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Kleon often felt invisible, but there were worse things to be.

He was a bull, yes, tall and broad and fat, but he didn’t snort and paw the ground with passion. A quiet bovine tended to blend into the background despite his considerable size. As well, Kleon was only big compared to the rest of Seonag’s entourage. Standing beside the Queen herself, he really wasn’t anything impressive—to say nothing of her son.

The water buffalo sat, cross-legged, on the grass beside a large cool-water spring. It was Queen Seonag’s personal pool, set in the garden terrace outside her chambers, which was forbidden to any but royalty—and their preferred guests, of course.

After so many years, he wasn’t quite sure whether to consider himself guest or servant. Nobody else seemed to struggle with that answer, but he didn’t mind being counted among Eudoxia and Ganbold anyway.

Eudoxia carefully filled a cup of tea for the Queen as she bathed, an unobtrusive little rabbit as always. Ganbold leaned against a shady mango tree as he chewed on a bit of sugarcane, relaxed but for his caracal eyes flitting around the garden with hunter vigilance even under half-closed lids.

Kleon had heard many words spoken about the Queen’s beauty, but he preferred to think of her as striking. Adorned in water, her scales really did catch the light like emeralds, and so her slow movements had a mesmerizing quality, with those scales patterned over a full and powerful form. Sunlight bent around the wide shape of her arm as she reached for her cup. Kleon was sure that, had he a taste for women, he would be wholly enamoured with her. However, he couldn’t consider himself deprived. Hers was not the only royal green hide in the palace.

“Kleon.” Seonag shifted her shoulders against the edge of the spring. “You’re seeing my son in the library this evening, aren’t you?”

Kleon’s tail swished nervously. His weekly meetings with Prince Raghnall weren’t part of his official duties, but he treasured them—even if, to the Prince, they were merely a way to get out of his own few responsibilities. He reached for a small wooden mechanism on a cord around his neck and flicked its lever, making a single pleasant clacking sound—‘yes.’

“He’s seemed distracted lately.” Seonag contemplated the tea in her glass. “Make sure he writes a letter to one of Curaveia’s court arcanists. He’s friendly with some of them, I think.”

“Friendly, aye?” Ganbold spat out his chewed bit of sugarcane and started carving off another with his knife. “Friendly enough for a few ‘favors’?”

Seonag quaffed her tea and extended the glass to Eudoxia. “Oh probably. No telling who owes whom, of course, but it wouldn’t hurt either way.”

Kleon wrote on the stone tablet that hung from the side of his loincloth. The bone stylus he used had been a gift from the Prince, a magical implement that left glowing cobalt lettering on whatever surface Kleon chose. They flickered and spit at the edges, as Raghnall was more a sorcerer of ‘inspiration’ than resolute focus, but Kleon cherished it all the more for the Prince’s lasting impression. “I shall be happy to let Prince Raghnall know your wishes, Majesty.”

_ _

Seonag’s eye traced the letters and she smirked. “And write, as he lays around and dictates to you?” She swirled her cup. “All for the best, I suppose, that you let him rest as he likes right now. I hate to see his big shoulders slumping.”

Kleon would have offered to find out what was troubling Raghnall, but it would have been a step out of place for a servant and not something for a guest to trouble himself with. Besides, Kleon tried carefully not to reveal his particular affections for the Queen’s son, and he feared they would show through should he try to be so personal. Raghnall would simply get to keep his secrets.

***

Irfan’s footsteps sounded hollow to him, even as the click of his claws echoed in the vaulted halls of the palace library. He prided himself on being tireless, but found now that he could scarcely stomach the thought scratching down a single number more. Sleep followed behind him. He should have simply heeded it, gone to his chambers and fallen into his narrow, empty bed. But these trying days had been lonely enough. Best to simply distract himself.

Knowing that his mind would not bear anything new within it, Irfan asked one of the head librarians, a heron in oversized gray robes, whether they had works from Deltan playwrights. Irfan had to stalk the shelves deep to find them. Some dim flame in the back of his head roused with wonder at the breadth of work contained in this place, before he found what he was looking for.

Irfan sighed at the feeling of a papyrus scroll resting against his bare breast. He breathed against it, willing some communion with the importance such things held to him. He was still a scholar. That, at least, exile could not take from him.

He wandered then, searching for a place to rest his body. The library was nearly empty, but no chair nor lounge nor nook seemed at all palatable. He could just imagine their cold stone digging into his flesh. Irfan climbed to the highest floor, where he knew Prince Raghnall came to dictate his letters. Surely, the Prince would have some decadent sprawl of cushions and furs up here—even if they would reek of him.

Irfan scowled at the warmth that buzzed across his skin just from thinking of Raghnall’s scent. Surely, Irfan had learned better than the lust-laden boy he’d once been, but his mind savored the Prince’s image as Irfan had last seen him, huffing as he dragged his gargantuan ass up a flight of stairs. He could still feel the heat from Raghnall’s body. And though he had only touched the Prince a scant few times, he knew that no cushion could compare to the soft heft of such pampered royal fat.

When Irfan turned a corner and found the wide, well-appointed cove where Raghnall would ‘work’, his stride froze. He wondered, for a moment, if his mind had conjured the image before him, or if indeed that lavishly-cushioned lounge was still occupied by Raghnall’s vast, sleeping form.

Raghnall lay upon a wide shelf of marble set beneath a glassless window. The faint purple light of dusk came through and scattered across the cushions and furs that were shaped into deep valleys beneath his weight. A caged brazier crackled in the center of the hall, and flowering vines perfumed its warmth from their perches by the vaulted stone ceiling. It was a beautiful space, but could scarcely leave an impression compared to its slumbering lord. The rolling swaths of his belly and breasts pooled across the lounge, adorned with tender scales more creamy and luscious than the marble. His shoulders and hips outshone the dusk as their glossy emerald hide reflected the firelight. The closer Irfan stepped, the more Raghnall’s meaty scent overpowered the flowers. That brazier was warm, but it didn’t send tingles down his skin as one of Raghnall’s great, slow huffs did.

Irfan suddenly found himself standing so very close. The great crocodile was but a few feet away. It dawned on him that he’d never seen Raghnall sleeping before. He lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the fat-soaked bicep proving a far greater cushion than the actual pillow trapped between it and his doughy cheek. His silhouette rose and fell between the width of his masculine shoulders and his even more impressive whelp-bearing hips. Irfan was tall enough to just barely see over parts of him, but not those high points. And yet, despite all that size, the might of an apex predator, and the royal arrogance carved into his scales, there was something cute about him like this. He spread himself so freely, nearly naked, with a natural sense of security born from lording over this palace for his whole life. His scaly brows tensed over his fat face, the only remnant of his waking frustration. Breath flowed through his great, flaring nostrils.

He wore bracelets of swirling gold and had painted the same shade beneath his eyes—or, more likely, some servant had. But otherwise, the prince wore what was clearly his favorite outfit—merely a loincloth. Its stark white fabric wrapped tight around the breadth of his ass and flowed into the deep valley of his yielding inner thighs, although his belly spread far enough to cover the crotch and everything on his lower side.

Irfan stared at him and let out a shuddering breath, too tired to deny the pleasure of filling his eyes with this useless, spoiled glutton. Irfan had hoped that, somehow, caging Raghnall’s manhood would smother out the embers of his own. Instead, it merely stoked them further with thoughts of how hot Raghnall’s blood must pump after days of frustrated need. The only smart thing Irfan could do was turn and go.

Instead, Irfan crossed the last of the distance between them. Raghnall’s chins and neck-fat vibrated with the breaths of sleep, and surely that sleep was heavy like the Prince’s body. Raghnall couldn’t wield his heft as a teasing temptation like this. In fact, he needn’t even know how much Irfan yearned to touch it again.

Irfan’s paw came to rest on Raghnall’s flank. His shiny jackal claws slipped between two folds of fat just above the main crest of his belly. The oil of Raghnall’s hide soaked into his pads, along with a bottomless flow of warmth. He pressed down and felt a bank of soft muscle twitch, buried so very far beneath its blubber, as Raghnall shifted. So much strength moved his body less than an inch, for all its weight.

It had been a long time since Irfan had caressed a man. That it was Raghnall, of all the fat, selfish boys in the world, might have troubled him if his head was not so flush with fuzzy pleasure.

Irfan looked around carefully. There was nobody else up here, and likely wouldn’t be until well into tomorrow morning. He contemplated the narrow empty space in front of Raghnall’s body and glanced down at the scroll in his other hand. It would not take him too long to read this old play. Irfan adjusted his skirt, turned, and sat down. He barely even had to lean before his back sunk into Raghnall’s belly and breasts. Raghnall’s fat parted easily before flowing around Irfan, embracing his flanks. The back of Irfan’s head nestled easily between two rolls. “Gods,” Irfan breathed. His voice was trembling. Had he really forgotten how good it felt to rest against a man’s body, or was Raghnall simply so comfortable?

He allowed himself a little snicker. Here Irfan was, using the Crown Prince’s body as his own personal cushion. Well, it was only fair that Raghnall be made to share on occasion, wasn’t it?

At first, Irfan remained tense while he read, ready to yank himself away if Raghnall stirred. But aside from a soft huff and the tilting of his snout, the Prince seemed little more than a great mound of padding. So, Irfan began to relax.

The words on the scroll were almost unnecessary, conjuring Irfan’s memory of the play more than anything else. It had been a beautiful production, the last time he’d seen it. The actors’ voices had leapt between the theater’s stone walls, perhaps a bit overwrought in their boasts and lamentations, but he’d been more than open to such heightened sentiments at the time. Beside his body had been the heat of his love’s flank. The hefty goat hadn’t dared to hold Irfan in public, but that heat had been enough.

The comfort of those memories flaked away as Irfan’s mind focused on his old lover’s face, now pulled tight and ashamed as last he’d seen it. He tried to keep reading the scroll, but now his eyes simply drifted over the Deltan characters. Irfan set it down carefully on a nearby side table. Raghnall shifted with the movement, grunting out some half-formed word from his dreams.

If Irfan stayed here, lounging into the prince’s blubber, he risked someone finding him, or Raghnall finally waking, and Irfan couldn’t decide which would be worse. But the heat of Raghnall’s body was unlike that of a brazier or blankets around Irfan’s own, and in fact it felt quite different to that of Irfan’s old lover. After all, Raghnall was nothing if not eager to offer it up.

“Hardly like you’re the only highborn man who’s just a needy, depraved beast deep down,” Irfan muttered at Raghnall’s sleeping face. “Why can’t you just have the decency to hide it like the rest of us?” He turned to the other side, where Raghnall’s nearly-bare hips rose like a mountain. “Do you have any idea what it’d do to my remaining name, if I gave you what you want from me? Do you simply not care?”

Irfan drew his fingerpads up the width of Raghnall’s belly, eliciting a slight tremor from those buttery scales, and stretched his arm so that he could rest his palm on the top of Raghnall’s hip. There, he brushed the soft, luxurious fabric of his loincloth and felt how tightly it had to wrap around such girth. “If not for your scales, my Prince, your haunches might get you mistaken for a cow. One that’s been fatted quite a while too long, at that.” His arm relaxed, and as his hand sunk into the Prince’s fat, he could feel the shape of great, powerful muscle giving him the frame to carry so much solid indulgence. “Imagine what you could do with this strength if you didn’t spend every bit of it merely lugging yourself around the palace. But then… you only want to do one thing with yourself, now don’t you?”

Alone, with the Prince lost to sleep, Irfan could indulge the cruel embers glowing in his loins. He reached down towards Raghnall’s crotch. The muscle of his outer thigh vanished beneath a sea of inner fat so thick that Irfan could genuinely not tell where it might end. In fact, his hand was ultimately kept at bay as thigh, belly, and fat pad fought each other so fiercely for space that Irfan couldn’t reach all the way. Raghnall’s loincloth simply vanished into it all, his manhood buried many inches beneath.

A deep whine warbled through Raghnall’s throat. Irfan felt the Prince’s haunches press forward, struggling against their own padding and weight. “I suppose, if not for that cage, you’d have enough of yourself to hump into.” Irfan’s pulse quickened at the thought of Raghnall sweaty and grunting as he bucked into his own thighs.

But, of course, Raghnall was trapped. So instead, the poor boy could only grunt in discomfort as he tried to adjust his legs in a way that might not put so much weight on his balls. “How they must be aching by now.” Irfan pulled his hand away and settled himself once more into his royal cushion. “Pleasant dreams, if you can manage it, your Grandeur.”

He would rest his eyes for a few minutes, satisfy the hunger in him for such a man’s warmth, and depart before anyone was the wiser.

***

Irfan’s every step was against his will, despite the judgment at his back. It seared into his fur as did the light of the desert sun. As hostile as the Titan’s Delta had suddenly become to him, he could scarcely bear to look upon the ancient stone docks that would guide him away.

He had so little. No servants to carry his water, no noble insignia upon a silver collar, just a satchel and a jewelry box that he had barely managed to swipe before he’d been cast out of his home. Irfan swallowed dry, unable to ease the tightness of his throat, and screwed his eyes shut. “Stop this,” he snarled to himself, “just keep walking. You’ve places yet to be.”

Despite what his father now thought, Irfan had well-honed control over himself. So he strode forward until he neared the ship of his passage. It was small for an ocean-going vessel, bound for a small kingdom with a small court, but one that sought a man with Irfan’s mastery of numbers. There were no nobles but him waiting for the crew to finish their preparations, and even Irfan himself didn’t look like one then.

A figure lumbered past him, bumping against his shoulder. Irfan caught himself and looked up to find a crocodile, dressed in just a skirt that had been girded about the loins. His great, powerful arms carried crates of salt fish and dried dates, and his snout only turned for a moment to peer down at Irfan. “You alright?” He rumbled.

Irfan’s hackles raised for just a moment, used to hearing the voice of such a laborer weighed with deference and a suitable ‘milord’ after each question. But he wouldn’t embarrass himself by insisting that he deserved such things. “Yes, I’m fine.”

The crocodile looked away quickly as he heard Irfan’s highborn manner of speaking, shuffling off to the ship. Irfan let himself ogle the man’s thick belly and ass as he hefted the crates onto deck, the flesh jiggling beneath his dull olive scales. Even if someone was watching, nobody would ever care about a nobleman lusting after some common meat.

As if the Gods themselves were against him, Irfan heard his own name called while he was staring at the half-dressed man. He flinched, but shame quickly gave way to surprise as he turned to see a small pavilion set up above the main throng of the docks. That raised terrace was where nobility and the wealthy would wait for their ships, and Irfan found the weathered face of an ibis man peering down at him. Irfan’s chest suddenly ached, as the man beckoned.

Irfan hadn’t let himself hope that any of his family would be here to say farewell, and in the grief of that he hadn’t even considered his mentor. He walked slowly up the stairs to the pavilion.

His ears hummed their gratitude for the shade of a canvas tent, and Irfan nearly guzzled the cup of perfumed water his mentor’s servant handed to him. Atum reclined on a simple wooden lounge and offered Irfan a matching chair. At least for the moment, Irfan could enjoy the station he was born into.

“I was not told which ship you would take,” Atum began, his high and breezy voice subdued by the weight of all he must have heard, “but there were only so many heading north. I’m glad to have caught you in time.”

“Thank you, Teacher.” Irfan bowed his head slightly, finding great comfort in the role of Atum’s student, after all others had been stripped from him. “I did not know that news had already reached you.”

“Yes, just this morning.” Atum stared at him from above his long, slightly-cracked beak.

“And you came all this way from the conservatory?” Irfan asked quietly.

Atum leaned closer to him. “Of course. My finest pupil is departing the Delta, for some years at the least.”

Irfan looked down at his own hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It was his father who found you two then?” Atum asked.

Irfan nodded.

“Surely the man already knew that his son was…” Atum cleared his throat. “I suppose you gave him no more chance to deny it. Or, perhaps he had liked to imagine that his heir was the… stallion, of the two.”

Irfan’s fingers tightened on his cup and he measured his breathing to distract himself from the white-hot brand of the past few days. Still, tears sat on his lower eyelids. He wanted to defend himself but knew his words would choke.

Atum waved for his servant to leave and stood. His old legs were slow but solid, and they had only a thin frame to carry. He stood just before Irfan, mere inches away. “I knew about you, of course. Not uncommon amongst our students. So, you needn’t fear I judge you for that.”

“My father knew,” Irfan croaked out. “But he would not defend me.”

“You knew how your house relied on the friendliness of Lord Woth,” Atum said. He was not chiding Irfan, but he had never allowed him to pretend ignorance.

“I’m the son of a lord too.” Irfan’s snout drew back from his teeth. “A house far older than Woth’s. He should be grateful that I even let his damned calf lick my…” He stopped himself from speaking so plainly in front of the old bird. “But now… it’s all gone.”

“No, my boy, not all.” Atum rested the bones and soft blue feathers of his fingers on Irfan’s shoulder. “You were born with silver blood, it’s true, but also something much more precious.” He lifted his hand to caress the side of Irfan’s head. “I did not choose you as my student for your name. Plenty of noble boys are nothing but well-dressed bores—even the ones who try to learn. It is a pity that your mind must for now be spent on mere abacus beads and record-keeping, but you shall use them to advise kings and queens. They cannot take from you what matters most, not so long as you keep up your studies.”

“In the hold of a ship?” Irfan muttered

“In the royal libraries of the world, Irfan!” Atum’s sharp tone finally drew Irfan’s eyes up to meet.

Irfan regained a steady breath and asked, desperate for this man to once more direct him, “What would you have me do, Teacher?”

“You must promise me these two things. First, that you will be a mathematician and a scholar, no matter where you might be so. Second, that you will not let your desires take from you again.”

Irfan held his teacher’s gaze. “I will. I promise.”

“And, perhaps a third.” Atum stroked one of his pointy ears sadly. “After what years it takes you to earn your own glory, promise me that you shall return.”

***

There was a strange pressure on Irfan’s chest. It held him tight against another weight which smothered the back of his entire body, but as he woke he had no idea what they could be. His bed had thin and light blankets. Then, he realized that he wasn’t on his bed at all. No, his side lay on hard stone, and the softness otherwise surrounding him was far deeper than any mattress he’d known.

It was the smell that ignited Irfan’s memory, waking him to where he was—the musk, the fishiness, the fatty meat. The weight on his chest was Raghnall’s arm.

Irfan froze and focused on the sensations of his own body. Smooth marble pressed on his hip and shoulder; he must have slumped onto his side while he slept. He moved his waist just enough to be sure his skirt was still in place, but he’d come into the library with nothing across his chest and so it was his bare skin that Raghnall’s hand touched, protected only by a coat of short black fur. Irfan’s first instinct was to leap up from where he lay, but that was impossible. Not only was his body weighed down where Raghnall’s belly fat poured across his upper side, but the Prince’s arm was as massive as the rest of him, and Irfan would have struggled to drag it off of his chest.

Perhaps he could have managed it without waking the big lout, but Irfan’s worst fear fell upon him as he felt Raghnall’s hand moving. His thick sausage fingers rubbed slowly, up and down Irfan’s chest, in a curious and deliberate rhythm.

Irfan kept his eyes shut as the Prince’s hot, fried-pork breath drenched him. If he looked up, Irfan would surely find Raghnall’s eyes staring back. At least right then, while Raghnall still thought him asleep, he didn’t have to answer for how he came to be lying here, nestled against the great royal fatass.

Raghnall’s breaths came with a gentle rumbling in his chest, which vibrated out through the mass of his moobs and into Irfan’s spine. But the way Irfan’s skin shivered—that was the doing of the Prince’s fingers. Much as Raghnall had a pair of greedy, overstuffed mitts, they were clearly well-versed in enjoying the minute details of another man’s body. Raghnall lingered by one of Irfan’s nipples, exploring the size and shape of it. Irfan couldn’t keep his scruff from twitching in response. Raghnall huffed eagerly, taking that unconscious reaction as invitation to touch more of the jackal. Irfan wanted to be furious at Raghnall for it, but what else was the damned glutton supposed to think when Irfan had served himself right up? Irfan’s anger fell back upon himself, especially for how much he was enjoying the heavy warmth of Raghnall’s palm.

The Prince caressed Irfan’s shoulder, down his arm, and even held the jackal’s hand for a moment. Irfan’s slender fingers vanished utterly beneath glossy scales. Raghnall could have crushed him without much trouble. Instead, he carefully traced the natural curve of Irfan’s flank, all the way down to where his skirt covered his hips. Pausing there, Raghnall curled inward, smothering Irfan yet more in his heft and bringing his great jaws close to his ear. “Irfan?” Raghnall mumbled.

Irfan hoped that Raghnall couldn’t feel the sudden pounding of his heart, but then the crocodile’s own beat with so much more force that it surely drowned his out.

Raghnall sighed. His hand slipped down and began to rub a circle into Irfan’s belly, with enough pressure to make it fill with butterflies. “Your fur is so sleek.” Raghnall’s voice rolled out from his snout and body alike, suffusing into Irfan. “I wish you’d let me pet you earlier.” He grunted in discomfort and moved his titanic thighs, which had half-swallowed Irfan’s own legs. “Before you put this thing on me.”

Irfan’s manhood stirred, nudging against loincloth and skirt at the feeling of this fat beast writhing against him in need.

“Why did you even do it, if you didn’t want to play with me like this?” Raghnall asked. While the whine in his throat was petulant—a pampered brat unused to having anything denied to him—it also stuck in Irfan’s ear as something confused, even lonely. Raghnall seemed to consider Irfan now lying against his body, and a hopeful tone crept into his voice, “Was it just to tease me like this, once my balls started aching so much?”

Raghnall began rubbing lower on Irfan’s belly, and lower still, until his thick crocodile claws touched the cloth sash around the top of his skirt. Irfan had tied his clothes tight, but after however long sleeping against the Prince’s supple flesh, the sash had loosened.

“You should have woken me up when you found me.” Raghnall’s fingers toyed about there, tickling the fur just above Irfan’s loins. “How are we supposed to have fun when you’re asleep?” He let his hand rest over the top of Irfan’s skirt. But, as he did, he brushed the straining bulge beneath it. Raghnall let out a soft, chuffing laugh. “Not entirely asleep, are you?”

Though he seemed to consider for a moment whether he should, Raghnall returned his fingers to Irfan’s waist and pressed them underneath his skirt. He had to tug at Irfan’s sash to fit his bloated wrist underneath, but soon enough the Prince had stuffed his hand right up against Irfan’s tenting loincloth.

Irfan struggled to control his breathing. What was he doing, letting Raghnall shove that fat, greasy paw between his legs? Irfan’s entire body was betraying him, soaked as it was in Raghnall’s heat and endless velvety heft. Worse, Raghnall then wriggled his other arm beneath Irfan’s chest and dragged him deeper into himself, such that the jackal lay not on marble but the Prince’s blubber. Irfan’s chest shuddered. He chose to believe that it was from Raghnall groping at his bulge, rather than the years-long ache of isolation in his stomach easing under the embrace of such a spoiled, overfed, sex-drunk, sweating, oily pig of a crocodile.

Was Irfan really just as much of a stupid, horny boy as the one he’d tricked into a cage? His cock, hard and practically twitching into Raghnall’s palm through his loincloth, made it hard to deny.

“Irfan?” Raghnall asked again, but this time with a frightening little edge of concern. It wasn’t until Raghnall’s other hand stroked Irfan’s chest that Irfan realized his breath had started to heave and shudder out of him. Irfan refused to open his eyes, especially not with how wet they’d become. Still, the Prince spoke with a boyish uncertainty that somehow fit under such a deep, huffing voice, “What’s wrong?” Irfan kept up his sleeping pretense, willing Raghnall to just focus on his own damned lust again and forget Irfan’s moment of weakness. “Are you having a nightmare? Not the sort of dream I would have guessed, considering…” Raghnall’s fingers felt out the shape of Irfan’s bulge. He rumbled in thought, then brushed his snout against Irfan’s ear. “Well, maybe I can change that for you, since you came all the way up here just to get into bed with me.”

The tension in Irfan’s ribs started to ease, though his heart raced only faster. Raghnall groped and stoked at Irfan’s bulge for another moment or two, but his hand then returned to its wanton exploration. He pressed some of his excessive fat out of the way so he could stroke Irfan’s gently-curved back, huffing at the exertion. Gods, Raghnall had to fight against his own cumbersome body just to caress another man, and it only made Irfan’s skin tingle with yet more need for those piggy fingers. Raghnall reached down and started to toy with the base of Irfan’s tail, tugging at the band of cloth that wound above it to keep his skirt in place. “Do you know how this sways when you walk all prim and pretty on those paws?” He caught Irfan’s tail between two thick fingerpads and tugged it back and forth—as much as he could with it mostly buried in crocodile blubber—over Irfan’s backside. “It has to lift up just a bit, or else it couldn’t get over these buns of yours…”

Irfan’s head drummed with the quickening rhythm of Raghnall’s enormous heart, while the Prince’s fingers gleefully wriggled their way underneath his skirt again. There, Irfan was reminded of the consequences from tying his loincloth so tight; the fabric rode up above the lower crest of his ass cheeks. Although Irfan had never been the sort to let another man mount him, he knew how sensitive he could be back there. He tightened his core. As Raghnall’s claws found Irfan’s rump, the Prince resumed his sultry rumblings, “I like my men with too much meat to cover all the way. Gives me something to squeeze.”

Raghnall’s fingers curled in, and sent a clear shiver all the way up Irfan’s spine. Raghnall paused again. “Irfan…” His snout pressed against the back of Irfan’s ear. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

Irfan would have flung himself away from this spoiled oaf and told him exactly what he thought of him, if only he could come up with anything he could put into words. Instead, he just lay there, still pretending to be asleep whether or not the beast believed it.

“You know,” Raghnall’s hand let go of him, but only to start sliding around beneath his skirt, towards the front of his loincloth again. He spoke lightly, as if to himself, “I may as well take the chance to feel what Irfan really has between these nice soft legs, seeing as he’s still just dreaming.” A grin was clear in just the sound of his self-satisfied cooing. Raghnall didn’t give Irfan much time to decide whether to stop him, as the Prince’s hand continued until he found his way past the edge of Irfan’s loincloth, pressing Irfan’s thighs apart to accommodate his massive forearm. Finally, despite Irfan’s own good sense and the cloth bound tight between his legs, the Prince uncovered his manhood. Raghnall didn’t grasp it with the simple lecherous want that Irfan had expected. Sure, his fingers were eager, but they curled around his length with a great and heavy curiosity.

Of all the inequities between them, Irfan knew that his manhood would not nearly stand up to Raghnall’s in size, even considering how much of that scaly cock Raghnall had buried in his own lard. Irfan wondered how Raghnall would react to the simple five inches he had to show. Raghnall’s hand easily consumed them, such that he had to tug the loincloth around to get a good feel.

Raghnall purred as he stroked a few claws along the shaft. “Ooh, what a nice little curve, like it’s jumping right up towards me. I can’t believe Irfan kept this wrapped up for so long, when I could have slurped it all down in a second.”

Raghnall’s claws trailed up the curve of Irfan’s shaft until he started tapping out the shape of his head hidden under a tight foreskin. One of those claws kept going, all the way up to the end, and circled around the ridge of his skin, tugging softly. A drop of precum leaked out of him and onto Raghnall’s finger. “Look at that, all wet for me. Must be needy.”

Irfan couldn’t bear to let Raghnall’s infuriating arrogance slide, not while the Prince himself was unconsciously nudging his blubberous thighs forward because half of his lard-soaked brain was dedicated to just the need to hump. Irfan wrenched his left hand out from the breast and belly fat encasing it and grabbed Raghnall’s forearm. It was too thick for Irfan to even get much of a grip on, but just breaking his pretend sleep was enough to stop Raghnall’s fingers in their tracks. “Just because you lost access to your own stupid cock doesn’t mean you get to use mine.”

Raghnall breathed quick and heavy, but reluctantly pulled his hand out of Irfan’s loincloth. “Well, it looks like you used the rest of me as you liked, didn’t you?” His snout nestled between Irfan’s ears. “It’s okay though. I like it when cute men sleep on me. Aren’t I just so warm?” As he spoke, Raghnall’s claws curled in on Irfan’s exposed stomach and dragged the jackal deeper into his belly fat. “How’s it feel to sink right into me?” Raghnall kept up his smug tone despite the way that he started huffing as he squeezed his own lungs by pulling Irfan so tight.

Irfan had to bite his tongue for just a moment. His throat had trembled at the unexpected depth of comfort from feeling the true extent of Raghnall’s contrasting strength and softness. Part of Irfan, the sorry boy sent adrift with nothing to grasp onto, wanted nothing more than to bury his snout in Raghnall’s vast breasts and let the Prince hold him so tight that he’d never have to emerge from the welcoming fat. But Irfan didn’t listen to that boy anymore, and Raghnall would only take the chance to make some crude suggestion about what more Irfan could do with his tits. So, it was the sharp-tongued erudite who answered, “Like I’ve fallen in one of the kitchen’s barrels of lard.” He grasped at Raghnall’s fingers, squeezing their pudge as he tried to pry them off. “But then, this is where it all goes in the end, isn’t it?”

Raghnall grumbled but finally slid his arm off of Irfan. “So, is it my mouth you’re interested in?” His lusty voice was tinted with frustration.

“In fact, Your Grandeur, not everyone thinks of where to stick their own cocks every minute of the day.” Irfan started pulling himself away from Raghnall’s mass, and realized that his back had been stained with the Prince’s sweat as the air brushed cold against him there.

“What else am I to think about?” Raghnall demanded, mustering the energy to prop himself up on an arm, the layers of fat around his bicep jiggling from the effort. “My loins ache every time I pass another man in the palace halls, and now I’m not even allowed to take some pleasure in the curvy little jackal who came to sleep with me?”

“I’m sure you think this meant all sorts of things, my Prince.” Irfan kept up an officious tone, but stumbled as he looked back at Raghnall’s face. He’d seen frustration burning in those vibrant cobalt eyes before, but now saw the tremble in the Prince’s padded throat. He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence as he’d intended—dismissing this bit of intimacy as nothing more than a mistake. His paws tightened on the edge of the marble lounge. He was quiet for longer than he meant to be.

“Irfan?” Raghnall prodded.

“I’m sorry,” Irfan murmured. Then, swallowing to wet his throat, he pushed through the pain of speaking plainly. “The library was empty. I didn’t plan for you to wake while I was still here. How could I trust someone like you to keep his fat mouth shut? How long would it be before everyone in Uisdain thought me your whore?”

Raghnall’s scaly brows furrowed, as he clearly puzzled over Irfan’s meaning. When Irfan saw understanding finally dawn on that fat face, he rose to leave. But a soft mitt closed around half of Irfan’s arm. “I’ve kept your little damned cage a secret.”

“For five days,” Irfan muttered, though he didn’t pull his arm away.

“Come now.” Raghnall pounced on Irfan’s moment of hesitation. He wasn’t nearly light enough to ‘pounce’ in body, but he dragged his corpulent frame to the edge of the lounge and lifted himself up enough to meet Irfan’s face. “I actually wouldn’t mind it, you know. Waiting in bed for my secret Deltan morsel to come in through the window…” Irfan felt Raghnall’s breaths vibrate with his lusty purr.

Irfan wouldn’t let Raghnall’s ‘morsel’ line unsteady him, not even with the Prince’s greedy paw enveloping his upper arm and his wet, well-used mouth mere inches away. “You misunderstand, Grandeur.” He put his other hand up beneath Raghnall’s snout and coldly pinched one of his thick extra chins. “You would be my secret. Everyone already knows the sort of overfed, rutting beast you are.” Irfan glanced down to where Raghnall’s crotch would be, were there not such a great swath of belly smothering it. “Or, I suppose, were.”

Raghnall played perfectly on Irfan’s foolish teasing. His brows melted and he bit his snout with a plaintive whine, while pawing clumsily at all the thigh fat concealing his loincloth. “Don’t you want to see your secret beast rutting? Even just for one night?”

Damn this crocodile and every enticing pound of him. Now that Irfan had gotten to indulge in his body, betrayed any denial of how much he enjoyed it, there was no way he could make himself ignore Raghnall’s endless horny pleas. The Prince already knew, what use was it in pretending while they were the only two around?

Irfan finally forced Raghnall’s fingers off of his arm and was about to taunt him until his balls cried out, in retribution for making him feel this way about such a disgusting lout. But a cold, rough noise cut through all the fleshy warmth between them: footsteps, marked by the click of hoof-caps on stone. Irfan’s mind scrambled for who could be up here so late at night, but all he could focus on was the fact that they were approaching Raghnall’s reading nook.

His head twisted in the direction of the library stacks, from which would emerge another pair of eyes any second, and Irfan froze. He couldn’t run fast enough to hide behind any other shelves—that would only look worse, caught fleeing from the Prince’s side. But nor could he play off his presence here, not with his skirt half-undone and his fur ruffled and reeking of the Prince’s underbelly. His breath skittered across an utterly dry mouth.

“Best take a deep one.” That was all the warning Raghnall gave him.

Irfan’s legs flew out from under him, and the whole library rolled as a great wheel above. His guts held tight to one another, certain that he would crash down onto breaking marble. Instead, he plunged into the warm belly-sea of Raghnall, and as swiftly as the crocodile had pressed Irfan into himself, he rolled over on top of the jackal, snuffing out every star in the night sky.

For a brief moment, Irfan was a creature of crawling instinct. His limbs flexed, but could not thrash. His chest shuddered, but he could not gasp. His eyes darted, but there was nothing to see. In fact, it was as if his body refused to respond at all. But Irfan’s mind was sharp enough to cut through such creature terror. Of course his body was responding; it just couldn’t muster enough force to move against the weight.

Irfan tried to move his legs, and it became abundantly clear that no part of him had escaped the avalanche of Raghnall’s flesh. So, he tried to settle himself. He was already swaddled in such cloying heat; if his own blood continued to race, he might just cook down here.

One arm was pinned against his side, while the other stretched above his head, but not far enough to escape Raghnall’s breasts as they pooled on the marble. One side of his face pressed down on that marble, while the other was drowning in royal abundance. He was denied even the relief of cool stone, as Raghnall’s body heat had already soaked deep into where he’d slept. That heat now reached up to stain Irfan, though he realized that the slight, growing dampness in his fur was not a mere byproduct of the Prince’s warmth; Raghnall’s many squishing folds had no shortage of sweat to share.

Despite the wretchedness of being trapped under such a stinking hedon, Irfan found his body relaxing far more easily than it normally did. The pressure was deep, all across his hips and shoulders and back, but there was no real pain. He supposed that, despite the immensity of Raghnall’s weight, he was so damned big that it all spread out enough to leave Irfan only somewhat crushed. Still, his head was woozy after such short, panicked breathing.

Unfortunately, the top of Raghnall’s vast belly had landed right over Irfan’s torso. Had it been the Prince’s pillowy, yielding breasts atop Irfan’s lungs, perhaps he could have made more use of them. As it stood, he struggled to take even half of his usual inhale.

That was not to say that Irfan could get half of his usual air, as much of what he breathed in was the wet heat of Raghnall’s body. He nearly gagged, and nearly drooled, at the intensity of it—fatty, aged meats, luscious fish skin, roasting butter and dark wine, all tainted by the strongest masculine sex Irfan had ever faced down. He doubted that the Prince’s musk could have been more overwhelming had Irfan stuck his snout right into the precum-drenched folds of his foreskin. It would have been enough to peel Irfan’s hide right off his body, were it not all being held down so well.

Of all his senses, Irfan turned to the final hope for a connection to the outside world. Yet, more than anything, his ears drunk in the sounds of Raghnall’s chest. The pounding of Raghnall’s heart stroked Irfan’s entire jaw, such that his own pulse had little choice but to fall in line. He could hear every bit of the Prince’s huffs as he labored to adjust his heft, but Irfan could not hear the voice of whoever had come to find him.

Raghnall’s voice, on the other hand, shook Irfan’s helpless body as it bellowed out through the Prince’s thick ribs. “Kleon, why are you bothering me? We’re not to write my report to the Arcanist’s Circle until nightfall.”

Irfan strained his upper arm, trying just to lift one of Raghnall’s fat tits enough to get some real air into his lungs. So far, he made little progress, and Raghnall didn’t even need to try to keep him smothered under him. Just the padding born of his bottomless indulgence was enough. He could probably just forget that Irfan was down here, maybe even fall back asleep. Irfan had to fight a whimper at that thought.

“Well, how was I to know that I slept so long? Surely you don’t expect me to work while I’m tired, do you?” Raghnall waited for a response then snorted in satisfaction. “I thought not.”

Irfan strained to hear another voice, just to remind himself that there was a world beyond Raghnall’s fat-soaked scales. But it dawned on him that the Prince was speaking to Kleon, Queen Seonag’s personal scribe—the bull was mute. Even if Kleon learned about what Irfan did here, would he even bother to tell anyone? Well, there was the Queen, wasn’t there?

Hopefully, Raghnall would find some excuse to send him away quickly, before the ache in Irfan’s lungs became too great to bear.

“Fine, fine, I suppose the report still needs to be written… and a letter to one of Curaveia’s sorcerers too? Yes, I know a few of them pretty well.” Raghnall shifted his weight. Irfan thought he saw a faint sliver of light and the shape of the Prince’s overstuffed arm leaning on the marble, but it was gone just as quickly, leaving him with a single breath of cooler outside air. Maybe Irfan should have taken that chance, let the scribe think whatever he would of the Queen’s newest advisor dragging himself out from beneath her whorish son. But he’d hesitated. And now, Raghnall spoke his sentence for it, “You’ve got the parchment, haven’t you? Sit on the floor and use whatever part of the lounge I’m not covering to write on. There must be some space left, unless you think I’ve gotten that fat.” Irfan could hear the teasing smile on Raghnall’s snout. Worse, he felt the rumble of pleasure in Raghnall’s chest as he grunted, “Just let me get comfortable.”

Raghnall shimmied and wriggled, not bothering to lift a single cumbersome pound off the lounge. However much of his weight he’d been holding up before, he now let rest completely. Irfan’s back became intimately familiar with the soft ridges of Raghnall’s underbelly, where those creamy, tender scales stretched in curving lines along every curve. Pressure built behind the Prince’s tits, weighing on his snout. Irfan’s thighs moaned, as they were trapped underneath Raghnall’s own—where the crocodile’s greatest muscles rested. Irfan could only guess how much he would ache when he finally was freed.

But it was the burning spot between Irfan’s thighs that suffered the worst of it all. With his head filled with an ever more concentrated miasma of Raghnall’s oils, and the Prince’s bodyheat oozing like melted butter down into his very bone marrow, Irfan’s cock throbbed as if it hoped to sunder the marble beneath him. By now, his loincloth was wet and sticky against his crotch. And, his was not the only one.

Irfan couldn’t even process what Raghnall was saying anymore, as all his attention was stuck on his own ass. The Prince’s little adjustments had plopped the lower crest of his belly higher and dislodge Irfan’s skirt downward, just enough that the two men’s loincloths made contact. In fact, some of Raghnall’s precum-saturated cloth now squished against the sides of Irfan’s cheeks where they peeked out. Raghnall’s liquid need wriggled into Irfan’s fur, and the warmth of it made his spine tremble into its endless, leviathan cushion.

Irfan tried to move his hips in any direction, just to get the tingling pleasure and disgust off of him. Raghnall’s thighs seemed to lift, but only to press down harder. Then, they lifted and dropped again, continuing in a lazy rhythm. Did Raghnall even know that he was humping? Clearly, the Prince’s ass, thighs, and tail were too heavy for him to easily drag more than an inch or so upwards. His flesh never actually left Irfan’s, as it was only the edges of his pooling fat that Raghnall’s muscles managed to actually pull anywhere. Even so, it took the crocodile nearly ten seconds to muster the energy between each thrust.

Minutes dragged on, counted only by Raghnall’s rocking hips and the greedy breaths filling his uncrushed lungs. He was like an overfed whelp, completely unconcerned with where his own weight was resting. Irfan tried to muster enough furious indignation to drag himself free of this decadent blubber prison, but every inch of his body wanted only to stay there, in a stinking world of manly warmth.

After some stretch of minutes, uncountable in the darkness of Raghnall’s fat, it seemed that Kleon finally noticed Raghnall humping while he muttered out slow lines of dictation—or at least, the bull had gathered enough nerve to ask him about it. “What?” Raghnall huffed. “Of course I’m fine. It’s just… been a little while since I had a man beneath me.” His subtle laugh poked into Irfan’s neck.

More than anything, it just made Irfan envious of how easily Raghnall could fill his lungs right then. Much as the Prince’s breathing always had a certain labored weight, Irfan could scarcely get enough air to keep the feathers out of his head, let alone laugh.

“No, I’m quite comfortable here,” Raghnall blurted. “Might just take a nap after you’re done.” Then, the crocodile wriggled his heft down into place as if jealously guarding his treasure.

Irfan might have appreciated Raghnall’s dedication to keeping him hidden, had the extra weight not finally pushed his lungs past what they could manage with such swampy air. His head began to slowly sink into the sweat and musk. If Raghnall didn’t finish his business with Kleon soon, Irfan would have to do something—anything—to get this tub of grease off his chest.

He managed to hold on so nearly long enough. Raghnall’s voice had started to grow fuzzy, but Irfan was sure he heard something about Kleon letting the kitchens know what Raghnall wanted. It just came while the darkness in the jackal’s eyes started to swim with melting points of light. And of course that useless, self-centered glutton didn’t even realize what all his egregious weight was doing.

Irfan’s lungs ached until they simply took control from his mind. His jaws forced themselves open. Raghnall’s breast fat poured into them whether Raghnall wanted it to or not, and Irfan bit down. He knew immediately that it was harder than he should have done. Still, Raghnall’s yelping, wounded bellow outstripped whatever pain Irfan’s comparatively small jaws could have inflicted. Hundreds of pounds of crocodile fat and soft muscle lurched off of Irfan. The Prince was unable to actually lift himself with anything approaching speed, so he had to merely roll his own burdensome body onto his side.

Irfan’s eyes drank in the firelight of the nearby brazier, though his skin shivered as its wetness was subject to cool night breeze instead of Raghnall’s generous heat. Best of all, as Irfan’s arms creaked by his sides and raised his torso, he gasped until his nearly-flattened chest filled like a sweet summer fruit. For those first breaths, he couldn’t even care about the startled bull staring at him.

“You… bit me!” Raghnall blurted. Despite the outrage and disbelief in his voice, Irfan turned his head to see that he hadn’t even broken the Prince’s soft under-scales, merely left some flushed marks near his nipple. He almost laughed, that such a small bite could reduce this monstrous crocodile to whining and pawing at his breast. But then, Raghnall was probably only used to being the one biting.

The retort roiled up in Irfan’s throat, “You’ve got enough lard to smother me, so I’m sure you’ve got enough to pad out one little bite.” It was the quip of an unbowed noble boy spitting at another. But Irfan bit down on his tongue and grew still as he remembered that here, he was not a nobleman, and neither was Raghnall—he was Crown Prince, with his mother’s trusted scribe. Irfan dared turn to face Kleon, and found the bull’s big, soft ears flicked back in uncertainty. Kleon’s snout opened, but of course he could not say anything aloud.

“Lard?” Raghnall snarled, planting one great mitt down beside Irfan and looming over him with the weight of his breasts and thick collar of neck fat. “Do these look like the scales of a pig to you?” He bared his long, sharp teeth.

Irfan’s stomach curled away, sheer instinct cowing at the sight of a vicious crocodile. But he would not let that show. Instead, he lifted his chin in defiance. He’d already mocked the Prince in front of Kleon once, what was one more time? “You’ll have to forgive me for forgetting them, underneath all the oil and sweat.”

Raghnall dragged his belly across the marble until he could lower his snout close to Irfan’s face. With a flare of his nostrils, the crocodile snorted hot, pork-scented breath into Irfan’s nose.

“You even smell like one,” Irfan muttered, though his courage was starting to flag under Raghnall’s sheer size.

Raghnall’s throat growled. “Maybe I should try smelling like jackal instead?” He licked his chops slowly.

That much Irfan knew had to be a bluff. For all of Raghnall’s selfishness and endless appetites, he carried himself with arrogant satisfaction not true cruelty. Irfan knew that Raghnall wouldn’t have intentionally suffocated him, nor would he actually close those terrible jaws around Irfan’s belly—with any real force, anyway. Still, Irfan’s stupid animal body believed Raghnall’s threat, and his breath shook. “I don’t think I’ve been fatted enough for your tastes, Grandeur, given how you like to eat.”

Although Raghnall tried to hold the indignant fury on his face, it cracked, with a sliver of a lecherous grin tugging at his snout. “I don’t mind some fine lean meat on occasion. Besides, we could always fix that,” he muttered. Those lustrous sapphire eyes of his fondled Irfan’s body up and down. Then, he huffed and tilted his snout away with haughty royal disdain, and let his voice flow with its natural depth and volume. “You’re lucky Kleon is here, jackal. I’d hate to frighten him, so your Prince will show you his tremendous mercy and forgive your snout’s missteps.”

Irfan was about to reply with some slightly-veiled insults, when he noticed Raghnall’s brows furrow in curiosity as he looked over Irfan’s shoulder.

“Kleon?” Raghnall cocked his head to the side.

Irfan turned back to find the bull staring—not at either of their faces, but something further down the lounge. Kleon tried to look away quickly, grasping at his carved bone stylus and stone writing slate, but both Irfan and Raghnall could easily follow the direction of his gaze. Although, Irfan was the only one who could actually see what Kleon had been looking at, as Raghnall’s breasts and belly eclipsed any view of his own crotch. Normally, that belly also concealed it from anyone else, but with Raghnall lying on his side and dragging himself up to lord over Irfan, he’d managed to pile enough blubber in front of himself that the front of his loincloth was revealed.

As Irfan had felt while pinned beneath him, Raghnall had utterly soaked through the cloth with his precum. The fine, bright white fabric had become translucent enough that Irfan and Kleon alike could make out the shape of Raghnall’s indulgent fat pad and the cock peeking out from it—or, rather, the dark metal cage that now contained him.

Kleon’s gaze darted between the two men, Raghnall bound by a punishment of the Titan’s Delta, and Irfan—a Deltan—awash in Raghnall’s stink, sweat, and clear sexual frustration.

The bull stuffed all of his papers back into his satchel and scrambled to his feet, taking the time to bow slightly as if they didn’t all know what he’d seen of them.

Raghnall started to move, but it would take the massive beast a long moment to get up from such a position. So, as he grunted against his own weight, he puffed, “Irfan!”

Irfan leapt to his paws with the practiced athleticism of a less corpulent nobleman and swept up in front of Kleon. Irfan’s skirt unwound and fell from his legs, but he couldn’t care less what more this bull saw. Kleon was big, not just bovine but quite fat himself, all dark shaggy fur and meaty heft. Sure, he was nothing compared to Raghnall, but he could have forced his way past Irfan if he’d tried. But the bull’s face stormed with conflicted feelings about the nearly-naked man in front of him, especially as he glanced down at Irfan’s own tented loincloth.

“Where are you going so quickly, dear scribe?” Irfan squared his shoulders and stepped forward, forcing him back. “Surely the Queen is resting, this late in the evening.” As Seonag’s personal servant, Kleon would surely not hold such interesting news from her—not of his own volition.

Kleon scribbled on his thin tablet, “I merely have to deliver the Prince’s report.”

_ _

Unfortunately for him, that took just long enough for Raghnall to finally heft himself onto his feet. With a smoldering bellow, he lunged. Kleon tried to stumble out of the way, but Raghnall was so damn wide that he caught the bull against one of his blubberous flanks anyway. With just one arm, Raghnall trapped Kleon against him, burying half of the bull’s face in his moob’s side fat. Irfan worried that his horn might hurt the Prince, but Raghnall’s endless padding simply flowed around the tip.

Kleon let out a piteous, silent little moo.

While Raghnall caught his breath after that brief surge of motion, Irfan drew close and crossed his arms, no longer cowed but empowered by the behemoth towering above them both. “I believe, scribe, that your Prince and I have some things to discuss with you.”