No preamble, no explanation offered. Certainly not his usual terms, but these were hardly the usual circumstances. Doom was even harder to read than usual--deliberately. There was little to be inferred from his tone or the look in his eyes. Just him, waiting, and the low, seemingly impulsive command: "Strip for me." A pause. "Unless you'd rather I tear it off you?"
SIN SIN SINNN HEYOO YOU’VE BEEN WARNED
The sound of a slow saunter echoes off the mute stone walls of the Latverian stronghold in all it’s unapologetic-ally eerie, somberness. The call of the wind ruffles aged glass, rustles pitted scrags for panes, buffers what’s left of fleeting history in present day and time.
He’s been summoned, officially. And he knows better than to ignore Him. What wrath has he courted and incurred now? As he enters the throne room, he stops just before a polite distance away from the King, but does not bow. He’s never earned that command of respect from Reed. Will he ever? He wonders as he addresses him.
“ What is this? ” he asks, as the men posted by the door leave, aware for the first time of …..something. A heightening charge, his very neck hair stands on end with it. He blinks, disoriented, oddly enough inhaling deeply through his nasal cavern. Castles are amassed with old air confined in damp, dried out spaces. His palms are clammy, his pulse quickens as a drop of sweat runs down his temple. Throat clearing, he asks again.
“ Victor, you brought me here. What do you want? ”
Silence. So closed off he might have guessed his game was to keep him guessing. Patience worn near thin, lips tense, brow furrows. Another game of poker face he’s on the cusp of loosing.
When he questions if he just heard correctly. He swallows. So many reactions vying to first come to surface. Shock. Confusion. Horror. Disgust. Loathing. Disbelief. And, could he have denied it any more vehemently he WOULD have but there it was, clawing from the depths of repression.
Lust. Longing. Maker if there ever was — he never believed but if ever there was a time to save him, give him proof honestly. An act of divine intervention would have been welcomed more than the emotion so staunchly pure he wanted to claw it out of his own chest. Victor.
Chin rose. Unreadable expression in response. He took as much time as the other man had drawn out in ascending the stairs to the King’s throne. Where worshipers knelt.
Not Him. He would never be reduced to worship, he would never be conquered, never broken, never anything less than what he was.
Fantastic. So much so it would all but choke another man with his compulsion to ruin it. Well let him try. He would always, always win.
Zipper at his neck was clasped in hand and tugged down with molasses speed, barest of inches to reveal , hovering just above his collarbone as if with respite.
Furl of something of a smug smirk tugging, the infuriating kind of course that first sent him over the edge in the first place as a young prince, all those years ago.
“ Strip for you…. ” he repeats. He’s never needed to repeat anything in his life, but there’s a fleeting reality and clarity to it.
A foot comes up to rest ‘pon the edge of his seat. Provocation. Innuendo. Insurgency.
He laughs, a deep resounding sinful guttural exclamation preceding an issue of his own.
“ Say please Reed. ”
