Title: Problems and Solutions: a prequel snapshot to Imagine Knowing
Warnings: LEMON!! Very mild Sv angst & plenty of hot 'n' heavy.
Disclaimers: Not mine, no money, not much point in lawsuits. WEP holds those rights! (Dang it!)
Summary: the King's bed slave shows us exactly how he's brought about the changes he plans to make to the Empire.
Author's Notes: This has been completed (much, much belatedly) as a gift for randi's birthday, 2004. *tosses confetti* Yay!
It just so happens, it's a snapshot of one of Sven's memories from my fic 'Imagine Knowing'- which was randi's birthday fic in 2003!
Aust spellings and grammar prevalent.
Problems and Solutions:
a prequel event to 'Imagine Knowing'
The loud crash echoing from the outer room startled him upright, water splashing over the edge of the deep sunken bath with the movement.
Sven exhaled slowly and raked his hands through his dark, wet hair, water running in rivulets through his fingers, cascading down along his arms and over his face. That was usually his cue: he had to be quick to calm the angry beast, or else the consequences could be less than pleasant.
His Master preferred him to be three things: clean, compliant, and most importantly, unobtrusive. He also preferred him immediately accessible, which added to his haste as he levered himself from the water and towelled off quickly.
The robe he was permitted to wear was rich in both cut and fabric, something that made his gorge rise as always as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and belted it at his waist: it was one of those petty reminders of his status that his Master was so fond of – a kept man, a pleasure slave, nothing of consequence.
This time, he had no doubt of the source of that resounding thud – furious fists slammed down on the desk again, and Sven dropped the towel he’d been scrubbing dry his hair with and dashed to the doorway, wet feet sticking noisily to the marble.
It wasn’t the first time the King was to be found hunched over his private desk, back stiff and muscles tense with barely restrained fury – it was likely not to be the last, either. Sven allowed himself a soft sigh of annoyance, set his features to a more welcoming visage, rather than the scowl he originally wore, and quietly padded closer.
Lotor stiffened defensively as Sven drew nearer, his chin coming up in stubborn defiance. Reminding himself to assume the deferential manner of a slave, Sven reached out and gently tucked a lock of pale hair behind one sweeping ear, letting his breath waft gently across his Master’s temple as he slipped behind the King and let his hands drift towards Lotor’s shoulders.
“How hard you work,” he murmured as his fingers began to seek out the knots of frustration coiled in the muscles they rested on, his faint tone of deep approval and mild reproach perfected over many such nights.
With a much practised technique, he began to massage away the tension, alternating between deep, muscle aching pressure and gentle, caressing strokes, just as he’d been instructed back when … good heavens! Was it three years already, since the Alliance hold sold away his freedom for the price of peace? Or was it longer? Confined to these rooms, it was so easy to lose track of time.
A soft, pleasing grunt dragged him back to the here and now – he couldn’t afford to let his attention drift, when he had to keep such a delicate balance in order to achieve his ultimate goals.
Lotor’s head lolled back and he murmured another of those wordless sounds of approvals as he wriggled a bit beneath Sven’s expert hands. Sven smiled to himself.
"The Alliance again?" he murmured, deep and low, his fingers working their way up Lotor's corded neck to ease beneath that glorious fall of hair.
Lotor's appreciative murmur sounded part agreement, part involuntary groan of enjoyment. Sven accepted that as he next cue, and tsked softly. "They tie your hands with so much beuocracy, and wonder why you can't get anything done."
His hands wandered back towards the King's shoulders, massaging as they went, and worked deeply on those muscles once more. "Still the slaves' issues, I suppose?" he ventured cautiously; one always had to tread carefully around that topic where the Master was concerned.
Lotor grunted again, not a comfortable sound this time. Sven had to concentrate hard on making sure he didn't tense, didn't give away his apprehension, to act as though everything was normal: the King was far too perceptive, sometimes, and had been known to exploit the odd fear here and there.
A few more moments of silence, punctuated only by the odd sound of enjoyment from His Majesty and the soft rustle of clothes moving while Sven continued his ministrations, and Sven had concluded that any threat that may have existed was well and truly nullified by now.
In a deliberate move, he pressed his thumbs upwards along Lotor's neck again, an old massage technique from long ago, then let his hands fall to trail the backs of his fingers down and forward, along the King's throat and past his collarbone, Sven's arms looping around his Master's shoulders.
The first time he'd tried this manoeuvre, Lotor had stiffened in deadly shock at such an audacious embrace; it had taken some time for Sven to work out exactly how far to go and when . . . and how best to use its results. Now, he was a master at it.
Soft, carefully modulated tones murmured against Lotor's ear, hot and moist. "They won't win, though."
Lotor snorted. "And what makes you believe that," he countered sourly.
With a learned deliberation, Sven fitted his cheek against the King's neck, arms sliding lower in a full embrace as he nuzzled the hollow of Lotor's throat. "Because you're too smart for them, that's why," he replied, taking advantage of the moment to nibble the salty tasting flesh there. Seduction: wasn't that always the tool of a king's courtesans in order to make some gain?
'Take the bait . . . take the bait,' he pleaded silently.
Lotor's head came up from its relaxed slump and his back firmed slightly. Sven continued to distract him with tender nibbles and suckling at his throat, against the rippling pulse, beneath his ears while he slid his hands lower to roam over that broad chest in a soft caress - all the places where he'd discovered that Lotor might be vulnerable - and waited in hope.
"So . . . since you're so clever," the King sneered slightly, "why don't you tell me what I'm planning next."
Sven hid his smile in the kiss he pressed against Lotor's neck and shifted to slide himself into the King's lap in a move as old as his enforced profession itself. Far from being shoved away for his impudence, broad hands roughened by years of swordplay drew him in with a determination that revealed more of Lotor's desire than even the King himself knew.
He had tried, once or twice, to reason with his Master as equals in his early days as a slave - yes, long enough in the past now, he admitted to himself; his mind recoiled from the memory of beatings and worse, and settled instead on the satisfaction he gained on learning how to manipulate the Great Beast.
A slave could never question, never challenge, never advise . . . but he could take a guess at what the Master had planned, if given permission - and regardless of whether or not the Master had even thought of the idea at all, himself.
It had become a game to them; a deadly one, certainly, but no deadlier than any other in this place.
Arms still wrapped around Lotor's shoulders, Sven played with the odd lock or two of pristine white hair while he concentrated on putting on his 'pondering' expression.
"The slaves . . . they still complain to the Alliance inspectors, I expect?" he mused softly. Of course they did - he could hardly blame them, and besides, he could read the reports over Lotor's shoulder as accurately as the King himself. He just couldn't say that he knew.
Lotor pursed his lips and nodded, frowning: get on with it, he was saying.
Sven tilted his head to the other side and slid his fingers beneath the King's embroidered collar. "Food, medical, hours, working conditions . . . that sort of thing, I suppose?"
Lotor grumbled an agreement, head dipping in order to nip at the flesh Sven had exposed when he canted his head. Sven muffled a soft groan at the feel of a hand fumbling between the opening folds of his robe then sliding up the inside of his thigh, slow and firm and strong.
The arm wrapped around behind him held him securely as he arched back into that combined caress, knees parting of their own accord in acceptance as he tipped his head back, exposing even more of his throat for Lotor to nip and mark. That kind of possessiveness didn't matter to Sven any more; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen outside these lavish surrounds.
A gasp followed, seduced by the feel of his Master's hot mouth suckling against a particularly susceptible place in the hollow of his collarbone, those sharp incisors leaving little nipping bruises that were quickly soothed by a slick, sensuous tongue.
The hand beneath his robe squeezed and soothed, fondling his thighs, his hip, his belly with carefully controlled caresses, but never more than an accidental brush where Sven most craved the touch; without realising it, he whimpered.
The Game, he reminded himself sternly. You have a job to do. Remember the Game.
Lotor's hand slid between his thighs once more, stroking carefully, tenderly, before moving higher to fondle his sac; Sven whimpered again, openly.
"The . . ." he gasped, writhing slightly against the gentle touch, then tried to find his voice again. "The Alliance . . . they . . .ah! . . . they want you to do . . . more, don't they?"
Lotor grunted a reply and then, pushing the paperwork away roughly, lifted Sven and shoved him onto the table.
"You talk too much," he grumbled, moving between Sven's knees and pressing his torso towards the desk firmly, arching over his most personal of slaves as he did so. Lotor's hips, coming to nestle against his own, made Sven groan again with anticipation, the feel of his Master's hard length pulsing against his groin only adding fuel to the fire.
A silver tri-fold photo frame clattered to the floor unnoticed by either man as Sven arched his back again, his traitorous body coming alive beneath the hands that opened his robe fully with long, determined strokes, working up and down his body with a strength that bellied the tenderness hidden beneath that touch.
Yes, he concluded. Lotor was right after all: he did talk too much.
God! It shouldn't feel so wonderful to have Lotor's body rocking so firmly against his, to have that clothed, trapped erection moving urgently - frantically - against the heat of Sven's bared cock, the material seeming rough for all its fineness as it became damp from their arousals.
Lotor's mouth found his, hot and hungry as it devoured his moans and whimpers of pleasure. His hands were curled desperately into the King's hair, clinging to the only anchor he knew in this kind of storm, one eventually sliding down to clutch the fabric of Lotor's tunic repeatedly. He bucked, he writhed, he begged with whispers and body for this too pleasant torture to end . . . and to never end.
His mouth was released, allowing Sven to continue to whimper softly and shudder as the King worked downwards slowly, pausing to lave attention on dusky nipples and along the defined muscles of his chest and abs.
Sven was proud of those; in a place where he could have easily gone to seed, he'd modified some old tai chi meditations from his academy days in order to work out at least twice daily. If he wanted to make changes around here - which he did - he couldn't afford to have the King's eye straying elsewhere.
The sound of a drawer opening distracted him from his thoughts, and a thrill of anticipation rippled through him. Then Lotor's mouth was back on his own; his gasp of surprise and his moan of excitement as a slicked finger eased inside was quickly swallowed and swept aside by more interesting things.
"Oh, God!" he gasped out again, ripping his mouth away, eyes wide in sensuous shock as not one but two fingers probed deep within again, sending another intense spiral of pleasure rocketing through his body.
Seconds, minutes, hours . . . he couldn't tell how long it was, only that he didn't think it could get better - even though his body recalled that it could.
A hard, slick,pulsing heat pressed against him; he didn't even have to think of his response, his pelvis tilting higher, his legs drawn up and wide in invitation - in expectation - with a desire he was ashamed to admit to. A large, solid body looming over him, pressing into him, still partially clothed, powerful all the same: he hated the fact that he hungered for this.
And, oh God, but he was big! Big and hot and hungry, sliding in deep, too subtle, too controlled to pound into him mindlessly . . . at least as this stage . . . just . . . there! . . . throbbing deep within while he waited for Sven to adjust. Even after all these times, he still felt almost to big to handle.
Lotor's teeth nipped at his kiss-bruised neck as he slid out, slowly - oh so damn, fuckin' slowly! Move, damnit! Sven wanted to growl; instead he allowed himself another whimper as the King paused, holding them both on the edge, then pressed forward again. Yes, whimper, some functioning part of his brain reminded him. He prefers to hear you whimper.
So he whimpered again, and felt Lotor tremble - and Sven found that the next thrust of hips against his was not quite as controlled as before, perhaps just a little more desperate, a little more eager, and he smiled to himself at his cleverness.
"Oh!" Soundlessly, he gasped, shudders chasing shudders as Lotor hit his prostrate, missed, then hit it again. Too much! Much too much! His fingers dug into Lotor's shoulders, completely unnoticed.
Lotor leaned closer again and took his mouth in a rough, urgent kiss, folding him almost double with the pressure, the position making every thrust ram hard against his prostrate; the pleasure became nearly too painful to bear, and Sven could feel the edges of his awareness flicker. His hands slid back into his Master's hair and clung in desperation.
He didn't even notice when a rough palm wrapped around his cock and stroked . . . but his body did.
"Ahh!" His back arched clear from the desk, eyes wide as the pleasure rushed through him, threatening his vision as his release pulsed between his Master's fingers, his shudders and whimpers no longer contrived.
Then his vision did grey, then darken for just a few moments as he slipped from that plateau and down into a deliciously pleasant, boneless aftermath.
Somewhere, far away, he felt Lotor's own shudders take hold, heard the hot, panting breath groan something between a prayer and his name in his ear, felt the pulsing spurts of heat released within him, and realised that the arms around the King's shoulders and the legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close, were Sven's own.
But all that was far, far away.
All too soon, though, it became closer, more real, and part of him mourned its loss. By then, though, his Master was loosening the grip Sven's legs had around him, pushing away, sliding from within, and a small part of Sven mourned that loss too.
So he lay there on the desk, partially clad in his robe and displayed for any eye to see, awaiting his next cue, his Master's next move. It never paid to move too soon - the King didn't appreciate that kind of presumptuousness in his bed slaves - so, he lay there patiently, limbs askew and marked by the evidence of who and what he was. His eyes drifted shut, and without him even knowing it, his lips turned up in the smile of the very well laid.
A soft, wet cloth met with his abdomen, warm and gentle. He opened his eyes and looked down, amazed as he often was to see the deep concentration on Lotor's face as his broad hands washed the sticky white fluid from his skin.
For some reason, his Master seemed to like this task, ministering in this manner to the very slave who, by rights, should be doing this to him. Sven never understood it, and probably never would, but allowed himself to enjoy the attention all the same.
The washcloth felt rough against his inner thighs, between the cheeks of his buttocks, upon his genitals. He lay back again and sighed softly at the subtle pleasure, knowing that all too soon he would have to move.
It was no wonder he was surprised, then, when two strong arms swept beneath his body and picked him up, carrying him over to be laid on the King's massive bed. Blankets were pulled over him, a body sliding in to nestle against him, and he was turned to snuggle into the hollow of the King's broad shoulder.
Those large hands swept along the length of his naked skin, and Sven couldn't smother his sigh of contentment.
"You still haven't guessed yet, you know," he heard his Master's voice rumble in his ear.
It took him some moments to recall what it was they'd been talking about. Oh yes, what to do about the problems with general slaves . . . Then an unexpected yawn struck him, and he blinked up at his Master tiredly.
"If it pleases Your Majesty," he replied, voice all husky from sex and the desire to simply sleep, "but may I answer that in the morning?"
Lotor's chuckle reverberated in his chest, sending pleasant little tingles all the way to his slave's toes. "I suppose I might allow that," he stated imperiously with a regal nod to his head.
Then he chuckled again, deeper this time, and tucked Sven's head firmly back into the nook beneath his chin, stretching languidly then settling in to sleep as well.
There were worse things, Sven supposed as he began to drift off, than living in this odd existence.
~ owari ~