Abel's knees struck stone. Pain scraped through his shins, but it wasn't any worse than the ache from the cuffs that kept his hands clasped behind his back.

Standing next to him, holding the chains that had dragged him here, was a knight. Across the steel chestplate was a phoenix with etched flames curling from its wings.

His hand flung out and a dagger skittered to rest in front of Abel’s lap. The dagger that had only a few minutes ago been strapped to Abel's thigh. In the reflection of the blade, he caught himself; his brown eyes, hardened and weary, his golden fur, dullened by sleepless nights and dusty beds, and his brown mane, ragged and ungroomed as it was.

He barely looked like a lion anymore.

He tore his gaze away. 

In front of Abel, sitting on a plush throne of red and gold on a raised platform, a snow leopard watched it with a bored expression. A red coat was stretched across his chest, threaded with gold and held to him by a button clasped to his shoulder. A cape was wrapped around him, hemmed by fur. Atop his head, between the snow leopard’s rounded ears, was a lithe gold crown that glinted in the light streaming in from the arched windows.

A crown that he didn’t deserve to wear.

"So many years," he said, "and this is the best you can do?"

Abel bared his fangs, and the knight yanked his chain, and he had to struggle to keep upright as the iron bit into his wrists.

"What do you want to do with him, sir?" The knight's accent was thick, like a molasses, slow to form the words with a foreign tongue.

He leaned back on his throne. The silence stretched.

"Leave him here."

The knight went rigid. "King Varric, sir?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Leave him here," he said again. "And undo those chains."

There was only a moment of hesitation before the knight unclasped a ring of keys on his belt and bent down. There was a click, and then the pressure on Abel's wrists lessened. The sound of metal on stone rang out and Abel brought his hand around to rub at his wrists.

"You may go." He dismissed the knight with a wave of his hand. This time, the knight didn't hesitate, turning and marching out through the same entryway he’d dragged Abel through.

Abel considered making a lunge for the dagger, but knew it was hopeless, even before it began to dance into the air and float towards Varric. Fingers formed around the worn leather wrappings and he tilted it, observing the glint of the blade.

"You waited until you were twenty-one. The age of succession. To rally the kingdom's approval, I assume." His grip on the handle tightened, and Abel watched as it began to dissolve, breaking apart, silvery sand spilling away from blade to hilt. "Three years, and the most you could accomplish was some half-starved commoners. I expected something a bit more… threatening."

Abel's cheeks burned. It hadn't been easy, living under constant threat. Trust, he learned, was a rarity as much as it was a necessity. Too often he found himself with a dagger pointed towards his back. And now he was on his knees, facing down death.

But Abel had once been told―by a woman he'd considered fearless―that bravery was not the absence of fear, but action in spite of it. So even though he couldn't stop his hands from trembling, he peeled his lips back in a snarl. In an act of defiance.

"There's that rebellious streak of yours." An easy smile slid across Varric's muzzle, wicked and slick and dangerous. "I thought you'd have outgrown that by now. Come here. Let me have a look at you."

It wasn't a request, not a real one. Because before Abel could spit his refusal, Varric thrust a hand forward and splayed his fingers. The air around Abel hummed, sang, and then he felt it.

Magic.

The impossible thing that it was. The impossible thing it was supposed to be. Only told in fairytales and legends, long since drained from this world, century old monuments and books and stories being the only records of it ever existing.

But Abel was feeling just how all too real it was.

It dug into his mind like reaching fingers. He locked his joints, pushed against Varric's will with his own, felt his body strain under the pressure. Ultimately, it was useless.

He took one staggering step forward. And then another. And another. With each one, it only became easier for Varric, the fingers reaching deeper, until they seized at his nerves and his thoughts and Abel was nothing more than a puppet.

He was made to take the stone steps up to the raised platform one at a time, until he was standing in front of Varric. With the last ounce of his strength, he forced a growl. But even that was choked off.

This close, he could see the silver that threaded through the snow leopard’s muzzle, a mark of his age. And yet he looked healthy as ever, with thick, full fur and a broad chest that stretched his tunic. Abel, in comparison, looked more like a rat dragged up from a river.

He hated it. Hated that this was how it was going to end.

"Did you know," Varric said, "that they still call you Prince?"

He looked toward the windows and Abel followed his gaze. Beyond them, Abel could see the sprawling city, the buildings that curled up into the sky. Lights were blinking to life on the streets as the purple of dusk bled into the sky.

He felt the control slip, just enough to let him speak.

"It's almost as if murder doesn't make you a king," Abel said.

He wanted to sound fierce. Angry. Resentful.

So it was all the more frustrating that he couldn't keep the tremble out of his voice.

"Oh? It doesn't, does it? Then, do tell, what was that dagger for?" His smile widened, sharp and wide like a knife. Abel bristled.

"It's different," he hissed.

"Of course it is."

"I was taking back what was rightfully mine."

"And look where you are now." He turned his hand over and curled in his forefinger. Abel's chin lifted, and then turned, and Varric craned his neck as if examining some jewel.

Abel managed to bring his lips back into a snarl. "So what now? Hang me? Put me to the sword?"

All of those ideas terrified him. But he didn't let it show.

"Of course not," Varric said. "Did you think the reason you're alive is because you managed to slip by my notice?"

Abel took in a sharp breath. A breach in his composure. Something rumbled in the back of Varric's throat, and he realized it was a laugh.

"You were far more useful when you were gallivanting around as a savior. It's a precarious balance, owning a kingdom. If the scale tips too far either way, then problems begin to pop up. But you were the perfect counterweight. You gave those that would still swear fealty to the old ways hope, just enough to keep them from rioting."

"Then you'll let me go?" Hope sparked in his chest. It only kindled for a breath.

"No," Varric said and brought his hand to rest against the arm of his throne. His magic still held to Abel like a snake. "If I let you slip from my grasp for a second time, it would make me look like a fool. And throwing you in the dungeon would tip the scales too far. No, my little Prince. Instead, I will have you swear fealty."

Abel wanted to laugh, if he was sure it wouldn't come out strangled. "Never."

Varric's face darkened. "We'll see about that."

With a wave of his hand, Abel fell to his knees, pain lancing up through his legs. Varric balled his fist and drew it back and Abel was dragged forward until his chest touched the throne.

"I think our Prince needs to learn some humility," Varric said, another laugh rumbling in the back of his throat. He ran the pad of his thumb along his fingertips. Abel watched, with a pounding heart, as the belt cinched to Varric's waist undid itself. 

The button popped, and a large, uncut cock quickly unfurled. The hot scent of musk spilled into the air. Abel tried to wrench back, tried to struggle against the tendrils that wrapped around his will, but he couldn't.

"Fuck you." Abel bared his fangs.

A snap of fingers and his jaw wasn't his own anymore.

"That's no way to talk to your king, little Prince." With his other hand, he cupped the air like a wine glass and folded in two fingers and Abel's wrists were pinned behind his back before he folded, his snout pushed into the thick groinfur.

He pressed against Varric's will, but eventually he was forced to gasp, and Varric's scent flooded his mouth. The heady smell beat at the back of his throat and burned his nose. Hips rose up to grind against his muzzle and he could feel the cock slapping against his cheek.

A purr pushed up through Varric. It made Abel's ears burn.

"Come now. Service your king," he said, and Abel's tongue slipped from his maw to stroke through his fur. It smoothed against the base of his sheath, and then up the straining length, staining his tastebuds with its taste.

When he ran over the tip, a bead of pre spread across his tongue, it's strong taste filling his mouth. And then he was forming his lips over the thick head and slipping it deeper into his maw, his tongue cupping the underside and drawing it up and over the sensitive head, collecting the steady, sluggish pre.

When it struck at the back of his throat he gagged, and he was forced to draw back, slowly. Spittle bubbled around his lips and streaked back across the length of Varric's cock.

Fingers combed through Abel's mane before grabbing a fistful of it and using it to pull him back down onto the cock. It struck at his throat, and Abel gagged around it before Varric yanked him back and pulled him back down. His hips rose up to pummel the thick head against his esophagus with brutal, abusive thrusts.

"That's much better," Varric hummed.

Spit drooled from his gagging throat. Hot pre shot against his cheeks and tongue and he was forced to swallow it, where the taste hung at the back of his throat. 

Abel squirmed, but Varric's will only strengthened, the fingers digging in deeper, shutting him off from the rest of his body.

The fingers tangled in his mane tightened, and they threatened to rip the hair from his head as they slammed him back down, hard enough to force the head to slip into his throat. Varric tugged and tugged, sliding the thick cock further, further, further, until Abel's snout was brought flush with his groinfur.

And then a growl spilled from Varric and Abel felt the cock throb and stretch his throat before heat began to spill into him. Hot, thick bouts of Varric's jizz pumped straight to his stomach.

He ground against his lips and gave short, harsh humps until Abel was sure he would pass out. Just as slow as he had slipped in, Varric drew Abel back, letting the last spurts fall across his tongue, which he was made to swallow, before dragging his cock from his maw.

Thick strings of saliva stretched from his lips, slopping off and falling into Varric's fur.

Their heavy, uneven breaths filled the silence until with a flick of his wrist, Abel was made to stand. Varric's gaze trailed down from his face to his chest and then finally to the hem of his pants.

A flourish, and they were gone, dropped to Abel's feet and exposing him. A plump sheath and a hefty pair of balls.

Varric folded in a forefinger and Abel lurched forward, his knees sliding onto the throne, shuffling him forward and then making him lean back until he felt something prod and push at his ass.

It slid between his asscheeks, spreading its mess of jizz and saliva, before Abel was made to prop himself against the thick cocktip. Varric took his chin between thumb and forefinger and made him meet his gaze. His eyes were lidded, his mouth curved into an absent smile.

"Swear to me," he said.

"You are not my king," Abel spat.

And then heat pressed against his asshole. A hand formed around his hip and guided him down onto the thick cock. It slipped in, girth stretching him wide, wider than he'd ever thought possible. The warmth pushed up to his belly and then his chest and then his head, where it settled and thickened like a fog.

And then a gasp broke from Abel. The thick heat in his head clogged his thoughts, made his body feel light. Then, he felt his legs tighten, and he looked down his chest to be greeted by his emerging pink cocktip. A shiver wormed up his spine, and more slid out to greet the cool air.

Abel grit his teeth and tried to close off the feeling, the sparks that threaded through his veins and pushed to his sheath. But it was hopeless. And the worst part was, he didn’t know if it was the work of magic, or his own body’s betrayal.

With each inch of the cock, his own began to stir. First, the tip poking out from his thickened sheath. Then the rest began to slide free until it was at ful-lmast and beating against the cool air. A bead of pre drooled from the tip to trace along the underside.

He didn't realize he'd been holding bis breath until he felt his hips touch Varric's lap and he gasped. His cock jumped, a rope of its pre firing across Varric's chest. His smile thickened.

"We'll change your mind soon enough," he said, his voice like the rumble of thunder on the horizon.

More heat pushed into Abel's head. Another pitched gasp rolled from him as his hips slipped up, and then back down, feeling the thickness rub against him. A whimper bubbled from his throat, which he tried to swallow.

The line between control and autonomy began to blur as he was made to ride along the thick cock. Needles thrummed through Abel's legs, pushing up from his feet to his thighs. When a grip formed around his cock he jolted.

Varric ran his thumb over his head and another whimper rolled from him. His fingers oscillated as they slipped down his sensitive cock, and then back up, squeezing out another thick spurt of pre.

Abel rocked between the two, Varric's hand and Varric's cock, the heat in his head growing and growing until it burned away his thoughts and left him nothing more than a panting lion, grinding between a thick cock and a firm grip.

A hand reached up and pushed a thumb under Abel's lip, spreading it to show his teeth. It smoothed further back and looped to pull at his bottom lip and slip inside to press flat against his tongue and guide his jaw open. Varric held him like that, admiring his sharp teeth and flashing canines.

"Come here," Varric murmured, and Abel did, unsure if it was brought on by the blood magic or not. The hand brushed past his cheek as he leaned down, his pulse spiking when lips brushed his and fingers tossled his hair and pulled him in, pressing them against one another.

He opened his maw and met Varric's thick tongue with his own, letting them slip and push against each other, letting the burly snow leopard dominate him completely. A wet moan sputtered from Abel, swallowed up by Varric.

The knot in Abel's stomach tightened and tightened, until it became impossible to stop it. His hips stuttered up into the firm grip as ropes of his cum splattered against Varric's chest. His wrists fought against the invisible hold, desperate for purchase, as the orgasm rocked through him, leaving static in its wake.

Varric yanked his head back, their kiss broken, and Abel broke out into a moan. The hand around his cock slipped to his ass, where it grabbed at his cheek and spread it wide. He used the grip to guide him back down to his base with harsh claps.

And then he held him there, the thick cock speared deep, and Abel felt it throb and push at his ass for a beat. Then, heat began to fill him and a gasp welled from his throat. He ground against the cock as it unloaded, breeding his ass, stretching it wide, until it gave him all it could.

And then he slumped forward. He took in deep, ragged breaths, trying to calm his beating pulse. He lifted his hips. The cock slipped free, dragging it's load with it. Abel could feel it crawling down his thigh.

The heat in his head cooled, and as it did, disgust twisted his stomach. Varric's magic had loosened, the fingers retreating from his mind. With a snarl, he wrenched back, and would have gone toppling off the throne if a hand hadn't reached out and grabbed him.

"Careful there, little prince."

Abel spat at him. It caught mid air, and Abel's jaw opened back up to accept it. His lips peeled back in disgust.

"I will not bow to you," Abel hissed, though it came out weak from his abused throat.

"It's not a matter of will," Varric said, and twisted his wrist.

Silvery sand, the remnants of the dagger, swirled up and into his palm, reforming into a jagged blade. He pressed it to the slope of Abel's jaw, cold steel meeting his pulse, and then trailed down, over his collarbone and shirt, until he caught the edge on the bottom of his shirt. He ripped it up, and the fabric tore in two and left Abel's chest exposed.

The blade dissolved and reformed in the same breath, but this time it was something else.

A needle.

And Abel's heart lurched.

"Good. You know what this means." Varric pressed the end into his own forearm. Blood welled up and the needle drew it in before Varric reached out with it and pricked Abel's exposed skin. A sting of pain made Abel writhe.

Varric pulled away, dabbed it back into the blood, and pricked him again.

Pinpoints of pain burned as he continued to thread the blood through Abel's skin. He struggled, fought, even with his tired mind, but he was easily dominated.

"Of course," Varric said, "there are faster ways of doing this-" another prick of the needle, "-but this feels like it requires more of a personal touch."

Each time the needle stained his skin, Abel could feel the magic. It pierced past the needle and through his body, tangling with his soul. With his will. Soft, quiet words, a spell, strung from Varric as he worked, as he tattooed Abel with his own blood.

The burn of the needle only got worse and Abel's grasp on time quickly blurred. It could have been minutes or hours. A day, even, as he was kept there, exposed chest pricked and needled, until finally Varric let the needle dissolve back into silvery sand.

And Abel could feel the rune burned into his skin. Threaded into his will by Varric's blood. Could feel it tangle with his thoughts and will.

"Now," Varric said, holding Abel’s gaze, "who do you belong to?"

Abel locked his jaw. A shudder pushed up through him. It made his jaw creak open, made his tongue form words. Made him bend to the question.

"You."