Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.

I am taking time to write this because I need a break from all my major plots, so please don't holler me back into space asking to continue writing my main stuff because I definitely am! It's just this idea is too good to pass it up for later and god knows when I might even get back to it ever again. This is going to be a two-part story and I gotta say even if the whole world finds this an atrocity, I personally damn well loved writing it.

And this is very important: This is in AU. I don't have my timelines right. I don't know my history well and I must admit it is too much to read between 550-330BC. The names are real (other than the main characters), and I am sorry if I offended studious history students with my poor sense of historical facts.

Other than that, feel free to enjoy this piece! You might start puking 'beautiful's because I used it way too many times...

If you can't take man on man, then you must have missed my summary.

Leashes of Servitude

by Seraph Wes W.

- We are all slaves. Freedom doesn't set us free -

Part One

It was the sound of the horn of triumph glory the moment Astyages fell, the last King of the Median Empire sent to his grave by Cyrus the Great. It was historically remembered as the start of the Achaemenid Empire, the First Persian Empire, and his standing warriors sung in wine and dance in the company of beautiful exotic women. At the end of the month long celebration, he decided to travel forth toward the great Jerusalem to return rights of exiled victims to return home. The Jews were in debt to the liberator, whom in turn used the opportunity to buffer state between his empire and Egypt. Much was undisclosed to the men beneath his council, especially men who knew nothing other than to strike their foes with a sword or to sting their hearts with dagger.

That included the King's most trusted right hand man, a man stilt with the heart of royalty and hands of bravery. He led the invasion through the West gates successfully with littlest deaths and was applauded the man of valor. Even Cyrus gave him a wide berth to the atrocities he could do, which were mainly identified as his senseless sympathy for the poor and the sick where his rewards were often distributed.

"Have you not any sympathy for yourself, Esfandyar? Squandering all these riches the King bestowed upon you like wine down the drain."

The one named Esfandyar laughs, one that tickles his funny bone or stomach he couldn't quite tell, as he hands another silver coin to a sickly woman under the sheltered slums, "I'm broadening the compassion of the King to his people with his riches. What use do we have for these coins when we can have any and everything in the world at our fingertips in comparison to these people who need them more than we do?"

"Only you," his good friend, Darab sighs, "Only you can have the mountains and seas so long as you breathe a word. The King only has eyes for your greatness."

"Darab my brother, you're horribly mistaken. The King values all men equally. And please, call me Chris. We all know Esfandyar is just a name the King has bestowed upon me to hide my ethnicity."

Darab grins this time, "Don't be foolish, he values you more than his sons. I'm worried what the heirs might think of you in a time like this."

As he dispenses the last of his coins away, Chris throws an arm around the shoulders of his comrade as he drags him away from the poverty district, "Your concerns are most heartfelt but it is time for the feast! Certainly we do not want the royalty to be waiting for peasants like ourselves!"

Where in this case however, perhaps even the King's most trusted right hand couldn't foresee destiny coming forth his way in the most unexpected arrangements of all time. Darab is seen laughing with another exotic dancer, Mina, at the announcement made over dinner where the crowd cheered in honor of the great Esfandyar, who is nonetheless discolored by horror plastered across his face. His Lord must be making a terrible mistake, a drunken one if he must say.

"Sire, I think this is not—"

"My, my, the great Esfandyar trepidates at the name of marriage!" Cyrus roars in laughter, leading the insidious effects of mockery shadowing the dining halls. The men laugh, so did the women too, but none of which caught in Chris' concerns because he would do anything to weave out of his predicaments. He certainly will not let himself be bound by marriage, diplomatic or not.

"It is only my desire to serve you, my Lord so please, a marriage is most ill-timed now than ever until your great vision is achieved."

Cyrus scoffs, "You belittle yourself far too greatly, Esfandyar. You've fought long and hard by my side. Ever since the child I've seen, your eyes possess such fire that would no doubt lead to greatness built in a man, as well as the future carved within your hands. But this, this my child, is your destiny. If you meant well to serve my goals, you will not hesitate to take the hand of the princess in matrimony."

There is coercion in the King's word. Chris knows the voice of the determined will. Darab stops his laughter in between, the resignation in his brother's eyes melts him. Quickly, he steps away from the comfort of his consort as he makes way to his friend, a man whose words are drown in the merriment of the feasting and the King's will as well.

"Perhaps I could take the princess' hand in marriage if need be, father." Cambyses raises a mug of ale, "I would adorn her like the flowers in the mystical deserts."

"You have far too many wives and consorts for your own taste, Cambyses, now sit down before I make you!"

The laughter continues to rise in the hall, Cyrus pleased to see his subjects supportive of his idea. "Bardiya has seen the beauty of the princess he reports, like the eye of the rarest jewel on the face of the desert. Her skin glows like gold sands with eyes shining as bright as stars in the night. A beauty well deserving of your affection, Esfandyar."

Chris blinks once, deeply. His fate is sealed.

"You will take her marriage once Bardiya escorts her back to the palace. The princess of Sardis of Lydia whom we have taken, and in your marriage we will forge a bond greater than ever for our Persian Empire!"

The drunken men cheer to the visions of the King. Chris kneels on one knee before he takes oath as implored.

"I am most grateful for your ever-giving kindness… my Lord."

Chris wakes up to the soft glow of the moonlight shining from his balcony into his room. He shifts away from the warm body of another consort, sets his foot onto the cold marbles where he picks his robe up. The soft satin wraps around his body before he gently leaps onto the ledge of his balcony, leaning against the wall behind him watching the large moon glowing in the distant. It has been fifteen years since the King found him in the slums of Macedonia and ten years into the battles he fought in his name. He lives not with a purpose to bear a lover or family, that those were the very ones who had sold him to the slave market where he made his escape into the slums. He has borne little regard keeping a wife as compared to housing a consort, people with little commitments and forth needs.

A thousand women could lay at his feet but he would have no eyes for any of them. Fighting in his blood as his maker delivers, and in blood he would return his body to Him when his deed is done.

Such is the price of his servitude bound to the King—a man who has given him everything in this world, yet taken everything from him all at once.

"So I heard Jillian Azadeh of Sardis will arrive this evening! Are you nervous?" Darab follows in company of his good brother who is on a mission unspoken. They cross through the poverty until the sounds of men yelling welcome them into the open.

"Who?" Chris, underwhelmed than interested, asks to extend his attention.

"Your wife, Chris! Surely you must remember her name!"

Merchants, traders and traffickers of all trades and sorts meet at the black market square to deal all forms of businesses. Chris is out on a mission, and eyes of the world intrigue him boundlessly.

"This isn't the right time to talk about my unprecedented fate, Darab! I've far more important things to see to!" He shouts to his brother, making sure his hand grips him tight so he doesn't lose him in the crowd.

The exotic animals of the far West and the great East astound him. He watches with absolute incredulity at their ferocity and vanity. Fights amongst monstrous creatures of strength parading in the market mark highlights, as well as insipid ones with agility and danger. Locals are fascinated, spending gold and silver rampantly out of impulse and curiosity. Chris is far too trained for these short-lived tendencies, he is looking for something that is really going to be worth his money. Women cling onto him as he passes through them, their dealers advertising their chastity "a taste not to be forgotten" on the first night, a guarantee that "you will not be disappointed". He laughs at the measly attempts, pulling Darab through the aisles of seduction before his friend falls prey to it.

"Never buy women from the markets," Chris reminds.

"Well you never did say I can't gawk at them!"

That got them both laughing at Darab's hint of indecency, Chris rubbing the black strands on his brother's head before they meander through the crowds again.

The brothers then made quick work of a couple of snacks Chris splurges on willingly. A fruit, unsightly green yet brownish on the outside, yet wet and sweet on the inside with pulps as red as ruby. The merchant said it was a fruit from the great China, and it took them months to traverse the great desert before they arrive to share the fruits of their labor.

Fascinated by the outlandish marvel beyond their Persian knowledge, the warrior buys a basket worth and have them delivered to the palace under his name. The merchant delightfully thanks him for the business and lets his gratitude go beyond Chris' wildest expectation, for he whispers a secret stash he keeps only for the sharp buyers. And with that, the warrior has found what he is looking for he tells Darab, quietly as they follow the merchant to a secret walkway to a provision shop. The keeper nods at the merchant as they exchange a secret password, and a passageway opens down to the basement where Chris immediately rages at the sight.

Slaves.

A dozen child slaves.

He immediately waves his dagger kept hidden under his sash, a hand ramming the merchant into the stoned wall yelling the atrocities he has committed. Darab holds his ground on the stairway, fending off the shopkeeper who marches in at the sound of their commotion, a sword in hand. Chris is relentless. He pounds the merchant mercilessly, blow after blow of anger fisted into the man's face until a pair of hands stop him. In his fit, he swings the force holding him back, throwing the load of mass forward when he flips his hand over. An adolescent boy, he presumes from his built, is slammed to the ground but his hands refuse to let go of his wrist.

He threatens to wave the dagger over the assailant's throat, but something about the boy on the ground enchants him.

With eyes as bright as gold, courage surmountable and determination wild like fire, the boy daringly glares into his eyes.

"Let go," Chris speaks darkly.

"No," the boy speaks bluntly. His accent is weak of Persian, an immigrant perhaps.

"Why protect the man who's selling you into slavery? Have you lost your mind, taking pity on this fool?" His anger is rising, and Darab has never seen his brother blown in fury in a very long time.

Yet those eyes are strong and powerful, fixating and challenging Chris like he hasn't been in ages, "He may have wanted to sell us, but he has been feeding us. And for that, as compared to our real parents who gave up on us, he has shown more mercy than they ever did."

Those words reminded him of the words a child had once spoken decades ago. The familiarity shakes the warrior out before he withdraws his dagger, reaching a hand out to help the boy, "Can you stand?"

Barely hesitant, the boy reaches for his hand as he pulls him up, "We need to help the younger children out."

Chris grins, "Then you're in luck."

The constables in the division arrived to pick up the storekeeper and the merchant away. Chris has arranged the children to the palace to have them cleaned up and fed promptly, along with the boy with the golden eyes. He finds himself peculiarly attached to the orbs in his mind, so much so that when Darab creeps up to him from behind, he doesn't realize it and is startled off the ledge he sits on outside the palace yard.

"Fancy the great Esfandyar startled by the measly me!" Darab chatters, dancing around in the yard as he takes joy in Chris' displacement.

"Quiet, Darab. I was just deep in thought to notice you."

"If so, what has taken you so deep in thought then, my dear brother?"

Chris keeps his mouth sealed. The talk of the boy may incur unwanted suspicions especially since tonight—

"Oh right! Are you thinking about your wife? She should be arriving any second now, brother!"

And there is the princess of Sardis. Chris dreads the idea of the dinner after, they would most definitely be delighted to send the princess to his room. He doesn't want that. He intends to buy every second of his singlehood for as long as he could. He would gladly hand the princess to Darab who is a much worthy lover than he ever is. But the King has bestowed the honor to him, an honor he isn't too sure to call one at all.

Other than that, there's the boy. Eyes like gold, shining…

…walking towards him from across the hall now.

Darab watches the stranger in the distance coming towards them until he remembers him as the boy in the basement. He is tanned, like slaves often under the sun to walk provisions for the merchants but his tan is not charred. His body is firm but not strong and his frame clothed in cotton and silk. He almost passes for a youthful prince after the cleaning, except for the straight locks falling to his shoulders shielding most of his face.

"Where do you think you're—"

As Darab steps up to the boy, Chris stops him from behind, "Leave Darab. I want to have a word with the boy."

"But the princess is arrivin—"

"It will be quick. Stall some time for me in the halls, will you?"

His brother sighs, making quick steps to the end of the room before he closes the grand door. The boy startles at the sound of the door shut, there is no one else but the two of them in the visitor's leisure hall on the side of the palace.

Chris steps down from the ledge in the yard and walks back into the shelter. The brave soul now has his eyes looking down on the smooth pavement such that his reflection basks in it. He laughs, as he circles the boy in slow footwork, taking his time to read every detail on him.

"Do you admire yourself through the floors? I'm certain the palace has enough mirrors for you to adorn your beauty if you need to do so."

Offended, the boy strikes his hand at the warrior but is nonetheless caught in a grip in an instant. Chris lets his hand tighten around his wrist, forcing his hand down before he folds it to his back, pushing the boy up to him as his face looks up. There those beautiful eyes are Chris tells himself, they're such rare jewels more than the desert could ever offer him. Orbs like topaz, glistening from a body warm hot like sand in the day, skin as smooth as youth on a woman. How did the merchant chance upon beauty rarer than beauty itself?

"A spitfire, aren't you?"

"I am not a woman. I have no beauty for you to speak of."

"How did you chance upon such amazing… eyes?" Chris couldn't contain his curiosity. "You're certainly not of Persian blood."

The boy bites his lip, "Ly… I'm Lydian."

"I've heard the beauties of Lydia and I've always found them to be myths but by my eyes, a young male like you, yet present yourself so beautifully before any consorts I've ever taken. Lydia certainly has treasures of their own."

He wants to find them an insult but the man speaks truth in his eyes. He can see it.

"Are… are you a prince?" He asks, breaths a mixture of deep and shallow.

Chris smiles, loosening his grip gently, "I'm not. I was born servitude."

He looks surprised at the answer, a sparkle in his eyes almost cinching a start, "But you're… you're…"

"A man who led the group of constables? A man with skills to fight his own enemies? A man who is well dressed and living in the palace?"

The boy is silent again.

"I was taken in by the King when I was fifteen. I was given a chance to lead a life I never thought I would ever attain in my life in the slums. I learnt hard and I fought harder, and this is how I manage to come this far. And this is how, you will be able to do it too."

He brightens at the words his savior used, "I…I can… too?"

Grinning, "Of course you can. We can always use people who are willing to fight for us…" and as he trails, Chris cups a hand along the boy's jaw as he rubs along his skin, "…though it would be a pity that this skin might be marred in battles in the future."

He looks away this time. The boy looks ashamed.

"I'm… already scarred."

Chris looks baffled, his hands already gone from the grip behind to his shoulders. The boy's frame is lithe but firm, smooth but hard, truly a new sensation for the warrior to be this mesmerized beyond the women he has bedded. He looks away from the grown man but Chris refuses to let his gaze falter, holding the boy's chin with his thumb and index finger as he turns him back to him. His eyelashes are thick and long, black as the lines and makeup women put on their pretty faces. And fervidly he seeks those eyes, his hands now cupping both sides of the boy's face in case he makes a run, though to nowhere he could think of.

"Would you show me… the scars?" He whispers to the boy's face, the blazing sun piercing into his torrid skin.

The young male is helpless to his boldness, his hands searching for support on the warm skin he grabs onto. The faux prince is one with the sun he sees, like they are bonded as one so he could melt anybody's resolve in a matter of seconds. With rugged stubble and the faint scar just under his eye, his curt hairstyle suits nothing to the likes of Persians he has seen. He is truly one of a kind he believes, and the deliverance is almost as sweet as the breath blows into his face.

Ficus carica, the taste of the fruit he knows the merchant sells.

"I… I'm not worthy."

Harkening, Chris lets out a scoff, "Only I… will determine if you're worthy or not."

He feels his heartbeat skip. This man is far too dangerous. Yet he still is his benefactor, someone he wants to repay his gratitude for his rescue and a second chance given. Then he feels the tip of a nose brushing along the side of his neck, short pants breathing against his skin as he shrivels in nervousness. The man drops his hands from the corners of his shoulders along his arms before he grabs them to his back. He forestalls a panic shriek.

"You… what is your name?" Chris groans.

The uncharacteristic scent of fresh bath on this boy is permeating lavender and lilies, perhaps even a touch of evergreen. Most women would have never been able to accept evergreen but this woody scent seems perfect on the boy. Chris reaches a hand under the sash holding his robe together, the naked skin beneath the fabric so ever enticing in his eyes. And as he thought the boy will obediently let him have his ways, a pair of hands grab his collar tightly and yanks him forward.

There is something awfully attractive about this spitfire in his arms Chris admits. He's surprised in one way more than the other. As his body presses into the boy's chest, he watches the golden orbs glowering at him, dark and hungry, thirsty.

"Pierasis, …but everyone calls me Piers."

Chris grins, "The palace calls me Esfandyar but you my little spitfire, …call me Chris."

Piers swallows a thick breath, his savior is beyond intoxicating. But he holds his ground firm, the grip in his hands even firmer as he stares back into the Persian's dim eyes, "I… L-let me repay you your kindness."

Now this is interesting. "How would you do that, my sweet boy?"

"Any-anything you desire… sire."

"Use my name. I've given you permission to."

Piers returns the intense gaze at his savior, determined to carry out his goal, "Let me serve you, …Chris."

"My child, you're—"

"Esfandyar! The princess of Sardis has arrived!" The announcement blares through the door before Chris could finish his sentence. "To the welcoming halls please, sire!"

Chris curses away, but keeps his grip on the boy who is baffled by the interlude. But before the warrior makes his departure, he makes sure to explain to his little boy since the announcer presses on.

"Sire!"

"All right! I heard you the first time!"

Watching Chris sigh, Piers brings a hand to the side of his face, "Are you needed elsewhere?"

He nods, "Heaven knows how badly the King needs me to secure his diplomacy with Lydia. I'm meeting my wife-to-be, Piers."

The shower of truth is what Piers has prepared himself for as he now finds himself almost crazy to think about repaying his benefactor with the one thing he could offer when he is about to marry royal line. He would taint him for sure, by the disdain to his servitude. It is now impossible for him to fulfill his duties, and it would be a fool's errand if he ever mentions of it because he is not worthy of it.

Only I… will determine if you're worthy or not.

"But if I hadn't the need to go, I will strip you bare of the clothing this palace has bestowed you, ripped it into shreds off your beautiful glowing body where the sun can see your beauty and how I would ruin it until none of your resolves are left. And you'll only be able to scream my name, plead for my mercy and then never be able to taste a woman in your life ever again."

When Chris lets go of the boy in his arms, Piers falls to the ground. He stays on the ground dazed and shocked, redness slowly spreading across his face as the warrior kneels on one knee, shifting his face to him. He smirks proudly, licking his inner lips before he leans towards the boy.

He enjoys the look on Piers' face.

"I will tell the maidens to prepare the consort's bath for you. Take it before you come into my room tonight."

Jillian is beautiful.

Despite her raven Lydian ethnicity, her hair is blonde while her skin is bronze. She is decorated in the symbols of their empire painted over her flawless skin and clad in pure silk embroidered in gold threads.

Her ravishing beauty amazes both Cyrus and Cambyses. However the Persian men at the dining feast don't impress her. To her, they are men without an ounce of compassion, people who have raided her country, killed the innocents and now have even resorted to marriage to foster diplomatic ties in the event of war. She is tired of this game between the warlord and her father, who on the other hand has instructed her to gather important information regarding the Persian King that could be useful for them. If it weren't for the safety of her country, she wouldn't have allowed herself to be manipulated for these old men's selfish gains. She hadn't a choice, she is the princess after all.

And when Cambyses approaches her in his drunken state to circle around her a couple of times, the scent of the repugnant animal fumbles her stomach as she inwardly curses her ill fate to be married to such a repulsive man. However that was but a fleeting moment of tragedy until she realizes that Cyrus has wedded her to someone else not present in the hall just yet, and they are questioning his presence until liveliness screamed from the outer hallways.

That is when the horns sounded and the world cheers the entrance of the last member in the hall. The man who enters the halls smiles in his glory, far different from the men she has seen thus far and apparently loved and worshiped by many. Yet she has not heard of him in his name nor in the name of the King's son. The mysterious man swapped between tables, busily clinking mugs all in effort to stay away from her, leaving her baffled by his nonchalance. He displays no interests towards her, so much so that it begins to annoy her to have someone belittling her existence.

Not until he is addressed as the man whom she is betrothed to.

"Esfandyar is a man of valor. You are lucky to be his wife, princess of Sardis." Bardiya blesses, but she has already lost interest for anyone in the council other than this Esfandyar. "And we can most certainly assure you, he is a passionate creature of the night!"

The men laugh and the women chuckle at the scandalous title, the princess almost embarrassed of their openness in public.

He comes to her after he is done with every single table in sight, yet the look of boredom still plagues him. To say she isn't bothered by his disinterest would be a lie. Jillian waits for the warrior to settle in the seat beside her, where the King begins his long and loathsome speech.

"You seem to take no interest in me, even though I am your wife."

Her voice is rich with depth, a woman of clever wisdom as far as Chris could tell. Cleverness though, always the double-edged sword as Chris knows. "Wife to be, the marriage isn't until another three days."

"So I take it that you have no interest in the wedding at all?"

The look in her eye is questioning, this woman may even have more wit than half of the council in their sober state perhaps. The King appears to have misjudged the woman Chris thinks, because this would be so much harder to deal with when they are finally married—not when he intends to keep a mistress in his hut.

"I would assume the marriage isn't something you wanted too, princess."

She grins silently, "Finally a man who doesn't disgust me as the rest of the council does. I'm beginning to see something the others cannot provide, Esfandyar."

"As to you, Princess Jillian. You're certainly more than it meets the eye."

She has no need to know his real name.

It took much persuasion but eventually Chris got the council to send the princess to her guest quarters instead of his own. He has his own fair share of fun back in his room and he isn't going to let anyone spoil it before he returns. Tipsy and a little fuzzy, he finishes the last drop of wine from the bottle he stole from the kitchen as he makes his way back. With each step he takes, he grins from one corner of his mouth to the other.

Jillian may have been beautiful, and he might have been captivated if upon first sight of the Lydian; blonde yet tanned, curvaceous and soft, and with eyes like the color of rain.

But ever since he met Piers, everything changed.

Rain is nothing compared to the purity of gold, or the sparkle of topaz. Piers isn't just beautiful, the boy is perfect in every way he knows of.

And Chris knows after tonight, he would melt that resilience to a pool of fluid and then mold it into whatever he wants. He is the sun, a burning ball of fire.

His lair lays in the west wing of the palace, where his room attaches to the extended porch where he bathes in sunlight every morning. The luxury of his stay has always been a delight to the consorts serving him. May it be one or two, or five of them, he has never had a problem fitting them on his bed. And tonight, there will only be one.

One gorgeous boy, the first he's ever tempted to taste.

Stepping into the room, he notices the aromatic candles lit in the room. Candles seated on brass shelves and wooden tables, lined from the walls to his bed. A soft shuffle shifts from his bed in the distance, the purple satin sheets sliding off the body emerging from his bed. Chris grins as he approaches closer. The boy must have rested enough throughout the feast.

And he better had because he might not be able to for the rest of the night.

Slowly, the warrior removes his shoes at the edge of his bed before he climbs onto it. He peels the remains of the sheet away from the warmth body beneath it until he sees the face he missed since a few hours ago. The same pair of mesmerizing eyes awakes to him with dark messy locks scattered over the pillows. He presses his forehead over the Piers', looking deep into his eyes as the boy whispers softly.

"You reek of ale."

"I was at a feast. There could only be ale, precious."

Piers blushes gently. Even if he smells horribly of the spilled food and wine, nothing covers his natural addictive body scent. Piers reaches for the stained shirt before he peels it off the older man, his hands slightly shaking but determined. Chris lets his boy have his way, watching the unskilled hands pulling his shirt back as Piers draws a breath from his body. It is almost intriguing guessing what the boy is trying to do, but this is way more interesting than the experienced women no less.

"Much better," Piers whispers.

"You smell so much better. Did the maidens bathe you well? Did they wash you… clean?"

Upon the word clean, a hint of crimson hits the young boy's face hard. It was the first time a woman has touched him so privately. Strangely however, it wasn't the thought of the women handling him in the bath that makes him nervous though. Looking back at Chris, the man runs a hand through his locks once more before he pulls his face close to his lips again.

"I should trim these locks the first thing tomorrow morning. They're hiding your beautiful face."

Piers moans softly, then closing his eyes, he feels the heat taking his lips.

Chris is living the experience. He tastes so much sweeter than the women in the palace. Gently, he rolls his mouth over the soft petals of his lips, nipping between his teeth as he folds them back. Piers rasps at his tenderness, running his hands through his brusque hair. He parts his lips for his savior to take him deeper, the taste of wine breathes into him as his intolerance keeps him afloat.

"Your hair… so short for Persian…"

Chris smiles in between the boy's mumbling, "Because I'm not entirely Persian."

He slides the consort's satin robe off Piers, fingers dancing over his youthful skin setting the boy into his bed. Piers watches him nervously, lips interlocked, hands desperately for the warmth of the sun to settle his anxiousness. He wraps his hands over the back of his neck, keeping the kiss moist and sunken. The scent of the warrior drives him insane; he smells of hope.

Pushing the robe apart, Chris spreads his hand alongside Piers' body where he elicits a sharp yelp between their kisses. There it is, the imperfection the boy mentioned earlier. He lets his fingers feel the jagged marred marks over his complexion but it doesn't turn him away. But Piers is holding his breath tightly he could tell, perhaps ashamed of the scars he is too aware of. Smirking, playfully, Chris leads his hand upwards over the hard peaks of his chest, passing the scars to his collarbone, shoulder, neck and finally to the back of his ear. He steals a breath away from Piers, who immediately groans in the tight seizure, fingers clawing into his skin. Gasping, the warrior drinks the scent of evergreen, lifting his partner slightly as he tears the remaining satin away. When Piers lies back onto his bed, Chris straddles his lap observing every inch of his glistening body in the glow, a gentle breeze whizzing into the room causing some candles to flicker and go out.

"Never in my life have I wanted to taste a man as much as you." He confesses, studying the features. "You're so exotic… that it'll kill me not to have you."

Piers murmurs, "I… I've never… thought, wanted to offer myself like this… other than you… …"

"You… shouldn't have come to me," the warrior warns, "I may not be able to be as gentle as I've always been with women."

As though letting the last of his worries go, Piers presses his palms across the broad chest of his savior, his master, caressing the hard flesh carved in scars as he tries to remember every detail on this man. The smell of his scent, the scars on his body and the charitable heart buried deep within it, he wants it all for his own.

"But I'm no woman… you don't have to."

Flipped over, Piers places his hands on the back of his thighs. As he has been ordered, he pushes his knees into the bed while his back arches into the air, propping his ass upwards while his hands keep his legs apart. But his legs weren't the only assets spread apart, for Chris guides his hands higher up his thighs, until eventually he makes Piers pulls his cheeks apart from behind. The boy hides his embarrassment into the soft pillow, mouthing at his awkwardness as Chris takes his time to savor the gorgeous display, fingers playing along the valley gently. That makes the boy muffle harder into the pillow for his legs tremble hard. Teasing is wicked he curses inwardly, finding it difficult to hold his position if the older man continues any further.

Almost chuckling, Chris leans closer until his hand manages to touch the boy's shaft from beneath. Drawing the sharp moan, he fondles the hardened shaft in his hand stroking the corners of the head to his length. Piers claws into his own flesh, feeling electrocuted by the sensation for he whimpers uncontrollably. The wetness flows from his tip prematurely draws Chris' attention to it, coating his length to enhance his pleasure. But he doesn't stop there. Dragging the remains, he pulls it under and then over between his ass, the tip of his middle finger rubbing his entrance before he tastes the stickiness in his mouth.

He grins at the fine taste, licking his fingers thoroughly before he sets it back on him. Piers tenses at the position.

"Relax, my precious…"

Gripping the sheets, Piers tries hard to relax at the foreign experience. As he expects the penetration, he feels the flick of warm flesh over his hole and it makes him shudder. That… wasn't his fingers he muses, and then another flick rolls over his tightness causes him to yelp wordlessly. It's soft and warm, wet and fleshy, Piers didn't dare to think what it was.

Until he turns to peek from the bedface, he finds Chris' face pressed so closely to his rear.

Although it is his first time doing this, Chris figures it should work the way he performs it on a woman. Confident, he rims the boy's puckered entrance generously, wetting the surface thoroughly before he pushes his tongue in slightly. The boy stiffens at his ministration, welling a smirk up his face, so he retracts a little, before probing it again. He lines the face of his tongue against his walls before he circles it once, drawing sweet noises hiding from the bedhead. Accustoming to it, he twirls it a few more times then finally flicks his tongue out from the gentle surfacing, brushing his entrance with clean sweeps again.

But Piers is shaking violently, a sort of tremble that doesn't pain the heart but only accelerates its desires. Chris snakes his hand along the side of his waist. The boy's skin is burning.

Hungry, he kneels on his knees as he pulls the boy down to him, away from the pillows he masks in. He lines his rear against pelvic, where his hardness hits the boy's lower rear. Piers yelps in awareness, the rock hard length jutting against his cheeks slowly rolling up between them. Chris is guiding it, slowly yet surely, until he rests it just under his body, inches away from his entrance.

"You're burning…"

Pushing his arms against the bed, Piers supports his body above it as he turns back, "…you melt, you… the sun… melt me…"

And that is exactly what he wants to do. "Indeed… it is my intention to melt you then make you mine."

Wordless, and barely coherent, Piers keeps his body as still as he could, looking dead ahead. A silent sign telling his savior his needs are heard and assuring his needs will be fulfilled tonight.

I'm ready.

Lining his entrance, Chris thumbs it once last time, spreading the remains of his saliva around before he guides his hardness in. Piers digs his fingers into the sheets, clenching it in his palm as Chris goes in deeper. He feels full, stretched, and the pain consumes the rest of his thoughts. It is almost as if something is breaking inside him the more he presses into, and when he finally stops, Piers could barely move. Weird is an understatement. It's as though his tip is tapping against a wall inside him and each time it happens, even the slightest brush against it, Piers is crippled of his thoughts.

Whereas Chris has never felt this tight penetrating a woman in his life, he admits, because Piers isn't the only one who could barely move. He feels as though one move could send him over the edge like a first-time adolescent. But that brings him to remember the real first-timer on this bed, and he is much, much tighter than the virgin consorts he has ever tried.

So very slowly, he withdraws in the tightness a little before he pushes it forward again. Piers groans for the first few times, but eventually finds the action much tolerable after feeling something oozing inside him. It's wet and warm, his savior's pleasure he thinks, because that slippery juices made him feel better. But he knows he isn't the only one taking pleasure in this now, the rugged huffs stalking his ears sets him aflame for he finds a pool of burning want under his stomach.

Lust. The husky pants filling the room thrust deep into him. Piers wants to hear more of it, especially since he's the reason for it.

Chris slides in and out of the boy confidently, the sensation rapid and raw from their flesh slapping. He holds Piers in place by his waist, ramming the invisible wall inside him knocking the sweet noises out of his lips. It's just like how it is with a woman, except this feels strangely better. Piers' voice is so much better. He slams back into the tight hole until his cheeks turn red, picking up speed as he feels the boy grabbing tighter from within. He worries he is quite done for, that he won't be able to feast in other women again.

He needs to mold the boy then. He needs to make him desire only him.

"My beautiful… Piers, …don't ever go."

It's not a plead nor a need. Piers could identify the thirst in those words, he means for him to stay at all cost. It's an order.

And how could he ever leave his savior after he has given him the one precious thing he has defended all these years under the hands of the merchant? He could never leave, because he is all that he could ever yearn for.

"My sire, my lord… there is nowhere else I would go… without you, Chris."

Taking his commitment, Chris takes the last of his restraint off. Pounding deep beyond the walls, he hears the screams crying in his room. Not of displeasure but of course, the aptitude to desire more of his brutal loving echoes back at him pleading him to give more and take even more. Piers curses the heavens and then cusses in Chris' name, throwing his head back when his master pulls his body back against him. He's helpless at the manhandling, thrust and thrown back and forth over his bed until Chris rests his body fully on his back. The sun scorches him slowly, turning him back into the pool of lust he originally is for the heat grabs his wrists tightly into the sheets and slams relentlessly into him.

Their melding is perfect. Chris looks at the tiny droplets forming over Piers' back and dips to lick his skin. He is burning out, like the candles in the room to the last drop of wax. So he wraps his arms around his lower hip tightly to finish his momentum, leaving the beautiful slave writhing in his arms begging for mercy.

And his mercy comes to fulfillment when his seeds burst into heat. Piers moans at the hot juices flooding his walls when his savior stretches into him. It's almost too delicious to let it stop, Piers' dry mouth rasps dryly. Chris arches into his release, toes digging into the sheet emptying every drop into the boy. Slowly he releases his hand from the boy's hips, sliding past his sides back to lower back gripping his flesh tight. He gives a few light thrusts into the rear before he pulls it out. The walls tug against his shaft so painfully tight that he hisses, tilting the tip of his head at an angle to finally remove it. He watches the a tiny trail of white semen leaking from his soreness, dripping onto the sheets while his legs finally give way into the bed.

Chris falls with his lover onto the bed. In spite the firm body, there is something relinquishing about it. He lets his guard drop, his tension fall, and nests close to the warmth, finding solace in the passion they just shared. Piers lets his hands run freely over his savior's hair while the older man crawls up towards him. Eyes not leaving one another, a clash of gold and hazel, they share a moment in smiles and tears. Chris smiles at his beautiful lover whereas the younger struggles to stop his tears, though he doesn't let Piers hide them away by kissing them gently.

Then very softly, delicately, he pulls him into his arms and holds him tight.

He is beautiful one way or the other. The most beautiful slave he never wants to set free.