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It's been hours; days, for all Miklan knows, since there's no bloody sunlight in this wretched country. He should probably be hungry, or cold, or sore, but he doesn't feel any of it. The only sound he can detect is the creak of metal, the jingle of the chains over his head when he tests the give at his wrists.
He's broken out of shitty, rusted shackles before, but these ones don't budge. Even the hook screwed into the ceiling stays put. Somehow Shura finds ways to splurge on things that matter.
Speak of the devil, there are footsteps nearby. They shift from grass to stone, and before long, there's just enough light to see his boss' scowl. Miklan's really not in the damn mood for a lecture.
"I didn't give the signal." Each of Shura's words are pointed, roughened, wood-carved. "Why didn't you wait? Now three good men are dead, because you couldn't keep the ambush in your fucking pants."
Miklan snorts, not meeting Shura's eyes. There's no point. "We were already spotted," says Miklan, "because they were clumsy. I was just trying to keep things from getting worse. So maybe think about your own tactics," he pauses to spit on the grimy stone floor of his cell, "instead of insulting one of the men you've got left."
Shura lunges forward, holding his face inches away from Miklan's. After several months in his employ, Miklan's never actually seen him mad. He's got a clear head, which is what a bandit leader needs; he should know. Now, though, there's a glint in his eyes like cannon fire, the rage of a falling comet. Miklan can feel Shura's breath on his face.
"Stop trying to cover your own ass," Shura retaliates. "Did you forget who calls the shots around here? Did anybody else help you up when you were starved and bloodied? I wish I'd left you in that fucking pit!"
It's about as low a blow as Shura could land. Well, if he'd been dumb enough to actually tell Shura about himself, he'd have ammo to go lower. But Miklan just sneers, knowing that this is as ruthless as Shura can get — and if a part of him wants to test that theory, well. He has to have a little fun sometimes.
"And if you didn't," Miklan responds, "who'd balance the books for you? Things were pretty lax when I came along, and now your ship's tightened right up. Sometimes hits go bad. You've gotta move on."
He squares his jaw, sensing some kind of impact imminent: Shura's fist, maybe his boot. What he gets instead catches him by surprise: the heel of that boot nestled against his crotch, digging in. Shura hadn't kicked him; it feels more like he's being pinned down by his dick. Here, of all places.
"You have no idea who you're talking to," Shura bites. "You've only ever had to look out for yourself."
Damn it all, the contact feels good. After spending so much time alone, ignoring the needs of his body, Miklan focuses intently on where Shura's touching him. Even if it's a punishment, even if it's meant to demean him. And isn't that its own kind of thrill, that Miklan's turned on when he should be groveling?
In any case, Shura's wrong. Miklan had his own squadron back in Fódlan, not to mention all the times he had to 'look out' for his snot-nosed brother. Until he didn't. Until he asked himself why he should answer to anyone when he wasn't worth the dirt on their heels.
Shura's quite a bit older than him. Shura's worth impressing. It might be a long shot now, but Miklan can still get in his good graces. He just chuckles, knowing that doe-eyes won't work with his countenance. "Fine," he snarls, "you wanna teach me a lesson? Go ahead and try."
Miklan catches the glint of Shura's teeth as he bares them, unable to justify the triumph singing in his veins at the sight. "You like this?" Shura sneers. "You're sick. You're fucking sick."
Says the guy stepping on my dick, Miklan does not say.
There's no telling what it is, burning in Shura's eyes. Contempt, or pity, or desire. Miklan doesn't care. Shura's a warm body, and right now, that's good enough. Any attention is good attention, he was once told, though he didn't believe it until now.
And Shura must feel it too, since in the next moment, his mouth is pressed hard against Miklan's, less of a kiss and more of a shove. Miklan gives it right back, all teeth and tongue, and that just seems to irritate Shura more; make him lean in harder.
He's fallen for it, Miklan thinks. Or maybe, this is truly what he wants. It's hard to know, and harder to ask. Shura's a good bit shorter than him, but in his seated position, Shura has to loom over him for a kiss. Or a tug of war, or whatever the hell this is.
"Pathetic," Shura muffles against Miklan's slick mouth. "You just want someone to touch you. To use you, like you deserve. Huh, is that it?"
An ugly dread coils at the base of Miklan's spine, yet there's warmth, too. What a sickly, cloying feeling. "Maybe," says Miklan, struggling to play coy. "How would you do it?"
"You little — " Shura grinds his heel, just a little, and Miklan moans. Shura gets a grip on Miklan's forearms, nails scratching angry, vertical lines across his skin. Exhilarating, to know that part of him is invariably a part of Shura now.
"That's it," Miklan encourages, delighting in the huffs of frustration above him. "That's what you need. You need fire. I know it's there; show it to me."
And Shura's canines clamp onto the side of Miklan's sweaty neck, sudden and piercing, making him gasp. He's sure that skin breaks, that Shura's lapping at his blood like some kind of wild dog. It's worth the momentary pain, to make such a lowly creature of such a composed man.
"I'll put a fucking collar on you," Shura vows, his voice dragged from his throat as if over sand. "A leash, if I have to. Keep you right next to me, if it means you won't go off and do something stupid."
Rich, for Shura to call him the dog. Miklan inches one of his feet forward, caressing Shura's ankle with the toe of his boot. "I don't do tricks," Miklan says, "but I'll bite if you ask me to."
That seems to melt something in Shura, and Miklan's not sure if it's a good change of pace or not. "Yeah?" Shura croons, suddenly sounding smooth as silk. "You'd be a good puppy for me? Be my good boy?"
It stirs up too many things in Miklan at once, namely disgust and desire. Disgust, at being at anyone's beck and call. Desire, because buried deep beneath the snowdrifts that fill up his ribs, hasn't Miklan always wanted to be good?
But maybe Shura feels the traitorous twitch of Miklan's dick anyway, beneath worn-out leather. He takes gentle hold of Miklan's chin in his gloved fingers, tilting it up to meet his darkened gaze. "Yeah, that's what I thought. My good boy. Docile little thing, unless I tell him to let loose."
"Fuck you," Miklan bites, thinking about spitting in Shura's direction, but something stops him. He could bite those fingers, he could headbutt Shura in the solar plexus. But he likes this push and pull, much to his own simmering chagrin. He likes not knowing if he'll be ground into the stone or held precious in those callused hands.
"I can do that too," Shura presses, leaning in to kiss Miklan again, nipping at his lips, tongue swiping at his teeth. "You'd look so pretty, choking on my cock. That what you want? You want your mouth fucked?"
I'll bite it off, Miklan thinks bitterly. The last guy that called him pretty came away with a black eye, but from Shura, he doesn't hate it. It makes no sense.
More puzzling, still, is the idea of sucking cock holds a glimmer of appeal. Miklan's always preferred women, only ever been with women. Always thought anything else would feel like shoving himself into armor that doesn't fit. And maybe Shura's kidding, just trying to get a rise out of him, but…
"Do it," says Miklan, eyes defiant.
Shura gawks for a moment. Whatever happens next is worth momentarily putting him on the back foot.
"You know," says Shura, strangely sober considering their tit-for-tat. "A man shows his truest colors at his lowest moments. So I think you've shown me what you are."
What a fucking crock. Shura doesn't know a damn thing. "Yeah? And what am I?"
Shura takes a half-step back to undo his belt, letting it clang to the floor with his knife. He rucks up his shirt, tugs down his breeches. His cock is half-rigid in the low light. Miklan's mouth, stupidly, waters.
"A slut," Shura answers, pressing forward.
Miklan could still bite it off. But he really doesn't feel the need to make more of a scene. If he truly felt he was in danger, or that Shura wished him some greater harm, he would. He'd knock the fucker out, get the hilt of that knife in his teeth and saw at his chains 'til they give way.
But he doesn't. He blinks, intoxicated. He opens his mouth, relaxes the muscle in his throat.
Shura's not gentle with him, doesn't bother to ask if he's done this before. So Miklan doesn't bother to conceal his teeth all that much, or hollow his cheeks. He just sits there, a hole for Shura to fuck, making Shura work for it. Miklan never thought that there was power in sucking cock, in listening to its owner unravel above him while Miklan is hardly doing anything.
Is this how every woman that's gone down on him felt? Were they actually clinging to some semblance of control, while Miklan thought he was the one holding the reins?
"Fuck," Shura groans, snapping his hips harder until the head of his dick presses against the back of Miklan's throat. He might choke, he might vomit, he might clamp down after all without willing it. "Just as I thought. Such a good little toy for me."
Miklan's teeth dig in just slightly, just enough for Shura to feel them as he keeps himself buried to the hilt. Shura strokes his hair — it must be filthy by now — and croons to him, that's right, I've got you. You're mine now. I said I'd look after you, yeah? Perfect for me, so perfect…
It's sickening. Miklan would rather be called a dog again. But Shura starts his rhythm once more, and Miklan's mind grows appealingly empty.
His jaw gets sore. He's starting to feel the bite of the chains against his wrists, not to mention the ache in his knees and his ass from sitting this whole time. But right now, at least he's got a purpose.
Shura gets a hand around Miklan's throat, squeezing around his own dick as he invites himself inside. "You feel so good," Shura slurs. "My boy. Mine."
It makes Miklan dizzy. Somewhere between that, and the cock down his throat, the lack of oxygen, and the heel on his own dick makes him come apart. He prays to every Goddess that's ignored him in the past to keep Shura from finding out.
The feeling of Shura coming down his throat is decidedly unpleasant. But the way his hips jerk, the way his voice stutters on Miklan's name, fuck, it nearly makes up for the bitter taste.
Hastily, Shura pulls out. He collapses to his knees, breathing fast like he's about to cry. Miklan is too hazy to care.
"I'm sorry," Shura whispers, "the fuck did I do, this isn't the kind of man I am, I…"
"Save it," says Miklan, his voice absolutely wrecked. "Have I served my time? Would you get me down now?"
Without another word, Shura rises to his feet, knees trembling like a newborn fawn. He pulls a key from the pants sagging around his knees, reaching up over Miklan's head to unlock his cuffs.
"This never should have happened," Shura stutters out, as Miklan slowly lowers his aching arms. "None of it."
"Well, it did." Miklan rubs at his arms, hiding his grimace. "All that shit about me being your boy, you can forget it, okay?"
Shura pulls in a deep, shaky breath. "You…you're free to come back to the commune whenever you want. We'll have dinner soon."
And with that, Shura's footsteps echo over stone once more, growing distant. A heavy iron door swings, clicking shut, and Miklan is in the dark. He could really use some fucking water. Maybe another change of pants.
He's no one's boy. No one's dog. His father hadn't wanted him. Shura shouldn't be any different.