Alone in his cell, Claude has little to do with his time aside from considering every bit of information he has gathered together so far, and plan for an unlikely escape.
Aurelien has certainly given him a lot to think about. That's a good thing as far as he's concerned- the more words and smiles he has to mull over, the less he focuses on the unyielding metal cage around his cock. Still, despite Claude's best efforts, his thoughts frequently wander, with his bruised throat and bottom acting as constant reminders of his utter humiliating abuse and, worst of all, pleasure, in front of a leering audience.
When metal digs painfully into his swelling cock, he has to take some slow, even breaths to calm himself down. How can he possibly find any of those memories arousing? Claude is loathe to acknowledge that Aurelien might be even a little bit right about him and his proclivities. Trying to lie to himself isn't easy though, not with the pleasant little sparks running straight downward when he thinks of strong hands digging into his hair while he kneels, or a leg sliding between his thighs and pressing upward with just the right amount of pressure.
Claude grimaces and goes back to mentally mapping out what he remembers of the manor's corridors beyond his cell.
Every once in awhile, he tries to start a conversation with the nearby guards. Each question is designed to squeeze out small drops of information, though more often than not, they completely ignore him. They respond to his requests for water, but little else.
Frustrated with them and himself, Claude tries his best to at least get some rest. He can't say when Aurelien will visit him again, but after last time, he needs to be alert and focused.
True to his word, Aurelien returns soon—but not with enough the regularity to predict. The day after their venture out of Claude's cell, he is left to his own devices; the day that follows, though, begins with the sound of those familiar boot-clad footsteps approaching before lunch.
More worrisome, perhaps, is that those footsteps aren't alone. A second pair trails behind Aurelien's: lighter, less confident, but undeniably present. Before Claude has much time to consider who they could belong to, though, the door to his cell swings open—and there stands Aurelien, flanked by a dark-haired demon in servant's clothes. She is dressed in a less militaristic fashion than the guards Claude is by now accustomed to seeing; in her hands is a small tray, covered by a cloth.
For Aurelien's part, he acts as if she weren't there at all. He steps forward, grinning, and looks over Claude's posture on his cot. "Have you been waiting for me? I'm flattered." With a wink, he sweeps closer, each movement imbued with his usual sense of theatre—but as he comes to stand before Claude, the mirth drains from his voice, mocking humor replaced by a firm authority. "Stand for me."
Lying back on his cot, Claude frowns up at the ceiling, focusing on the sounds of footsteps approaching from down the hall. It's easy enough to pick out Aurelien's heavier, confident cadence, but the second set is new to him.
He doesn't have to wait long to find out why.
The guards let Aurelien and his companion into the cell, and Claude's curious gaze wanders over to the dark-haired woman. He can only assume she must be a servant of some sort judging by her plainer clothing and the tray in her hands. Immediately, Claude wonders if she will be visiting him again in the future, and if she might be the sort to be swayed by sweet words, or promises of gold and power. For his freedom, he would offer anything... and as a prince, he has the means to provide.
Of course, he doesn't have time to think about that for more than a second. Aurelien demands all of his attention, as always- though he does allow his face to soften when he gives the woman a quick, second glance. Proper scheming means thinking on one's toes, and never letting any potential opportunity slip by.
Claude looks up at Aurelien without any further hesitation, preferring if he doesn't notice his 'pet' scrutinizing another demon.
"There isn't much else to do here," he sighs, as though he's simply bored and not constantly on edge without anything else to occupy his mind.
"Right," he grunts at the command, and pushes himself into a sitting position, then onto his feet. One day spent resting has done him a lot of good, but he's still plenty sore in all the same places. On his feet, Claude rolls his shoulders a few times, and then his neck. It's easier to flash the servant a little smile while he's standing. Although he never married, Claude has never struggled to charm women if that's what needs to be done. Maybe it can also work here?
As Claude stands, Aurelien's eyes rove over his body, taking in the flex of his muscles. It's appraising, rather than lecherous—but it still offers Claude ample opportunity to sneak a smile to the quiet servant that stands by the doorway, instead.
Her eyes are more alien than Aurelien's: a flat, monochrome red, with no distinction between pupil or sclera. It makes her chilly expression difficult to read as she stares back at him; her lips remain pressed in a flat line, revealing little. Still, at the least, she doesn't look away.
"You look steady on your feet. Good." Not that Aurelien intends for Claude to do overmuch walking. It will be more than two days ago, however—and he doesn't bother to hide how pleased the thought makes him. "I take it the salve I left you with has offered some relief?"
Lest Claude forget his act of kindness. Aurelien's hand reaches out; his fingertip brushes along the skin just below Claude's navel, teasingly light, before skimming lower.
"And I bet you're eager to be free of this little thing again, aren't you?"
Truly, it doesn't matter how Claude answers him, so long as it's anything less than a complete denial. He doesn't intend to keep him in chastity for today's game; he just wants to hear what he already knows from Claude's own mouth.
It's difficult not to keep stealing glances at the woman, with those mysterious red eyes of hers. They aren't like Aurelien's, and that makes him curious. He'll have to find a way to tease out that information without coming across as too nosy.
When it comes to potentially personal or sensitive information, he doesn't want to risk losing the chance to ever find something out because he was too indelicate about how he asked his questions.
"I've been getting by." He downplays the usefulness of the salve, but after some time passed, he's come to realize just how incredibly valuable it is. The vial is still there, under his cot, with just enough left in case he needs it more urgently another time.
Claude isn't naive. If the 'presentation' he suffered through was a mere introduction, he's probably going to face far worse at some point. A thought he really shouldn't consider while Aurelien's fingers brush gently over his skin- the absolute last thing he needs is to get hard seconds before being freed from his cage. Or to try and explain why imagining possible punishments excites him in the first place.
With a slow, grounding breath in and out, he inclines his head a fraction.
"I would appreciate that." One of his go to responses. Somehow, it feels like a comfortable medium between polite agreement and maintaining some distance.
"I'm sure you would," he answers, cruel smile inching wider on his lips. Finally, that fingertip comes to rest on the chastity cage's lock—and yet, Aurelien makes no move to open it.
It's a game Claude has endured before. Aurelien's hand lingers there, unmoving, just long enough that Claude might wonder if he has been misled with false hope. Sometimes, the suspicion isn't unfounded, and those fingers dart away with Claude's cock still bound; even now, the urge to renege tugs at Aurelien's mind, and he very nearly succumbs to that petty desire as he stares down into Claude's pretty eyes.
He doesn't, though. At the last moment, he draws in a breath of his own, hot and yearning. The lock is unbound; Aurelien gathers the newly-disconnected cage into his hand, and then he glances toward their silent observer.
"Bring it here, Severine," he says. Evidently, that is her name, as she immediately pads closer. She maintains a polite distance from Claude, standing such that Aurelien's body remains a buffer between the two of them; Aurelien wordlessly deposits the cage onto the tray, slipping it under the cloth to sit alongside whatever mystery items are hidden there.
He returns his attention to Claude. His lips peel back, smile broadening to show his perfectly white teeth.
"Bend yourself over your cot, or lie on your stomach. Whichever suits you better."
If he doesn't, Aurelien will simply manhandle him into the position he desires. That surely goes without saying.
Claude stares intently down at the hands hesitating on the cage's lock, hardly daring to breathe when he realizes Aurelien might not remove it after all, denying him the relief he always craves. No promises have been made- he needs to remember the young lord's rules if he ever hopes to play his game properly.
So far, he thinks he might be able to rely on promises. Anything else is up for reconsideration or abrupt change.
Claude tilts his head back to meet Aurelien's eyes with a doleful look on his face. Thankfully, he feels the fingers lingering over his cage start moving again, and seconds later he can breathe a soft sigh of relief when he's freed from the restricting metal he has come to truly despise.
Then he refocuses his attention on the servant as Aurelien calls her closer. Severine. He'll have to remember that. She steps over obediently, and Claude looks over the tray in her hands again. The way Aurelien seems intent on keeping something hidden under a cloth worries him, and the next command leaves him with no small amount of dread. Last time he had to do similar, he ended up with a bruised ass. Hopefully he hasn't done anything worthy of punishment today.
All he knows right now is that bright smile doesn't promise anything good. From his experience, the more cheery the young man looks, the worse Claude will feel.
"Why? I haven't broken any rules."
There are some orders he will follow unquestioningly, more and more as time passes, but others are too concerning for swift obedience.
The sight of Claude's eyes, silently pleading for relief, never fails to quicken Aurelien's blood. His tongue licks across his bared teeth. For now, though, this delightful frisson will have to suffice.
So, with Claude freed from his bindings, that same hand lifts to seek his face instead. Aurelien takes Claude's handsome jaw into the cup of his palm, some parody of a lover's touch; in place of the gentle brush of affection, it holds tight enough to promise pain—perhaps the harsh grip of strangulation, if that hand moves just a bit lower, or maybe the simple brutish act of slamming a skull into the nearest hard wall.
"Do you think what I am about to give you is a punishment?" Again, his voice buoys with mirth. Excitement winds him tighter, and his grin widens until it looks more like a grimace. "No — if this were about discipline, you would already know what you have done wrong."
And that is true enough. Aurelien may make up rules on the spot, at times—but still, he always ensures that Claude knows his transgression. A punishment has no weight if its subject fails to understand why he is being reprimanded, after all.
Aurelien's grip goes just loose enough that Claude may pull away, if he chooses. Still, his fingers linger, ready to grasp tight again if need be.
Claude thinks he might hate these sorts of false choices more than anything else. With a firm hand gripping his jaw in a way that could easily turn bruising or suffocating with little more than a slight shift, choosing not to obey isn't really a choice at all.
As Aurelien says, plainly as any other obvious fact, he will end up bent over the cot or lying on his front one way or another. For someone dedicated to self-preservation, he can't justify earning more bruises for something so trivial.
He grunts his assent, not bothering to mask his displeasure, and pulls away sharply from Aurelien's hand. Without needing much thought, Claude climbs back onto the cot and carefully settles himself down so he's lying down flat on his stomach, chin cradled in his folded arms. Apparently he isn't about to be punished, which is a relief, but leaves him uncomfortably clueless. So, even as Claude lies there as ordered, he continually attempts to sneak glances at the two standing nearby.
Again, he wonders about Severine. There must be a reason she is here, but why? Is it merely to hold that tray for her lord? Aurelien never brought another with him for his visits before, so why start now? He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking aloud- asking questions can be a nervous habit of his, and he really would prefer not to give into it.
Claude stands completely still, back straight and hands at his sides. The demon in front of him takes careful measure of the width of his chest, while another seated a few feet away takes diligent notes of her numbers and observations. As much as he hates being the center of attention while nude, wearing only a few of Aurelien's accessories, he hadn't bothered arguing that morning when the young man came to his cell and declared he was taking him to be measured for new clothing.
The tailor adjusts his posture slightly, then wraps the measuring tape around his ribs. He frowns, but keeps still, gaze focused straight ahead. Aurelien is somewhere behind them, watching the whole process; Claude doesn't intend to draw the demon's ire when he seems to be in a cheerful mood.
Hopefully this won't take too long. And maybe, just maybe, he'll have something decent to wear in a few days. He wonders how Aurelien would dress his 'pet'. The question worries him, as all things related to Aurelien do, which makes him hesitant to ask.
He doubts it could be much worse than walking around naked with only a collar around his throat, and he would gladly wear anything else if it meant freedom from this damned chastity cage. Unfortunately, he isn't optimistic that his new outfit will change anything as long as his master takes pleasure in tormenting him.
His cruel, sadistic young master, who... gave him one of his own books without prompting. He's read it cover to cover multiple times already, and spent plenty of time mulling over the significance of its contents. If Aurelien gave it to him for a reason, he has yet to puzzle out why.
Maybe later he'll ask for more books. Anything new he can learn about these demons is worthwhile, as is anything that helps him pass the hours alone in his cell.
Aurelien oversees his servants' works—but, in truth, there isn't much for him to see at all. Claude's back remains obediently straight, with any incidental shift in his posture owed to the natural limitations of a human's body. He answers the small nudges of the tailor with unflinching obedience, likely well-accustomed to the mind-numbing process from however many times the little prince had needed a new wardrobe growing up. Aurelien has long since sprawled long where he sits atop the loveseat: one elbow thrown across the armrest beside him, and a long leg hooked lazily across the other as he slouches.
Idly, he spins a tendril of shadow across his finger—but the tailor sees him as she leans in half beside Claude's arm, and while she may not be bold enough to chastise him, she shoots her young lord a plaintive gaze, wordlessly begging him not to interrupt her work. With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Aurelien's head lolls back—but the grasping darkness fades with Claude's body unmolested, and the tailor resumes her measurements of Claude's arm.
All Claude hears, of course, is the quiet shift of glass against wood: the sound of Aurelien plucking up his wineglass and bringing it to his lips for a bored sip. As the demon lowers it again, he asks, "Have you finished the book I loaned to you?"
An idle, pleasant tone: unmistakably that of small talk. Indeed, if there had been any particular meaning behind Aurelien's actions, his voice reveals less of it now than it does his own boredom.
He blinks, drawn out of his thoughts when Aurelien addresses him. He's almost surprised to hear him ask about the book, though he isn't entirely sure why. Maybe because it's a normal topic of discussion, and very little about their interactions tends to be normal.
Regardless, he's more than happy to talk about the single piece of demonic literature he's ever read.
"Yeah. I've read it a few times," he says, still facing straight ahead so as not to disturb the tailor's measurements.
"I've always enjoyed poetry. There are more similarities in theme and style than I expected, but also plenty of unique flavor. There's one near the beginning that I like in particular."
He wonders which speak most strongly to Aurelien. Judging by the state of the book, he's read it through a few times- and if Claude had to guess, he could point to a few that remind him more of Aurelien than others.
btw feel free to make up whatever details you like!
"Oh?" he drawls, and even with his back turned to Aurelien's face, Claude can doubtlessly hear the smirk on Aurelien's lips. "You must have truly enjoyed it."
Of course, Aurelien recognizes the true explanation is likely much simpler: there isn't much else for Claude to do within his cell. Still, a few times is quite a bit to have read anything over an equal number of days—and despite any teasing in Aurelien's manner, he straightens with his interest in the conversation, pivoting as he pulls himself upright to throw one ankle across his knee.
"So you've mentioned." Just as swiftly, his tone returns to something light and dry—casual, even, as though there were no particular weight to having chosen something to suit Claude's tastes. Even so, the sound of his voice leaves no room for refusal as he commands, "Tell me about it. What about it makes it worth liking in particular?"
"I did," he says, inclining his head in the smallest of nods. "I would love to read more, if possible."
He doubts he will find a more perfect opening to nudge in his request for more books. And even if he still has no idea why Aurelien might have suddenly decided to supply him with the first, that he's asking for Claude's opinion at all is... promising.
He perks up even more when Aurelien reminds him that he'd previously mentioned his fondness for poetry. This time, he can't resist stealing a quick backward glance over his shoulder. Aurelien appears as casual and relaxed as ever, but there's something of a bite in his tone. Claude hurriedly looks back ahead, hopefully before the tailor can consider scolding him.
"Hm." There's a thoughtful silence as he mulls over his response. "I think it's the conflict behind the poet's words. On the surface, the poem might come across as cold, but there's more to it than that. The Poet is longing for power in a world where power defines value, but can he express that without sounding weak?
Is the pursuit of power itself a sign of weakness? It's an interesting idea."
Claude steals a hurried glance, and Aurelien's smile widens by fractions. He wonders what Claude is hoping to find in his gaze. Alas, before he might hope to guess, Claude's face twists from his once more; the tailor clicks her tongue, the way one might call the attention of an unruly animal, before her measuring tape spools around the span of Claude's hips.
Their faces again hidden from one another, Aurelien huffs loose a quiet laugh. Idly, he rolls the stem of his wineglass between his fingertips; with little else to occupy it, his gaze lowers toward it, meeting his own eyes where he finds their dim reflection in the ruby-colored pool.
"The prevailing thought is that the strong and capable will find power by their very nature. As such, to grasp may be seen as... unseemly," he explains, his voice detached. A conundrum that doesn't apply to him—or, at least, one it is in his interests to seem above. "But that is a paradox. Ambition is a flaw where one's appetite exceeds one's means — yet, to be complacent is to be weak, as well."
"But isn't that a tautology? Those with power are successful because they are powerful. It's a way to justify where a person is now, but does nothing to address how they got there in the first place."
Claude gestures vaguely with his hand, earning another irritated click from the tailor. He mutters an apology, and lowers his arm back to his side.
"At the very least, there's some obvious hypocrisy in that line of thought," he continues after a moment. "Those with power are usually the ones who crave it most of all. I know that well enough: I have ambitions of my own."
His ambitions. While many of his dreams crumbled to dust during the Fodlan war, the strong connections he made over those years have greatly helped his efforts toward improving relations between Fodlan and Almyra. In particular, his friendships with Dimitri and Lorenz have been extremely fruitful for everyone involved.
It pains him every time he thinks about his work coming to an end. Dimitri and Lorenz must have missed him by now. He wonders what they'll think happened to him: does everyone believe he's dead? Or did any of his men survive to tell the truth about what happened? He can only hope he set up enough goodwill among their people to preserve the fragile associations just beginning to take hold at the borders.
"...Had, anyway." He corrects himself, voice soft with a note of regret.
Aurelien's gazes weighs heavy against Claude's back. For a moment, he is silent—grappling with a sudden restlessness that takes him. His eyes dart to the tailor—bending a knee, now, as she turns her meticulous evaluation to Claude's legs—and his brow pinches in irritation; even he dares not bark for her to work faster, though, the demand held at bay by his own fastidiousness.
For want of something else to do with his body, he shifts: uncrossing his legs and throwing his other ankle across his opposite knee, instead. Behind Claude, there is the faint rustle of shifting cloth as Aurelien forces himself to recline.
"Indeed. A person doesn't typically claim their rightful place without striving for it. That is the contradiction at the heart of the poem, is it not?"
But, of course—Claude is wrong. There is nothing specious in that line of reasoning. Just as the strongest beasts lay claim to the greatest territory, those with the most powerful of wills are the ones to shape the society around them: tyrants and conquerors, philosophers and demagogues. Or, at least... That is how the world ought to be—the strong ruling over the weak and powerless, according to their ability and nothing more.
(He is deserving, not lucky.)
"My pet is so cute," Aurelien says, suddenly. "You have such a strong, sharp will that it would be a shame to let it go to waste... I suppose we'll see what remains of it, once I've finished training you."
He brings his glass to his lips and drains what remains of it in a single, hungry draft. As he lowers it again, his tongue darts across his lips.
"You competed with your brothers for favor, didn't you? What did that teach you of the nature of power?"
The last week has been hell on Claude's muscles. Thankfully, Aurelien seems to be aware that he needs longer than usual to recover after he and his father shared him- if he had been forced to serve again so soon, he might have just collapsed on the ground and given up. As it is, the worst of his bruises have begun to fade, and his joints aren't nearly so sore. He does what he can to keep healthy, within the confines of his cramped cell; stretching, jogging in place, sparring with the air. Anything that will keep his body from slowing down too much.
Before leaving him alone, Aurelien had also given him another book. This one is much denser than the last- history, a commentary on demonic society... it's surprisingly entertaining, but leaves Claude with more questions than answers. Maybe Aurelien will let him ask a few. He seemed to enjoy discussing the last book, after all.
He had just finished reading the second chapter again, when a guard and a servant arrive to retrieve him. Reluctantly, he stands as they enter the cell, and secure his collar around his throat. The leash comes next.
Strange, he thinks, that this time, Aurelien didn't come to do it himself. Claude doesn't speak at all as they lead him from his cell. He doesn't ask where they are going, or why. And when he's led into a washroom with the bath already filled and waiting, he knows exactly what they intend.
He doesn't know the servants who wash and shave him. They chat with each other as they work, but ignore Claude, only scolding him if he moves too much. He feels like an animal to them, something to be groomed, but otherwise unworthy of much acknowledgement. In a way, it's worse than when Aurelien grooms him- at least Aurelien sees some value in his opinions. Sometimes.
Clean and shaved smooth once more, one of the servants, and the guard from earlier, escort him to a room he's never been to before. What horrors might await him inside? His heart clenches at the possibility that Aurelien's father might be there. Hopefully, he's already had his fill and won't bother him again. Not for a long time.
Claude's first glance inside the room reveals nothing particularly eye catching. It looks like an ordinary bedroom- sparsely furnished, but clean and welcoming. The elder Lord Calix is, thankfully, not present, though his son is there, presumably waiting for his arrival. Claude's eyes fix on him at once, before he glances down, by his feet. The last thing he wants is a punishment so soon after being freed from his cell.
There is a part of Aurelien that knows he is taking a risk, with this. Though it has been some time since Claude has fallen into his hands now, his education hasn't been nearly so thorough as chattel would typically receive; his first weeks in the manor had been those of a test subject, after all, and not a pet-to-be.
Even so, Claude is clever, and Aurelien feels certain that the man can hold his own regardless of the arena he will be thrust into shortly. How swiftly he recalls his position and lowers his gaze serves only to bolster Aurelien's confidence in his judgment, and he laughs: a bright, mellifluous sound that Claude surely finds familiar by now.
"Spin around," he commands, without any greeting more than that—and though Claude cannot see him with his demurely lowered gaze, Aurelien pantomimes with a twirl of one finger. "Let me see the rest of you."
As he issues the command, he remains where he's seated: perched at the edge of the bed, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
Claude no longer feels that initial spike of anger when Aurelien issues him a command- by now, that has become an ordinary part of life. He does lift his gaze when he turns, however; he stares out the open door while Aurelien examines his newly tended to body, nice and clean and pleasantly scented from his grooming.
The guard that accompanied him here still holds onto his leash. Claude has no issue giving him a flat look; the guards and servants haven't been given permission to punish him, so he sees no reason to show them any extra respect.
It's obvious that he's kicked up some ire among the manor's help. By continuing this way, it's also clear that Claude disrespects them on purpose.
Just a small way he can amuse himself when he has very little to feel glad about.
Aurelien looks Claude over. The servants have done a fine job with him: his body is clean and hairless, and his hair has been trimmed neatly even. Satisfied, he rises from the bed; he makes no effort to conceal the sound of his footsteps as he approaches Claude and his temporary keeper, the rhythm of his gait as graceful and confident as ever.
Still, as he comes to stand behind Claude, he gives no order for him to turn and face him once more. Instead, he slips a playful arm around Claude's waist. His other hand comes up to find the fastening of Claude's collar; by now, Aurelien can navigate it by touch, and he allows the leash to fall limp in the guards hand as he unlatches it from Claude's throat.
The collar itself follows shortly thereafter. Aurelien unhooks it, and as it slips loose into his hand, he hands it off to the guard where the man still stands across from him. "You may leave us now," he declares, as his free hand curls over Claude's shoulder. "I have no need for further assistance."
The guard bows and takes his leave, the plain leather collar and the leash that goes with it disappearing with him as he shuts the heavy door behind himself. Aurelien's fingers squeeze down against Claude's shoulder—a brief touch that might just as easily suggest possessiveness as affection.
"Well?" he asks, as he suddenly releases Claude and steps back. He throws his arms wide in a broad, sweeping gesture, indicating the plain-but-comfortable room that surrounds them. "What do you think of it?"
He only tenses slightly when Aurelien's arm slips around his waist, and relaxes moments later. The hand that rises to undo the leash, and then his collar, comes as quite the surprise, however; Claude glances at Aurelien over his shoulder, a question in his eyes.
As the young lord dismisses the guard and the servant, he glances back at the two. His expression shifts back into the same flatness, with the ghost of a eyebrow quirk, as if to add: well? Your master told you to leave.
Soon, with the others gone and the door shut behind them, Claude looks back to Aurelien after the demon gives his shoulder a light squeeze. Then he steps back- Claude's eyes follow the sweep of his arms, taking in his surroundings. It's a decent enough room; comfortable and clean, but nothing particularly impressive or noteworthy. He frowns slightly, trying to determine if there's some trick to Aurelien's question, or if he is somehow missing something obvious.
In the end, he focuses his gaze back on Aurelien with obvious confusion. "It's nice enough. Why do you ask?"
"I thought my pet has earned better accommodations." His grin widens. Aurelien cocks his head, the expectant gleam in his eyes making him appear particularly pleased with himself. "Unless you would prefer that I return you to your dungeon cell...?"
He allows that threat, half-play, to hang in the air for a long second—and then he laughs, shaking his head at his own suggestion. Again, he settles his hands on Claude's shoulders, drawing him a step deeper into the room with that guiding touch.
"Come—your new wardrobe has been prepared. Allow me to dress you."
"For me?" Claude's brows draw together for a moment, but when he sees how pleased Aurelien appears with his gift, he decides that it must be real. "This is... a nice surprise."
His expression gradually softens, and a small smile creeps across his lips. Finally, his obedience is beginning to pay off- Aurelien wasn't lying when he hinted at good behavior coming with certain perks and benefits. If he keeps this up, he might eventually peek a glimmer of freedom, which is far more than he ever expected, even a few weeks back.
"Thank you," he turns that little smile on Aurelien, before returning his attention to the room.
He allows Aurelien to steer him further in, his gaze falling over each amenity with far more interest now that he knows he will be able to use them. That bed is such a significant upgrade from his cell cot that he can practically feel his back crying with joy.
Then, the wardrobe- something he eyes with wariness. While he's been eager for clothes since the first day of his capture, he has little faith in Aurelien's idea of clothing... when it comes to his 'pet', anyway.
As Claude hesitates, deliberating, Aurelien's smile rests frozen on his lips. It turns the self-satisfied curve of his mouth into something tight and brittle, and for the first time, the thought that Claude might scorn his generosity creeps over the back of his mind. Something wells within his throat at the mere notion of it: a hot, acrid rage, fit to boil over and flood his tongue at any moment.
But then Claude smiles. He looks into his eyes thanks him, without even being told. Just as swiftly, the tension melts away; his smile is again easy and playful, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with his pleasure.
The uneasiness with which Claude regards the wardrobe, on the other hand... Well, Aurelien supposes there's nothing to be done about it. He chuckles at the man's reluctant acquiescence, and as his hands fall away from Claude's shoulders, he makes a point to drag the tip of one finger down the bare skin of his back—a reminder of his nudity, as if that were something Claude could forget.
"I suppose I don't have to dress you... Would you rather go nude in front of our guests, pet?" Aurelien laughs, circling around Claude's body to stand in front of him, instead. He tilts Claude's face up by his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze—though, as he speaks, his hand drifts to his throat instead, fondling the swath of skin that had been concealed by a collar just moments ago. "If you don't care for the clothing I've chosen for you, I could garb you in nothing but jewelry, instead."
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Aurelien has certainly given him a lot to think about. That's a good thing as far as he's concerned- the more words and smiles he has to mull over, the less he focuses on the unyielding metal cage around his cock. Still, despite Claude's best efforts, his thoughts frequently wander, with his bruised throat and bottom acting as constant reminders of his utter humiliating abuse and, worst of all, pleasure, in front of a leering audience.
When metal digs painfully into his swelling cock, he has to take some slow, even breaths to calm himself down. How can he possibly find any of those memories arousing? Claude is loathe to acknowledge that Aurelien might be even a little bit right about him and his proclivities. Trying to lie to himself isn't easy though, not with the pleasant little sparks running straight downward when he thinks of strong hands digging into his hair while he kneels, or a leg sliding between his thighs and pressing upward with just the right amount of pressure.
Claude grimaces and goes back to mentally mapping out what he remembers of the manor's corridors beyond his cell.
Every once in awhile, he tries to start a conversation with the nearby guards. Each question is designed to squeeze out small drops of information, though more often than not, they completely ignore him. They respond to his requests for water, but little else.
Frustrated with them and himself, Claude tries his best to at least get some rest. He can't say when Aurelien will visit him again, but after last time, he needs to be alert and focused.
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More worrisome, perhaps, is that those footsteps aren't alone. A second pair trails behind Aurelien's: lighter, less confident, but undeniably present. Before Claude has much time to consider who they could belong to, though, the door to his cell swings open—and there stands Aurelien, flanked by a dark-haired demon in servant's clothes. She is dressed in a less militaristic fashion than the guards Claude is by now accustomed to seeing; in her hands is a small tray, covered by a cloth.
For Aurelien's part, he acts as if she weren't there at all. He steps forward, grinning, and looks over Claude's posture on his cot. "Have you been waiting for me? I'm flattered." With a wink, he sweeps closer, each movement imbued with his usual sense of theatre—but as he comes to stand before Claude, the mirth drains from his voice, mocking humor replaced by a firm authority. "Stand for me."
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He doesn't have to wait long to find out why.
The guards let Aurelien and his companion into the cell, and Claude's curious gaze wanders over to the dark-haired woman. He can only assume she must be a servant of some sort judging by her plainer clothing and the tray in her hands. Immediately, Claude wonders if she will be visiting him again in the future, and if she might be the sort to be swayed by sweet words, or promises of gold and power. For his freedom, he would offer anything... and as a prince, he has the means to provide.
Of course, he doesn't have time to think about that for more than a second. Aurelien demands all of his attention, as always- though he does allow his face to soften when he gives the woman a quick, second glance. Proper scheming means thinking on one's toes, and never letting any potential opportunity slip by.
Claude looks up at Aurelien without any further hesitation, preferring if he doesn't notice his 'pet' scrutinizing another demon.
"There isn't much else to do here," he sighs, as though he's simply bored and not constantly on edge without anything else to occupy his mind.
"Right," he grunts at the command, and pushes himself into a sitting position, then onto his feet. One day spent resting has done him a lot of good, but he's still plenty sore in all the same places. On his feet, Claude rolls his shoulders a few times, and then his neck. It's easier to flash the servant a little smile while he's standing. Although he never married, Claude has never struggled to charm women if that's what needs to be done. Maybe it can also work here?
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Her eyes are more alien than Aurelien's: a flat, monochrome red, with no distinction between pupil or sclera. It makes her chilly expression difficult to read as she stares back at him; her lips remain pressed in a flat line, revealing little. Still, at the least, she doesn't look away.
"You look steady on your feet. Good." Not that Aurelien intends for Claude to do overmuch walking. It will be more than two days ago, however—and he doesn't bother to hide how pleased the thought makes him. "I take it the salve I left you with has offered some relief?"
Lest Claude forget his act of kindness. Aurelien's hand reaches out; his fingertip brushes along the skin just below Claude's navel, teasingly light, before skimming lower.
"And I bet you're eager to be free of this little thing again, aren't you?"
Truly, it doesn't matter how Claude answers him, so long as it's anything less than a complete denial. He doesn't intend to keep him in chastity for today's game; he just wants to hear what he already knows from Claude's own mouth.
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When it comes to potentially personal or sensitive information, he doesn't want to risk losing the chance to ever find something out because he was too indelicate about how he asked his questions.
"I've been getting by." He downplays the usefulness of the salve, but after some time passed, he's come to realize just how incredibly valuable it is. The vial is still there, under his cot, with just enough left in case he needs it more urgently another time.
Claude isn't naive. If the 'presentation' he suffered through was a mere introduction, he's probably going to face far worse at some point. A thought he really shouldn't consider while Aurelien's fingers brush gently over his skin- the absolute last thing he needs is to get hard seconds before being freed from his cage. Or to try and explain why imagining possible punishments excites him in the first place.
With a slow, grounding breath in and out, he inclines his head a fraction.
"I would appreciate that." One of his go to responses. Somehow, it feels like a comfortable medium between polite agreement and maintaining some distance.
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It's a game Claude has endured before. Aurelien's hand lingers there, unmoving, just long enough that Claude might wonder if he has been misled with false hope. Sometimes, the suspicion isn't unfounded, and those fingers dart away with Claude's cock still bound; even now, the urge to renege tugs at Aurelien's mind, and he very nearly succumbs to that petty desire as he stares down into Claude's pretty eyes.
He doesn't, though. At the last moment, he draws in a breath of his own, hot and yearning. The lock is unbound; Aurelien gathers the newly-disconnected cage into his hand, and then he glances toward their silent observer.
"Bring it here, Severine," he says. Evidently, that is her name, as she immediately pads closer. She maintains a polite distance from Claude, standing such that Aurelien's body remains a buffer between the two of them; Aurelien wordlessly deposits the cage onto the tray, slipping it under the cloth to sit alongside whatever mystery items are hidden there.
He returns his attention to Claude. His lips peel back, smile broadening to show his perfectly white teeth.
"Bend yourself over your cot, or lie on your stomach. Whichever suits you better."
If he doesn't, Aurelien will simply manhandle him into the position he desires. That surely goes without saying.
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So far, he thinks he might be able to rely on promises. Anything else is up for reconsideration or abrupt change.
Claude tilts his head back to meet Aurelien's eyes with a doleful look on his face. Thankfully, he feels the fingers lingering over his cage start moving again, and seconds later he can breathe a soft sigh of relief when he's freed from the restricting metal he has come to truly despise.
Then he refocuses his attention on the servant as Aurelien calls her closer. Severine. He'll have to remember that. She steps over obediently, and Claude looks over the tray in her hands again. The way Aurelien seems intent on keeping something hidden under a cloth worries him, and the next command leaves him with no small amount of dread. Last time he had to do similar, he ended up with a bruised ass. Hopefully he hasn't done anything worthy of punishment today.
All he knows right now is that bright smile doesn't promise anything good. From his experience, the more cheery the young man looks, the worse Claude will feel.
"Why? I haven't broken any rules."
There are some orders he will follow unquestioningly, more and more as time passes, but others are too concerning for swift obedience.
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So, with Claude freed from his bindings, that same hand lifts to seek his face instead. Aurelien takes Claude's handsome jaw into the cup of his palm, some parody of a lover's touch; in place of the gentle brush of affection, it holds tight enough to promise pain—perhaps the harsh grip of strangulation, if that hand moves just a bit lower, or maybe the simple brutish act of slamming a skull into the nearest hard wall.
"Do you think what I am about to give you is a punishment?" Again, his voice buoys with mirth. Excitement winds him tighter, and his grin widens until it looks more like a grimace. "No — if this were about discipline, you would already know what you have done wrong."
And that is true enough. Aurelien may make up rules on the spot, at times—but still, he always ensures that Claude knows his transgression. A punishment has no weight if its subject fails to understand why he is being reprimanded, after all.
Aurelien's grip goes just loose enough that Claude may pull away, if he chooses. Still, his fingers linger, ready to grasp tight again if need be.
"Now, do as I say — before I do it for you."
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As Aurelien says, plainly as any other obvious fact, he will end up bent over the cot or lying on his front one way or another. For someone dedicated to self-preservation, he can't justify earning more bruises for something so trivial.
He grunts his assent, not bothering to mask his displeasure, and pulls away sharply from Aurelien's hand. Without needing much thought, Claude climbs back onto the cot and carefully settles himself down so he's lying down flat on his stomach, chin cradled in his folded arms. Apparently he isn't about to be punished, which is a relief, but leaves him uncomfortably clueless. So, even as Claude lies there as ordered, he continually attempts to sneak glances at the two standing nearby.
Again, he wonders about Severine. There must be a reason she is here, but why? Is it merely to hold that tray for her lord? Aurelien never brought another with him for his visits before, so why start now? He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking aloud- asking questions can be a nervous habit of his, and he really would prefer not to give into it.
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getting this important tag done before I pack my laptop lol
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...I meant to mention unfastening the leash last tag and then forgot to. Please pretend I did that.
no worries!
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notices more errors and edits this again,
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Continued
The tailor adjusts his posture slightly, then wraps the measuring tape around his ribs. He frowns, but keeps still, gaze focused straight ahead. Aurelien is somewhere behind them, watching the whole process; Claude doesn't intend to draw the demon's ire when he seems to be in a cheerful mood.
Hopefully this won't take too long. And maybe, just maybe, he'll have something decent to wear in a few days. He wonders how Aurelien would dress his 'pet'. The question worries him, as all things related to Aurelien do, which makes him hesitant to ask.
He doubts it could be much worse than walking around naked with only a collar around his throat, and he would gladly wear anything else if it meant freedom from this damned chastity cage. Unfortunately, he isn't optimistic that his new outfit will change anything as long as his master takes pleasure in tormenting him.
His cruel, sadistic young master, who... gave him one of his own books without prompting. He's read it cover to cover multiple times already, and spent plenty of time mulling over the significance of its contents. If Aurelien gave it to him for a reason, he has yet to puzzle out why.
Maybe later he'll ask for more books. Anything new he can learn about these demons is worthwhile, as is anything that helps him pass the hours alone in his cell.
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Idly, he spins a tendril of shadow across his finger—but the tailor sees him as she leans in half beside Claude's arm, and while she may not be bold enough to chastise him, she shoots her young lord a plaintive gaze, wordlessly begging him not to interrupt her work. With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Aurelien's head lolls back—but the grasping darkness fades with Claude's body unmolested, and the tailor resumes her measurements of Claude's arm.
All Claude hears, of course, is the quiet shift of glass against wood: the sound of Aurelien plucking up his wineglass and bringing it to his lips for a bored sip. As the demon lowers it again, he asks, "Have you finished the book I loaned to you?"
An idle, pleasant tone: unmistakably that of small talk. Indeed, if there had been any particular meaning behind Aurelien's actions, his voice reveals less of it now than it does his own boredom.
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Regardless, he's more than happy to talk about the single piece of demonic literature he's ever read.
"Yeah. I've read it a few times," he says, still facing straight ahead so as not to disturb the tailor's measurements.
"I've always enjoyed poetry. There are more similarities in theme and style than I expected, but also plenty of unique flavor. There's one near the beginning that I like in particular."
He wonders which speak most strongly to Aurelien. Judging by the state of the book, he's read it through a few times- and if Claude had to guess, he could point to a few that remind him more of Aurelien than others.
btw feel free to make up whatever details you like!
Of course, Aurelien recognizes the true explanation is likely much simpler: there isn't much else for Claude to do within his cell. Still, a few times is quite a bit to have read anything over an equal number of days—and despite any teasing in Aurelien's manner, he straightens with his interest in the conversation, pivoting as he pulls himself upright to throw one ankle across his knee.
"So you've mentioned." Just as swiftly, his tone returns to something light and dry—casual, even, as though there were no particular weight to having chosen something to suit Claude's tastes. Even so, the sound of his voice leaves no room for refusal as he commands, "Tell me about it. What about it makes it worth liking in particular?"
Got it!
He doubts he will find a more perfect opening to nudge in his request for more books. And even if he still has no idea why Aurelien might have suddenly decided to supply him with the first, that he's asking for Claude's opinion at all is... promising.
He perks up even more when Aurelien reminds him that he'd previously mentioned his fondness for poetry. This time, he can't resist stealing a quick backward glance over his shoulder. Aurelien appears as casual and relaxed as ever, but there's something of a bite in his tone. Claude hurriedly looks back ahead, hopefully before the tailor can consider scolding him.
"Hm." There's a thoughtful silence as he mulls over his response. "I think it's the conflict behind the poet's words. On the surface, the poem might come across as cold, but there's more to it than that. The Poet is longing for power in a world where power defines value, but can he express that without sounding weak?
Is the pursuit of power itself a sign of weakness? It's an interesting idea."
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Their faces again hidden from one another, Aurelien huffs loose a quiet laugh. Idly, he rolls the stem of his wineglass between his fingertips; with little else to occupy it, his gaze lowers toward it, meeting his own eyes where he finds their dim reflection in the ruby-colored pool.
"The prevailing thought is that the strong and capable will find power by their very nature. As such, to grasp may be seen as... unseemly," he explains, his voice detached. A conundrum that doesn't apply to him—or, at least, one it is in his interests to seem above. "But that is a paradox. Ambition is a flaw where one's appetite exceeds one's means — yet, to be complacent is to be weak, as well."
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Claude gestures vaguely with his hand, earning another irritated click from the tailor. He mutters an apology, and lowers his arm back to his side.
"At the very least, there's some obvious hypocrisy in that line of thought," he continues after a moment. "Those with power are usually the ones who crave it most of all. I know that well enough: I have ambitions of my own."
His ambitions. While many of his dreams crumbled to dust during the Fodlan war, the strong connections he made over those years have greatly helped his efforts toward improving relations between Fodlan and Almyra. In particular, his friendships with Dimitri and Lorenz have been extremely fruitful for everyone involved.
It pains him every time he thinks about his work coming to an end. Dimitri and Lorenz must have missed him by now. He wonders what they'll think happened to him: does everyone believe he's dead? Or did any of his men survive to tell the truth about what happened? He can only hope he set up enough goodwill among their people to preserve the fragile associations just beginning to take hold at the borders.
"...Had, anyway." He corrects himself, voice soft with a note of regret.
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For want of something else to do with his body, he shifts: uncrossing his legs and throwing his other ankle across his opposite knee, instead. Behind Claude, there is the faint rustle of shifting cloth as Aurelien forces himself to recline.
"Indeed. A person doesn't typically claim their rightful place without striving for it. That is the contradiction at the heart of the poem, is it not?"
But, of course—Claude is wrong. There is nothing specious in that line of reasoning. Just as the strongest beasts lay claim to the greatest territory, those with the most powerful of wills are the ones to shape the society around them: tyrants and conquerors, philosophers and demagogues. Or, at least... That is how the world ought to be—the strong ruling over the weak and powerless, according to their ability and nothing more.
(He is deserving, not lucky.)
"My pet is so cute," Aurelien says, suddenly. "You have such a strong, sharp will that it would be a shame to let it go to waste... I suppose we'll see what remains of it, once I've finished training you."
He brings his glass to his lips and drains what remains of it in a single, hungry draft. As he lowers it again, his tongue darts across his lips.
"You competed with your brothers for favor, didn't you? What did that teach you of the nature of power?"
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gonna have them interrupted next tag I think!
Okay!
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getting back to this while I'm tagging with him anyway :')
<3
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Continued
Before leaving him alone, Aurelien had also given him another book. This one is much denser than the last- history, a commentary on demonic society... it's surprisingly entertaining, but leaves Claude with more questions than answers. Maybe Aurelien will let him ask a few. He seemed to enjoy discussing the last book, after all.
He had just finished reading the second chapter again, when a guard and a servant arrive to retrieve him. Reluctantly, he stands as they enter the cell, and secure his collar around his throat. The leash comes next.
Strange, he thinks, that this time, Aurelien didn't come to do it himself. Claude doesn't speak at all as they lead him from his cell. He doesn't ask where they are going, or why. And when he's led into a washroom with the bath already filled and waiting, he knows exactly what they intend.
He doesn't know the servants who wash and shave him. They chat with each other as they work, but ignore Claude, only scolding him if he moves too much. He feels like an animal to them, something to be groomed, but otherwise unworthy of much acknowledgement. In a way, it's worse than when Aurelien grooms him- at least Aurelien sees some value in his opinions. Sometimes.
Clean and shaved smooth once more, one of the servants, and the guard from earlier, escort him to a room he's never been to before. What horrors might await him inside? His heart clenches at the possibility that Aurelien's father might be there. Hopefully, he's already had his fill and won't bother him again. Not for a long time.
Claude's first glance inside the room reveals nothing particularly eye catching. It looks like an ordinary bedroom- sparsely furnished, but clean and welcoming. The elder Lord Calix is, thankfully, not present, though his son is there, presumably waiting for his arrival. Claude's eyes fix on him at once, before he glances down, by his feet. The last thing he wants is a punishment so soon after being freed from his cell.
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Even so, Claude is clever, and Aurelien feels certain that the man can hold his own regardless of the arena he will be thrust into shortly. How swiftly he recalls his position and lowers his gaze serves only to bolster Aurelien's confidence in his judgment, and he laughs: a bright, mellifluous sound that Claude surely finds familiar by now.
"Spin around," he commands, without any greeting more than that—and though Claude cannot see him with his demurely lowered gaze, Aurelien pantomimes with a twirl of one finger. "Let me see the rest of you."
As he issues the command, he remains where he's seated: perched at the edge of the bed, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
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The guard that accompanied him here still holds onto his leash. Claude has no issue giving him a flat look; the guards and servants haven't been given permission to punish him, so he sees no reason to show them any extra respect.
It's obvious that he's kicked up some ire among the manor's help. By continuing this way, it's also clear that Claude disrespects them on purpose.
Just a small way he can amuse himself when he has very little to feel glad about.
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Still, as he comes to stand behind Claude, he gives no order for him to turn and face him once more. Instead, he slips a playful arm around Claude's waist. His other hand comes up to find the fastening of Claude's collar; by now, Aurelien can navigate it by touch, and he allows the leash to fall limp in the guards hand as he unlatches it from Claude's throat.
The collar itself follows shortly thereafter. Aurelien unhooks it, and as it slips loose into his hand, he hands it off to the guard where the man still stands across from him. "You may leave us now," he declares, as his free hand curls over Claude's shoulder. "I have no need for further assistance."
The guard bows and takes his leave, the plain leather collar and the leash that goes with it disappearing with him as he shuts the heavy door behind himself. Aurelien's fingers squeeze down against Claude's shoulder—a brief touch that might just as easily suggest possessiveness as affection.
"Well?" he asks, as he suddenly releases Claude and steps back. He throws his arms wide in a broad, sweeping gesture, indicating the plain-but-comfortable room that surrounds them. "What do you think of it?"
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As the young lord dismisses the guard and the servant, he glances back at the two. His expression shifts back into the same flatness, with the ghost of a eyebrow quirk, as if to add: well? Your master told you to leave.
Soon, with the others gone and the door shut behind them, Claude looks back to Aurelien after the demon gives his shoulder a light squeeze. Then he steps back- Claude's eyes follow the sweep of his arms, taking in his surroundings. It's a decent enough room; comfortable and clean, but nothing particularly impressive or noteworthy. He frowns slightly, trying to determine if there's some trick to Aurelien's question, or if he is somehow missing something obvious.
In the end, he focuses his gaze back on Aurelien with obvious confusion. "It's nice enough. Why do you ask?"
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He allows that threat, half-play, to hang in the air for a long second—and then he laughs, shaking his head at his own suggestion. Again, he settles his hands on Claude's shoulders, drawing him a step deeper into the room with that guiding touch.
"Come—your new wardrobe has been prepared. Allow me to dress you."
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His expression gradually softens, and a small smile creeps across his lips. Finally, his obedience is beginning to pay off- Aurelien wasn't lying when he hinted at good behavior coming with certain perks and benefits. If he keeps this up, he might eventually peek a glimmer of freedom, which is far more than he ever expected, even a few weeks back.
"Thank you," he turns that little smile on Aurelien, before returning his attention to the room.
He allows Aurelien to steer him further in, his gaze falling over each amenity with far more interest now that he knows he will be able to use them. That bed is such a significant upgrade from his cell cot that he can practically feel his back crying with joy.
Then, the wardrobe- something he eyes with wariness. While he's been eager for clothes since the first day of his capture, he has little faith in Aurelien's idea of clothing... when it comes to his 'pet', anyway.
"...All right. Let's see what's inside."
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But then Claude smiles. He looks into his eyes thanks him, without even being told. Just as swiftly, the tension melts away; his smile is again easy and playful, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with his pleasure.
The uneasiness with which Claude regards the wardrobe, on the other hand... Well, Aurelien supposes there's nothing to be done about it. He chuckles at the man's reluctant acquiescence, and as his hands fall away from Claude's shoulders, he makes a point to drag the tip of one finger down the bare skin of his back—a reminder of his nudity, as if that were something Claude could forget.
"I suppose I don't have to dress you... Would you rather go nude in front of our guests, pet?" Aurelien laughs, circling around Claude's body to stand in front of him, instead. He tilts Claude's face up by his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze—though, as he speaks, his hand drifts to his throat instead, fondling the swath of skin that had been concealed by a collar just moments ago. "If you don't care for the clothing I've chosen for you, I could garb you in nothing but jewelry, instead."
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