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People like to be lied to. It's a universal truth.
No one wants to know what you're really thinking. No one wants to know what you really want. They want to hear good things, beautiful things, things that make them feel special. They want to think that they know what you're thinking, that they're smarter and better and faster than you. So you string them along, throw out a few morsels here and there, let them think that they know the game so that even as they're losing, they think they're on top.
Lester is an easy target. So angry, so volatile, so easily swayed. A touch here, a look there. The steady pressure of pheromone manipulation to piss him off or turn him on or sometimes, when Daken is feeling particularly in need of entertainment, both at once. He twists and turns, squirms on the hook, but there's no escaping it. Daken owns him now, and when he crooks his finger, Lester comes running.
The arrowhead digs into his throat, pressed tight against his jugular, and he smiles in the face of Lester's impotent fury. "Why didn't you just throw it?" he asks softly. Lester's hand trembles. "Wanted to get up close and personal?"
"Wanted to get your blood on my hand," Lester growls. Dangerous. Pathetic. Daken licks his lower lip and twists his head, slowly dipping his chin. The tip of his tongue caresses the tip of the arrow and blood spills down his chin.
"I'll let you get something else on your hand," Daken whispers. A soft sound bursts free from Lester's throat, halfway between a moan and a snarl. Daken laughs softly and drags his tongue up Lester's cheek, leaving behind a smear of crimson.
Tight stomach muscles flutter under his fingertips as he slips a hand beneath Lester's shirt. "I'll kill you," he says. The conviction in his voice is impressive. Daken's hand creeps down, past the waistband of Lester's pants, further and further in, and he laughs as he curls his fingers around an achingly hard erection.
"Oh, Lester…"
And then he's down on his knees, arrow embedded in his shoulder, one of Lester's hands clutching the back of his head, the other feeding his prick roughly into Daken's mouth. He laughs as he closes his lips around it, laughs as Lester's hips jerk forward. Lester moans, braces against the wall with his free arm, and Daken moves to his rhythm, slick lips sliding up and down the thick shaft. He holds his hands down at his sides, entirely passive, and Lester notices and fucks him harder, deeper, until the head of his cock pushes to the back of Daken's throat.
Daken gags then, lets the water flood out of his eyes, and it's Lester's turn to laugh. His fingers twist hard in Daken's hair, and the other hand descends to slam the arrow deeper into Daken's shoulder. Pain flares down his arm but he ignores it; it's transitory, while the pleasure of feeling Lester twitch as he comes will last forever.
Lester stumbles back, fastens his pants with trembling fingers, and Daken holds his come in his mouth, waits for Lester to look at him before he tips his head back and swallows. "Faggot," Lester murmurs.
"Sometimes," Daken answers. He pulls the arrow out and a gout of blood spills down his chest. His eyes track Lester as he stalks away. Games and intrigues. Daken smiles and tosses the arrow to the side. The poor bastard doesn't stand a chance.