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There is a time for battle and a time for diplomacy, or so it was in the early days of the Archon War. As the years wear on, however, such neat lines muddy and unravel, until there remains little room for niceties amidst the mounting loss and bloodshed.
Thus without ceremony, Xiao drags his latest prey, a worn and battered prince, before Morax's empty throne. Alone, Xiao had been dispatched to break the prince's army, and alone, he'd carried out his task to perfection—torn the prince's men asunder, ripped the weapon from his fist, and forced his surrender with a spear at his throat.
To see him now walking in with his head held high, taking a warrior's proud stance before the dais, rather than dropping to his knees to show proper obeisance—it's an insult to Xiao's master, and a preview of the discussions he believes lie ahead. The prince is living decades in the past, to think there is room for negotiation here, that there are favorable terms to be won against the God of Contracts, this deep into the war.
These days, Xiao's master is constantly exhausted, and has much on his mind, far greater foes to contend with. To spend more than a moment here would be beneath him. All the prince is due is subjugation, and only then if he begs for it, and immediately thereafter makes himself scarce.
As Morax might arrive at any moment, Xiao wastes no time correcting the situation. Lashing out with his spear, he catches the prince by the ankle, sending him tumbling to one knee.
The prince looks up with a snarl, but the mortal fear underneath it is thinly veiled. What must Xiao look like to him, still streaked in battle grime, sweat, and the blood of his crumbled army? What must it remind him of, when only hours ago, Xiao had stood over him just like this, and held his life in his hands?
A hint of satisfaction blooms as Xiao twirls the spear in his hands, then jams the butt into the prince's back, hard between the shoulders, forcing him the rest of the way to the floor.
Caught somewhere between bristling anger and abject terror, the prince has been just about pressed into proper position by the time Morax strides into the room. He takes the throne with his usual poise; even sitting, he exudes a regal, imposing air, but there's that subtle weariness that's been trailing him of late. All but imperceptible, yet Xiao can sense it. He gives another jab of his spear.
"Call off your dog," the prince demands, but ends on a squeak, whether at Xiao jamming the spear harder, or the unamused look that Morax levels at him. "Lord Morax," he adds hastily. "I am here to talk terms."
"Xiao," Morax calls, and Xiao is at his side in an instant, prince forgotten. Whatever else may be, he always comes when called.
Morax points at the floor between his thighs, and Xiao instantly flushes with humiliation and pleasure. This is how he knows he's done well. He's earned a reward.
He moves quickly, stripping his armor with hurried swipes, heedless of how the pieces fall. In a matter of moments, he's taken a graceful kneel before his master, entirely nude but for his gauntlets: dark, supple-fingered gloves, back lightly armored wrist to knuckle, which Morax has granted him for spearwork—and for this.
When he brings his hands together at the small of his back, Morax needs only gesture, and the steel of the gauntlets snap together, clicking his hands securely in place: back to back, palms facing out, fingers splayed open like wings.
Arms thus locked behind him, he shuffles forward on his bare knees until he can tuck his head beneath his master's robes, and take his master's length into his mouth.
The war efforts have worn on his master, and he too infrequently grants Xiao the opportunity to relieve that stress. As Xiao bends his head forward for more, his locked hands bob up in counterpoint, fingers grasping at air. The prince behind him gives a small cry, and Xiao's entire body tenses at the reminder of his presence. There's something demeaning about doing this in front of an audience, especially this one, but Xiao would no more dream of protesting his directives than he'd give up a chance to worship his master's cock. Without further orders, he obediently holds it upon his tongue, relishing in the way it slowly expands and stiffens in the heat of his mouth, and longs to be bid to suck.
Morax sets a hand on Xiao's head, gently adjusting the angle. Now and then, he grasps Xiao by a fistful of hair, and uses it to anchor him in place for a few lazy thrusts. There are words spoken overhead, in Morax's low, rumbling tones, but they aren't meant for Xiao, with his cheeks pressed to warm thighs, drool beginning to slick his stretched lips. He is simply a vessel. Morax is still carrying out his official capacity, but he doesn't give the prince any more regard than such an easily conquered foe should be allotted, and reserves half his attention for taking his pleasure from Xiao's body.
"These terms are barbaric. I could never accept them," the prince's voice comes in reply, but there's already a falter to it that hadn't been there before.
"Take your time to think on them," replies Morax, with great indifference. When he grows bored of Xiao's mouth, he turns Xiao around, and presses up on Xiao's bare hip. Immediately, Xiao lowers his face to the floor, raising his ass in invitation, balance perfect despite his hands still pinned at his back. He has a good view now of the prince pretending to read a partially unrolled parchment, but every few seconds his eyes drift up, as if pulled, to stare instead at Xiao. As Morax's broad girth pushes into Xiao, parting him, claiming him, the seconds between stares grow shorter, and the parchment is never further unrolled.
Before the prince's horrified eyes, Xiao braces his cheek and shoulders against the ground, focused on taking each of Morax's rocking thrusts, much as the ground receives an earthquake. He gives a wide grin, blood still streaking his face and arms, Morax's spend still wet on his lips. The enemy prince gulps, and scrambles to bury his gaze in the document once more. Apparently it's too much for him to bear: the monster who had single-handedly felled an army, submitting his body to be fucked by greater monster still. Where Morax might have spent a great deal of time and patience on intimidation, instead casually bidding Xiao to his knees—the one who had conquered the prince's army in the span of a morning—and using him as a simple plaything, is sending an immediate tremble into the prince's limbs, a redness to his countenance. He's ostensibly not looking, not paying attention, yet he shudders along with every impact, trembling and moaning as if he's the one on his knees.
All this Xiao observes distantly, with the satisfaction of a tool being put to good use, the admiration of a weapon skillfully wielded. Xiao can imagine no greater pleasure than this. To be filled by his master, and to be fulfilled at once. To think of nothing but to follow his commands, and serve whatever purpose is granted to him, and do it well. To surrender himself wholly, and offer himself up for all that his master desires.
Dimly, he's aware of the prince approaching.
Parchment is laid out upon his upper back, and he straightens his body to form a better surface, lowering his bound hands as far as they'll go. Morax presses his stamp into it, and Xiao imagines he can feel each groove against his spine, claiming him with his seal and his cock at once.
Below it, more tentative, comes the prince's stamp, given without any negotiation, condition, or reservation after all.
The motion brings him close enough to see the intimate details of how Xiao's master uses him: hear it, smell it, all but taste it. For a moment, the prince seems almost entranced, before he recoils with a whimper. This time he properly goes to his hands and knees in a formal bow, and backs out of the room this way, head lowered to the ground.
He's just reached the doorway, entire body trembling with the strain, when Morax says lazily, "Xiao."
It's all the command that Xiao needs. Release bursts from him, heady and euphoric, as he bucks up for just that much more contact, to feel that much more owned, fucked, used.
As he comes down from his buzzing high, he becomes aware of his master's hand stroking the sweat from his side, pride and possessiveness in each tender caress.
Xiao has done well, that's the message.
After all, he always comes when called.