____Pandora's Prize_____(OctopusPrince x Xinavee)

[Xinavee]

“Enjoy your last meals boys!” Shouted the large Arab as he smacked the slave, unfortunate enough to be serving in the belly of the Colosseum that day. His massive hands shook the bars of the prisoner’s cage, intimidating many of the men held captive inside. “You’ll be dead and burning on the pyre as I feast and fuck this night.” The current prized gladiator climbed the bars and thrust his hand through, gripping one of the larger men about his throat, “Will you be the first to fall to my sword,” He laughed as he shoved the man away and pointed to the one who sat in the corner of the cell. His head was down, elbows pressed to his knees, and although there was a crust of bread still in his hand, he had not eaten it, nor had any of the other prisoners yet deemed it fit to take it from him. “No, it will be you. HEY! LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!!!”


Arwen ignored the loud man for a long while waiting until the guards moved away, waiting until the men around him had become nervous, as the large man beat his small dagger against the bars of the cage and challenged Arwen to look at him. He didn’t. Not while he sighed and slowly rose for the corner and paced towards the man, appearing weighted and tired as he shifted so close the man could almost reach him. He tilted his head and flicked his eyes to pierce into the Arabs face. One sea green, the other gold as the shifting sands of the desert Arwen had been taken from.


The Arab had only split second before Arwen snapped forward and yanked the large man against the bars as he took the small dagger from him and shoved it into the Gladiators neck. Long minutes passed as the stunned man bled out, silenced by the dagger still lodged in his throat, and shaking as he fought death, sinking to the floor in a slow descent. Arwen was back in his corner, the blood wiped from his hand by the time the guards had come back to see why it had suddenly gone quiet. The Emperor was not going to be happy.

~~~​

Thousands of lords, ladies, and subjects had packed the colosseum, clambering to see the Arab as he slaughtered the newest captives, were disappointed, and yet intrigued when instead, a team of elephants charged into the stadium, laden boxes heaped with gold and silks and gems and wooden and wicker trunks of every shape and size. They completed a lap of the colosseum before stopping near the Emperor’s box and being surrounded by guards. “Let it be known that the soul survivor of this days games will be awarded quarters within the palace grounds, wealth, power, and fame. Let the games be ventured!”


Greed had a way of making men bold, but not smart. Arwen remained stoic, holding back as the first wave of men rushed forth, sprinted and crashed together, only stepping in to help the under dogs with a quick well-placed jab, or cut as they fought to survive against the more seasoned warriors. This was not charitable on Arwen’s part, as the one by one, all that had survived the first wave of fighting, soon fell to the quick precision of the foreign captive amid a cacophony of cheers. As the stones formed rivers of blood of the fallen, Arwen looked up at the man that would decide his fate, expecting that, despite what had been said, an arrow would be shot, and he would be ended too, but this did not happen, and Arwen was soon “escorted” to claim his rewards.

 

[OctopusPrince]

The treasure that awaited Arwen was a sizable fortune, after all, for all of his stoicism, he had fought valiantly and earned each prize packed together to present to him. Among them was an unusually large trunk, made with leather that was stretched with pristine and golden clasps holding it tightly shut. The designs on it were blatantly Persian, and what was kept within it was also Persian. A man had been shackled, drugged and placed within the beautiful box, specifically a eunuch, a Persian concubine that had been taken captive during the wars that went on incessantly between Rome and Persia.

The last thing Samir had anticipated upon his capture and the brutal murder of his master had been to be stuffed into a trunk, to be left for what felt like days in a drugged haze with his muscles cramping from the enclosed space. He had been asleep, but the ruckus of the Colosseum had drove him from sleep, at least, as much as he could be pushed from it when what ran through his veins encouraged him to utmost docility.

He could hear nothing, now-- he could only tell that he had been set upon something that was still, finally, and with that his nausea for being in complete darkness while in turbulent motion had begun to ebb. The Romans were barbaric-- it would be more appropriate to kill him, to enslave him to a new household than this, to place him in a trunk and take him who knew where. He had no idea when the thing would be opened, when whoever had received it would be revealed to him. Perhaps he would die in the box-- starved and dehydrated and drugged. Perhaps that was the intention, to have him suffer for being the bed slave to a heathen Arab of the east.

He had served with much honor, and he would never let the Romans take that from him- to be in the harem of a kind, pious master was truly a blessing when there were many who abused their bed slaves in all sorts of ways. He would not have ventured to say he had been loved, but he had been cherished-- far too cherished to be caged in a dark, tight place and shipped off. That's how he knew that his master must have perished. He hadn't seen it himself, even though he had seen plenty of blood shed when the Romans took the palace. They cut down the guards, the wives, the children-- his master's bloodline had been flickered out by the sword of Rome in a night, and then there was this, his treasures, both living and monetary, had been stolen away. Samir must have been deemed among those treasures, and that was not surprising to say the least. He was a beautiful creature, plucked early from a lesser family to be sold to his masters as a gift.

He had been clipped, and grown with all of the delicate features that were desired in eunuchs in a harem. He had skin that had only been kissed by the sun in its tan shade, soft, pale grey eyes framed by eyelashes long enough to rival a horse's, and a well kept length of black hair that thankfully, upon capture, had not been sheered from his head to shame him. He hadn't been changed- there was still blood on his hands and the silk of his clothes... that night had been a banquet for his master so he'd been dressed in his best. He had been meant to dance, to sing his master's favorite songs that night, before all of the brutality.

He blinked his eyes dizzily, and listened to the shuffle of feet, along with some sort of announcement... a gladiator-- he knew enough Latin to put together what was being said, that he was among spoils for one of the barbaric entertainers of the Roman commonwealth. So the box would open, and he would find a new master-- a beast of the Colosseum sand. There was no honor in that. If he had the mind to, he would feel the utmost shame, but instead, he felt nothing but exhaustion and thirst, waiting for light to finally pour into his senses after so long in the pitch.

 

[Xinavee]

Before he could be “freed” it was required for Arwen to be fitted with braces. Elaborate and ornamental, they were still locked into place, a well disguised way to quickly lash him should he become unruly. Arwen knew it was simply another proof that despite the rouse, he was still very much a captive of this new land, just as he knew the guards that escorted him and his winnings to his new estate, were just as much there for the protection of the people, as from thieves wishing to test the new champion.

Arwen was under no delusions, he was a man living on barrowed time. Still, as he was escorted to his new quarters and the guards moved off to patrol around his gardens, the warrior was able to relax, if only for a time. He wanted a bath. He wanted a drink. He wanted to sleep without fear of a sword in his back. He did none of these yet, moving instead towards the trunks, as he ignored the riches in favor of curiosity.

Bolts of fabric, spices, oils, rugs, and even an ornate dagger were among some of the boxes. When Arwen turned the key and opened the large gilded leather trunk, he could not be prepared for what he found within. He was beautiful, draped in silk, a belt of glass beads and bells hung how about his hips and waist. The light must have been blinding, yet Arwen opened the crate more, letting the odd mismatched eyes take in the shackles upon his feet and hands, so like his own, and yet, for these, Arwen held the key. Large, calloused fingers reached forward to touch the jaw and turn the slaves head to look upon the delicate features of his face, the smooth black hair and the pale gray of his eyes.

After long moments, Arwen at last, turned the key into the locks, that held him bound into the box, but did not release him fully, instead, the powerful arm hooked about the slave and pulled him against the tall frame of the warrior. “We draw a poor lot in these fates thread, but let us at least drink and bath before we lament.”

Tall among his fellow men, Arwen stood at 6’3, broad of shoulders and tanned dark from constant work outside. He was a warrior, true, a subject of the pharaohs army, or was until his capture, but he was not unused to hard labor in the fields or among the horses and livestock, so as he stood among his spoils, there was a disconnect of emotions. It was not real, was not his. Save for the slave.

The quarters were fitted with a large wing devoted to bath. He walked with the slave into the warm humid heat of the bath and poured water into a large goblet, drinking deeply before handing the goblet to the slave to drink. A banquet awaited to sate his appetite upon a table in the hall, but for now, he simply wanted clean. “Come, slave, undress me and tell me what you have been called.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir flinched at the grasp around his jaw- it was firm, but not forceful; it didn't need to be when his head hung limply save for the grasp on his face, and when he was hoisted out, he had not the mind to make any protests. He heard the stranger, his new master he supposed, speak out to him, and then he was whisked away, still dizzy and adjusting to the light. When he was set down in the bath hall he stumbled a little, his muscles uncomfortably stiff and his body not used to holding itself up any longer. Undress me. What you have been called. The words were hazy in his mind, and yet he moved as though on instinct, fingers carefully pulling at buckles and bracers, his eyes fogged over.

" Samir." He answered, his voice a bit harsh from his thirst. He drank the rest of the water in the goblet before setting it aside and stripped down the warrior as though he could have done it in his sleep-- armor was not foreign to him, even this sort of roman armor. It was different, but he did not need even half of his mind present to undo the garments and strip the warrior bare, having no sense to look upon his master's face or body with any sort of admiration. He was, despite being in a box and asleep for much of that time, exhausted, and when the garments were removed, he gathered up the heavy lot in his arms, wobbling a little dizzily before delivering it upon a table, having to grasp at the edge of it.

" There has been a drug," He slurred in Latin, unsure if he had used the word for drug or for poison, but attempting to explain his state nonetheless. What an unusual man, to demand his service even in his state-- perhaps he was Roman, they were known for their callousness towards slaves. And yet he was not quite olive like the Romans-- he was tan, darker, more earthy than the reddish tones of Roman flesh. Samir knew very little about where gladiators came from, if they were Roman or not, and his mind could not draw from what he'd managed to notice of his new master a guess at where he was from originally.

He turned, still relying on the table for balance, to face Arwen, pretty eyes blinking slowly and he swayed somewhat, trying to find balance. His costume twinkled with sound with the slow movement of his calibrating hips, his body trying to hold itself upright and struggling to find just the right position to hold the center of his gravity. He had the sense not to ask, not to beg for anything, only waiting for his new master to say something more. To be commanded in its own right was a relief-- he knew that well enough to function-- to be asked more than his name, where he had been from or what had happened to him would yield less efficient results than the request to be disrobed.

 

[Xinavee]

Arwen had not waited to watch Samir stumble, groggy and unsure towards the table. He had stepped into the waters, let the crisp clear bath wash away what seemed like weeks of filth, and the days layers of blood and gore. He dunked his head, wetting the long coal colored curls. Four braids, two on each side of his head ended in green scarab beads the color of his eye. Not used to waiting for a slave to bath his body for him, he had rinsed off the first layers before turning to look for some kind of soap, and finally noticing the light melodic sound of bells from behind him.

Turning, Arwen finally noticed the still, disoriented sway of his new slave, trying to maintain his legs as his hips swished back and forth for purchase and strength. Arwen sighed and shifted back out of the waters, the wave of his movement pressing up along his midsection before slowly dripping down as he climbed the stairs and shifted towards the small shelving holding the oils and soaps and towels. He tossed them towards the side of the baths edge before striding towards Samir. His hand would tug at the decorative chains about his neck, toppling the delicate balance the slave was attempting to maintain to brace the slave against his broad, muscled chest. “Lift your arms about my neck, Slave,” He would say, not expecting to be denied and yet patient, watching the difficulty he fought against whatever drug they had given him.

Only after Samir would respond would Arwen shift slightly, moving to carry Samir in the strong embrace of his arms as he turned towards the baths edge and stepped down into the waters. Unmindful of the way the silk saturated in seconds, Arwen would take Samir to the deepest ledge before setting him down once more and leaning him against the side of the pool. His rough long fingers would then move along the belt of the silk, not nearly as practice in removing cloths from another as the slave, it took Arwen a few moments to find and then release the catches before lifting the expensive garment to the side of the pool.

Gripping Samir’s chin once more, Arwen bent closer to him, aware, if there was to be any penetrating of the drug induced cloud, it would have to be by the force of is will alone. “You will not let go of this ledge. If you drown I will fight Ammit for your soul just so I can beat you. Samir, You will not let go.” The piercing green and golden eyes would scorch the fogged grey ones as Arwen held his chin. “Say, ‘yes Master’.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir's lithe figure, when bared, seemed to melt all the more in the comfort of the water, the new and entirely pleasant sensation making him at least a little more awake. He hadn't even realized that he felt dirty until he was in the water, and undressed by the same course hands that brought him from the box, brought him to the comfort of clean bathing water.

And then, there were commands. Not let go. Drown. Beat you. His name. Not let go. Samir processed what he was being told, only to be yanked from considering it by the grasp on his chin and Arwen's intense, unusual gaze. He blinked a little more alertly, and wondered if he had missed some words, if he had done something untoward, and then Arwen spoke and he realized-- this man wanted to know he was listening to the commands being given to him

" Yes, Master." He answered back, the alto, pretty sound of his voice more clear now that he had had water to soothe his throat. Blessed water, to drink, to bath in, to help him through the fog of whatever they'd given him. He held onto the ledge, legs swishing just a little in the space beneath his feet. He would not mention it, that he wouldn't drown-- at least, that's what he thought Arwen had said, that he might drown. Despite the weakness of his body just then, he knew how to swim.

His master had greatly enjoyed watching him swim, he enjoyed playing that Samir was a fish, a beautiful oceanic creature come to tease him with its delights. Samir remembered submerging himself and swimming close, peaking up to be fed full, dark grapes from the fingertips of his master, the older man's eyes glittering with delight. He closed his eyes for a moment-- the painful reminder that his master, his old master, was dead woke Samir even more from his haze. This was his master, now. " Yes, Master." He repeated again, and when he opened his eyes they were hidden behind his eyelashes, low and away from Arwen's face.

 

[Xinavee]

Arwen hesitated to leave the slave alone as his body remained in it’s weakened state, but he responded to Arwen’s words, and then responded again, this time stronger, he would pace towards the ledge of the pool where the soap and cloths had been tossed. Business as usual. He began to wash, quick and efficiently, as one might when they are not sure they will have enough time to finish.

Dunking again, Arwen washed his unruly hair before lifting again to wash a second time round. His back to the slave, Arwen exposed the still healing whip marks that crisscrossed across his back. Arwen had never been a slave, but he had been strapped down and beaten when he had been captured.

His hands moved over his war marked chest the narrowing tightness of his abs and across his powerful thighs. His hand slowed as he thought of the slave at his back, how his hand might feel as it moved over him. Arwen’s sigh was nearly a growl as he pushed this thought away.

Moving back to the ledge, he took a clean cloth and moved back towards the slave, glad to see he was still clinging to the ledge, have no inkling that the slave was a talented swimmer. Trying to remain as detached and unaffected as possible, he began to wash the slave with that same quick movement he had used on himself, of course, Samir was no where near as dirty as what Arwen had been, and the processes went much quicker. “Are you feeling better?”

Arwen asked in his rough low baritone voice. It was as much in contrast to the slender slave as the rest of him was. It’s edges rolled like thunder thick in timbre as his large hand gripped Samir’s upper arm, shifting him to turn his back to Arwen as he began to wash his back, shoulders and slipped down to his lower back, hips and rear.

Arwen’s hand again, slowed… shifting to let his fingers graze against smooth soft flesh on either side of the thick cloth, before he pressed the soap and cloth against Samir’s, handing them to him to finish as Arwen moved away, towards the stairs. “Come here when you have finished, and drink more water until you have had your fill.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir had watched as Arwen washed himself, taking note of his form finally as he began to sober. It was obvious that this man, his new master, was a soldier- well suited to be a gladiator with his large and powerful build. The lashings across his back were no surprise to Samir-- he had heard how gladiators had to face a myriad of trials in the arena, great beasts and men with whips and chariots and weapons. Samir had never been lashed before- his skin pristine save for the bruising the shackles had manifested on his wrists and ankles.

The only time a hand had been risen to him in his whole life had been when he had upset one of his master's wives-- she had struck him across his face, nails raking cuts into the flesh, but they had not scarred and while she was never punished for striking her husband's prized eunuch, it had only happened once, and despite how she loathed him she had never done it again.

Samir nearly resisted when he was washed, tensing under Arwen's hands-- but it was only because he had not expected the man to do such a thing, to attend to him at all. He supposed, as he was turned and washed across his back, that he ought not be so surprised-- he was a prize after all, it would not do to have him covered in sweat and blood. He felt the slow of Arwen's hands on his body, and he looked, carefully, over his shoulder at the man-- then, with the same brusqueness he was turned and the cloth that had been bathing him had been placed in his palm.

He nodded, and then reminded himself-- " Yes, master." He answered, before falling quiet and drawing his focus to bathing the rest of himself, only sparing a glance Arwen's way as he moved to exit the water. Samir dipped beneath the water to wet all of his hair, the end of it already soaked as it dipped into the water, reaching down to his hips in its length. He emerged, massaged the oil into the length to hydrate it and pushed it back along his skul before placing the warmed wash cloth to his face, scrubbing gently at his cheeks and nose and lips before massaging it into his neck and under his chin, the back of his neck and then down across his collarbones where Arwen had already washed him.

He made quick work of what Arwen had avoided, the space between his thighs, and then, pulling himself up onto the edge of the baths he washed his calves, his ankles, his feet. He dipped back into the water, and finding his body growing more attuned to his desires rather than sluggish, he swam the length of the baths, climbing out and returning near to Arwen, taking up the pitcher of water and pouring it into the goblet he had abandoned earlier. He took a long, slow drink from it, and the feeling made all of his senses blush with pleasure-- he had been so thirsty.

"Thank you, master." He announced, both to inform Arwen that he was finished, and to actually thank him-- this was more lenience than he'd ever anticipated as a captive to Rome. To be able to bath and drink after being locked away was a blessing.

 

[Xinavee]

Moving towards the tall shelving that held the towels and soaps and salts, picking up the towel and dried himself off, glancing about the room at the mosaic tiles and lush ferns that grew near the windows. It wasn’t *home* to him and he doubted it ever would be, still he loved the coolness of the waters, the feeling of being clean and fresh. He bent to pick up an oil flask and walked back towards Samir who had drunk his fill. “Pour another and offer it to me.”

Drops of water still dripped upon his broad shoulders to drip along a myriad of scars, like patchwork among the hard muscles upon his chest. The towel draped across his narrow hips as he waited, watching each movement with that piercing gaze of his, as though he might learn about the man in front of him, simply by noticing everything about his movements, the shifting emotions of his face, and the precise execution of his tasks.

Drinking deeply from the goblet, he emptied the contents, feeling as though he might never have his fill of cool clean water. When at last he set the goblet on the table, Arwen handed the oil flask to Samir and then snatched one of the ends of the chains, coiling it around and around his wrist as he pulled his slave closer, and closer against him, not stopping until the slighter man was leaning against his chest. “Are you feeling strong enough to explore our new cage?”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir had poured the water with the trained, steady hands of a man who had poured drink all of his life, and offered it with the same trained politeness. His body ached still, but he did not tremble or waver in the task, and when Arwen drank of it without rebuke, Samir was relieved. After all- besides the few commands Arwen had given, he had no idea how to serve a Roman, let alone a Roman gladiator. He knew it was his best bet to stay alive, by serving this new master to the best of his ability-- all that was lost could not be regained, and he would mourn it when he was allotted privacy.

He watched Arwen move to collect the oil, and when it had been given he took it into his hand, only to gasp as the chains that dangled decoratively around his shoulders and neck had been twisted up to close the space between slave and master. His wide eyes searched Arwen's mismatched ones, and he took a moment to translate the words that were said to him. " Cage?" He repeated, confused-- was this man going to put him in another box? In a different sort of cage? And yet-- Samir was almost certain he had said our and not your.

He felt a rush of something like danger, to be finally lucid and so close to a man of such strength, nothing between them but the towel around Arwen's hips. If this man was Roman, and they were as brutal with their slaves as Samir had heard, it was likely his new master could strike him for disobedience and knock him unconscious, the strong hand coiled around his jewelry bound to be strong enough to break the fine chains all together if he wished it. And yet-- he hadn't. He hadn't harmed Samir even once so far. And again, Samir thought, he did not look Roman.

 

[Xinavee]

“Aye, no better than a Falcons roost,” Arwen kept Samir bound close, wound close by the decorative chains as he moved them towards a window near the door and pointed towards the guards that stood near the fence, “and I their bird of prey, to do their hunting for their own amusement.”

Arwen shifted behind Samir, the cool chains of the collar heating quickly within the large, gripping hand would brush, like fire and ice against the slaves cheek “they do not stand their for my protection, my pet, but for their own, and to make sure their prize does not escape.”

Arwen’s head bent to whisper against the sensitive cup of Samir’s ear, “and you…” The hand that had gripped the chain, suddenly released it in favor of the slaves neck, a firm, yet gentle hold, as Arwen’s long forefinger would lift to turn Samir’s jaw towards him, just a bit, so that his lips would barely brush against that sensitized ear, “are prey to tide me over until the next hunt.” The powerful hand released the slaves neck, to slide his nail lightly against the bare throat before dropping to his side and turning away from the window.

Arwen investigated his new home wandering through the entry way where he stopped to scrounge through the boxes of silks, Samir’s silks, taken from his old apartment, pulling out an embroidered blue silk. Slits would run up the sides of each thigh, but no bells or beads would clatter to the ear. He lifted his hand, holding it back towards Samir to take, and if he lifted to reach for the fabric, would use it, much like the chain, to keep one side of, and lead him into the small kitchen, glancing about the trays and pantry before finding the lounge and then bedroom.

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir looked out at the guards, and understood just then what it was Arwen was trying to tell him. So this was the life of a gladiator- also a slave, but a pampered,vicious pet more than something to be broken in spirit. He was distracted from his realization by Arwen's hand around his throat, not having expected the touch, or the pouring sensation of heat down his spine at the feeling of Arwen's breath along his ear while he spoke. To be held just so by his throat, without harmful intent but in a pure show of power, had Samir experiencing a mixture of emotions and sensations that he had not the mind to pull apart.

He had never experienced such a thing, with his old master, that was certain. There was never a rush of anything-- the man was old and soft and a bit naive, in love with pretty things because they were pretty. It had been so easy to perform, to bat his eyelashes and feign adoration the way his master enjoyed it, because there was no true attraction there, only loyalty. Arwen was certainly very different. Arwen reminded him of the tall, beautiful guards of his master's palace that would eye him with interest, but were unable to touch. Arwen reminded him of the sort of man he quietly yearned for, but had long accepted he'd never have. But now, such a man was his master, and such a man had a hand wrapped around his throat.

Samir gawked a little, blinking widely and flushed in the face at Arwen's retreating back as he let go so suddenly and was off to somewhere else. It seemed Arwen did everything suddenly, darting from task to task like a pacing beast. There was pent up energy there, that Samir felt the smallest pang of sympathy for. If Arwen was being kept here, guarded from exit, than he was not truly free, as free as this situation seemed. To even give him a slave was an impressive add on to the illusion that he was in service rather than enslaved. But Samir commented on none of that, simply following silently on the heels of Arwen until they were back in the room with the treasures. Samir recognized much of them painfully, now that he was awake to see them. These were his master's things, divided and given to gladiators for sport? His spirit would mourn the waste of it.

He took the silk that Arwen had extended to him, and he pulled it over his bare, still damp lower body, tying the silks at his hip. He followed when Arwen moved again, the pantry, the halls, the bedroom, silent but keeping close so that should Arwen say something more to him, some command, he would not miss it. It was a beautiful cage. Someone quite liked Arwen it seemed, whoever financed this extravagant level of psuedo-residency. Samir had felt blessed if he got a special meal or beautiful clothes-- this man, for his brutality had earned himself a proper household. Romans were very strange indeed. He moved, compulsively, to stand near the door but not in the way of it, watching Arwen while reaching to smooth at his hair, all of it starting to dry. He brushed his fingers through it to detangle it, a trick he'd been taught as a child that was now a habit he didn't think twice about.

' If you treat it well, Samir, your hair will serve you in more ways than you can understand. It is just as much a temptation as your eyes or your hips, display it, touch it, and others will want to have their chance to touch it too'

He had been told that so long ago, by the man who had trained him to be a beautiful decoration in rooms where he had no purpose. Just then, Arwen had asked nothing of him so he teased out his curls, twirling fingers around them and releasing them, but keeping his pretty eyes on his new master so that at any moment, he might move to usefulness beyond his beauty.

 

[Xinavee]

Like that caged beast that Samir was reminded of, Arwen jumped upon the bed when he entered the bedroom, not erotically, nor playfully. Standing upon the furniture to look out of the higher venting windows near the ceiling of this back room. He gripped the edge of the horizontal slits, quickly pulling himself up, hoping there would be no guards on this side of the house. Perhaps if he could find a way to escape the city… Cliffs greeted his hopeful eyes, that plummeted quickly towards the sea. It was an unlikely solution to his imprisonment but one he would leave open as an option.

Slowly his muscles would relax once more before Arwen dropped down looking at the large opulent bed he did not see as being his own, just like he did not see the cases and barrels of riches, nor the trays of food as his own. His sandaled feet had marred the blankets, and he sighed as he looked down at the mess he had made, and then over towards Samir who stood silently, watching, his hands weaving through his dampened hair. And this slave? Was he Arwen’s? A myriad of emotions furrowed the prominent brow of the warrior as he questioned this, stepping down from the bed to stand closer once more to the slave, stranger before him.

Long, strong hands would reach out, to stroke his fingers along Samir’s scalp and slowly run the long digits down along the strand he sieved through his fingers. “You are so beautiful,” His hand slid along the side of Samir’s face, hooking his thumb under his chin to tilt his head up once more, “Those smoky eyes…” His own were mesmerized for a few moments, looking between the two, at the long lashes and the hue, and darkness of his exhaustion still, “They seem so observant.”

The rough calloused pad of his finger would play along Samir’s bottom lip as he continued, “So raw and open.” He breathed in, fighting the desire to take this one thing for himself as he struggled to wall up his defenses once more, for the both of them. “I should sell you to a man of wealth and status. Someone safe and stable.” His hand had gripped a bit tighter about Samir as he said this before he realized his actions and let his hand drop from the slave, only then noting the flask of oil he still held that Arwen had pressed to him. “Come. Finish my bath with the oils. You know how don’t you?”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir watched, perplexed by Arwen's actions as he leapt up to the window to look out. It was apparent to Samir, that he was looking for a route out of the room-- he'd seen cats behave like that, curious about windows and doorways, and it was almost amusing, to compare such a hulking man to the lanky felines of his homeland. But then, he was back down from the window, seeming to consider with dissatisfaction what he'd seen outside. Then Arwen's eyes were upon him, and he came down from the bed and drew close to Samir. Samir was still as the other man touched him, his eyes searching Arwen's as well, their strange, mismatched colors, his strong features that were probably more honest than Arwen meant for them to be.

Samir's mouth opened a little when Arwen's finger brushed his lips, eyelashes batting slowly as he absorbed what was being said to him. His brows furrowed just a little at the suggestion that he be sold to someone else, and he wasn't sure why that caused a prickle of distress within him. This man would sell him off? And yet, as Samir translated the words he'd said, it sounded like a sentiment that Samir did not expect from the gladiator. Someone safe and stable.

That was... kind-- thoughtful in a way that Samir had no time to react to. He was unflinching to the tightening of Arwen's hands on him, reading people well enough to find the interesting dissonance between Arwen's words and his grip. He said he should sell him, and yet he held him tighter. The pinch between Samir's brows relaxed, and he looked down to the oil in his hand.

" I do, yes, master." He assured, the words strange on his tongue-- he could understand Latin when it was spoken to him for the most part, but speaking it was a different matter- the consonance and structure of words was so unusual... But he knew he had managed to say the correct thing at least. Yes, no, master, simple enough. It seemed like Arwen was the type to speak and expect to be listened to, and even if Samir had the words to respond to Arwen's thoughts, they likely wouldn't be heard with any sort of credence.

It was a shared practice, to use oil to clean the body to perfection and treat the skin-- layering the oil thickly on the skin and scraping it off with an instrument he knew the name of in his own language, but not in Latin.

He glanced around, hoping he might spot a place where it was appropriately hidden, and moving away from Arwen, he dipped to look into a cupboard, pleased when his guess had been right. He pulled the edged tool out and tested it gently against his skin for sharpness- it was enough to cleave oil from the skin, but not enough to harm. Good. He looked to Arwen again, and drew near, intimidated by his shameless nudity but now set to a task. He set the strigil on a near by table and poured oil into his palms, starting first with the length of Arwen's right arm. He massaged the oil in expertly, eyes focused and calm as he worked the oil into each muscle and crease, from the top of the other man's shoulder down to his knuckles, massaging at his palm and wrist. He took up the tool, and scraped the oil in clean, even streaks, tapping the tool gently to clean it on top of an abandoned towel on the table.

Arwen was certainly very powerful, and equally handsome, Samir considered, his expression not revealing his intrigue but his eyes wandering where his hands did as he moved across Arwen's chest, kneading at pectorals and ribs and hips, before scraping all of it clean, leaving the skin smooth and pristine. As he touched, he decided, delicately, to speak. " What is my master's name? I shall not call upon it, but if I may know it, this is my pleasure." He knew his Latin was choppy, and for it he kept his eyes down having moved to Arwen's left arm.

 

[Xinavee]

Watching Samir move about the room, finding the strigil tool and walking back towards him, Arwen began to wonder about this slave who had been drugged and thrust into a basket like the material objects still in the entry way. How had he come to be here? It was obvious to Arwen, the slave was as much a foreigner as he was, barely able to form his lips about the words, though he seemed to understand them well enough. Follow them. Follow him. Not that Arwen had given him much room to waver, still it seemed to Arwen that this slave had been well taught, perhaps tailored toward certain tastes, certain desires.

He had started at his shoulder, near the axe scar that might have cleaved his right arm, had Arwen not been wearing armor, and worked his hands down the dry uncared-for skin. Arwen closed his eyes to the touch upon his shoulder. How long had it been since another human had touched Arwen with anything other than malice or disdain? Too long for the warrior to try and remember, before the warring front had overtaken his village, before he had joined the efforts when, Tatu was still alive.

Steely pectoral muscles flexed under the massaging hand of Samir, a reaction to the intimacy of the touch, to the slow release of endorphins long dammed to accept pleasure from another. His skin pebbled as and the lithe abdomen twitching tighter as Samir worked past Arwen’s ribs, shifting lower towards his hip. Here another set of scars silvered the skin in a zig zag of tissue running down from abdomen towards groin.

Opening the sea green and golden gaze, Arwen watched as Samir used the strigil over his skin in sure, slow strokes before moving to the left side. Arwen’s penetrating gaze, remained, watching the Samir quietly as he worked down over the thick muscles of his arm. As Samir reached the left palm, he might notice the scarring in dotted rows at the heel of his left hand. Three rows of perfectly circular dots, marred the thick tissue.

Arwen’s forefinger stretching out as the slave massaged his wrist and the rough heel of Arwen’s strong hand, touching the slender wrist of this slave, letting his calloused finger stroke over the delicate skin before Arwen turned his hand and let his long thumb roll over the soft, yet skilled palm, fanning the fingers tendons with a strong firm brush. The long hand would caress, briefly holding the slaves, more slender hand before releasing his grip, drop the contact to allow Samir to continue his work.

“Just my name would pleasure you? Samir? Would that be true, that only MY name should pleasure you, Samir. Look into my face, Samir, nymph, and you may repeat it back to me.” Waiting until the light grey eyes turned his way, “Arwen,” he said, lifting his oiled hand to tug at the back of the chained collar, pulling it to ever so lightly grip against the front of Samir’s throat, “what is your Masters name?”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir did not know the word Nymph, but he wondered about the repetition, the questioning of his words. There was something penetrating about his new master's gaze, in asking to hear his name-- like it had been some sort of test more than to simply hear the word, like there was meaning in such a thing, and in a way Samir could understand that. A name was important to many cultures, it held history and bloodline and power. And yet, there was another focus in the request-- the word 'pleasure'. Was it not the correct word, to use? Had he said it wrong, to say it would please him to know his master's name? When Arwen's hand pulled at his jewelry again, something the gladiator seemed fond of, Samir was pulled nearer even more than he'd already been, head tipped back in Arwen's touch around his throat. He was still unflinchingly calm, even though the risk of violence in this was something he recognized intrinsically. At any moment, he could do the wrong thing, even as trained as he was. He focused his gaze into Arwen's, drew in a steadying breath and spoke with the grace that he held with any task he was commanded to do.

" Arwen." He answered. Until Arwen decided to sell him to someone else, perhaps someone stable and kind, this was his master. He had only ever used his master's name when being asked by someone else who he belonged to-- it was strange, and intense, the way Arwen asked him to say it for him, to display the knowledge, but that seemed to be part of the test. It was also strangely intimately to hear his name said over and over, and while Samir could not place Arwen's accent, he could tell just in that that he was neither Roman nor Persian. Samir did not understand his new master's intentions, but he obeyed anyway-- it was not his place, nor did he have any way to question the mind of his master. Perhaps in time, in serving this gladiator should he allow it, Samir would grow to know and understand his nature, but just then, he was asked to look upon Arwen's face and recite his name, so he did.

Arwen's hold on his throat, the grasp of his hand and brush of his fingers, the strength of his arms, there seemed in all of the contact he'd known of this gladiator a gentility that was unanticipated. Samir had not the slightest hope that when that trunk had been opened that he'd be met with gentle hands, a stern, calm voice, and simple commands. He thought, in the drugged drowsiness of his mind, that he'd be raped and slaughtered, that his life had only been prolonged for the violence that had plagued his master's household to be spread out and enjoyed by many. He had been blessed, and in recognizing that, he reached up, carefully, gently, and stroked his fingers along Arwen's wrist, not with the intent to pull his hand away from his throat, but to allow it there, to welcome the touch, because even as they'd entered this room, Arwen had not dragged him by his hair to the bed to take him-- he'd only wanted to be served, to be cleaned and responded to when speaking.

" Arwen is the name of my master." Samir said, quiet, but resolute. " The home of my life before this, has perished... to belong to you is all I have, now. I will serve with my best ability." He hoped, desperately, that his Latin was right, but just in case, to make it clear with his actions as well, he dipped his head, and kissed Arwen's wrist, a gesture of subservience that could be as plain or as intimate as one wished. Just then, he meant the gesture without intimacy, only gratitude for the fact that the hand around his throat had done nothing at all to harm him. His luck was incalculable, and even if Arwen was not what he seemed, if he changed his mind and decided that harming, maiming, raping, killing Samir was a better choice than to keep calmly commanding him into action, those few hours of peace after so much turmoil would be held in Samir's mind as a blessing still. He knew well the coarseness of men of war-- he had heard about it as the Roman's encroached on Persian households one by one, killing and taking all they wished, greedy hands grasping fiercely at any treasure that could be claimed after all that owned those treasures were brutally slaughtered. To be awake, intact, and bathing another man with a strigil? That was a feat Samir had the scope to understand even as a pampered palace eunuch. Had he not been sold, he would have been in the Persian army just like any other man, and perhaps long dead under Roman hands.

 

[Xinavee]

The fire dampened a bit within the golden eye, the sea, took on a veiling mist as the slave spoke of his home lands. Less than a second, just a blink and the shift in Arwen’s eyes might have been missed. Outwardly, he did not change at all while Samir lifted his hand to lightly touch his wrist and bent to kiss it softly, in respect and gratitude. Inwardly, Arwen was erecting brick walls and numbing the senses once more. He continued forward as he looked into the beautiful face, his head shifting towards the side to speak intimately into the Samir’s ear as he continued, “Arwen is the name you will gasp *IF* and when I truly pleasure you.” His hand finger lifted to press against Samir’s lips to still any words that might have been upon his tongue.

His free hand, the one holding the chain upon Samir’s jewelry would dip lower, pulling the knotted silk from about the slave’s hips as Arwen stood fully again, looking down into the exotic grey eyes, “but not today, Samir. Today you are permitted to linger in the settling dust of the past, for even as it fades it leaves its own footprints upon you.”

Arwen breathed deeply, as he released his hold, only to reach to the side and pick up the oil flask once more and bringing it towards Samir and reach for one of his hands to pour more of the oil into before setting the flask back down. Arwen would let the scar covered hand cling at the back of Samir’s neck, keeping him held against Arwen’s side as the warrior’s foot shifted to press his heel into the back of the slaves knee for a slow controlled, glide down along Arwen’s body and into a kneel.

“You may continue the serve, but if you are to remain mine, ability alone will not help you, Samir.” Arwen’s foot would press slightly Samir’s inner knee to part his thighs, though there seemed little sexual intent in it, simply a positioning preference. In fact, although Arwen had pulled the silk from the slave, and there was strong evidence there was a sexual stirring within the warrior, there was no outward clue that he intended to act on that inkling in any way. “We will sleep when you are done and let our stomachs roar for another night before dinning. Let the men who’s blood I spilt today take from the tables all they desire before I break my fast. You will sleep with me, Samir. You will sleep in my bed for as long as you are my slave and I desire it.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir closed his eyes when Arwen leaned close, lips parting a little with the inclination to allow the finger that had pressed to his lips inside, to taste the rough pad of Arwen's finger with his tongue-- he knew what this was, even though he had never experienced it with such quiet demand before. His previous master had been playful, romantic, nothing near this edge of dominance that Arwen displayed, and yet the feeling of heat that seemed to slither down Samir's back and pool in his hips was unmistakable. He was bared, and he thought, perhaps, that Arwen would have him-- he knew his own body well enough to know that it would not be forced on his part, and when he was brought to his knees, he stared up at Arwen, round eyes darkened with arousal as he listened and translated the words spoken to him.

They would not eat, and they would not have each other. They would sleep, and they would lie together for as long as Arwen wished him near. That he understood, and in that, he forced himself firmly to ignore the surge of desire that had made his cock react, made it stir to half hardness at even such a small attention. Arwen was beautiful after all, and that calm level of command was as alluring as it was admirable. Samir contemplated that Arwen had said if and when, with an emphasis implying that, if he understood correctly, if he was unworthy, Arwen would never touch him more than in these mildly flirtatious, hinting ways. He ached at the idea of it, despite the situation of their meeting-- Already, he wanted Arwen to touch him. But he would obey, even in his want, he would obey.

He rested his forehead against the powerful curve of Arwen's thigh, his lips brushing the skin. " Yes master, as you wish." He promised, before he brought his oil slick hand along Arwen's skin, coating the leg that had brought him to his knees with the viscous liquid, his eyes lowered. How he wanted, just then, for some nonsensical reason, to glide his tongue and lips across that powerful flesh, to give thanks and worship where he knelt for a master that was honorable and chaste-- wherever Arwen had come from, he must have been a man of standing, he was not a brute or a simpleton, or Samir would have been on his knees underneath him long before this moment.

He kept his eyes away from what also called to his lips and tongue between Arwen's legs, focused entirely and determinedly on the thigh and calve from the juncture of Arwen's hip down to the top of his foot. He reached blindly for the strigle, from his position, grasping it in his hand before sliding it with even, tempered strokes to remove the oil, the skin left smoothed. He was controlling his breath and contemplated Arwen's words.

Service would not be enough. What else could he give? What else would Arwen want from him, but service? Perhaps, loyalty- that would be understandable. Perhaps companionship. Perhaps love. Even a man like this, a man who dealt in death and had slaves but was enslaved needed that. Samir tried not to linger the idea, instead switching to Arwen's other leg without moving from his position, Arwen's posture reliant on his spread thighs, on the placement of his feet near to Samir. He instead, took up the oil, and completed the the task of cleaning Arwen's body, oiling that leg with the same level of diligence he had done the rest of him, and sheering the oil away with the same careful, but firm pressure.

When he was finished, he looked up at his master, eyes still cloudy, emotions there, but muddled and unknown. " Thank you master, for allowing me to serve you... Shall I collect new linens for your bed, before you rest?" He offered, since the ones on the bed then were crumpled and dirty. Samir paid no mind to the silks that were abandoned behind him, if Arwen wished it, he'd walk the halls nude to find the linens. His face was so temptingly close to Arwen's groin, and yet he stayed just far enough off to be respectful, batting his long eyelashes up at Arwen while waiting for instruction.

 

[Xinavee]

Desire coiled it’s python’s grip within Arwen’s gut and groin, suspending the tall warriors sex as he watched his slave pool at his feet and gently kiss his thigh. Arwen shifted his gaze away, looking at the bed that was not his and then towards the window above it even as a wave of shivers washed over his senses like a tide coming forth to drown him. He would have been thankful, had he known, that he had turned his gaze away from Samir before he was able to witnessed the evidence of awareness between the slaves thighs. Of desire? Certainly, they were compatible, Arwen had no doubt of that, but seldom was he a man to allow his urges and drives to rule over his mind and will.

Closing his eyes, Arwen allowed himself to witness the sensations of Samir’s hands over his thighs and calf muscles. To focus on his own breathing and the feel of being truly clean and refreshed for the first time in what seemed to be years. When Samir was finished and tilted his stormy gaze back towards Arwen’s, it took a while for the warrior to open his eyes and let the relaxing session end. When he did it was to gaze down upon that open and beautiful face. Arwen couldn’t help but to sink his long fingers deep into the slave’s hair, letting his nails, lightly scrape against the slaves scalp as he spoke, “No, they are not too dirty, and far cleaner than I am used to. Perhaps the dirt will help me sleep.”

Oh. He was aware. Painfully. Aware of the fact that those luscious lips that had moments ago brushed across his thigh was oh so preciously close to the seeking length of his desire. Just a tilt of the slaves head. A simple command and Arwen would be able to caress those lips with the tip of his cock. HE HAD ALREADY DECIDED! He told himself. Not tonight. Let the boy mourn his losses, let himself decide how to move forward, how to make this prison work for him. Not tonight.

Arwen didn’t move from where he stood however, his foot nestled between the slave’s thighs, feeling the heat of skin so closed to his bare foot. His strong hand gripped tighter, though not painfully into the dark mass of hair to pull Samir closer to his thigh again, lightly pressing his forehead there once more. “Kiss.”

Knowing he would not be able to sustain a long brush of the slaves lips, he would keep a tightly held grip upon Samir’s hair, not allowing the slave to explore much more than that same patch of muscled thigh he had kissed before.

Then Arwen was moving away, turning towards the bed, still undressed, and tugging the coverlet and sheets down. Pristine as it ever had been, the soft linens were inviting as Arwen looked back at Samir. “Come, climb in, lay on your side.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir watched, interested, as Arwen kept his eyes closed, seeming lost for a moment in his thoughts. His expression was barely changed from stoicism, but Arwen had hesitated to open his eyes long enough that Samir could detect the strain in the slight pinch of his brows and lips. What a regal creature, to resist his urges when there was no need to. But then Arwen opened his eyes, and there was resolution there that surprised Samir. Those unusual hues, so far, were more honest than Arwen probably intended for them to be-- his face did not reveal him, but his eyes did, and when Arwen's hand coiled up in his hair, he did not look away until he was forced to, brow pressed to Arwen's skin.

He closed his eyes, and absorbed the command specifically, since the note about the sheets was vaguely understood, that he wanted them as they were. Kiss. Arwen wanted him to kiss. He parted his lips and pressed them to Arwen's skin, and despite the fact that he knew he could do more, brush his tongue there, graze his teeth, he only kissed. He could see it in Arwen's eyes just before, the intent to hold fast to his own command. Not tonight. Samir would not tempt his master away from his own will. Not tonight.

He kissed once, twice, and then when he had pressed a third kiss there, Arwen's thigh had moved back from his lips and he watched, transfixed, as Arwen moved away from him. He rose after a moment, collecting his silks and setting them aside along with the strigil, wiping oil from his fingers onto them because they hardly mattered at this point. He came to the other side of the bed, and climbed in, hesitating for a moment to find the words.

" Near, or away?" He asked, then, his brow pinching a bit, he tried to elaborate. " Facing here," He pointed to Arwen, " Or there?" He pointed to the wall behind him. He did not want to assume anything at this point, that Arwen would wish for them to lie close or apart, that he would want to Samir to press against him from the front, or if the warrior preferred to spoon himself to Samir's back. So he asked, his voice soft and polite, carefully forming the words while he slipped himself beneath the covers.

 

[Xinavee]

Amused by the questions for accuracy, Arwen pressed a knee into the bed before sinking his hand near Samir’s shoulder and simply looped his strong hand around his Samir’s side, dragging him closer to his side of the bed, so close, that it seemed there would be little room for movement in the night. Once Samir was in the right place, Arwen would gently, guide Samir to turn his shoulder away from Arwen, facing the wall, before a sheet was pulled over the slaves body, symbolically informing them both that intimacy was off limits.

Still, as Arwen lay down, shifting his arm under Samir’s head as his pillow, he couldn’t help but tilt his hips up and shift just a bit closer against Samir’s body. His shiver had nothing to do with the evening air that blew in off the coast. It had everything to do with the way his senses were filled with Samir. His scar riddled hand would lift into the long dark hair to comb it back over Arwen’s shoulder and the pillow he would use. It would be one more way the slave would not be able to pull from him without Arwen knowing it.

The stiff half bulge at the apex of Arwen’s thighs had not fully dissipated yet, and as he shifted closer and pressed his chest against Samir’s back he felt himself brush up against the perfect cleft nestled between Samir’s rear. Arwen braced himself. Stiffened tightly, as his hand whipped down to clinch against Samir’s hip, likely bruising the beautiful skin. “Samir.” Arwen growled. “Don’t. Wriggle.”

What seemed like eons, the strong grip remained as Arwen stilled himself, slowed his breathing and finally let his arm move possessively around Samir’s side and letting his hand cup near Samir’s heart.

Sleep was elusive, as images of what he wanted to do, and mental commentary about what he should do with his newly acquired slave wared in his thoughts, but eventually Arwen slumbered. Deeply. Sinking so comfortably deep that when at last he woke, sunlight was already spilling into the window over the bed. Samir still filled his senses, and as he thought the slave still slept in his arms, Arwen shifted his head, delved his nose into the thick dark silk of Samir’s hair and breathed deeply the scent of his slave.

Scent that was already so embedded within his memory that Arwen was certain he could find the slave if he were blind. The sheet had slipped slightly in the night and Arwen let his chest press unhindered against the smooth delicate back as he explored the delectable skin just under the Samir’s ear with his nose and lips, breathing in that sweet scent. Arwen’s lips parted brushed down along smooth neck to tease the hollow at the base of his neck at his shoulder. The warriors heart pounded faster as he let his scared hand move down the soft skin of Samir’s arm, to grip his wrist and hold it captive against the sheets. “Wake to me Samir,” Arwen said as he shifted slightly, pressing his slave down, capturing the slaves free hand with the force of his body holding him against the mattress. The powerful thigh pinned Samir’s hips and thighs to the bed, paralyzing the slighter slave as Arwen hung his head to feast upon the sweet silken skin. Lips parted as tongue and teeth gripped and tasted the skin of Samir’s neck and shoulder blades, as Arwen’s free hand reached down along the sheet to caress along his side and down. Down.

POUND! POUND! POUND!


Arwen ignored the distraction, growling when the pounding came again, but set to a course that was much more interesting than climbing from the bed, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer when the sound of the door opening, and foreign footsteps sounded on the marbled floor of the entry way, and then the kitchen. Leaping from the bed, Arwen’s temper was peeked as he caught the handle of the metal strigil and strode towards the door with deadly intent.

“Good morning” from the stranger who sat lounging upon the chaise. He seemed unaffected by the dangerous intent of the warrior striding towards him, though two guards instantly blocked Arwen’s way, and four more stepped a bit closer towards their smug master. He mused letting his cool blue eyes shift over Arwen as he pointed towards the table still laden with a feast of fruits and pastries. A small slave shifted from behind him and moved to pick up a platter of the most choice options before bringing it back to him. “You are invited to a luncheon soiree and if you do not rise soon you will be late.” He smiled as he looked at Arwen before sucking his teeth and glancing at the plate. He pointed to a berry there before lifting his head up for the slave to feed him.

“Who are you?” Arwen asked, though part of him knew before the man even turned his attention back to him.

“Oh, didn’t I say? I am your proprietor, Eros,” He waved his hand in the air as he added, “well one of many whom you may thank at the luncheon today.

“And If I do not accept this…invitation.”

Here the man stopped eating the fruits and sat up from the chair, turning his cold eyes towards Arwen. “You seem to be under the misguided impression that you had a choice. You will be there by will or by force.” He stood as he headed towards the door and lowered his hand towards a box at upon one of the barrels still in the entry way. “I suggest you change unless you wish to join us nude. Whichever way you like.”

 

[OctopusPrince]

Samir had let Arwen move him, and like Arwen he struggled internally with a burning desire to press back into Arwen, to invite him closer, to touch, to kiss, to enjoy each other. He was told not to move, though, so he did not and when sleep found him, it was mercifully dreamless. He felt... safe- and it had not taken as long as it had for Arwen for his breathing to even out and become mellowly audible, for his body to be slack and warm against Arwen's in his slumber.

Morning however, was a completely different matter. He had given a soft sigh when Arwen's first touches had stirred him, but as he was rolled onto his stomach, pinned underneath all of Arwen's powerful weight, and kissed and bitten at along his back and throat, the sigh of new wakefulness had melted into sweet, quiet moans, his body arching beneath Arwen's hold and his cheek pressed into the pillows. Everything felt warm and pleasant and he felt well rested and Arwen's attention only added to those sensations. He had not expected to wake like this, and yet, he welcomed it, letting Arwen hold him however he liked while pressing his body into Arwen's touches, both submissiveness and praise shown in how responsive he was. He however, flinched and went completely rigid at the first pounding at the door, giving a heady gasp when Arwen ignored it and continued to touch him, only for the pounding to sound again. Was Arwen going to just ignore that? Wasn't he a gladiator, with masters of his own? Samir could not think to protest, to encourage Arwen to go, because without fail, Arwen was off of him an in an instant, and heading out of the room, always fast moving and determined.

Samir watched the powerful expanse of his back, eyed the strigil he'd picked up, and then he sunk back into the sheets, sighing heavily and pressing his face into the still warm silkiness of Arwen's pillow. He breathed him in and dipped a hand between his thighs, only teasing himself-- he would not dare it, to touch himself while Arwen was away, or without his permission, but just the brush of his own fingertips along his inner thighs made him ache with arousal. He would stay put, until Arwen returned for him, either to give some command for him to rise and attend to something, or to continue that tantalizing exploration that Arwen had begun to wake Samir from sleep. Arwen had said that the night before they would do nothing, but he had made no protest towards the morning, and in fact, had there not been an interruption, Samir felt certain that he would have come to know his master's body for the first time.

Already he thought to analyze what Arwen had done so far, what he seemed to prefer in intimacy. The man liked his control, to hold Samir down and keep him just so. He also seemed to like Samir's hair-- there was no surprise in that, Samir knew perfectly well he had beautiful hair, and he had kept it diligently for years specifically for this sort of indulgence. Samir's throat and the back of his shoulders tingled from where Arwen had tasted him, used teeth upon him, and he noted that too-- if only they had not been interrupted, he might have guessed what to do to please his master in that moment of desire. No matter. There would be time, he hoped.There would be time to learn how best to please Arwen, and for all that had brought him to this place, he looked forward to it.

He curled his arms around Arwen's pillow, and relaxed onto the bed, eyes closed in a feigned, prone position as though he had managed to doze off again. He felt perhaps, it would be best if Arwen found him right where he'd left him, that he did not show any distress for the interruption. If Arwen wished to touch him again, Samir imagined he would delight in catching him in a seemingly vulnerable moment. If he had a command, Samir was awake enough to react to it without delay. So he waited.

 

[Xinavee]

THUNK.

The dulled blade of the strigil warbled as it imbedded itself into the wood of the door at the exact spot where Eros neck had been.

Scarcely contain his rage as he fought against the injustice of his position Arwen shot towards the table and toppled it and all it’s contents to the floor. The visit from the Roman lord had only reminded him how well kept he was, in this city that was not his. Leaning his hands upon the disrupted side of the table top, Arwen hung his head, trying to center himself, gain the control he knew was within him as he tried to clear his head. Tried to think.

Arwen wasn’t a stupid man. He knew he had to play nice with men that controlled his prison, at least until he found a way to escape it, or to wreck revenge for his enforced captivity, but it went against everything in his nature to bend a knee in any way, particularly to those who bound him in any way. Walking towards the box in the entry way, Arwen lifted the lid and felt the boiling rage roll in his gut once more, though this time he was able to control it, to stamp it down as he saw the Roman red of the Gladiators attire. Arwen thought a moment about going naked, but it would only serve to work against him, have the guards doubled outside his house and perhaps lead to dangerous punishments at the Colosseum.

Calmer, Arwen walked back into his bedroom. His eyes immediately moving to Samir’s back, laying against his pillow as he had left him. Walking towards the bed, he let his hand trail down the smooth expanse of Samir’s back, his fingers splaying as the calloused fingers teased so lightly as to brush the down like hairs upon the slaves back, from neck straight down his spine until Arwen stopped at the light round swell of his rear cheeks. What he might have had in this. What he might have felt for this boy whose eyes haunted Arwen even as he looked away. It was not fair. Arwen could not keep him when he knew all too well that tomorrow, or tonight, whenever the lords and kings of this land decided it, he might be fed to wolves or tortured for their amusements. Better to cut the connection now than to have it grow.

“Rise Samir,” Arwen’s hand fell away from the touch, not waiting for the slave to respond, merely expecting it to happen, “It is time we find your new owner.” Arwen turned away, heading back towards the entry way where the box, and the slaves silks still remained, “One who is not bound, who is not a puppet pulled by strings.” He glanced towards the trunk of silks, pulling from it one, and although he had not noticed the significance of the choice in color it seemed to be the only one that satisfied Arwen today.

The gold of the Chantilly lace was delicate to the touch, swirling in waves embroidered with an intermittent green thread at the eyelash hem. It was beautiful and as impressive, as all of them had been. Tossing the silk upon the chaise, Arwen began to dress himself, before moving to the table and righting it again.

 

[OctopusPrince]

When Samir heard the thud, he flinched a little, but then relaxed himself, his eyes half open as he listened to his master return to the bedroom. When he was touched, he was still, closing his eyes at the slow, comforting touch along his back. He was glad that whatever had transpired outside of the room, whoever had come to disturb Arwen, he had found his composure enough to caress Samir. He shifted to lean up, and then looked sharply to Arwen.

The command to get up was obeyed immediately, the suggestion that Arwen would find him a new master was stifling, and stopped him in his tracks. But why? And then it came up again, someone who was a free man. What did that matter? What could a free Roman offer that Arwen would not, even in his bound state? Cruelty, that was what-- did Arwen not know the nature of the Romans, even in his captivity? Did he expect that someone of free will would treat Samir well? Samir felt certain that that would be far from the truth, and a desperation to protest clogged his throat as he followed Arwen, his back broad, impenetrable.

Samir felt, because he had been a slave all of his life and it was the nature of his position, like he could and should say nothing to oppose Arwen's word. He took up the silks that were set out for him with lowered eyes, his expression neutral and his gaze troubled as he wrapped the silk around himself without thinking of it, the practice of dressing second nature. Did Arwen not want him? Had Arwen not won him fairly?

The desire to supplicate himself before the gladiator and ask not to be sold to someone else was just as stifling as his original intention to protest. He pulled an unnecessary sash from the silk, the gold fabric coming loose easily, and he wrapped his hair up in it, setting the band high with a few swirling strands framing his face and tucked behind his ears.

There was a feeling of betrayal in this, to be given away-- to be sold for more gold, to someone who Samir would know to be Roman, who he knew to have a hand in one way or another in the destruction of his precious home land. It was cruel, to have a single night held, touched, commanded, a morning that broached intimacy only to be told, coldly, and with certainty that he would be given to a new master.

He did not watch Arwen dress once he himself was prepared, he instead took up new chains to dangle beautifully around his neck, and waited, his gaze down and away, his lips in a tight line to hold in all of his thoughts.

 

[Xinavee]

Words did not have to be spoken for Arwen to feel the thick turmoil swirling under the surface. Samir was not the only one unsettled by the decision, and although Arwen knew it was the right thing to do, as soon as it was out of his mouth he had wanted to take it back, but Arwen also wanted to ignore the commands, and in fact, head back to his home lands but none of that would happen.

Slowly he pulled on the chain mail war skirt, the bright red leather and metal straps formed arrows down along his thighs until ending just above the knee. Sandals were laced up along his calf and tied tightly near his knee before he added the bright red pauldron and golden rerebrace. There was no breast plate. Silently, Arwen turned his gaze to Samir, wanting to comfort him, or say…something, but no words would form, as he noted the down cast eyes and still line of Samir’s lips. Sighing, Arwen opened the door and, motioning for Samir to follow.

Had the mood not been spoiled, the day would have been pleasant for walking. The sky was blue and a breeze shifted wisps of clouds inward from the sea. Arwen was accompanied by four guards, two of which he recognized having been in his house earlier that day. They seemed nervous to have Arwen behind them. Their hands never left the pommel of there their swords, even though Arwen had none at his belt. Others upon the street stopped what they were doing to step out of the way, pointing towards the small group. Many of them had been in the Colosseum for the fight, and most recalled the slaughter, and that this must have been the victor, though most had not been near enough to recall Arwen’s face. Samir did not go unnoticed and soon rumors abound of the foreign gladiator and his exotic slave. Perhaps he hadn’t been a prisoner after all.

Arwen didn’t waste this forced outing however, despite his ill spirits. His face remained forward, watching the guard and their path, but from the corner of his eye he kept watch on how many guards were patrolling the streets. The gates, the shops, the horses and carts that lined the streets heading towards the palace. The palace itself was regal, but not immense. Arwen had seen larger kingdoms fall to his legion, but that was before.

A fountain greeted them as they passed the palace gates and then were lead into a large parlor. Here lords and ladies lounged on sofas and chaise chairs while slaves served or danced, or flirted with guests. Arwen felt his place immediately by his wardrobe, but also in the way the two other gladiators within the room were talked of. Not ignored like the guards, they were poked at, or joked with as though they were side show acts. The larger of the two was a Hispanial, large and boastful, he arm wrestled the lords and flirted shamelessly with the ladies as he drank copious goblets of wine. The other appeared as Roman as they came and eyed Arwen with malice before mingling with the more prominent lords, including Eros.

Pulling Samir aside, Arwen, let his hands move over his shoulders, not looking him in his eyes as sighed, “There are many Lords and Ladies here Samir, already they look over you with hunger in their eyes.” Arwen’s long finger brushed up and tugged upon one of the dark strands of hair framing Samir’s face, letting his fingers glide over the silken length with longing. “There will be one suitable house among them.” Arwen’s hand lightly encircled Samir’s neck before his thumb lifted to brush lightly over his chin and lower lip. “You can tell me if-“

“Does he dance gladiator? Does he eat fire?”

“Don’t isolate over here by yourselves, mingle, let your proprietors know they have invested well.” Eros said as he eyed Samir with a lusty glint to his eye before turning back to Arwen. “I believe they are all eager to meet the man who cleared out the prison cells.”