This certainly had not gone according to plan. It had been -- Spencer had been doing great, thieving and spreading the word of rebellion like a fucking pro. Until he had (clearly) strolled into the wrong damn brothel looking for company for the evening. Strangely enough, the dungeon he’d been sleeping in was far nicer than the places he had been sleeping the last few months. Their prisoners were treated more lavishly than their subjects. Yet, that wasn’t the most frustrating part for Spencer. No, the most infuriating thing was how fucking gorgeous this bloody king was that he was the prisoner of. He maintained his resolve well enough: refused to bow or kneel, refused to call him king or your grace or your majesty or whatever the bloody formality was, refused to even really look at Oliver for much longer than a few seconds. Though, that was likely still too long to let his eyes linger in all the worst (read: best) places. It was clearly evening when he was summoned. Spencer was thoroughly surprised to find the rest of the throne room empty (save for the king) when he was brought in, hands shackled behind his back as if that was going to stop him. The two of them alone, save for guards outside the door, Spencer let his boredom be made clear as Oliver started on his crimes and potential punishments until he’d finally had enough. “You could kill me, or you could let me ride your cock. Just fucking pick one and get it over with, this is getting even more boring than it was already,” he snapped, eyes locked onto Oliver’s. The last bit likely wasn’t smart to say either way, but he wasn’t taking it back now. || @olliscot