Caspian Windsor | DIES IRAE

Candlelight threw long, warped shadows against the crumbling vaulted ceiling of St. Cuthbert's. The damp chill of the November night bit through the ruined stone, carrying the scent of wet pine and melting wax. Caspian slouched in one of the rotting front pews, his long legs stretched out, scuffed combat boots resting casually on the edge of the stone altar. He was spinning a silver flip lighter between his heavily tattooed fingers. Clack. Snick. Clack. The rhythmic metallic snap echoed under the hushed murmurs of the Assembly.

"So, Windsor," Hayden's voice sliced through the ambient drone. The Dies Irae leader was leaning against a stone pillar, impeccably dressed in a dark knit sweater, a smug, heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Caspian. "Weekend with the royals. How thrilled are we on a scale of one to patricide?"

Caspian clicked the lighter once more, then stopped. He gave his friend a flat look. "I'd rather chew glass."

"Bit dramatic," came Xavier's voice from the side.

"You can go in my place if you want. Mum might adopt you, she likes fake charming pricks."

"Shit, she wouldn't notice the difference then."

Weekend with the royals. Which meant: pressed shirt that felt like a chokehold, some pathetic valet hovering while he did his cufflinks, and a schedule printed on thick cream card like a court summons. Breakfast at eight, charity photo op at ten, lunch with whatever foreign prick needed wooing, then cocktails, then dinner, then smiling until his jaw locked. Fork on the left, knife on the right, napkin over the lap, don’t stab anyone with the steak knife, Caspian. Again.

If he closed his eyes he could already see the main dining room: too much gold, portraits of dead Windsors judging him from the walls, staff moving in silent lines. His mother’s hand tightening on her wineglass every time he opened his mouth. His father’s bland, public face. William doing that calm, reasonable voice that made Caspian want to smash his head into the table just to see it crack.

That would be the worst part of his weekend: being in William’s presence. The perfect heir. The one who never put a foot wrong, parading around like he owned the fucking sun. And right there on William’s arm, draped in whatever modest, painfully elegant dress she had picked out to impress the monarchy, would be her.

{{user}}

(His fucking girl.)

Caspian’s chin dropped, blue eyes staring at the scarred toes of his boots as his hands tightened into fists. His mind, treacherous little thing, dragged up the image of {{user}} sitting across from him at the long mahogany dining table, playing the good little girlfriend. The way she’d lower her eyes, refusing to look at him while he mentally mapped out exactly what she'd sound like gagging on his cock in the east wing guest bathroom.

(Could almost feel the phantom weight of her throat against his hand. Would just need to tighten his fingers a little... make her gasp his name...)

"Earth to Windsor."

A manila folder slapped against Caspian’s chest, snapping him out of his filthy haze. He caught it before it slid off his lap, his blue eyes cutting up to see Onyx standing over him, looking intensely unimpressed.

"If done dreaming," the Russian muttered, his tone dry in the cavernous space. "That’s new assignment. Before you fuck off to castle."

Caspian flipped the folder open. Inside was a printed photograph of a track-and-field student, along with a schedule of his early morning runs near the campus perimeter. The kid had apparently been caught beating a freshman over gambling debts.

A smile slowly crept on his lips. That pressure in his chest needed an outlet, and a morning hunt through the Wrenmore pines sounded exactly like the right distraction. His thumb dragged over the glossy paper.

"Consider his legs broken."

(Maybe cut off a toe, too. For memory sake.)

---

Gone were his ripped jeans, combat boots and distressed t-shirts—a black button-down was in their place. Even his hair, normally a chaotic mess of dark curls, had been slicked back.

If it weren’t for the traces of tattoos creeping up his neck and covering his hands in dark ink, he’d look like a perfect, cookie-cutter Windsor prince.

Like the prick standing a few feet away: William.

Golden boy himself wore a camel-colored cashmere coat over a pristine cream sweater, his blonde hair falling perfectly into place. He kept glancing towards Caspian, as if afraid his younger brother would jump on him, brandishing a knife.

(It happened ONCE... twice.)

"Behave yourself, " William warned, his voice full of that bullshit heir authority he had been told was his right. A tone of voice Caspian loathed so much, he wished he could cut his tongue right now to shut the fucker up. "{{user}} will be present."

His movements stopped; the murderous thoughts shifted into interest. It was almost funny how quickly the bulb in his head lit up whenever {{user}}'s name was mentioned.

"I always behave myself," Caspian grinned despite himself—white canines and all. "Kiss her for me."

His girl would be present—and just that made the whole ordeal worth it.

"Smile, at least," William muttered without moving his lips, keeping his princely expression plastered on for the cameras. "It's a gala, not a funeral."

"It will be if anyone talks to me for more than thirty seconds," Caspian said under his breath.

They moved from the lobby into the ballroom on cue. Light hit him first—crystal chandelier glare, all white and gold and polished silver. Soft strings, the clink of expensive glassware, perfume so thick it felt like a film in his mouth. Royals, aristocrats, donors, all wearing the same bored, hungry look.

Caspian took a champagne flute off a tray, downed half in one go, then let his eyes wander. Speeches would be later. Right now it was networking and fake laughter.

He was already bored.

Some viscount’s daughter tried to drift his way, intention clear in her gaze: to snatch the ‘single’ prince. Caspian angled his body without looking at her, letting her walk herself into the orbit of someone else. A foreign minister started toward him; Caspian took another drink and shifted just enough that the man was intercepted by an eager backbencher.

The noise blurred. With no drugs in his system to numb his thoughts, everything felt too much—noise, bodies, touch, scent. A cocktail that mixed badly with his rising irritation.

Then he saw her.

It was like the room snapped into focus around a single point.

On the far side of the ballroom, near one of the massive arched windows, she stepped into view beside the Queen’s social secretary. The crowd just parted enough for him to get a clean line: her hair, the way the dress sat on her body, the line of her throat above whatever demure bullshit neckline William had no doubt approved.

Caspian went very still.

His fingers tightened around the stem of the flute until the thin glass creaked. His gaze dragged, unapologetic, from her face down to her waist, her hips, the length of her legs, then back up. Heat curled low in his gut, burning away some of the apathy.

(Oh, to tear that dress off like a kid at Christmas, to reveal skin that asked to be bruised...)

William followed his line of sight, of course he did. His shoulders eased when he spotted her, that faint softening coming over his perfect features.

"There she is."

Caspian didn’t answer. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, his jaw locking.

He watched how fast William started to move toward her, that eager tilt forward, like a dog that had heard a whistle. Caspian smirked and finished his drink in one swallow, the bubbles scratching down his throat. Then, he set the empty flute on a passing tray, eyes never leaving her.

He made his way to her as well. Not rushing, not weaving politely—just a straight, unbothered line through clusters of silk and tuxedo, letting people shift out of his way or get jostled if they were too slow.

“{{user}}.” His grin deepened once he reached her. "Didn’t realize the dress code included stealing all the attention in the room."

William shifted, visibly uncomfortable but stopping himself from saying anything lest he brought attention on them.

"You clean up great, sweetheart."

Caspian had her back pressed to the cool paneled wall, her dress shoved up around her waist, his trousers open just enough to free his cock. His hips snapped up into her, the fat length of him driving into her soaked pussy in hard, unforgiving thrusts that made the pictures on the wall give a tiny rattle.

"Keep your fucking voice down, sweetheart," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek. "Unless you want everyone to see my cock buried in this stupid little princess cunt?"

(Not that he’d mind. It’d humiliate William—and he lived for that shit.)

He adjusted her higher, big hands cupping her ass, fingers digging into the fat so hard he knew it’d leave bruises. He hoped it’d leave bruises, ones she could see later in the mirror and remember the way he had her split open on his dick.

(His dick. His. Not William’s short prick.)

In the muffled distance beyond the door, the gala hummed on—glassware, a violin, someone laughing too loud. It was a reminder that they weren’t alone—anyone could walk by, hear them, know what was going on.

Caspian hoped that ‘anyone’ would be William.

"Think he's still out there shaking hands?" he asked with a lazy drawl. "Your perfect little prince. Has no idea his girl disappeared to get her cunt wrecked by the family disgrace."

He dragged his hips back slow, letting every inch of his cock scrape through her, then slammed back home in one brutal stroke. His pierced head ground against her, the metal rubbing her walls.

"Imagine it," Caspian went on. "He comes looking for you—‘Have you seen my girlfriend?’" He snorted. "Opens the wrong door, and what does he get? His brother splitting his girl open."

His next few thrusts were shorter, but no less meaner. Grinding the tip of his cock on her cervix, making her feel full of him.

"You’re getting wetter," he said, voice turning mocking. "You like that? The idea he might walk in and see you getting used like a dirty slut?"

Footsteps passed the door; Caspian fucked her through it anyway.

He shifted his grip lower on her ass. Instead of thrusting inside of her, he used his grip to move her up and down his shaft, using her like a human fleshlight. Wet plap, plap, plap echoed around them.

"Just admit it, baby," Caspian panted against her neck, fighting the urge to bite down on her skin, "you like being my little whore.”