whom he had no particular feelings one way or the other. It was how they felt that mattered—did they hate Emile, did they want the crown, did they think Adrien should be quietly locked in a tower somewhere?

Perhaps that one he could understand, but if it were to happen, it would be Isiodore doing the locking and the tower would be their bedroom. "I think," Isiodore said, briskly tugging fabric and fixing buttons, smoothing a wrinkle on Adrien's shirt, adjusting his collar just so and dragging his fingers through Adrien's hair, "when I am finished with Sabre's instruction, we shall go somewhere, the two of us. I shall tie you to the bed, and we'll see how much of my undivided attention you can handle before you're begging."

"That's a dreadful idea," Adrien said, cheerfully, turning so that Isiodore could fix his hair. "I know you're angry about the council, Izzy, but consider this." He yelped as Isiodore gave his ass a quick smack, then kept talking, because he was a de Guillory and Isiodore was doomed. "The council took advantage of my father, plotting against him, because they thought his paranoia so great that it made it impossible to tell a true threat from his own imagination. They thought me easier to dispose of–"

"Adrien, this is not making me want to do anything but take headache tablets and sleep," Isiodore interrupted.

Adrien turned to face him, putting his hands on Isiodore's shoulders. Isiodore clicked and gave him a stern look, and Adrien wrinkled his nose, rolled his eyes like he was the most put-upon submissive in the history of Staria, and dropped his hands. "I was only going to say, Izzy, we're terrifying in new and interesting ways, aren't we? Getting along, a house united. De Guillory and de Mortain and de Valois no longer at odds. They can squawk all they like, but they're no longer wolves in a henhouse, just the hens."

"They've always been hens." Isiodore shook his head. "You may touch me if you ask properly, brat, after I've seen to the apology you owe me. You'll take those pants off, fold them properly, and put them on my chair. Bend over the table and present your bare ass to me."

"Why did you fix my clothes if you're only going to have me strip?" Adrien asked, though his hands went to his belt so fast, it was dizzying.

"If my submissive is going to be disheveled, it's because I've made him that way. Do as I say, Adrien."

"Yes, yes."

No yes, sir yet, but that was all right. Isiodore would earn it. He went to the council door, opened it, and summoned the guard. Adrien had made him learn their names, but this one, he knew from his other work as one of Sabre's agents employed to keep Rose and Hektor safe at the theater. Luca's bumbling actor image worked in part because that was exactly what he was.

"Please see we aren't disturbed," Isiodore said. "Thirty minutes."

"That's all you think you'll need?" Adrien called, from where he had best be bending over a table, if he knew what was good for him.

"I'll only need five," Isiodore called back, and Luca blushed, his eyes downcast, but he nodded and snapped a mostly-decent salute before Isiodore closed and locked the door.

Adrien was bent over the council table, wriggling his ass, grinning over his shoulder at Isiodore. "I would have thought that five minutes wouldn't be long enough for how many spankings I'd earned."

Isiodore considered it as he pulled off one leather glove, flexing his fingers, then shoved it unceremoniously in Adrien's mouth. "It isn't how many you've earned, brat, but how hard. Drop the glove if you need me to stop."

"Mmph mm mmph mm," Adrien said, and Isiodore smiled at him.

"The sound of a brat with his mouth stuffed full," he said, and laughed as he could see Adrien was already trying not to rut against the table, "the only sound I wish to hear at the council table. I wonder what that says about your henhouse metaphor."

"Mmm, mm mmph mm mmp mmm," Adrien said, because of course, he tried to answer.

"Think about it and let me know," Isiodore said, and their eyes met as he brought his hand smartly across Adrien's ass.

It took less than thirty minutes, but more than five, to have Adrien's eyes tearing up and for him to go boneless and easy under the sting of Isiodore's hand. He spanked Adrien until he finally started to cry, and then took his glove out and dried Adrien's face on the wet leather as best he could before slipping it back on.

"Now you can be sorry," he told Adrien, and started again. It was easier on his hand this time, with the leather, and it meant he could hear the soft sounds Adrien made, watch the way he kicked his boots at the floor. "And what is that—is there a scuff on your boot? You're the future king but you said it yourself earlier, about houses united. You're of House Mortain, and we don't go about with scuffed boots. See that doesn't happen again." He spanked Adrien under the curve of his ass, and smiled when Adrien yelped.

"I—yes, Izzy."

Isiodore pulled him up by the hair, pleased when Adrien gasped and half-fell back against him, though Adrien was a few inches taller than he was. "Yes, what? You wanted your husband, Adrien, you have him. Your husband is your dominant and you'll answer him properly."

"Yes, sir," Adrien whispered, as Isiodore slid his still-gloved hand down and wrapped leather-clad fingers around Adrien's cock.

"What a slut you are for me," he whispered, as Adrien tried—and failed—not to fuck his fist. "Letting me bend you over the council table, spank you like the brat you are, fucking my fist before you even asked if you could. What would your nobles think of you if they saw you now?"

"That—they're—jealous," Adrien gasped, grabbing at Isiodore's arms, which he immediately let go when Isiodore stilled and took his hand away. "Please, fuck, please, touch me, sir, please–"

"That's good, my prince. You beg so well when you behave. Don't you want to behave for me?"

"When you make me, yes," Adrien gasped out, and whined when Isiodore took his hand away. "And I want you to make me."

Isiodore bit him on the ear, stroking his cock again. "Stand still. You'll act like a desperate slut when I tell you that you may. Should I fuck you here? I think I shall. Are you ready to apologize?"

"Y–Yes, sir, sorry, sir!" Adrien tripped over the words, since Isiodore was stroking him again, hard and fast just as he knew Adrien liked, thumb rubbing over the slit on his cock. "You're ruining my gloves, you little slut. You'll have to apologize for that, too."

"I'm—dreadful, really–"

Isiodore hid his smile in another bite, this time above Adrien's collar. He pulled back, shoved Adrien down over the table again, and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. He pulled off his gloves again, enjoying every second of Adrien's breathless pleas and eager begging, and uncorked the small vial, slicking up his fingers so he could do the same to his cock. He kicked Adrien's legs apart and stepped smartly between them, and pressed the head of his slicked-up cock to Adrien's hole.

"My poor brat, he's gone without being fucked for far too long," Isiodore murmured, resting one hand on the back of Adrien's neck as he pushed in. He shuddered, because it had been too long for him too, and started fucking Adrien without teasing him. Time enough for that later. Besides, he had a plan. "Did you miss my cock, Adrien? Tell me how much."

"So much," Adrien said, fingers curling into his palms, his expression so close to blissful that Isiodore almost felt guilty for what he was going to do. Adrien would like it, of course, after he cursed Isiodore for it and earned himself another spanking later, in their rooms—over Isiodore's knee this time, with the hairbrush.

"I'm going spend tomorrow in our rooms, making you come until you're so worn out you don't remember your name. You're going to be quiet and good for me, kneel and serve my tea, but the first thing you're going to do, Adrien de Mortain, is polish your boots."

Adrien's laugh was a short, choked thing, and it turned into a moan as Isiodore set about fucking him hard and fast, rattling the chairs and causing enough of a commotion that the poor guard could probably hear it. Good. Everyone should know that the prince's consort knew how to take care of him when he acted up. Which Isiodore knew he would—was counting on it, really.

Emile hadn't been the only one who'd gone cold after losing someone.

Isiodore's fingers went tight on Adrien's hips. Perhaps later, he'd tell Adrien that it mattered to him, to have someone who missed him, who noticed when he worked long hours or didn't come home at all. It was a gift, and he wouldn't be so foolish to waste it again. This had been a good reminder.

But for now…

"Who should come first, hmm? Tell me."

"Me," Adrien said, immediately. "I should, sir."

Isiodore stilled, though it took almost a superhuman effort to do so. "Incorrect."

"I'm the crown prince. This is my council room!"

"You're a slut getting fucked by his dominant over a table, Adrien. I'll ask again. Who should come first? Hand off your cock or you're in a cage for a week."

"Ah, fuck," Adrien muttered, into the table. He took a shuddering breath, and then turned his head, face pressed against the slick wood. "You. I guess."

Isiodore pulled his head up by the hair. "You guess?"

The dominance in voice was enough to do it—that and his cock, which was still buried to the hilt in Adrien's ass, though it took all of his considerable control not to move. "You. You should, sir."

"Why?" Isiodore demanded. "Tell me why I should come first."

"You're—I do what you want, sir. You're my dominant."

"Then let's not forget that again." Isiodore didn't mean that, any more than Adrien meant the I won't, sir, that he gasped out as Isiodore fucked him again, hard and fast, moving so he was covering Adrien's body, pinning Adrien's hands to the table. "You feel so good. I thought about this every night when I was gone. My hand doesn't do your ass justice, no matter how tight I make my fist or when I leave my glove on, even if I've sucked on my own fingers to get the leather wet. It never feels like you do."

Adrien gave a wordless cry and went boneless, and Isiodore pressed his face against Adrien's shoulder as he came inside of him. His knees nearly went weak, but he stayed on his feet through the last shuddering pulse of pleasure. Adrien was sobbing and begging wordlessly to come, and Isiodore dropped one hand—his left one—and slipped it into his pocket. Instead of his watch, he'd grabbed something else that morning, and not on purpose.

"Adrien," Isiodore whispered, removing it from his pocket. "I found what you left in my watch box this morning." He drew back, and before Adrien could say anything or move away, he pressed the tip of the silver plug to Adrien's hole and slid it easily in. "Thank you so much for your foresight. Up you go." He straightened, and laughed when Adrien turned to him, a mess, cock hard and wet, face flushed and tear-streaked, hair damp and once again mussed.

"Izzy. You wouldn't," Adrien breathed, eyes wide.

"Oh, I would. Don't leave a man a plug and then tease him into fucking you over a table, if you want to come." Isiodore put himself to rights, though he left his gloves on the table. "Didn't you hear me? Your pants, put them on. I'm hardly going to fetch them for you. I'm not a valet."

Adrien was either so surprised or so under that he drifted over to the chair where he'd put his trousers. They weren't folded, and he looked at them completely befuddled, then back at Isiodore. "How should I…? How am I supposed to, when this is…" He gestured vaguely to his cock, which was still hard.

Isiodore shrugged a shoulder. "I've no notion, but figure it out quickly. We've a meeting with the Lord Exchequer, and you should comb your hair beforehand."

They had no such meeting, but that was all right. He'd take Adrien to a side parlor, let him kneel quietly at his side, give him some water and read his reports. Let Adrien think he was going to have to have a meeting with the Lord Exchequer like this, stuffed full of Isiodore's come with a jewel-tipped plug and his hair a mess.

"When I want you disheveled, this is how I will see to it. If I don't, then you won't be." Isiodore held back a laugh as Adrien nearly tripped trying to put his pants on. He kept up the charade for a few more minutes, and then gave in only because Adrien, in an attempt to calm his very obvious erection, picked up a pitcher of water and looked half a second away from dumping it over his head.

"Put that down and come here," Isiodore said, because he didn't trust Adrien not to upend it over his head once he told him he was only teasing. Isiodore drew him in and kissed him softly. "I'm only teasing. We've no meeting. But you should know, darling, if this court is a henhouse, there's only one wolf lurking about, and it's me. Have we learned our lesson?"

"Yeah," Adrien breathed, staring at him as if Isiodore had hung the moon. "I have."

He hadn't, and they both knew it, but that was all right. Isiodore was nothing if not dependable.

"I love you," Adrien said, softly, taking up his hand. "And when you let me come, I'll show you just how much."

Isiodore stared at him, this ridiculous man who was angry when he didn't come home, who had probably given a priceless watch to a servant—no, a member of their domestic staff—out of spite, just to replace it with a plug in order to make a point. He was a future king that would change Staria for the better, right after he begged for Isiodore's cock like the beautiful, needy slut he was. "Seven," Isiodore said, smoothing Adrien's hair back. "I'll be home by seven."

"See that you are, Izzy." Adrien smiled, lovely and sweet. "See that you are."