#daniel:// harris vitalphenomena

[despiterage]

In anticipation of what's to come, Daniel's breath hitches a little as his lower legs come into contact with the bed he'd only just left a few moments ago. And he thinks--instead of his tiny, frail slip of a wife--of falling into the pillows and linens with a warhardened mercenary. What a contrast! What a change it will be from what he's grown so used to. That alone is tremendously exciting.

The last time King Daniel Romano had taken orders from anyone, he'd been a much younger man with the less impressive title of prince. And one might not think he'd be in any hurry to give up his authority, nor to acquiesce to the commend. But it's something he wants to do anyway. And beside, Harris' voice had sounded so good in its delivery.

He undoes the ties and decorative fasteners of his top, distracted by watching Harris' practiced hands remove layer after layer of metal and leather. And he is delighted, of course, when Harris has to stop mid-removal to crush their lips back together.

Bare chested now, he's glad for the chestplate's removal as he leans forward into the kiss and willingly accepts covetous, rough hands on his face and exposed body. Of course Harris wants the king. Everyone wants the king. And this is his favorite show of fealty; something so personal and intimate is much more rewarding--and immediately so, as well--than a dropped knee and pretty words in the throne room.

"Harris," Daniel murmurs breathlessly, angling his head to the side to break free long enough to speak; to catch his breath. And if it bares his throat for kisses, that's totally a coincidence. "I need you."

One of his hands slips down Harris' broad back, marveling at the planes and curvature of the muscle he finds in its travel; awestruck at how different it all feels in comparison to the queen's waifish proportions. (And also to many of his past lovers', but that's another story entirely.)

Not that he minds her figure, of course. She's beautiful in her own right, and oh so submissive to his will; her inexperience had made her so easy to influence. And he quite enjoys the way it feels to be in Harris' position; to be that much more physically imposing, more intrinsically dominating than Spirit is.

Is this what she feels? No, no, he hasn't given up quite that much power. Not yet. It's foolish to compare this to that, wheat to barely.

His second hand begins to slide downward, quickly catching up with the first as they continue their southern trajectory until they come to the slope of twin hills. Which, of course, his greedy hands simply have to squeeze. Hard.

"What are you going to do about that, soldier?" he queries, just before he leans his head back in for another deep kiss and a sharp bite to Harris' lower lip.

IS THE KING ABOUT TO FUCK THAT SNAKE?

Daniel is being so fucking weird that it almost detracts from how good he looks right now. But Harris is a simple man, and those are very elegant bedclothes the king has on, and his hair looks cute when Daniel's only recently been taken out of bed.

He almost considers getting on his knees. But he really, really doesn't like how Daniel is choking that poor little snake statue—it seems like he's feeling violent, powerful. (Maybe he's just getting out some aggression out now. Maybe he knows he's not gonna get that aggression out by dominating Harris Harris.)

"Can you, now."

There is a man's severed hand decaying in Daniel's desk drawer, a woman hopelessly devoted to Daniel who is currently worrying about her husband while she's been dragged off to spend the night in the servant's quarters. Harris half-thinks of these things, but those half-thoughts are fleeting, of little consequence.

He meets Daniel's kiss eagerly, hungrily. Both of his hands go to cup Daniel's cheeks—clean-shaven, while Harris's stubble scratches Daniel's face. His grip is tight, indicating Harris's possessive nature in a way he's not always able to articulate with words alone.

Daniel pulls Harris close, so it's easy to push in return. He walks Daniel back until his calves hit the edge of his royal bed frame.

"Take off your clothes." He busies himself with his chestplate, his sturdy leather gloves.

But not kissing Daniel once they've started, on a night like this, is difficult. He goes in again, just as needy for contact as before.

[despiterage]

The corner of one side of his mouth twitches. It doesn't pull or curl into anything that lasts more than the blink of an eye or the beat of a heart, but it's a positive reaction nonetheless. Hearing a lowly sellsword, speak to him with such impudence--and within his own royal bedchambers!--should invoke a certain level of fury, not this-- this--

--clandestine thrill.

And yet...

There is a statuette of Snek on the writing desk, pushed all the way to the side, where it curls around a pot of ink like a hoard of gold, partially erect as if to strike. Daniel's hand inches that way, lifting from the polished wood to skim his fingers along the detailed scales of vertical portion the great beast. He gives the head some especially reverent attention before he slides half lidded eyes back over to his favorite mercenary, thumb and forefinger encircling the stone figure's neck.

"What a tongue you have," Daniel tuts, closing the length of another another step between the pair of them. They are close enough for Daniel to graze the backs of his fingers down the contours of his breastplate. "I can think of many better uses for it."

The king hooks a pair of finger's under the armor piece's bottom edge. It's a tight fit, but he manages, and as he gives it a pull, his other hand comes up to hook around the taller man's neck in an effort to crash his selfish lips to Harris'.

IF YOU COULD GET THE KING ALONE IN A ROOM, ALL DRESSED UP FOR YOU AND FOR YOU ONLY, WOULDN'T YOU DO IT, TOO?

Harris doesn't feel as if he owes himself, Daniel, the universe any other explanation. He isn't interested in unpacking his attraction to certain power dynamics—his desire to see the blueblood all shaky and out of breath and panting. He's just interested in experiencing his fantasies, his most secret wishes, come true.

Harris knows he should hate Daniel Romano—just as much, if not moreso, than he hated the king who sentenced him to death back in Coeus. Daniel is bold and lavish to the point of being ostentatious. He is a religious hypocrite. A smooth-talking monster. And his wife is always getting in the fucking way.

But hatred has mutated into something obscene and filthy, something that causes a heat more pleasurable than uncomfortable to pool in his stomach.

He's a bit disappointed by Daniel's reaction to the severed hand, though. Maybe part of him wished to impress the king.

Oh, and also—

"Do you think I'm one of the bitch fools who swore fealty to you and donned armor in your name? I am not. I don't kneel."

But he does step forward.

"You'll have to ask for something else. Or get what you want in a way beyond merely asking for it."

[despiterage]

The king has never endured a day of hard labor in his life, not really. He works (arguably): he strategizes quite aggressively with advisors of all sorts, and of course, his war cabinet; he listens for hours to petitioners for whom he feels no small amount of distain, waiving and granting their requests as though many of them aren't a matter of the petitioner's survival; and of course, he throws lavish balls for his sycophants and courtiers, supplying them with entertainment beyond all comparison.

But a man like Harris has a certain gruff, rugged charm that Daniel himself has never been able to attain with his soft, edict-ink stained hands. He may know how to handle a sword, and even to properly spar in a match, but physically, he's no match for someone so tall and broad.

In a way a king seldom covets anything, he covets Harris' particular brand of power for himself. Wants a taste of it. Even if he has his own that's capable of surmounting it; even if he is blessed by the Basilisk with his own dreadful power.

The satchel finally gets a peek, but he does not want to sully his sheets with the mess it contains, so he does not remove the severed hand from its container. A familiar signet ring glints even through the blackening coagulation, and that is good enough for the time being.

His legs swing clear of his bed linens as he idly scratches long, nimble fingers through the hair of his exposed chest, and he stands to move the bag well away from the bed. There's a locking chest at a writing desk, and into it the thing drops.

"I want you to kneel," the king tells him, half turned back in the mercenary's direction. His long, luxurious sleeve pools on the surface of the polished wood, contrasting starkly against its warm grain. "Here. Before me."

HARRIS'S GAZE, LAZY, FLICKS DOWN TO THE NOW-EXPOSED SKIN OF DANIEL'S BRONZED CHEST. That lazy gaze lingers, then unflinchingly returns to meet Daniel's eyes. The look on Harris's face seems to say: I'm not impressed.

It's best to keep them wanting to keep you satisfied, he's learned. And being able to look at the fucking King this way—yeah, it sends a little thrill through the bastard.

Daniel will find a severed hand in the satchel. The cut that took said hand from its once-body is clean; it was made by a sharp blade, a smooth and steady motion.

"Just tell me what it is you want. — you know what I am capable of." Anything. Everything.

[despiterage]

Daniel had worn his more elegant bedclothes for a reason. His wife had been especially taken with the deep, almost-black green velvet of the garment, and he'd told her he'd selected it because it matched her eyes. Whether she believed the lie or not is none of his concern.

He sits himself up in bed in a leisurely fashion, casually allowing the opening of the loose tunic fall open as he props a pillow behind him.

The king reaches for the satchel. Weighs it in is hand; gives the contents a curious squeeze or two as he stares his not-so-little errand boy down.

"Do I, though?" he asks, still manipulating the items in the pouch through the material. Still holding the gaze of the much larger man that looms at the side of his bed. "Do I?"

@despiterage // daniel

A HANDMAIDEN ENTERS FIRST. She goes to the side of the bed Spirit sleeps on, gently wakes her—then not-gently takes her arm and drags her out of the royal Romano bedchambers.

Once they leave, Harris Harris opens the door and enters. It is the middle of the night. The King's Guard at this post should be particularly alert. Instead, they may or may not currently be dead.

"You have what you wanted."

A satchel thumps, heavy, onto the blanket and mattress.

"How long do we have to keep doing this? Your Grace."