Percy sets down the hammer. The piece of metal he's been shaping is finally starting to look like what he wants. The voice in his head, Orthax, it calls itself, rumbles in what Percy thinks might be approval.
Your metalwork is improving, Percival. He still does not know what to make of this… thing. It is certainly not a benevolent spirit, but it has, thus far, not demanded anything other than his attention and labor. It is helpful, solicitous even.
(He asked, when it appeared in his dreams one night, what the price was. He's not a fool.
Nothing you wouldn't be able to handle, little clockmaker.
He thought of the small mechanical box he made Cassandra for her birthday. Not a clock, but enough gears and springs to be challenging nonetheless. When a button was pressed, it unfurled like a flower to show a little dancer practicing pirouettes.
They’d smashed it to pieces, cobbling together enough bits of metal to pick the lock of the cell. They ran then, but the guards were faster.
Cassandra, reaching out for him, a flurry of arrows through her chest as she fell. The utter desolation on her face, the disappointment her big brother couldn’t save her.
Surely there could be nothing worse than that.
"I accept, then."
Delightful. Let us begin.)
You've worked so hard this week. You should get a drink, a finer meal.
He's not starving anymore, but his situation is hardly luxurious. Perhaps not even quite adequate yet. But word is spreading of the young man with white hair and his smithing skills. He has just enough coin to spare for something nicer.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
I know just the place.
—
The inn is higher class than he would normally frequent. But he's heard a great deal about their meat pies. They're his favorite, and he hasn't had one in so long.
He sits at the bar, digging into his meal with relish. It is as delicious as he could hope for.
"Hello." A voice comes from Percy’s side. It belongs to a man with deep auburn hair sitting next to him. He wears it long, past his collar. Human or half elf maybe (his bone structure makes it hard to tell), the sort of generically attractive person who gets their way enough to always make the attempt. He's richly dressed, almost too fine for a place like this.
"Yes?" Percy doesn't want to be rude, but he's not going out of his way to be polite.
"I just wanted to say you have beautiful hair. Very striking." The man looks like he wants to touch it, but knows that would be too far.
"Thank you." He goes back to his food.
"So how do you achieve the effect? Expensive dye? A transfiguration spell?"
Before he quite realizes it he catches the man by the wrist, tight enough to leave marks with his nails. He sees tendrils of smoke wrapped around his hand, as if it were not acting wholly under his control.
Percy has not had much occasion to socialize or even be around people in a non-business manner for a long time. But he has never done anything like this. Of course, there are many things he has never done before his circumstances changed.
Is this you, fiend? Orthax says nothing.
Percy expects the man to be angry or belligerent, but he's just staring, a flush rising on his pale face. He lets him go. "You may wish to consider what questions are appropriate to ask strangers at bars, friend."
"I don't know, seems to have told me what I wanted to know about you.” The man looks at the marks on his wrist, then back at Percy.
Pelor’s sweaty balls, he does know this type. Rich, stupid young noblemen slumming for the thrill because there’s nothing bad that could possibly happen to them otherwise in their stupid boring lives. (His vehemence about it has nothing to do with the recognition that, were things a bit different, this could have been him.)
He seems up for a bit of fun. Perhaps you should indulge him. And yourself.
Percy considers. There is a real chance this idiot will get himself robbed, raped, or worse. He’d be doing him a favor, really. And he’s pretty enough.
“What do I call you?” He asks the man.
“My name is Alden. But you can call me whatever you like.” He smiles in what Percy assumes is supposed to be a seductive manner. Percy resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“And you?” Alden arches an inquisitive eyebrow.
“‘Sir’ will do if you need to address me.” Alden takes a sharp breath, his eyes getting darker. Of course he’s that type.
“Do you have a room here?” Percy asks. Alden nods and heads towards the stairs.
—
It is probably the nicest room the inn has: fine bedding and well-appointed furniture, including a full length mirror.
Percy takes off his coat and hangs it on a peg, sits down on one of the chairs. He crosses his legs, motions to Alden. “Take off your clothes.” He affects a bored tone.
“Yes, sir,” Alden says, almost too enthusiastic. He strips efficiently, revealing a pale, unscarred body. Percy says nothing, gets off the chair and retrieves the scarf Alden took off. It’s a soft, luxurious thing, a purple so dark it’s almost black.
He steps in front of the mirror. “Come here, if you please.”
Alden does so, kneeling at Percy’s feet. He is very pretty like this, and Percy feels the heady rush of command, knowing he can do what he wants.
You should blindfold him. I think he would like that. And I know you would.
Percy had intended to tie him up, but there is something to Orthax's suggestion. (He slides past examining that the thing in his head knows him well enough it can suggest something so intimate.)
He winds the scarf round Alden's head, tying it securely. There's a soft intake of breath: awaiting, expectant. Percy's cock stirs in response and anticipation.
"Give me your hands," he says. Alden raises them up, and he guides them to the front of his breeches. He's harder now, waiting for it.
"May I touch you, sir?" Despite not being able to see, Alden's face is still tipped up.
"You may."
"Thank you, sir." Alden starts undoing the buttons, parting the opening until he finds Percy's cock. “What would you like me to do?”
Percy freezes. He actually hadn’t thought this far ahead, despite already having his dick out.
Grab his hair. He gets a handful into his fingers, brushing the tip of his prick against Alden’s mouth. His tongue peeks out, laving at the bottom of the head. Percy pushes in further and he makes a little noise. At first Percy can’t tell if it’s distressed or pleased, but he wraps his lips around and sucks and oh, that’s definitely a thing he likes.
Percy glances into the mirror, watches a naked Alden on his knees from another perspective, the light shining on his hair. It’s then he sees curls of smoke around his hand and fingers, darker than before.
He looks down. It’s not some sort of magical illusion, visible only through silver and glass. He can feel it, pressure and substance like fingers and flesh wrapped around his own.
Something brushes his cheek, solid but also not, like a finger in a glove covered with feathers. In the mirror, a tendril strokes the side of his face.
I want you to feel good, Percival. And I want to feel it when you do.
He shudders at this, although he can't tell if it's in arousal, shame, revulsion, or some mix of it all. It jerks his hips forward, fucking deeper into Alden's mouth. Alden relaxes his throat, taking more of Percy's cock as he can. His prick is flushed and erect, and he reaches down to touch himself.
He should take care of you first. It's only polite.
Percy moves Alden's hand away with his foot, puts enough pressure on it to serve as a warning.
"Did I say you could touch yourself?" He channels every bit of haughty noble entitlement he can muster (which is still a fair amount).
"No sir, I'm sorry sir." Alden is contrite at least.
An idea occurs to Percy. “Put your hands behind you.”
Alden obeys, his head still level with Percy’s cock. Percy grips Alden’s hair, close to the root so he can control the other man’s head. Orthax rumbles low, but Percy doesn’t know if it’s in approval or arousal. (He’s not sure he wants to know.)
He pulls Alden back onto his dick, stopping when he thinks he might gag. (Just because Percy wants to fuck his mouth doesn’t mean he’s going to make him choke.) Alden’s mouth is hot and slick, and the way he moans when Percy thrusts in is the most nectarious filth he’s ever heard.
Talk to him. Tell him what you think about him. Tell him what he wants to hear.
"Aren't you a desperate little slut, getting on your knees for anybody willing to stick their prick in a hole of yours." Alden whimpers at this, saliva and pre-come leaking out the sides of his mouth. “Do you like it, not having to think for yourself?”
In the mirror Alden nods as best he can. Percy feels the ropes of smoke tighten against his hand. One slithers round his throat: not tight, just resting, so he knows it’s there.
“Let someone else use you, for just a little bit.” He moves faster. Orthax circles his neck with a bit more pressure. The candlelight glints on the frame of his glasses and he looks at himself. His eyes are smoldering dark like coals, a cruel sneer playing on his lips.
Isn’t this better, my little clockmaker? To be powerful, to work towards your own ends? It feels good, doesn’t it? The smoke cinches, digging into the pale flesh of his neck.
And gods help him it does, in a way he never thought he’d feel again. “Yes, fucking yes,” he pants, not sure who he’s addressing anymore. He’s close, floating dizzy with lack of air, still holding Alden on his cock.
Let me feel it, Percival. Do it. Orthax’s tone is no longer coaxing, solicitous. It’s a demand, one Percy not only has to obey, but wants to.
One of them pulls away from Alden’s mouth as Percy comes all over his face, splattering the blindfold and a little on his chest. Percy lets him go and he drops lower, panting. He’s still so hard it looks like it hurts, a little puddle of pre-come on the floor where he’s been kneeling.
“You can come, if you like.” Percy says.
Alden reaches down and nearly sobs with relief, barely touching his cock before he’s spilling, pulsing for what seems like an age. Even under the blindfold Percy can see tear tracks mixing with spit and whatever else was in his mouth.
Percy does up his breeches, looks around and finds a couple towels. He drops them next to Alden. “You should probably clean that up,” he says, before letting himself out.
On the walk back home, Orthax is silent. Percy isn’t sure if he should be grateful or not.