Chapter Text
Drake slid his chair across the floor, scooting into the table surrounded by his underlings. Their nightly ritual after a long day of work. Allowed them to discuss plans and keep each other abreast of situations more often than just their morning meetings.
Tonight, a meal of roast beef, baked potatoes, and fresh-roasted vegetables was set before him. A near-perfect meal. He breathed in the fragrance, sighing as his body relaxed, before reaching for his fork–only to freeze, tensing, as a stray piece of paper, folded neatly beneath the utensil, caught his attention. No seal. Nothing to indicate what it was for or from whom.
All five of the men at the table glanced at him as he unfolded it. Their looks made his hair stand on end. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten notes like this, each one from the same person, each one stopping his heart at the sight of them, and his cohort never seemed to care until today. The note from his Lord was written in the man's careful, elegant script, as always.
Drake,
After your meal, you are to clear your calendar for the rest of the day and report to my office. Not a minute later. Not a minute sooner.
Drake shivered, wincing at the words. He had received notes with that exact ominous message in the past whenever he had particularly displeased the Lord. He knew what to expect. He knew punishment awaited him. Maybe not precisely what the punishment would be, but it would happen. The only relief was that it wasn’t one of the Lord’s infamous public punishments. It was always a private affair between him and the Lord. A privilege he only had courtesy of their long friendship. A friendship that went back to when they were little kids. It had since grown into a… complicated relationship.
A lump rose in his throat regardless. Goosebumps spread across his skin. Slowly, all six of the men returned to their meals. They were all unusually silent, but Drake didn't dare address the lack of conversation. Lending his ears to the clinking of silverware on the plates to distract his thoughts. It didn't help. The meal still felt almost tasteless, if not for being well aware of the kitchen's stores; he would have thought they had run out of spices. Every bite was a struggle to swallow as the thoughts of what would happen when he finished lingered.
His retainers seemed in a hurry to finish, scarfing down spoonfuls of food with a lack of manners. It was unusual for them. He sighed, thinking about the shenanigans they planned for this evening; he would have to remember to ask them directly or snoop around tomorrow to find out. Whenever his Lord released him.
Drake, on the other hand, didn’t want to eat fast. He focused on dragging out the meal, as much as it upset his stomach, as long as possible. To delay whatever awaited him.
The other five men finished first, quickly scraping their plates and leaving them for the maids to clean up before making to leave the room. Murmuring in hushed whispers to each other. Drake just barely caught Mark and Johnathan glancing back at him as they left the room. All while Drake himself slowly worked his way through the last remnants of the meal. The food settled like lead in his stomach.
The food was gone too soon. And he couldn’t risk inflicting more of his Lord’s wrath upon him. Drake had no choice but to briskly stride through the halls of the castle. Up the stairways, until he found himself in front of the door to his Lord’s office.
The door always felt intimidating. It was almost twice as tall as a human man, solid oak, and cast with iron dragons and ogres on it. He tugged on the jacket of his livery, swallowed the lump in his throat, took a deep breath, tried to compose himself, make himself presentable, and wiped the sweat off his brow. Then knocked softly on the door.
“You asked for me, Milord?”
The Lord's voice was always controlled and firm. Today was no different as it rang out. Somehow louder than the ringing in his ears. “Indeed, I did, Drake do come in.” It was especially true when one of his schemes got him into trouble. He couldn't help but wonder which of the latest could have done it this time.
As he walked into the opulent office, ornamented with gilded wainscotting, chandeliers, and famous paintings, movement to his right caught his eye. He glanced towards the source of it and flinched, feeling his muscles freeze. His five underlings were standing by the door. Their eyes avoided him, heads tilted downward, their fingers fidgeting behind their backs.
"Are you aware of why I called you here?" The Lord’s voice had a dangerous tilt as he said Why.
Drake's mind flashed to his and his Lord's conversation several weeks ago. A conversation over a much too large and far too potent bottle of alcohol. One that led to very loose lips. Lips that relayed desires he denied even thinking of within the privacy of his own mind. Desires he never thought his Lord would entertain. The Lord's possessiveness was famous for rivaling and surpassing that of even the Dragons. Drake failed to stifle the shudder at the idea. Was he wrong? No, he couldn't be. His Lord would send them away. It would be private like always. He took a slow, calming breath, tried to force his panic down, ignoring the pang of disappointment that simmered in his gut.
Drake clasped his hands slowly behind his back, fidgeting nervously as he tilted his head and eyed his retainers. “I only have a guess, Milord.”
"Please enlighten me." Drake couldn't help but eye his Lord's hands. Hands that Drake knew from experience were calloused. The strength in those hands made grown men cry regularly. Between hours of practicing sword fighting and the many times those hands have bruised someone's backside to the point they couldn't sit for a week, no adult in the castle could look at those hands and not think of the stage. The same hands that the Lord currently folded together sternly on his desk, his merciless eyes, black and narrow with desire, stared hard at Drake.
Drake didn't stop his body from rocking back and forth on his heels, sweat already beading on his forehead. His heart raced and pounded in his chest. He had a guess. One he was sure was correct. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet still echoed through the room. Inwardly, he cursed his Lord's magic as his voice rang loud enough for his retainers to hear it hitch, “I assume you're displeased with my actions, Milord. M-my rather unseemly espionage attempts?” Attempts they both knew were never really attempts.
Drake's eyes can barely track the Lord as he stands. His gait was slow, cautious, and calculated. Predatory. The same gait that they used when about to deal the killing blow in battle, whether verbal or steel. His cock twitched in anticipation. Dread filled him as his retainers squirmed. "Yes, my dragon. I have tried time and again to correct these idiotic attempts. Your years of loyal service have spared you many punishments. Punishments I am starting to regret not dealing out. But that ends now." The Lord paused in front of him, his eyes staring clearly into Drake's. Taking in his fidgeting, his every minute reaction, from the tilt of his chin to the hardening bulge in his pants. He couldn't stop his hands from twisting and squeezing behind his back as his Lord started to circle him, like a shark stalking its prey.
"I have told you over a dozen times to refrain from such insane attempts." The Lord stopped. His hand fell on Drake's lower back. He flinched so hard Drake almost lost his balance. His body snapped forward before his mind even registered the touch."Yet you claim not only in public, but in front of a foreign sovereign, who caught you red-handed in their own Castle no less, what exactly?" The Lord's hands curled around Drake's sides at the near-deadly demand.
Drake instinctively took a small step back, his back pressing further into his Lord as his body kept shuddering, his nails digging into his hands, still firmly clasped behind his back, even as they fought the instinct to cover his eyes. Shame and embarrassment filled him like the fires of a forge furnace, his face heating as if it was in front of him, as he felt his retainer's eyes glued to his back.
Questions raced through his mind. When will they be dismissed? Why are they still here? He steadied his body and breathed in time with the rise and fall of his Lord's chest, and when he spoke again, his voice was just barely more confident than before. “I-Im afraid I don't remember, sir.” It was a lie. An obvious one. His face flushed as his Lord's grip became even tighter.
Drake closed his eyes as his Lord's mouth rested above his ear. One arm circled around his stomach, pulling him flush against his Lord's chest, deceivingly light, “Really?" The word echoed through the room. Drake's body froze, tensing as he felt the hand grip the back of his neck. Squeezing. The threat clear. "That seemed to be your issue the other day. Do you need me to refresh your memory?" The Lord's voice was clear and mocking, ringing with challenge and promise—a challenge Drake wouldn't dare back away from.
Not even a squeak left his mouth. Not even as his body refused to stop shivering in his Lord's grasp. He calmly let his hands fall by his side. His breath stuttering as he gripped his overcoat, somehow his voice managed to come out with some hint of resolve, “I-I suppose that will be necessary, Milord.”
Drake couldn't cover the smirk on his lips as a growl ripped through the room. Not many could draw a reaction from The Lord. Let alone while others were in the room. Faint pride filled Drake, his lips twitching; he knew that only one person had ever done so and lived. The smirk only left as he felt himself being pushed forward. His stomach hit the front of the Lord’s desk. Hard. Enough, the air was forced out of his lungs. He only had a second before his head quickly followed. Shoved down till it was pressed into the desk. His head turned, eyes searching for his retainers frozen stiff by the wall.
"You have forgotten your claim already? That you had 'No Recollection of such orders, ’” the Lord's voice was barely contained in the mocking tone. The room felt heated, like the embers of a fire about to ignite, or a lightning strike about to hit the ground. “How many in this castle have heard me order it of you? Yet you claimed not to remember in front of them."
He felt one last squeeze on his neck before the grip disappeared. He heard his Lord’s next few breaths as they echoed loudly in the room. Harsh, heavy breaths. Obviously calming himself.
When his Lord spoke, the calm and control were back in his voice. Only their over a decade relationship allowed him to hear the sultry drone as his Lord said, “You defied me publicly. I have tried to spare you before. Your punishments were held in private, sparing you the humiliation, but this has sadly not curbed your behavior.”
He heard the fabric of the Lord’s suit stretch and ruffle, turning. Facing his retainers, the audience was still in the room. His Lord's voice only rising, speaking more for them now. “But you act more and more like a filthy mutt.”
The insult tore through him like a knife. His Lord had never used that insult in front of others. That was always in private. When he was sure they were alone. Drake’s eyes widened, his pupils shrinking, his breath shortened, and his body shuddered as he realized even before his Lord spoke next that he had been terribly wrong. “So. Your punishment shall be less than private this time."
A pitiful, weak squeak, unbecoming of a man of Drake’s status, left his throat. His legs caved, his body crumpling onto the ground. His thoughts recoiled, spinning through the words. Not here. Not in front of them. I-I can’t–. “I-Im sorry, Milord. I-I–” Drake pleaded, a soft, desperate whimper leaving his throat. He couldn’t. Not in front of them, “Please, sir–not in front of them–”
The Lord looked down at Drake. He scoffed, his eyes narrowing, merciless, uncaring. Unfamiliar. "You should have thought of that before.” The Lord strode, boots slamming into the floor, behind his desk, “Stand up and strip." He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down, crossing his legs, smirking, a faint bulge now prominent in his pants. "Hand your clothes to Mark. Hand your belt to me."
Drake let out another whimper, his hands shakily moving to unbuckle his boots, sliding them from his feet. A belting. He hadn’t had a chance even to replace his old belt. None of this bode well for him, and he no longer believed he could escape. He stood as his hands fiddled with the buttons on his overcoat. Glanced towards the line of his retainers. Mark was last in the line. He’d have to walk past every one of them to hand over his clothes. His cheeks were set alight, any semblance of dignity trickling out of his careful facade.
The overcoat finally slid free, crumpling into a pile in Drake’s arms. The Lord scowled, lips turned downward, eyes narrow and searching. Judging.
“Make sure to fold them properly. I will not have you embarrassing me more, mutt.” The Lord hissed.
“Y-yes, milord.” Drake’s response was shaky, rushed, and improper. He folded the overcoat quickly but correctly, ensuring the seams fit the fabric's shape before setting it on the desk. His hands wrapped around his back, finding the lacing of the corset, never laced tight enough to hinder his breathing, and pulled it free, setting it carefully atop the folded overcoat. His eyes locked on the desk, not even daring to look at his Lord, let alone the men at his back. Their eyes, however, he felt tracing his back. Staring at his rear, his nethers. Their bodies radiated heat and desire across the room.
Drake could only imagine what future meetings with them would be like. They wouldn’t bring this up, not in speaking. But they will be thinking about it. Every time he gets a note, they will know from now on. Every time he bends or moves, they will see through him. Naked and desperate. His cock twitched in his trousers at the thought. He hoped no one had seen.
“Turn and face them. I want your eyes on them. Only turn around when placing the items down.” The Lord’s voice still contained the low, warm drone from before, but almost sounded bored, uninterested.
Drake’s neck and chest began to fill with heat, flushing pink as his eyes widened, glancing at his Lord. His fingers reached for the smooth, polished silver buttons of his undershirt, shaking.
“Please, Milord, I-I can’t–” His Lord doesn't allow for a response. Doesn’t allow the pleading. His voice cut through him. Through his thoughts, stopping them for one agonizingly glorious second.
"You will. Or it won't only be five people. We can do this in the courtyard if you prefer." The words crashed down hard on Drake, stunning him. His hands freeze. His muscles tensed. Saliva stuck in his throat, and he choked, his entire body shaking. He couldn’t think–the courtyard meant–meant those infamous punishments–he couldn’t–not those. The Lord wouldn't – couldn't– Drake wouldn't survive.
His voice came out weak, weaker than he felt, “N-No–”
The Lord’s back remained perfectly straight in his chair. His eyes narrowing, collected and unsympathetic, “Then I suggest you obey my commands. Turn and face them, little dragon.” The words sent chills down Drake’s spine. The cool indifference, in stark contrast to the prior heat of the room and the heat of his face. It reeked of the Lord’s comfortable power.
Drake hesitated for a moment before slipping a button free. He tried to turn, his legs shaking; he couldn’t do this in public. In front of the whole castle–he’d–he’d die. He had to obey, had to, but without warning, his legs gave out, crumpling. His hands flew out to grab the desk, stopping himself from crashing into the ground.
His voice came out in a broken, cracking sob, “I–I can’t–”
The Lord’s eyes narrowed, sparking, shaking. The room’s temperature seemed to cool further, and the words left his mouth like ice, “Pathetic. This is your last chance. Do it yourself, or select one of your men to assist you.” He paused for a moment, his lips curling into a smirk, “It’s either that or we move this to the courtyard.”
The words were heavy, too heavy, an ultimatum, do or die. Drake sniffled, his eyes wetted with faint tears. He tried pulling himself up, tried steadying himself, tried to obey, tried to do anything to prove his obedience, but it was taking too long; he couldn’t move his muscles, the words had him frozen; it wasn’t fast enough. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, anything. But all of the words he could use eluded his grasp. Leaving him alone on the floor with nothing but a faint sob escaping.
The Lord’s tongue clicked, “Tsk. Mark, Jonathan, get him up. Thomas, go alert the guards and the castle to prepare the courtyard.” He rose from his desk, the fiery chill of his gaze wrapped around his body like a cloak, his footsteps like earthquakes as he moved to stand above Drake’s shaking body. “I have given you more than enough opportunities, Drake. Stand and obey. And I may decide to be lenient and continue in my office.”
His retainers, his trusted allies, began to move closer to him, slowly, far more slowly than they should be. They were waiting as much as the Lord was. Waiting for Drake to make a choice.
He wanted to obey. He wanted to follow his Lord’s commands. But his entire body felt weak, drained, useless. His fingers were slipping, barely able to hold his weight. Emotions flooded his body. Some he could admit, fear and despair warring in his head—others he refused to recognize. The dreams and jealousy had no place in the turmoil of his head.
Drake fell to his knees, gasping, his fingers still desperately pulling at the desk, pleading with his body and the object to lift him. They didn’t. Couldn’t. His head bowed, small tears dripping into the hand-crafted, detailed rug beneath him. He was entirely alone, facing the wrath of his Lord. Or his mercy. And the man was only famous for one.
“I-I-I’m sorry.” The words were painfully quiet, but they still somehow echoed throughout the room, making sure everyone knew what he had done. That he had failed.