Work Text:
Ajay feels like one of Pagan's tigers.
Without knowing Pagan well, one would assume that metaphor is a bad one: a wild animal, meant to travel and hunt as it pleases, trapped in a house. Half of such a creature's beauty, that rich orange passing through foliage with the silent, graceful power of a river, comes from being uncontained. A caged thing gets aggressive or it gets meek. It becomes changed, stifled.
Pagan's tigers aren't treated like that. They roam the palace and the surrounding grounds with regal feline authority, born of generations of existing in a space reserved for them. Pagan's tigers aren't his, as they were inherited with the land. Pagan does not bring tigers to add to their numbers for the sake of boosting his ego. He welcome the cubs when they happen, at the distance the mothers allow, and tends to their needs the way someone tends to land as a proper steward. It is very easy to honor them. With empty hands and a respectful presence, Ajay experiences what it's like to be allowed to touch a tiger. The thrill that runs through him is a mix of millennia-old evolution locked in his hindbrain telling him to fear a predator of such caliber and the giddy, awesome joy of knowing he has been granted such a rare treasure. It is easy, then, to understand why an animal would be worshiped. Ajay thought, then, it would be a pretty good deal to be a tiger like this. And, sneaking a glance to Pagan, who holds his own attractive power, Ajay wouldn't mind him so much, either.
Just like the walls of the palace cannot contain the tigers, Pagan is not a lavish trap that Ajay submits himself to. It would have been an improvement based on the life he has lived. It is why Ajay threw himself into it so willingly, believing the imminent pain would be worth the long term security. As long as Pagan was nice enough, which Ajay believed him to be, then it would be more then enough.
It was more than Ajay could ever imagine—and far less of what he feared. There was no trap. No catch. The bafflement Ajay felt, time and time again, thinking a man with the power Pagan holds would have some cruelness to him. No matter how Ajay clung to Pagan, nothing cost him. Not even when Ajay felt like he sunk his claws into Pagan, when he realized what a good thing he has before him, and fears so greatly that he is going to lose Pagan, be it to an outside force or his own incompetence.
Hands that have shed more blood than even Ajay's gently pull Ajay free of his own anxiety, offering stability until Ajay trusts himself enough to let himself stand alone. When there aren't bars of violence and stained with the grief of death surrounding Ajay, he can be himself. Pagan wants Ajay. The true Ajay. A tiger is meant to be a tiger. Pagan loves fiercely, like he is one, too.
⁂
Pagan prowls like a tiger; Ajay lounges like one.
Ajay's throne is a seat in the corner. Not to hide, like he has in the past, but so that he can watch Pagan work the room like he owns it. Pagan could own it. At this point in the evening, Ajay is not thinking about the business that was conducted earlier. All that is left of that thought is that Ajay knows some of the faces that Pagan talks to. Right now, all these people are to Ajay are visual obstacles and distractions.
Pagan is wearing a suit perfectly tailored to him—in high quality fabric that bunches deliciously soft and silky under Ajay's hands when they get enough privacy—in Ajay's teal, not the usual pink. A bold statement of ownership that is more than any mark Ajay's mouth has left on Pagan's skin. Pink is Pagan's color, but to see him in Ajay's similarly trademarked hue… It is flirting without ever having to look at him. As if Ajay would ever miss the excuse to look at his partner. Or at the pale column of his throat and the top of his chest bare from the open paisley dress shirt that is always neglected of its tie. Ajay never misses that tie. Not when it offers him a view so nice.
At this point, Ajay is sprawled in the chair like he owns it. Legs spread wide, offering Pagan a smirk any time Pagan gives in to the weight of Ajay's eyes following him like the stripes on a tiger, and smirks wider any time Pagan gives him a once-over in appreciation. Which is every time Pagan looks. Without knowing Pagan, one would think him an easily distractible man. Only when Ajay is involved, clothed in an equally nice suit of a rich ocean jade with rose gold hardware. Rose gold, to match the warm tones of the pink opal cufflinks that match Pagan's. Ajay has never worn this suit before; both he and Pagan will enjoy discovering how well it holds up to being peeling off him later.
"You are immensely distracting," Pagan murmurs, swooping in when business is finally done to find out what kind of kiss Ajay has been saving for him.
"We both are." It is plenty late—and neither of them are subtle, not now—and Ajay is impatient to be coy. Of the few people who are lingering, they aren't close enough to tell Pagan's tongue slips into Ajay's mouth for a moment. Or that Ajay's hand is a little too low on Pagan's waist. A few moments.
"Let me chase them off," Pagan says, his voice pitched low with arousal. Tiger-like, in it's growling register, all affection. So, too, is the way Pagan claims the room as solely theirs, so he may return, burning gaze locked on Ajay.
It is a form of hunting; Ajay wants nothing else.