Objectified - Dastan/Adam Carson - R
Title: Objectified
Rating: R
Warning: Death, Violence, Gore
Fandom(s): Prince of Persia/AFI (bandom)
Disclaimer: I do not claim to know Adam Carson personally, nor does his connection with the band AFI have anything to do with this story. The Prince of Persia franchise belongs to various companies, of which I am not apart. This is fiction and I make no profit.
Beta: blaqkinkstyle18
Author's Notes: LOL JK, GUYS. I have problems with anonymity. Written for afi_kink.
Objectified
It isn’t the dagger against his throat that worries Adam; it’s the press of leather-clad thighs on either side of his naked torso and the hot, rough hand against his bare chest. He isn’t concerned with the fresh red blood that wells on silver steel as the blade shimmers in the candlelight, but he feels the slightest tingle of fear every time his oppressor breathes. The creak of leather bonds as he flexes his wrists don’t even reach his ears; his whole focus is taken up with the brash drumming of a heart not his own. He doesn’t want control, but he craves a break in the intensity.
Dastan stares at man below him. He can feel the beat of a heart under his palm and its rhythm is almost mystic; he sees this person not as a man, but a statue - a statue made of muscle, bone, skin, and blood. He can’t imagine a heart involved, can’t see this object have a soul. He shifts his dagger slightly and does not wonder at the trickle of blood or the widening of blue eyes. He does not care when he leans his weight down on his free hand because the breath constricted is that of an object and when he moves his palm along the collarbone, the heartbeat hidden there vaguely surprises him.
“Please,” Adam whispers, so quietly that it’s nearly unheard. He doesn’t know what he means, but, having survived this long, any outcome will be welcome.
Dastan’s eyes dart up to meet Adam’s. The word lingers in the still desert air. “Please,” Dastan echoes. There are meanings beyond the letters, hints and questions and answers intermingling in their voices until the word itself becomes nothing.
Breath, sweat, and the intimate trace of candles’ smoke permeate the air in the silent stone room. Adam slides his foot against a silk blanket and his head lies on a pillow of cotton and satin. The contradiction between the luxury of his surroundings and the lethality of his situation just barely graces his mind. He dares a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. The spell is broken.
“Please?” Dastan repeats. His breath catches in his throat. The intricate silence that flowed through his body has passed, leaving anger and betrayal in its wake. “Please?” He leans down, poisonous thoughts flooding his veins, clouding his vision. “You dare to speak to me? Now?”
Adam relaxes. He can deal with rage and shock. He is used to the indignant expression Dastan gives; he’s seen it a thousand times before on a hundred different faces. For a moment, he had thought perhaps Dastan was different, but he is not, and was not, and Adam wonders if he knows how insignificant he is.
“Why shouldn’t I speak?” he asks. “These are my quarters. The king himself gave them to me.” He puts an edge of sardonic conceit to his words.
“On my recommendation!” Dastan shouts, as infuriated with his own mistakes as he is with the man who made them as such. “He protected you because of me!” Every muscle in his body screams to take action; break a bone, snap a neck, destroy the heartless thing beneath him before it can take another breath. This is no man, it is a statue. This is not a soul, it is an emptiness.
“And I thank you for that,” Adam says calmly. “The king would never have trusted me without your backing. And I would never have gotten anywhere.”
Dastan whips the dagger across Adam’s throat, but does not press it in; Adam gasps as a thin line of blood begins to trickle down onto his chest and back onto the pristine cotton sheets. He sees the conflict in Dastan’s eyes, the disgust harbored there not only for Adam, but what he himself has become.
“You will not leave this room alive,” Dastan growls. He grabs the ends of the leather straps that bind Adam to the bed and pulls hard, tightening the bonds on Adam’s wrists so close that the skin around the leather grows bright white.
Adam grits his teeth against the bite of the straps. He watches Dastan stand and step off the bed, reveling in the broken hearted pace of a man who can’t bring himself to kill. He has forsaken his gods and begs no favors from them now, but he finds a sick pleasure in the knowledge that pleas for guidance run through Dastan’s mind as he rages.
A breeze drifts through the window, carrying the scent of rain and wet desert sand. Dastan stands motionless as he breathes it in, willing even his heart to stop beating. He lets the coolness soothe his fevered wrath and focus his mind. He sends his doubts, his anger, and his sins to the wind. But there is no answer save for a sudden stillness in the air. A dark worthlessness settles into the pit of his stomach. He turns.
The blood from the cut on his neck has pooled around Adam’s collarbone. It slips onto his shoulders and stains, darkly contrasting the light skin it mars. Dastan watches, hopeless, enthralled by the image of a demon bound bleeding to the bed. For a moment, he could leave this whole night behind, just run and run until the sweeping Persian desert swallows his bones completely. For a moment, death is too kind. For one brief instant in the macabre beauty of the sight, Dastan longs to forget all he knows and crawl into the bed with the devil. His first step forward brings him close to this conclusion, but the second reminds him why he’s there at all. The third recalls all the passionate nights spent in this bed, but the fourth recalls the heart ache of betrayal.
“You used me,” he whispers to the vision on the bed. The vision nods, unafraid.
Another step melds the memories of tender words and unfeeling dismissals into one. “You broke me.” A portrait, a statue, a vision; Dastan can objectify all he wants, but the figure in front of him radiates defiance. He palms the knife in his hand absently. “You are a liar,” he steps onto the bed, “and a thief.”
“Yes,” Adam whispers. Dastan presses his foot to Adam’s chest and leans forward, searching the other man’s eyes for any hint of repentance or fear. He finds none.
“I hate you,” he growls. He moves forward, kneeling on Adam’s chest until Adam gasps to breathe against the pressure. Even as his lungs burn and his arms jerk mechanically, Adam manages a grunting laugh at Dastan’s words.
“I don’t believe you,” he gasps.
It isn’t the blade of the dagger against his throat that worries Adam, nor the hot rush of his own blood as it bathes his neck and chest. He doesn’t think about the morning he’ll never know or the blinding pain that is his life washing away. All he sees through black stars are two blue eyes, a single tear, and the overwhelming self-hatred that permeates the youngest prince of Persia.
-End-
Rating: R
Warning: Death, Violence, Gore
Fandom(s): Prince of Persia/AFI (bandom)
Disclaimer: I do not claim to know Adam Carson personally, nor does his connection with the band AFI have anything to do with this story. The Prince of Persia franchise belongs to various companies, of which I am not apart. This is fiction and I make no profit.
Beta: blaqkinkstyle18
Author's Notes: LOL JK, GUYS. I have problems with anonymity. Written for afi_kink.
Objectified
It isn’t the dagger against his throat that worries Adam; it’s the press of leather-clad thighs on either side of his naked torso and the hot, rough hand against his bare chest. He isn’t concerned with the fresh red blood that wells on silver steel as the blade shimmers in the candlelight, but he feels the slightest tingle of fear every time his oppressor breathes. The creak of leather bonds as he flexes his wrists don’t even reach his ears; his whole focus is taken up with the brash drumming of a heart not his own. He doesn’t want control, but he craves a break in the intensity.
Dastan stares at man below him. He can feel the beat of a heart under his palm and its rhythm is almost mystic; he sees this person not as a man, but a statue - a statue made of muscle, bone, skin, and blood. He can’t imagine a heart involved, can’t see this object have a soul. He shifts his dagger slightly and does not wonder at the trickle of blood or the widening of blue eyes. He does not care when he leans his weight down on his free hand because the breath constricted is that of an object and when he moves his palm along the collarbone, the heartbeat hidden there vaguely surprises him.
“Please,” Adam whispers, so quietly that it’s nearly unheard. He doesn’t know what he means, but, having survived this long, any outcome will be welcome.
Dastan’s eyes dart up to meet Adam’s. The word lingers in the still desert air. “Please,” Dastan echoes. There are meanings beyond the letters, hints and questions and answers intermingling in their voices until the word itself becomes nothing.
Breath, sweat, and the intimate trace of candles’ smoke permeate the air in the silent stone room. Adam slides his foot against a silk blanket and his head lies on a pillow of cotton and satin. The contradiction between the luxury of his surroundings and the lethality of his situation just barely graces his mind. He dares a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. The spell is broken.
“Please?” Dastan repeats. His breath catches in his throat. The intricate silence that flowed through his body has passed, leaving anger and betrayal in its wake. “Please?” He leans down, poisonous thoughts flooding his veins, clouding his vision. “You dare to speak to me? Now?”
Adam relaxes. He can deal with rage and shock. He is used to the indignant expression Dastan gives; he’s seen it a thousand times before on a hundred different faces. For a moment, he had thought perhaps Dastan was different, but he is not, and was not, and Adam wonders if he knows how insignificant he is.
“Why shouldn’t I speak?” he asks. “These are my quarters. The king himself gave them to me.” He puts an edge of sardonic conceit to his words.
“On my recommendation!” Dastan shouts, as infuriated with his own mistakes as he is with the man who made them as such. “He protected you because of me!” Every muscle in his body screams to take action; break a bone, snap a neck, destroy the heartless thing beneath him before it can take another breath. This is no man, it is a statue. This is not a soul, it is an emptiness.
“And I thank you for that,” Adam says calmly. “The king would never have trusted me without your backing. And I would never have gotten anywhere.”
Dastan whips the dagger across Adam’s throat, but does not press it in; Adam gasps as a thin line of blood begins to trickle down onto his chest and back onto the pristine cotton sheets. He sees the conflict in Dastan’s eyes, the disgust harbored there not only for Adam, but what he himself has become.
“You will not leave this room alive,” Dastan growls. He grabs the ends of the leather straps that bind Adam to the bed and pulls hard, tightening the bonds on Adam’s wrists so close that the skin around the leather grows bright white.
Adam grits his teeth against the bite of the straps. He watches Dastan stand and step off the bed, reveling in the broken hearted pace of a man who can’t bring himself to kill. He has forsaken his gods and begs no favors from them now, but he finds a sick pleasure in the knowledge that pleas for guidance run through Dastan’s mind as he rages.
A breeze drifts through the window, carrying the scent of rain and wet desert sand. Dastan stands motionless as he breathes it in, willing even his heart to stop beating. He lets the coolness soothe his fevered wrath and focus his mind. He sends his doubts, his anger, and his sins to the wind. But there is no answer save for a sudden stillness in the air. A dark worthlessness settles into the pit of his stomach. He turns.
The blood from the cut on his neck has pooled around Adam’s collarbone. It slips onto his shoulders and stains, darkly contrasting the light skin it mars. Dastan watches, hopeless, enthralled by the image of a demon bound bleeding to the bed. For a moment, he could leave this whole night behind, just run and run until the sweeping Persian desert swallows his bones completely. For a moment, death is too kind. For one brief instant in the macabre beauty of the sight, Dastan longs to forget all he knows and crawl into the bed with the devil. His first step forward brings him close to this conclusion, but the second reminds him why he’s there at all. The third recalls all the passionate nights spent in this bed, but the fourth recalls the heart ache of betrayal.
“You used me,” he whispers to the vision on the bed. The vision nods, unafraid.
Another step melds the memories of tender words and unfeeling dismissals into one. “You broke me.” A portrait, a statue, a vision; Dastan can objectify all he wants, but the figure in front of him radiates defiance. He palms the knife in his hand absently. “You are a liar,” he steps onto the bed, “and a thief.”
“Yes,” Adam whispers. Dastan presses his foot to Adam’s chest and leans forward, searching the other man’s eyes for any hint of repentance or fear. He finds none.
“I hate you,” he growls. He moves forward, kneeling on Adam’s chest until Adam gasps to breathe against the pressure. Even as his lungs burn and his arms jerk mechanically, Adam manages a grunting laugh at Dastan’s words.
“I don’t believe you,” he gasps.
It isn’t the blade of the dagger against his throat that worries Adam, nor the hot rush of his own blood as it bathes his neck and chest. He doesn’t think about the morning he’ll never know or the blinding pain that is his life washing away. All he sees through black stars are two blue eyes, a single tear, and the overwhelming self-hatred that permeates the youngest prince of Persia.
-End-