I write a lot of queer fantasy novels. Like. A lot of them.
And I guess I'm also writing smut for them now lmao
I don't know how much I'm actually going to write, and in all honesty it's mostly still pretty tame, but I'm having fun with it for right now and that's what matters.
The number of stories represented here will probably increase over time.
18+ Content (more or less....look, it's explicit for my work)
All M/M unless specified
All written by me, with my characters, unless specified
Original properties only
Canon or canon-divergent only
I write about shapeshifters often, lots of human/non-human couples
M/F | Adair & Astrea | Bloodless Legacy (Crossover between @bloodlessheirbyjacques's Bloodless Heir and my Miadhachain Legacy)
Adair made a deal with Pirate Corinthian, but when its decided he's not holding up his side of the bargain, Corinthian uses Astrea to make a point.
Words: 1,678
Prompt: Non-consensual Voyeurism
Content: Rape (non-graphic) | implications of brainwashing | non-consensual bondage | character death (minor)
"If you fail me, little Camoan, I'll tie you in the corner and make you watch."
Adair had never doubted the threat, not for an instant, and those words rattled about in his head during each training session Corinthian shoved him into. He drew on them, used Corinthian's threat to drive him every time the next task seemed just out of reach. He had to do it.
For Astrea.
For himself.
For both of them.
And, as the magic crackled through his prosthesis, the scent of ozone burning through the air around him in a way that would once have left his hair standing on end, Adair reminded himself that he’d asked for this — all of it. He'd swore. He'd promised, begged on his knees, to learn. Begged to be shaped into Corinthian's tool, and pled, too, for the promised reward if he did.
His grasp on the magic faltered. He grabbed for it again and felt it slip away once more, like trying to hold water in his fingers.
"You're not even trying."
Corinthian's voice struck like a bolt from the blue, the sheer disapproval in those four words enough to make Adair's mouth go dry.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice? I told you the price, little Camoan."
Corinthian turned, voice rising, calling orders to one of the crew in a language Adair didn't speak, but something about the cadence and shape of the words sounded Pyrian in his ears.
Desperately, Adair tried again to call the magic.
It wouldn't come. Like trying to capture a cloud. The magic wouldn't obey him, wouldn't come to his call, no matter how hard he tried to reach it. He'd been able to do it before, hadn't he? Was he really not trying hard enough now? How could he not be?
He was still trying when the member of the crew Corinthian had called over hooked his fingers in the collar at Adair's neck and yanked him backwards, destroying what remained of his concentration as he half dragged Adair below deck with Corinthian, imperiously, following behind.
"I'll do better," Adair begged, then tried again with his Camoan, pleading for another chance. When the words he'd been taught to say failed to so much as elicit a self-satisfied grin from Corinthian, he felt the cold hand of something that seemed suspiciously like despair grasp at his heart.
The three of them stopped outside Astrea's quarters, Corinthian's crewman binding Adair's mismatched hands together at the small of his back.
Adair refused to open his mouth for the gag, clenching his teeth and turning his head away with every ounce of defiance he still had. The crewman grumbled something, and then Corinthian's nails bit into the side of Adair's face, making him gasp. And that was all the opening needed. The thick roll of cloth was stuffed between his teeth and a knot tied so tight at the back of his head that it forced him to accept the gag just to ease the pressure in his mouth.
Corinthian reached for the door, then looked back at Adair, their eyes meeting. The sheer disappointment in Corinthian's eyes as they stared Adair down left his stomach flipping and trying to curl in upon itself.
The moment passed. Corinthian pushed open Astrea's door and gestured for the crewman to bring Adair.
"A guest for you, sweet girl."
"Adi?" The way Astrea could put confusion and surprise all on the two simple syllables of his nickname made Adair's chest ache. He locked his gaze upon hers and, as though hoping he might have manifested sudden telepathy, begged with his eyes for her to run. He knew she wouldn't. Wouldn't understand. Almost certainly wouldn't heed his urging even if she did.
Corinthian stepped between them, reaching for Astrea, drawing near, fingers caressing her cheek and speaking to Astrea in low tones, the words meant for her alone. The fawning way that Astrea turned her attention to Corinthian left Adair's stomach roiling.
The crewman dragged Adair, still struggling against his bindings, to the corner of the room where chains lay as though they'd been waiting for him. The crew member wrestled Adair to his knees and linked the first set of chains to his bound hands, yanking backwards and making the chains rattle when Adair tried again to pull away.
In the middle of that small room, Corinthian's voice rose from that soft murmur, not much, but loud enough for Adair to make out the words — spoken in clear Oracean — as Corinthian directed Astrea's gaze away from Adair, where the sound of his shackling had drawn her attention. "Don't fret about him, sweet girl. He's about to learn a valuable lesson." Corinthian patted Astrea's cheek once, twice, and then crossed to Adair, dismissing the crew member with a hand wave and a clear intention to take over the process of binding Adair.
"Remember, you brought this on yourself," Corinthian said, ratcheting all the give out of the chain hooked through Adair's collar. He glared at the pirate, wrinkling his nose and pulling back his lips as best he could to bare his teeth while the gag kept him silenced.
Corinthian's hand slid to Adair's cheek, the touch almost tender and the implication of power in that contact somehow worse than an actual slap would have been. "You know whose fault this is, don't you, little prince. It didn’t have to come to this." Then Corinthian leaned in, voice low against Adair's ear, the words whispered in a sultry husk like those of a lover, "Prove to me you still want your prize, little prince. Make me believe you."
With that, Corinthian turned to the crew member once more, uttering a curt two words and nodding towards Astrea. From the way blood had drained from Astrea's face, Adair's guess that the language had been Pyrian had to have been correct — for all the good that knowledge would do in the moment. He didn’t have to speak the language to know precisely what that command had been.
The door had scarcely closed behind Corinthian when the crew man all but lunged for Astrea, his big hands far too rough on her small frame as he pawed at her with intentions all too clear.
The chain hooked onto the collar didn't allow enough ease to turn his head away, forcing Adair to stay watching as Astrea was manhandled and fondled. Straining against his bonds, he tried in futility to yell through the gag, tried to demand that Astrea be left alone.
And when the man pinned Astrea on her stomach, hiking up her skirt to mount her roughly, and her screams reached that achingly familiar pitch? Adair couldn't try to look away. The pirate had even had the audacity to make sure to position himself and Astrea so that Adair would see Astrea's terrified face, her eyes begging for help.
Adair threw himself against his bonds, nearly choking from the pressure of the collar at his throat, screaming into the gag, his feet skidding on the floor as he tried to lever himself up against the hold of the chains.
That was Astrea.
He'd promised to protect her. He had sworn to keep her safe. And now? Anger clouded his eyes. Anger at his own failures, at Corinthian, at their whole situation, at the man defiling Astrea right in front of him.
Rage sparked in his veins.
And with the tempest of his anger came the magic.
Heat and light flashed. The air boomed and crackled with the sharp metallic scent of ozone mixed with the acrid stench of singed flesh and hair.
The man atop Astrea slumped, then collapsed on top of her, wisps of smoke rising from his suddenly still body. Astrea trembled beneath him, her breath shuddering as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her terrified eyes met Adair's once more, and he tried again to speak, as though this time his words might get through instead of getting trapped behind the gag and emerging only as garbled, desperate sounds.
"Adi!" Astrea scrambled out from beneath the man's body, stumbling towards Adair and tripping on unsteady legs as she rushed to him. Her shaking fingers dug into the knot at the back of Adair's head, trying to pull the gag free. "Hang on, Adi," she whispered, even as Adair tried in vain to ask her if she was alright.
Knowing that she couldn't be.
After what felt an eternity, Astrea tugged the gag free and Adair worked his jaw, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before attempting to speak, the words that had been so blocked before having suddenly taken their leave.
He could only stare at her, searching her face for…something. Some assurance he knew he couldn’t find. Certain the look on Astrea's face was her doing the same to him.
At the other side of the room, the door opened once more, marking Corinthian's return.
"Highness." It was the only word Adair managed to say to her before Corinthian intervened, catching Astrea by the shoulder and pushing her away with the merest pressure.
"Away from him just now, sweet girl. I fear you'll only spoil his lesson."
Adair wished that Astrea would have put up any resistance to the command, but she merely gave him an apologetic look before moving away, leaving him to face Corinthian.
The approval on Corinthian's face left Adair's feelings in a confusing flip-flop, trapped somewhere between relief to have done well, and dread that Corinthian looked so pleased. A single, slender finger caught beneath Adair's collar, Corinthian's nail scraping delicately against the skin of Adair's throat to direct his attention upwards. "I knew you could do it, little prince," Corinthian said, voice pitched once more in that husky tone. "You've earned your prize." And, as if there had been any question as to which prize they meant, Corinthian indicated Astrea almost without turning their head, angling their forehead and pointing to her, almost, with eyes alone.
Unwholesome OC Week Day 1: "I Hate Everything About You"
M/F | General Vancil/Penelope | Talentless
How these two decided getting married was the right course of action is anyone's guess. They've never learned how to get along.
Words: 912
Prompt: Hatefucking/Violence
Content: Toxic Marriage | physical violence | non-graphic vaginal sex | fighting to fucking
The crack of the General's hand against her cheek left Penelope tasting blood, and not for the first time. Her eyes burned as she turned back to him, glowering and wiping her mouth on the back of one hand, almost surprised when there wasn't a trace of the blood she tasted marking her skin.
"You dare," she hissed, "to strike me?" As though by pretending as though the action were a new one might make her husband reflect upon his choices.
Any hope that she might have had that he would find her words intimidating — small though the chance might have been — vanished as he scoffed, his hand darting out to catch her by the chin and yank her close to him.
"You dare to speak to me so insolently?" he hissed.
Penelope twisted from his grasp, slapping his hand away. "I do." She raised a hand to the space between her breasts, the place where her small dagger sat nestled between them, as it always did, as she glared at her husband. The unspoken threat didn't faze him. She shouldn't have been surprised; it never fazed him even when it was spoken aloud either. "Who would have thought the great General Vancil could be goaded so by mere words?"
"Silence."
"No."
Rage flashed in the General's eyes. Penelope knew what would be coming next, but the knowledge of what he would do was little enough preparation for the way he shoved her back into the wall.
"You have yet to learn your place."
Her place. The box he seemed to think he could cram her into if he only trimmed enough of her away. As if she could ever be held within whatever narrow definition he expected to contain her. He'd always liked her fight, her fire, yet now he sought to douse her, tame her to be the soft glow of a candle flame instead of the blaze he'd been scorched by and chosen to capture anyway.
"You have never had a place for me."
"You would find it if you behaved." The response was expected, turning it around on her, as though she were ever the only part of the problem.
General Vancil caught Penelope by the chin once more, his thrice damned blue eyes all but smouldering with rage, and something else, as he stared her down.
She refused to look away, glaring right back and noting the way his pupils widened the longer she returned the challenge in his gaze.
It was the only warning she had before his mouth was upon hers.
So often — not always, but often — it was what their fights became. Sharp words turned to the domineering need to keep the other person speaking in the most primal way; tongues, teeth, and lips used to enforce each other's silence. Blows became hands fisted in clothing that was soon ripped — sometimes literally — from each other and discarded, the garments casualties of the Vancil couple's personal war.
Love had never been a factor. Not even on those nights they had conceived their children, their crude rutting little more than finding a release they could never seem to find through fighting alone.
It was no different this time. There had never been any of the tenderness that Penelope had been given to expect between husband and wife, not with him. Each staggered step to their bed was like ceding contested land in a centuries long skirmish, a give and take with overall left neither any richer.
The General pushed Penelope's legs apart, forcing the shape of himself between her thighs and driving his length into her with all the gentleness she imagined him using while spearing a boar while on one of his infernal hunts.
She scarcely made a sound as he began to thrust, swallowing back all but her sharpest gasps. He'd never earned anything more.
Her fingers digging into his back and scraping up his hard flesh only ever encouraged him, hastened his release, tactics Penelope had learned early on in their coupling that she employed often to bring about a quicker end. It had become habit for her to ensure she'd picked her nail beds free of all traces of him as she cleaned up in the aftermath.
Penelope's teeth sank into the General's shoulder, his motions sparking something like pleasure in her core, a precipice he'd ever led her to the edge of, drawing her closer, and closer. The promise of something more always just on the horizon.
General Vancil grunted his release, his seed spilling into her, off in search of a womb that would never again allow his or any other's offspring to take root. He rolled off of Penelope, satisfied with his own part of their coupling, his movements loaded with self-satisfaction.
If the thought of walking away from the General — from everything — didn't feel so much like conceding him yet another victory, Penelope might have left long ago. The passing humiliation of having his wife leave would only temporarily dull the shine of General Vancil's reputation, and merely temporary would never be good enough. Penelope wanted to see the day the exalted General lost his favour, would not be reduced to learning of it through barely reliable hearsay.
No. When the man who had ruined her life finally fell from the pedestal he'd been placed on, she'd get to watch it as it happened.
And if it got too bad before then? Well. She always had her knife.
June 3 | NECROPHILIA / CORRUPTION / POWER IMBALANCE
June 4 | NONCONSENSUAL VOYEURISM / MINDBREAK / INCEST
June 5 | DUBCON / UNETHICAL EXPERIMENTATION / POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOUR
June 6 | WOUND FUCKING / MIND CONTROL / BLACKMAIL
June 7 | BAD SEX / CANNIBALISM / CODEPENDENCY
additional info & rules below the cut! ✨
This event is centred around OCs (original characters). While customisable video game protagonists (e.g. tav/durge (bg3), warden/hawke/inquisitor/rook (dragon age), the rogue trader (rogue trader), etc.) are welcomed, canon characters should be relegated to background characters in works made for this event, if included at all.
By choosing to take part in this event, you confirm that you are both of legal age and mature enough to take part in an event centred around dark and potentially triggering topics.
While no one is obligated to interact with topics they do not wish to, there will be zero tolerance on attempts at censorship, kinkshaming, harassment, or bullying of any kind. Anyone who partakes in this behaviour will be excluded from this and all future events.
Prompts may be interpreted however you wish! Feel free to take one, two, or even all three prompts for a given day, combine them, make separate works for each one, whatever calls to you; there's no "right way" to take part. Additionally, there is no limit as to how many works you can create for any given day. Want to write two different fics for the same characters for the same prompt? Go for it! Want to draw two different art works for two different characters for the same prompt? Hell yeah! Go nuts, show guts. Or, y'know, whatever.
Please tag your posts with #unwholesomeocweek so we can all peruse everyone's creations! While not necessary, feel free to @ this blog too, if you would like to. I'll be going through the tag and reblogging everyone's works here as much as I can during the week, but if you believe your post has been missed and you have followed all the guidelines set out here, please send an ask to this blog off anon in case I've missed it!
Additionally, if you are posting your work to AO3, add it to the collection! This will open the day before the event starts (31st May) and remain open for a month after the end of the event (7th July) to catch any late entries.
All works reblogged to this blog will be tagged for common triggers with the format "trigger tw" (e.g. rape tw, incest tw, etc). While not an obligation, participants are encouraged to include tags in the same format on their original post for ease of filtering. If there are any specific triggers anyone would like tagging, please send an ask to this blog and I will do my best to accommodate you. (Note: this can be on or off anon, at your preference.)
While including trigger tags is a courtesy, works that include neither tags nor content warnings in the body of the post will not be reblogged to this blog. (Note: where the content warning is the prompt, it is not necessary to include a warning in addition to the prompt (e.g., if the prompt is sexual assault, it is not necessary to include a warning for this in the body of the post so long as the prompt is included). If your post is a link to a fic hosted elsewhere, including a screenshot of e.g. AO3 tags is an acceptable alternative.)
Works made using generative ai are not welcome in this event.
Works set in the harry potter universe, or making use of its canon or lore, are not welcome in this event.
Andreal gives Izare what he wants for one night, with conditions
Canon-divergent, replaces chapter 52 (3.4k)
Ages are early 20s, except Andreal who is older
Dubious consent | forced by a third party | witness | restraint | edging | abuse
Izare knew this was not going to be like the last time the guards had collected him. They didn't take him to the same room, the Lord General's interrogation room, but on a more winding path through the servant's halls and into what turned out to be the manor's bathhouse. Aided by the guards managing his shackles, an indifferent servant girl cleaned him roughly and dressed him in fine Kovarian fashion.
He wondered who the clothing belonged to, for it was soft enough that he knew it had been worn often.
He didn't have a lot of time to wonder. Once he was dressed they dragged him off again, on another path that led to an impressive set of double doors.
One of them rapped on the doors.
Mahesha opened it, and Izare stared.
He was not wearing Kovarian clothing at all, but some kind slinky and silken wrapped robe which clung to him, concealing nothing, and less still where the fabric was cut in slits that rose all the way up to his hips. He was draped in jewelry and his hair, which was loose and tumbling over his shoulder. He was not the same Mahesha that Izare had always known, dressed up like this. He was not the same, seemingly not recognizing Izare at all. His gaze seemed unfocused too, and Izare wondered what had been done to him.
Had been done to him because Izare had failed to protect him, either of them.
Lord General Andreal stood just behind him, with that same placid smile as ever on his face.
Even having been on the receiving end of his interrogation before, it was still hard to reconcile his kindly appearance with his behavior.
"How nice of you to accept my invitation Mr. Harrickson."
The guards handed over his chain to Mahesha, who tugged on it lightly.
Izare could do nothing but follow him.
Follow him through the room, into the next-
Into the-
The-
The bedchamber.
Mahesha led him to the bed but it was Andreal who pushed him down.
Izare's mind was totally blank, the same stuttering, unfinished thoughts starting over and over as Mahesha climbed onto the bed next to him and dragged his arms up and back, affixing links of the chain into a clasp screwed on the headboard, presumably for that purpose.
Red silk slipped off of him as he leaned forward and Izare looked away, but he had seen more than enough.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Mahesha finished what he was doing and moved off the bed to stand by Andreal.
Izare looked back to follow him, and his expression was as carefully blank as Izare had ever seen it.
"Well Mr. Harrickson," Andreal said. "You were so cooperative last time, I thought we’d have a little fun tonight. Fun of your choosing."
"My choosing," Izare repeated, not understanding.
"I know how much you like my little pet here," Andreal said, and one of his hands slid down Mahesha's back. "I thought I might let you have him, for one night."
Have-
Have him?
"What-"
"I'm not done," Andreal.
Izare shut his mouth.
"He's so needy, my pet is. So it's your choice. I can give him to you for the night or, well," and here he smiled, "my generals could also use a reward for all their hard work."
"No," Izare said, automatically.
"So you do want him?"
"I-"
"He's not like that charming little fiancé you have waiting for you. He's a professional, so he does as he’s told. But a beast too, you understand. They’re a little dense. You’ll have to be specific."
"I-"
What?
What was happening? Izare didn't understand, didn't understand what Andreal was saying.
"I'll give you a countdown of twenty," said Andreal. "To make up your mind and tell us what you want. Twenty."
What he wanted?
"Nineteen."
Mahesha, of course.
"Eighteen."
But not like this.
"Seventeen."
Not-
"Sixteen."
Not if it wasn't what he wanted.
"Fifteen."
But the generals wouldn't care at all.
"Fourteen"
It wasn't his choice, it wasn't Mahesha's choice. It was Andreal's.
"Thirteen."
He couldn't.
"Twelve."
But which was worse? And Mahesha was just looking at him. Why was he just looking at him like that? He gave Izare nothing at all to work with. Like he didn’t care. But surely-
"Eleven."
Izare did want him, and always had.
"Ten."
And wasn't this better, at least? The better option for Mahesha? Or maybe he was just telling himself that.
"Nine."
But-
"Eight."
But-
"Seven."
"I don't…don't know-"
"Six."
"how-"
"Five."
"with a man-" he squirmed even as he said it, and his chains rattled slightly.
"Four."
Andreal look so pleased with his discomfort. He was grinning now, in that predatory way that he had. The only time he looked like the kind of person he was.
"Three."
Izare's face was burning up. But-
"Two."
"I just…I just want him to cover me," he blurted out.
Andreal chuckled. "Really, a strapping young lad like you? He's a beast, you know, not a man."
"I know," Izare said. "I know. Don't…don't send him away."
"Oh no, I won't. But it's a problem isn't it? You don't know how to instruct him, do you? Would you like my help, Mr. Harrickson?"
No, he wouldn't. Was he really going to stay here? Stay here and watch them? Of course he was, he was never going to leave, Izare should know that. But…direct them?
His stomach turned at the thought.
But if he refused, would Andreal send Mahesha away after all?
Izare swallowed.
"Please," he said.
"You want to get started pet, with undressing him. The vest first. As for you, young Mr. Harrickson, mind your manners. You don't speak over your teachers, do you?"
Izare shook his head.
"Don't speak unless I ask you to."
Izare had no idea what was happening at all. As Mahesha slid back onto the bed next to him and began undoing the buttons on his vest, Izare nodded.
Mahesha didn't say anything, didn't look at him, concentrating on the task at hand.
Andreal settled into a chair right next to the bed and steepled his fingers, watching with amusement.
The vest fell open, and Mahesha pushed up around his shoulders.
"The shirt next," Andreal said.
As if Mahesha didn't know.
But Mahesha didn't say anything, and neither did Izare.
Mahesha tugged at the fabric first, pulling it loose from where it was tucked in.
Just the feeling of that soft fabric sliding over his skin-
Of knowing who was doing it-
By all the Numerian saints and Kovarian demons, Mahesha hadn't even touched him and Izare was falling apart.
Mahesha was leaning over him undoing the buttons on his shirt, and his hair was trailing lightly over Izare's stomach.
Izare had held himself under such rigid control his whole life, and now he could feel that going up in smoke.
He let his head fall back, breathing heavily.
Even more so as Mahesha pushed the shirt up to match the vest.
"So, Mr. Harrickson," Andreal said, and Izare looked at him. Mahesha rocked backwards, kneeling at Izare’s side with his hands in his lap.
"Yes?"
"Is that the tone you're going to use with someone doing you a favor?"
"Sorry, sir."
He chuckled. "So Mr. Harrickson," he began again, "what did you use to imagine about my pet when you touched yourself at night?"
Izare jumped as if he'd been struck, his chains rattled and the shackles dug into his wrists, keeping him down
"I didn't!" he said, and his voice cracked in his panic. "I never did! Never…never let myself-"
He couldn't look at Mahesha.
Andreal was laughing for real now, laughing at him.
"And your fiancé?" He asked when he had stopped. "What do you think about when she's got you in her hands?"
Izare swallowed, and said nothing.
Andreal leaned forward.
"Mr. Harrickson, my courtesans can't perform if they aren't told what to do. If they can't perform properly, my customers are unhappy. If my customers are unhappy, I have to punish my courtesans for not doing their jobs. Do you understand?"
That he would hurt Mahesha if Izare didn't?
He swallowed again. "Yes…yes sir."
"We'll try it again. So when that pretty little fiancé of yours is touching you, who do you really think about?"
"Him," Izare said, clenching his hands so tightly he thought he might bleed from it. He didn't want to say Mahesha's name, not in front of Andreal. "I think about him doing it instead. Sir."
"Of course you do. He's beautiful, isn't he?"
Izare nodded. "Yes."
"How does your fiancé touch you?"
"She-"
Saints and demons. Izare thought his heart might just beat out of his chest. It would do him a favor if it did. His face burned.
"I try not to think about it. Sir."
"That can't be true, if you're thinking about my pet here."
"I don't…I don't like it," Izare said. "I don't…I try not to think about it."
"Oh what brave little soldiers make up the Numerian army, hm? How does she touch you, Mr. Harrickson?"
"She…uses her hands, mostly."
"Where?"
"E-everywhere."
Andreal was staring at him.
"A bit slow yourself, aren't you?" He reached down beside his chair and picked up something, a horse crop, Izare realized.
He drew back his arm and brought it down across Mahesha's back with a crack like thunder and enough force that Mahesha fell forward and had to catch his balance.
Izare had seen what Andreal had done to Mahesha before, had seen him heal from it. Something like this probably barely bothered him. But that it wasn't Mahesha that Andreal was trying to bother, was it?
No, of course not.
Andreal raised his arm again.
"I don't know!" Izare said. "I don't know! I just…I just let her do what she wants, and then I get drunk and I try not to think about it. Don't…don't hit him for that!"
"That's not good enough, I'm afraid," said Andreal, and he hit Mahesha again.
Crack.
"I…She…She-"
Crack.
"She starts with my chest, usually, and works her way down and, and, and I have to think about him, so that she can…so that she can bed me. Please! Please…"
"Was that so hard?" Andreal put down the crop and leaned back in his chair again. "She starts to your chest because you like it more? What part? Throat? Collarbone? Nipples?"
"Y-yes."
"Which one?"
Izare did not think he’d ever been so humiliated in his entire life. He closed his eyes.
"My…nipples, sir."
What was happening to him? To both of them? Why? Why?
"Start gently, pet. Let's teach Mr. Harrickson what he likes. Take a more comfortable seat for yourself first, then touch him."
Izare's eyes flew open as a weight settled on him, and he found Mahesha straddling his hips.
Their eyes met, and Mahesha's expression softened, just a little, just an instant, short enough that he might've imagined it, and then Mahesha put his hands on Izare's bare stomach.
His touch was cool on Izare's feverish skin, and his fingers were so light as they trailed up his stomach.
Towards their destination.
Mahesha’s thumb brushed across one of Izare's nipples and he gasped, jumping against Mahesha and the chains again.
"From that?" Andreal said, his accent made thicker from his amusement. "Just how desperate are you, Mr. Harrickson?"
Izare didn't know if that was a question he was supposed to answer, but he didn't want Mahesha to get hit again.
"Very," he said, voice rough. "Very."
"If you lose yourself over this, you won't get to enjoy the main course you've ordered."
"N-no…"
"I suppose I'll have to help you more than I anticipated," Andreal said. "Keep going, pet."
So Mahesha continued exploring Izare's chest, and it was-
"How long have you been so desperate, Mr. Harrickson?"
"W-what?"
"How long have you wanted my little pet here?"
"Since…since I was fifteen, at least."
"No wonder," Andreal said, then laughed again. "He’s so obedient, you could've had him any time. You tortured yourself for nothing."
No, Izare knew that. That was exactly why he'd been forced to control himself so strictly. He supposed Andreal wasn't concerned with things like that.
Mahesha rolled one of Izare's nipples between his fingers, and Izare jumped again, it was just-
Andreal interrupted.
"What did you think about doing, then, with him?"
Damn him, why-
"Just…just kissing," Izare said. "Playing with his hair. I don't know. Just…being with him."
"How disgustingly domestic. But whores are no good for that kind of life."
No, that wasn't true.
Izare knew exactly how suited for domestic life Mahesha was.
"It's just what I-" Want. "Wanted."
"Move on, pet."
Mahesha's hands slid down and began working Izare free of his trousers.
He-
He-
"Oh," Izare breathed out as Mahesha ran his hand down his length.
"So Mr. Harrickson," Andreal asked, smiling. "Is he better than your fiancé?"
Why keep asking him?
Whenever Izare fell into what Mahesha was doing, Andreal would go about asking his little questions, and Mahesha would stop until he answered.
He wondered, briefly, if they did this a lot.
"Y-yes."
"Of course, I trained him myself." Andreal smiled that same placid, nothing, smile as always. "You border boys are so repressed, wherever do you get it? It's not from our side of the family, I can say. By fifteen I was already well into helping with the family business. I do like to keep my hand in it."
He patted Mahesha then, on the ass, in the blandly affectionate way one would pat a horse or a mule.
Mahesha didn't react to him at all. He was still touching Izare, and Izare thought he might lose his mind.
"What about your fiancé?"
He didn't want to be thinking about Nelles right now!
"What…what about her?"
"Is she domestic enough for you?"
"Yes? I haven't really thought about it."
"Not at all? Does she cook? Clean?"
"Well enough."
Not as well as Mahesha. He was so good-
So good with his hands.
Saints and demons, was he.
It was harder and harder to keep from just moaning out his name, which Izare had no intention of saying in front of Andreal, not that, not the name that Izare had given him.
It was fortunate, then, that he had a lot of practice at denying that particular urge already.
He didn't know if Mahesha had told Andreal his name and Andreal didn't care, or if he hadn't even cared enough to ask. Either way, it wasn't ammunition Izare wanted to give him.
"When you fuck your fiancé, Mr. Harrickson, does she mark you up? Bites and scratches?"
Why was he so, so, so vulgar? As if this wasn't embarrassing enough!
"N-no, not usually."
Mahesha had stopped moving, now he turned around.
"May I?" he asked. It was the first thing he'd said all evening, and his voice was low and rough too, not like Izare had ever heard from him before.
Was-
Was Mahesha actually –
Was he actually enjoying this?
Stupid question.
Mahesha was still straddling him, and there was nothing between them except a thin layer of silk. Mahesha was pressed up against him, and Izare could tell he was enjoying himself.
Andreal chuckled indulgently.
"Beasts, you know. They get so excited about marking their territory. But only pack leaders do that, and you aren't one, are you pet?"
"No." Mahesha sighed. Izare had never heard him sound so…so disappointed.
He swallowed, and wondered if Andreal would let Mahesha do it, if he asked.
But Andreal had his own plans for the evening. Before Izare could say anything, he spoke again.
"Perhaps my pet ought to keep his hands to himself. Does your fiancé ever use her mouth on you, Mr. Harrickson?"
"Not…not really. She doesn't like it."
"Should he try that?"
"All right," Izare agreed.
Anything might as well happen now. He could barely think at all, barely hold onto himself.
But he missed Mahesha's weight as he moved backwards to kneel between Izare's legs instead.
Izare couldn’t bear to watch then, but could feel it as Mahesha took in his mouth and-
And Andreal asked another question.
"Your fiancé never did this?"
"Only…only a few times."
"Is he better?"
"You…you know he is, why keep asking me? Oh..."
"My, my, Mr. Harrickson, we're simply getting to know one another."
Izare let his head fall back again.
Mahesha's mouth was really so-
So-
"I'm doing you a favor," Andreal said. "You wouldn't have lasted half as long without me. Are you that eager to embarrass yourself?"
"N-no."
"So then, you ought to be thanking me."
"Thank you, sir."
Andreal was silent for a few moments, and Izare thought Andreal was right. No, he knew that Andreal was right about him.
Because Izare was desperate, and the way Mahesha was using his tongue was really quite-
"Do you want to go like this, or do you still want him to fuck you?"
Izare groaned but managed to say, "Yes."
"Yes what, Mr. Harrickson?"
"I still…still want him to, to fuck me."
"You're truly an interesting young man, aren't you?" Andreal said. "Okay, pet."
Mahesha sat up and Izare could not stop himself from whining, just a little. A little, but enough.
Andreal was laughing at him again.
"Patience, boy."
While Izare knew men could sleep with one another, knew it from the derogatory comments that people made, he didn't know how, precisely.
He didn't know what to expect when Mahesha held out his hand and Andreal poured something into it from a little vile.
And then Mahesha's hands were between his legs.
Izare gasped.
Was that-
"What's your fiancé's name?"
"I…I don't want to think about her, right now."
He wanted to pay attention to what Mahesha was doing.
"I asked you a question."
And Izare remembered then, the horse crop, and swallowed again.
"Nelles, sir."
"What do you like about her?"
"She…she likes me."
What was Mahesha doing to him? Izare had had no control over the situation to begin with, and now he was realizing he was losing bits that he hadn't even known he still held onto. Everything was out of his hands, it was all in Andreal's hands. Or Mahesha's.
Mahesha's...
He had never, never felt like this with Nelles, not once.
"And that's enough for you?"
Izare was taking great, heaving gulps of air, and tried to collect himself enough to answer.
"I don't…don't have any other options. I, I like her, as, as, as a person, but-"
"You'd rather be the wife yourself, wouldn't you, Mr. Harrickson?"
"Yes, I...I just knew it, I don't know. I just felt it. Oh..."
He almost said Mahesha's name again, and slammed his mouth shut.
But he couldn't keep it closed forever, not even for very long, in fact.
He had never been so out of control in all his life.
"Please..."
"I don't think he's going to last, pet. It's disappointing, but I believe young Mr. Harrickson has had enough appetizers."
Mahesha drew back and Izare pulled uselessly against the chains, wanting to follow.
"No need for that, Mr. Harrickson. We just need to make it a little easier for him," Andreal said. "He lacks some practice in this area."
He stood up and put his hands on Izare for the second time that evening, turning him over onto his knees.
The chains were too tight now, having been twisted around, and the shackles dug into him. Izare didn’t care at all.
He couldn't turn to see, not either of them. But he felt Mahesha's hands on him, on his sides. And he felt Mahesha entering him, and moaned.
"Having a good time, Mr. Harrickson?"
"Y-yes!"
He felt Mahesha's fingers digging into him, only on the side Andreal couldn't see. He wondered if Mahesha was trying to mark him after all.
If he'd bruise.
He hoped so.
Oh...
Andreal didn't ask him any more questions, and Izare finally, finally got to enjoy what Mahesha was doing to him.
He did not, as Andreal had predicted, hold on very long.
But Mahesha hardly lasted much longer.
At least-
At least he had enjoyed it, even if it hadn't been his choice.
Izare had enjoyed it.
Oh, he had really enjoyed it…
Despite everything.
“Come along, pet.”
Andreal left then, just for a moment, to call the guards to come haul Izare away.
In that moment Mahesha leaned forward and whispered against his ear, "Happy midwinter, Izare."
Mid…winter?
Then he was gone, following after Andreal before Izare could even think to ask which one of them, exactly, this was supposed to have been a present for.
This one was really fun to write because of the formatting of it. I love doing stuff like that and I'm glad that the countdown still is effective even though you had read it previously!!!
Since this is the one that actively replaces chapter 52, I really want to see your reaction when you get to the real chapter 52 having read all of these first.
I've written about them before too! This takes place about 5 years later.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 2,259
Content: no warnings
"I would not have thought to use lace like this," Prince Seraltem said, looking at his reflection in the polished gold of the mirror as Yeva dressed him.
"No," Yeva said, "but this is something that they do where I'm from."
"Why?"
"Because it's beautiful." And it was. Seraltem was almost ethereally pale, with white hair and bright blue eyes. To make this outfit Yeva had used lace and gauze and ribbon all in black, and so it stood out against him in stark relief. It was the best he could do from his far-off memories of snatched glances through his uncle's magazines, but he thought he had done well. Everything came together under his hands to make what would be a very tantalizing present to unwrap, later.
"I meant, why are you doing it?"
"Just a game, your highness," Yeva said as he tied the last piece – a lace choker – into place. "You're going to sit through the banquet tonight knowing that you're wearing this, and knowing that I know, and that nothing can be done about it until we get back at the end of the evening."
"I didn't know you were so diabolical."
Yeva just hummed under his breath.
All too often Seraltem would persuade Yeva into skipping events like this, into leaving early, or into grabbing a few fumbling moments alone somewhere. Not tonight. Tonight, he would wait.
This outfit Yeva had made for him, with all it's interconnected ribbons and bows, was too complicated to get in and out of quickly, or to undo just part of. It would fit under his festival clothing without giving itself away, a restriction and promise both that only they two would know about.
Seraltem was fascinated, turning this way and that way, looking at his reflection.
"Stop squirming," Yeva told him. "I have to dress you for real. You'll have plenty of time to look at yourself later, because I'm going to draw you like this."
"You are?!"
He hadn't really planned on it from the beginning, but seeing Seraltem like this, he couldn't resist.
"I am, so you have to manage to sit still with me looking at you like this."
Yeva loved drawing Seraltem, but only in innocent moments. Seraltem had a propensity for impatience, and the few times Yeva had tried to draw something more indiscreet had left him flustered and giggly, unable to sit still.
"It's your game today," Seraltem said.
"Yes," Yeva said, "it is."
Seraltem gave him a slightly awkward smile in response.
He was always like that.
Yeva had sometimes wondered why only two portraits of Seraltem had survived until the modern day. Although the time that he lived in now was a long way from the time he'd been born in, portraits of Seraltem's other family members had survived in greater abundance. He would never have expected this to be the truth of it, that Perfect Prince Seraltem was shy.
The people who knew him call him harebrained, the way that he ran about, thoughts and actions scattered to the four winds. In public he had a perfect and proper mask to rely on, but in private afterwards he fell apart. Even with Yeva he was surprisingly unsure. Not that he could've possibly had any doubt about Yeva's devotion to him but more like…like Seraltem felt unworthy of it.
It seemed ridiculous to phrase it like that after everything that Seraltem had accomplished, even at a relatively young age, but it was true. He simply could not sit in someone's regard, he always had to turn it into something more frantic.
It was probably also why he so often tried to lure Yeva away from events like these and into amorous encounters in dark rooms and other secret spots, places where he didn't have to worry about anybody looking at him. Where, even if he had to go back, he could do so from a place of reassurance.
So this 'game' was a lot to ask of him, but Yeva asked it anyway and Seraltem, whatever he almost certainly felt about it, didn't refuse. He always had been a fairly accommodating person, which Yeva had partially been relying on.
Banquets like this had their own particular rhythm to play to. First there would be some form of entertainment, which tonight was a play. Then there would be the feast, which Seraltem so dreaded. That was because harts and hinds – which was to say, Yeva – could not sit by their hunter's side. That would drag on forever, with Seraltem being forced to make polite and respectful conversation with anyone who came up to him. After dinner there would be coffee and fruit, and talking, but looser and less formal. People wandered around, going through the gardens or breaking off into little knots of their own, and that was always when Seraltem came to find him.
But his tendency to vanish had been noticed, and often remarked upon. Most especially by Her Highness Arlenia who, predictably but not incorrectly, laid the blame at Yeva's feet.
Seraltem was a prince. Every once in a while, he needed to make an effort to remain until the end.
That was one of the reasons that Yeva had waited until a night like this to bring out the outfit that he had made. Now Seraltem would make no effort to find him, and Yeva would not have to refuse him. They were playing a different kind of game, and Seraltem knew that they were. It may not be very relaxing, but it would keep him there all night.
And so it did.
In fact Yeva didn't even see Seraltem after the end of the meal until Seraltem finally made it back to his room, where Yeva was waiting for him. He already had everything that he needed set up, except for the model.
"You ought to undress for me, and get comfortable," Yeva said.
Seraltem did not protest, but his face was bright pink as he reached up and undid the clasp of his blouse at the nape of his neck.
It was funny, almost, that they had been lovers for several years, and had loved one another for several years beyond that, and Seraltem still struggled to do this. He did not want to let Yeva just look at him.
Yeva wanted to look at him.
He had set up a chair for Seraltem, with plush feather pillows that he could use for support, and to get comfortable. He did so now, lounging across it, elbow set against one arm of the chair and chin on his hand, looking away. Yeva didn't bother asking Seraltem to turn around and look at him. If he did, Seraltem probably wouldn't be able to sit still.
Yeva started drawing him.
Seraltem was beautiful.
He always had thought so, but things had changed recently. When they'd met, when Yeva had fallen back through time and landed practically had Seraltem's feet, he had still been caught in the awkwardness of adolescence, they both had. Seraltem had still been lanky, gangly. But now he had grown into himself. Comfortable living had filled him out, softened him, and brought him at last to the Seraltem that Yeva remembered. The young man in the two portraits that existed, the ones he had looked at over and over again when he was a child.
In less than six months, Seraltem would vanish again, this time permanently. There was no record of him whatsoever after this upcoming feast of the new year. Whatever would happen to them would happen, Yeva could not and did not worry about it, nor did he say anything about it. Everyone knew that he was from somewhere else, and Yeva had put a great deal of effort into making sure nobody knew he was actually from somewhen else.
He had neither the desire nor the arrogance to attempt to alter the past. He just wanted to make the most of the time that they had left.
He did not say anything as he drew. Seraltem glanced at him occasionally, flushed and fidgeted and then settled, looking away again. Yeva hid his smile behind the sketchbook he'd made for himself, and let the scratching of charcoal talk for him.
It was a wonderful idea he'd had, even if he did congratulate himself for it. Seraltem was all kindness and good nature. The harsh black of the ribbon and lace formed a beautiful contrast, one that was nearly as fun to capture and charcoal as it was to look at. Not quite though, he could admit. He spent a greater portion of time looking to drawing than he usually did.
The pose he had chosen left so much of him on display and Yeva took his time with all of it, because there was so much to look at.
The elegant line of Seraltem's jaw and throat, until it was interrupted by the lace choker about his neck. The brilliant blue of his eyes and long eyelashes that framed them. The way that his hair, after an entire evening's entertainment, was just beginning to fall out of the arrangement it had been kept in to brush against his shoulders.
The way that his arm supported him, strong without being at all rigid. The way that his legs laid together tucked up against him. The curve of his waist where he turned to face away. And, against all of it, ribbon and lace and gauze that dug ever so slightly into his pale skin, holding him in place. It was not overly tight, but after wearing it all evening Seraltem's skin was just starting to show little patches of pink that only made him more alluring to look at.
Once, when Seraltem had looked up, they caught each other's eyes.
To tease him, Yeva let his gaze fall very deliberately across all of Seraltem's body and back up, and it was delightful to see how much something so small could make him blush, and breathe a little faster.
"Are you done?" Seraltem asked.
"Drawing you? Yes, I think so. Looking at you, I'm not sure." Yeva had a bucket with water and a rag and his feet and used it to clean the charcoal dust off his hands. "It's quite early in the morning now. Should we turn in, or should we not?"
"I'm wide awake," Seraltem said.
So Yeva went over to him. The chair, though not a full couch, was big enough for two and Seraltem scooted over little bit so that he could sit down. Seraltem always searched for something more frantic, but Yeva was not frantic. He took his time, very slowly untying each bow and undoing each clip, pulling the ribbon back and forth across Seraltem's skin as he did so. Yeva freed him from ribbon and lace and covered him in kisses instead and Seraltem, predictably, squirmed and giggled under his hands, his mouth.
Harebrained, people said about him. Generally people thought that Seraltem was kind, if not very smart. Yeva knew that was not true, knew that Seraltem was brilliant in his own way. He just wasn't any good at hiding anything for long periods of time, or playing political games, or manipulating others. That was one of the things that Yeva loved about him.
Yeva did not undo the outfit in its entirety.
The last part, the shorts that he had sewn, which opened with buttons at Seraltem's hips, he left on. He touched Seraltem through them instead, moving his hand slowly up and down, letting the fabric do some of the work for him, to which Seraltem gasped, and laughed, and opened his legs wider, inviting more. With practiced hands he undid Yeva's clothing, and pulled them closer together.
"What all would you like, Your Highness?"
"I think you know very well," Seraltem said.
He did, and had prepared for it, but it never hurt to ask. Yeva reached down and picked up the flask of oil he had set there earlier.
"Such a typical artist you turn me into, tumbling my models in my studio."
"It isn't me," Seraltem said innocently. "It's the artist who has such a corrupting influence and-" he let out a little sigh of relief when Yeva finally finished undressing him, and melted into his hands as he always did. "-such skillful hands."
"You do yourself a disservice, it's the models who inspire. Without a good model, an artist's not anything at all."
"Ooh," Seraltem said, giggling again, "your prince bids you stop playing around, and service him."
"Yes, your highness, of course, your highness."
Yeva, always his hunter's faithful servant, took what he had been offered. He loved, as he always did, and always had, and always would, his prince and everything about him. The way he looked, yes, but also his kind heart and his shy nature, his eagerness and openness, the way he laughed, the way he blushed, the way Seraltem felt against him, around him, the way they fit together, all of it.
"I love you, Sera," he said.
"I know."
"I hope you keep letting me tell you, tonight and tomorrow and the next day and the next, every day for the rest of our lives."
"I hope you keep telling me," Seraltem said. "I love you too, my hart, my heart."
He always said that, and even after all this time, hearing it made Yeva giddy. He smiled against Seraltem's skin, and did his very best to please.
And the very last one, it's good to end on something cute! Even still, I'm not 100% satisfied with how it came out so I may tackle them again someday!
And presumably, at some point, and something that isn't smut too but you know how it goes! Thank you very much for all your comments! It was delightful reading through them again!!!
As stated, this takes place roughly 10 years before the events of Day 22.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 2,834
Content: Noncon | underage character | monsterfucking
"Stay out of the woods." That's what his mother had always said to him, although Bri had never needed any warnings to stay away from them. He knew better than anyone else what lurked in there.
And yet, here he had ended up anyway.
He tugged futilely at the ropes binding his wrists. The rough twine dug into his flesh, staining itself and the stone altar below him in splashes of crimson. He didn't care, he could barely feel it. A little physical pain was the very least of his worries right now anyway.
"You're special," his mother had always said to him. "You have the ability to do great things, you have the ability to help people."
He did not think this is what she had meant.
When the elders had first come to him with this 'request', he had asked – begged – them to reconsider. Bri had never asked anything of anyone. That didn't matter to them, because they had ignored him in any case. So had gone his first – and last, he resolved – attempt to rely on others.
He had also never done anything to anyone, but they all thought he needed to be punished anyway. It wasn't his fault that his mother had fallen in love with a god and abandoned her marriage. But she had been able to escape their critique and punishment by pining herself to death, and eventually only he was left behind to bear the burden of sin for both of them.
"You're different," his mother had always said to him. "People fear what is different, and that's why you should always try hard to be good, and never cause trouble for anyone."
Until that moment, he had tried hard to follow her advice.
At that moment, he had fought back as best he could, one underfed, half-grown youth against multiple full-grown adults. The result of that attempt, failed just like asking them for mercy, was bruises on his arms, the back of his neck, and also on his knees from where they had forced him down. Much like the raw and shredded skin on his wrists, the bruises were not what bothered him.
He was bound by more than ropes, and injured by more than bruises, there was also The Spell.
He could feel it, almost like a living thing in and of itself. It had its claws in him right now, but it was ready to crawl out of him and swallow something else, with his throat. He tried not to gag. Realistically, he knew that The Spell had no physical form, but he couldn't help feeling like it was choking him from the inside anyway. Perhaps sensitivity to magic was just some other dubious blessing bestowed on him by his mixed blood.
But even that was not what bothered him.
Not really.
The thing that bothered him, the very worst thing, was the forest itself. Because there was something in the forest, and he could feel its presence as an evil miasma all around him. In much the same way that a bird would not want to find itself trapped underground, and a mouse would not want to find itself adrift on an ice flow, Bri knew that this was not where he should be. That this danger was something he was wholly unprepared for.
And the presence in the woods was only getting worse, getting stronger, because that thing was getting closer.
Coming right for him.
He should not be here, he should be running for his life, and he would've been if it weren't for the damn ropes, if only he could break them, if only he could-
"Well, well, well."
The voice came from everywhere, and nowhere. There was nothing to see, no body that occupied the same space as mortals, but Bri knew that it was there with him all the same.
While before his mind had been consumed with thoughts of escape, now it went completely blank as a wave of terror washed over him. His heart pounded so fast that he had a brief thought it might batter him to death from the inside. It would save him a lot of trouble if it did.
But his reaction, extreme as it was to him, only served as a mild amusement to the creature in the woods.
"What a cute little rabbit you are," it said, "I guess that makes me the wolf."
Something touched his cheek and he jerked back instinctively, though he was bound too tightly actually accomplish anything. His skin stung where it made contact, with the same kind of creeping but insistent, tingling heat that came from chopping peppers. Its laughter at his reaction made his bones ache, each sharp, discordant sound boring into him like a needle.
"It's been such a long time since any of the villages have left me a sacrifice, it's so good to see that some people, at least, remember the old ways."
He could see nothing, but he could feel clawed fingers trace their way down his throat and across his bare chest where his robe had fallen open in his struggle. Lines of heat and pain trailed in their wake.
This was the thing they wanted to trap in his body? No, he couldn't. He would die, this thing was antithetical to him, to his very nature. It would kill him, it would kill both of them. Some small part of him that had not yet completely succumbed to panic reminded him cynically that that was the point. The only way to kill this thing was to give it a physical body that mortals could grab, and by using his the village was doing nothing but killing two annoying, unwanted birds with one stone.
Assuming, of course, that he stayed alive long enough for the conditions of The Spell to be met, so that the thing could be trapped. Assuming that it did what they thought it was going to do to him and triggered The Spell in the first place. Right now he wasn't sure about the likelihood of either.
"Oh, don't cry," it said. He hadn't noticed, but invisible hands brushed tears off his cheeks, as gently as his mother used to do. "I promise I can be quite an amusing host, we'll certainly have plenty of fun together little rabbit." It began laughing again then, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
Bri was the son of a god, at least so everyone claimed. In a story he would've had something he could have used to protect himself. Magical powers, or perhaps miraculous strength. But he didn't have anything like that. He was not so different than any ordinary mortal child, and he knew that he was as helpless before this demon as he had been before the men who had prepared him for it.
In a story, maybe his father would have been watching over him from above, would descend from the heavens and smite this horrid thing for the sin of daring to lay a hand on him. But his father had only ever cared about his mother, he had never cared about Bri. There was no one in the world that cared about him. The only one who ever had was dead and gone. Even his own mother had not cared enough about him to stay behind for him, she had left him with nothing but guidance and platitudes.
None of them applied to a situation like this.
Bri closed his eyes.
That only made it worse, made him even more hyper aware of the malicious and predatory nature of the thing toying with him. He shuddered when something that could only have been a tongue lapped slowly at the blood on his wrists, and onto his palm, and around his fingers. Just briefly he felt the sharp point of teeth, but the demon did not bite.
Instead it said, "They've been so accommodating, trussing you up like this. But to be honest, rabbit, I don't really like helpless prey. I'd rather earn my dinner."
He did not see it cut through the rope binding his ankles, but he felt their sudden freedom and lashed out instinctively. His legs were caught almost immediately.
"Patience, rabbit," it chastised him. It sliced through the ropes binding his wrists, first one, and then the other, and then shoved so that Bri tumbled off the stone altar and into the snow below.
"What do you think, will you be able to make it to the edge of the forest before I catch you? Don't worry, I'll give you a head start."
Bri didn't bother with an answer. After several hours of being tied up in the cold, his body was stiff and awkward, and the adrenaline coursing through him only made up for some of that. He knew that he wouldn't make it, the demon would never let him. It was just toying with him, like a cat did. But what else could he do? He forced himself to his feet and fled.
He almost made it, stumbling and tripping, to the edge of the forest. He could see it, the flat plain outside, the village in the distance, he could just see it-
The demon popped up in front of him like the herding dogs did to their sheep. He could see nothing, but he knew it was there all the same.
"Hello, little rabbit," it said.
Bri, panicking exactly as it wanted him to, turned and ran in a different direction.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It drove him one way, then bodily drove him another, and Bri ran until he had no idea where he was, or any idea of how to make it out of the forest. Until he did not feel the cold or the pain or the exhaustion or even the panic, only the instinct. He wanted it to be over, if only he could lay down and let this thing kill him…but he couldn't, his body wouldn't let him. Whatever divine instinct he'd inherited from his father drove him forward in the same way that the bird would always strive for air, and the mouse would always strive for the earth, the divine needed to escape the demonic.
And he did not want it to be over, not really, because he knew exactly what they thought this thing was going to do to him, The Spell was counting on that, and he couldn't bear it.
Again it appeared before him, and again he turned and ran.
And found himself back where they had started, in the clearing with the altar.
Oh no, oh no.
But he had stopped, and his body collapsed on him. He fell to his knees in the snow, chest heaving for want of air, taking great gasping breaths even though every single one felt like inhaling glass, his every limb shaking with dread and exhaustion.
"It's a kindness really," he heard it saying. "I thought perhaps you wouldn't want to die looking at your home, and you have been entertaining enough to deserve a reward."
Oh no.
If only he could run again, if only he could move, if only-
But he had gone far past the limit of his endurance. His body was like lead, and even his father's blood couldn't help him anymore.
He could only sit there while it stroked his hair like he was a dog, while it shoved him forward down into the snow, while it pushed his robe up around his shoulders.
It laughed again as it grabbed his thighs with burning hands and forced his weak, trembling legs apart. "How thoughtful of them."
Yes, they had done that too, impersonal and uncaring as every other part of getting Bri ready for The Spell, because demons were not gentle, and they couldn't afford for him to die until they were certain his death would take this thing with it. It would help, that he had always been sturdy, always healed well, but who would rely on something like that?
It had called him rabbit, and called itself a wolf. It certainly had claws, he had felt them before and felt them again now, digging little points of pain into his shoulders. It had fur too, he could feel that also, across his back as it thrust into him. If its touch before had stung, this was infinitely worse, this truly burned, the demon's own essence and magic driving into him like a barbed arrow, ripping his soul to shreds every time it came back out.
Bri cried, tears even hotter still rolling down his cheeks.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt!
It hurt!
But that was what The Spell needed, the demon had to rape him, like this, because if it didn't, how would anything ever be able to grab hold of its soul and trap it?
But it would not be over until it was over, it was not the physical act that The Spell needed but the metaphysical, the energy that all males released when they spilled the seed of life into ground barren or otherwise.
Bri just cried.
"Oh don't cry," it said, not gentle now but awfully irritable for something that was seemingly getting its way. "I can't stand it, I'd rather have you scream, or make no noise at all."
Bri could not bring himself to stop, even if he had wanted to do this thing a favor, which he didn't. He continued to cry quietly into the snow.
"Honestly," it said.
Then it bit him, closing its teeth around the nape of his neck like a dog held onto a bitch, and Bri did scream.
When he opened his mouth something forced its way in, something stinging and choking and furry. Furry? Tail, he understood very vaguely, this creature was using its tail to gag him.
He could do very little, very little, but, but...if he concentrated all of his remaining strength…
His hands inched forward, as if he had any chance to grab the tail and pull it out, as if he could touch this demon the way it could touch him. But of course, he couldn't. If he could, they wouldn't have needed him to kill it.
There was fur in his mouth, in his throat, and the smell of it, the taste of it, gods, like something rotten! It was everywhere and he couldn't breathe-
Bri choked and gagged and it laughed.
"That's much better," it said.
He had absolutely no conception of time, had no idea how long this went on until it finally chased to completion its boiling pleasure inside of him.
And then-
Then it was stuck, The Spell had it and The Spell closed round tight, tighter and tighter.
As much as it had burned him, The Spell seemed to burn it, because it almost felt like it was melting, turning into sludge that covered him, ran down him in rivulets, dripped off of him, and soaked into his skin the way that water did into the ground.
But it was only caught, not dead, not by a long shot.
"You should not have done that!"
As if Bri had had anything to do with it!
The demon didn't care.
Its scream of rage and helpless frustration echoed around his mind as it battered itself against the inside of his body, trying to find any way to escape. Bri was quite certain that it would rip him to shreds, dig its way out of him, and then where would the village be?
He did not think that he would be able to move. He didn't think that he should be able to move. It was only this thing inside of him, a pointed wrongness, a drop of disease and rot and every foul and filthy thing, that drove him up onto his hands as he lost the meager contents of his stomach.
If only it were so easy to get rid of this thing in him, but no, it would always be with him, until the day he died.
"I'll see you to the gates of hell myself," it hissed and spit, "I won't give you a moment's peace until your body gives out, rabbit, not one!"
Bri believed it.
He thought he would have to get used to being exhausted.
Somehow, he pushed himself to his feet and – with a lack of anything else to do – straightened his robe and tottered slowly back in the direction of the village.
He did not want to go. He did not want to see them triumphant, did not want them to see him like this. But it was the only shelter for miles. The next village was days away, and it was the dead of winter. He would never make it. So where else was he supposed to go? What else was he supposed to do?
A little weird talking about this one because it is so dark and I don't know if it even really counts as smut? It's certainly something that happened. I do think it turned out well though in showing how horrifying it is, so there's that!
Again, I just wanna write more about him again now...like how he gets out, and what happens to the demon too....
I did say that I didn't really want to use them for this because they're too obvious and in fact I didn't write this for Kinktober it was a homework assignment for the Smut Club that I haven't shared yet.
BUT, I haven't shared it yet, and it fits really well for this day so I'm sharing it now
I have written about them a lot. Chronologically this comes after this piece but before these three.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 3,753
Content: dubcon | biting | blood | praise (all the usual nonsense with them)
It was not a common sight to see people alone out here. Not that it was illegal, by any means, but between the miasma and the wraiths, most people with sense avoided travel as much as could be done. When travel did need to be undertaken, it was best to do so with both an escort to deal with monsters and a mage to deal with the miasma.
The hunters themselves never traveled in groups lower than five, with at least two mages.
It was unlikely that one person could possess adequate skills to function as both hunter and mage.
So it was that a solitary figure was enough to make them instantly wary.
A solitary figure crouched over the body of a downed wraith, however, made them more than wary. It was preposterous, a sight no one would expect to see.
And yet, it was exactly the sight presented to them, a short distance away across the tundra.
Savion's captain, Marius, gripped the handle of his spear tightly as they moved forward, calling out, "The remains of wraiths are hazardous, please back away."
The figure was not just near the body, but in it, torso bare and smeared with the viscous red-black blood of the wraiths as he cut it open and dug around searching for something only he knew.
No one would do that, just touch a wraith with their bare hands. Everyone knew that wraiths were vehicles of the miasma which, while bad enough by air, was nearly caustic in their blood.
No one would risk that.
Well, almost no one.
He already knew who it was, but it was only after the figure turned around, revealing the sparkling gold eyes and mischievous smile that he remembered that Savion said, "Lorant."
He remembered the last time he'd seen Lorant, badly injured and bleeding, and falling, seemingly lost forever.
But his relief at seeing Lorant alive was tempered by the same old devil rearing its head, twisting about inside of him. The curse that bound him, the one that had been subdued for so long he had nearly forgotten it.
"Oh my," Lorant said, "you don't seem pleased to see me. Did you hope I was dead?"
"N-no, of course not! I would never wish for such a thing!"
His captain turned to him. "You know this…person?"
Lorant grinned and answered for him. "La, but we know each other very well, don't we Savion?"
His eyes said all kinds of things his words didn't, specific reminders of what all that knowing entailed, and Savion felt himself blushing, extra hot against the cold air of the tundra. He coughed.
"Lorant is a prince of the Golden Forest," he explained. "We met when we were young, although it's been many years since we've seen one another."
His captain and his three other comrades frowned.
Savion had always held his past close, for this very reason. Humans did not trust the Golden Forest, and they did not have anything to do with the inhabitants of it. It made them suspicious of him. If everything came out, about Lorant, about their life in the church, about the curse, that would be worse.
But Marius was a calm person, not given the outbursts of anger. For now he turned his attention away.
"What are you doing so far away from your lands?"
"Mercy killing," Lorant said. "I knew her once, you know, before she went mad."
"Oh, did you?" Savion asked, his tone coming out not at all as light as he intended, underscored with the curse's venom.
Lorant laughed, which had the same effect on him it always did, and Savion balled his hands, trying to rein himself in.
It was a favor, at least, that Lorant used the high tongue as he said, "You always wore jealousy so beautifully."
"Oh, shut up," Savion muttered, looking away.
His captain intervened. "I must request that you step away from that corpse, we need to bring it back to be properly disposed of."
"Denied," Lorant said, and turned around again. "I am disposing of it."
When he faced them again a moment later, he held the wraith’s heart in his hand.
Annoyingly, he offered it first to Savion. "Want any, my Garrant?"
Savion froze, feeling at war within himself. Disgust, because he hated blood, and wraith's blood was the worst of all. Hunger, because the other side of him had no such dislike. Annoyance, that Lorant had not changed at all.
Annoyance won.
"Don't call me that. You know I hate it."
Lorant only smiled and took a bite himself, causing the other members of Savion's party to recoil.
"Don't think we don't know," Lorant said, "that your group is refining wraith blood to use in their machines. You'll fair kill yourselves, playing games like that."
"You kill yourself faster," his comrade Floris said, voice heavy with disbelief and disgust.
Lorant grinned and licked the blood off his hands.
"Bigger problem for you lot is that a blizzard is coming, I can smell it on the wind. Since I doubt you'll get a solid and orderly camp set up in time, I offer you the use of mine own."
"You can't believe," Floris said, "that we would willingly break bread with a beast."
"Say no if you please, I only offer it to you for Savion's sake."
Everyone looked to Savion, and he forced himself not to fidget.
"You're the only one who knows him," Marius said. "What do you think?"
"If he meant you any harm, you'd already be dead," Savion said. "And he's not given to lying, either."
"We can't!" Floris said. "A beast wandering all alone out here, for all we know he's in the process of going mad himself!"
Savion was having a hard time looking away from Lorant, as he always had. But now it was even harder. Now Lorant was all grown up, the softness of youth faded and replaced with something harder, more striking.
Lorant caught Savion looking and smiled a slow, creeping thing full of promises that made him dizzy. His other self was going mad, clawing and scrabbling at him, twisting around, yowling its hunger, and Savion had to shove it back, back.
But it was not solely the other him caught in the trap of wanting. It always had been him who had followed Lorant, begging for his attention.
Oh…
Behind him, his comrades were still arguing, wasting time, which Lorant had probably intended for them to do.
"I'm going," he said, suddenly. "I'd rather wait out a blizzard in an established camp."
That solved that problem.
Lorant didn't care about the rest of them. Once he had Savion's word, he turned and walked away. Savion followed, and so too did the rest of them, more warily.
He shouldn't have agreed to it. Savion knew that. Lorant was going to get him in trouble again. Savion knew that too. The organization he now worked for was not known for tolerance.
Beasts were not people in the way that humans were, they were nothing but threats which might go mad at any second, and turn into the wraiths that plagued humanity.
Even knowing one casually was grounds for suspicion, and Savion had never been casual about Lorant. As for Lorant, well, he loved the sound of his own voice too much.
He shouldn't have gone, but Savion could no more stay away from Lorant than breathe underwater, or fly.
Lorant's 'camp' was not, as Savion expected, any kind of tent. He led them to a door set into a hillside, which led into an entire underground house.
"Whose house is this?" Savion asked.
Lorant shrugged. "It was abandoned when I found it. But it's nice, sturdy against the wind and with its own hot spring that keeps it all cozy warm. Speaking of, I need to get cleaned up. There's stew on the hearth. That way." Here he grinned at Floris in particular. "No need to worry, it's only rabbit meat."
So saying, he vanished down a hallway, utterly unconcerned.
The rest of them went in the direction he had indicated and found themselves in a kitchen with a fire in the hearth, and a pot of stew cooking away as Lorant had promised.
"How did you say you knew him?" Marius asked.
"It just…happened. He lived with us for a time, so we're not strangers."
"How can you be friends with a beast?"
"Lorant is just… Lorant, that's all."
"A prince," Marius said.
"So he says. I've never been to the Golden Forest or anything. But…"
"But what?"
"When we parted last, well, I thought he was dead all this time. I'm no traitor to you, but I'm glad he's alive, all the same."
Savion helped himself to the stew, and to a chunk of bread from a low set off to one side.
"You can't be thinking of eating that!" Floris said. "Who knows what he did to it?"
"Why would he do anything to his own meal when he didn't expect anyone to come? Besides, he doesn't need to rely on cheap tricks. Lorant isn't that kind of person."
"And just what kind of person is he?" Ruben, one of his other comrades, asked.
"Self-assured," Savion said, with no hesitation. "He doesn't bow to anyone, but so long as others are civil, so is he. He won't try to trick you, nor injure you, nor anything else. He says what he means and stands by it. He can be a difficult person, but he's not a bad person."
"You said yourself it's been many years," Marius pointed out.
"Lorant hasn't changed a jot," Savion said. "I could tell that immediately."
He sat down with his stew.
"And that's all? You're not hiding anything else?"
Oh, how much he was hiding! He had never wanted to go into his past with them, and even less so now.
"It won't cause any trouble, waiting out the blizzard here," Savion said. "He's quite easy-going."
"Even if I wasn't," Lorant said, strolling into the room, "you're my guests, and we follow seriously our rules of hospitality."
He was fully dressed again, which was probably for the best.
Savion took a bite of the stew.
"Although we are not friends," Marius said, "I thank you for it all the same."
"You'll have more to worry about soon than me," Lorant said, sitting at the table next to Savion. "We of the Forest don't care for what you're doing with the wraiths."
"You're the one who butchered it and ate its heart," Floris said.
"Releasing her spirit from torment," Lorant said. "It's an honorable death, one which lessens the miasma. What you're doing creates more." He smiled, suddenly. "It's not our concern, miasma doesn't affect us. But many of our former comrades deserve more respect."
"But not all of them?" Wolt, his final comrade, said, speaking for the first time.
"Oh no, some of them were right royal prats."
Wolt let out a startled laugh, and the mood relaxed a smidgen.
"But why," Marius asked, "has the forest not acted before?"
"We have our own concerns," Lorant said. "I am a mere prince, unless my dam needs me, my time is my own. But as this increasingly becomes a way to curry favor or make one's name, more will do the same."
"Have you been doing this the whole time?" Savion asked, suddenly.
"Well, no. I needed to recover from my injuries, and then I returned to the Forest to fulfill my responsibilities. Still, I have come out from time to time. Always I hoped I would run into you, but I would've never expected you on such a path. Or do you no longer hate blood?"
Savion made a face and Lorant laughed.
"You should have seen him as a youth, bandaging my wounds with such a look on his face, and scolding me all the while, but he always did it."
"Oh, hush," Savion said. "They don't need to know about all that."
"It was my first time meeting anyone so fastidious," Lorant continued. "Do you still keep your room as if no one lives there?"
"T-that's no one's business but mine!"
"How old were you, when you met?" Marius asked.
"Fourteen, wasn't it?" Lorant asked, and Savion shrugged.
"Something like that."
"Seventeen when we went our separate ways. Quite a long time ago. Still, fun while it lasted."
Conversation wandered them, and gradually the mood of the room became less stilted, less guarded, almost friendly.
The house was large enough for them to stay out of each other's way when they wanted and so the first three days passed more or less without incident. His comrades said nothing impudent, although he knew he was in for proper interrogation later, as well as a formal reprimand at the least.
Lorant, though he teased Savion frequently, and made references to their shared past, said nothing imprudent.
And Savion, with difficulty, held back the other part of his soul which had so long been slumbering.
A state like that, however, was destined not to last.
On the fourth day, Lorant cornered Savion in the conservatory.
It was strange, to Savion, that an underground house should have one, but it did. Located directly over the hot spring and with large windows above to let in the light, it had somehow flourished even with its master gone. Now, however, the windows were covered in snow, and the room was filled with a murky half darkness.
Savion found it fascinating and had retreated there several times as an easy form of self-control.
But that time, Lorant followed him.
"Savion," Lorant said, just that and nothing else.
But it was the way he said it, mingled affection and command, that smile on his face and that too familiar hunger in his eyes, then made Savion's heart pound, and he took a step back, and found himself trapped.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and entwined his fingers into the wrought-iron trellis behind him.
It stopped Savion from moving, but not Lorant, who came over and just looked at him.
"I've been searching for you," he said.
Savion swallowed again. "Things…things aren't so simple anymore."
"They're simpler than ever," Lorant said in return.
Lorant's hands covered his on the trellis, cutting off Savion's escape route, as he stood on his toes to kiss him.
Lorant kissed like he always did, like a starving animal tearing into a kill, or desperate man begging his god to hear him.
He kissed like he always did, like he needed it.
Savion fell backwards, slamming into the trellis, which creaked alarmingly, and Lorant chased him, pinning him firmly against it.
"Lorant," Savion panted into his mouth, "we can't, we can't, my comrades-"
"Shut up," Lorant said, and kissed him again.
"Lorant-"
Lorant laughed and pulled back slightly. "You don't exactly have a high ground to argue from," he said, grinning. "It's been a long time, hm? I've always love the way you react to me. Me, and no one else."
Savion just stood there, breathing hard, trying to collect himself. Lorant had let go of him but Savion didn't release his hold in the trellis. He didn't think he could.
"You know…what you're asking of me."
"Do you think for one moment I don't?"
"…"
"Come back to the forest with me."
"You know I can't. I couldn't bear it."
"Because I can't be solely yours, but you are solely mine, aren't you?"
"You need not ask, you already know." But of course Lorant would ask, he was greedy, as all beasts were.
"Then love me," Lorant said.
Lorant always did this, made such a mess of him. Savion could never think, when Lorant was around, looking at him like that, pleading with him, or teasing him, or ordering him around.
It'd been so long he had forgotten, except academically, what love and lust felt like.
Usually, Lorant would wait. He preferred that, teasing and cajoling, dragging Savion forward to meet him.
But that, like his kisses earlier, had not been a plea or a jest, but a command.
He didn't wait for Savion to reply, just reached forward and started undoing the double rows of silver buttons on his jacket.
"You've gotten so tall," Lorant commented idly. "You were always beautiful, but now you're so elegant. It's even better, that way, to see how quickly you come undone for me."
Savion could not dispute that, the way his breath hitched when Lorant's hand found its way to the bare skin of his neck. Savion lifted his head away as Lorant ran his thumb along the line of his jaw, and chased his fingers down Savion's throat.
His hands were rough from years of weapons work, and Savion's skin sensitive from years of being alone.
He shivered.
"Love me," Lorant said again, a little plaintively.
"I do… I do, but…"
But this, this put him in danger, and Lorant knew it. They both knew it. Savion was too hungry to refuse him, and too skittish to agree.
"It's a shame," Lorant said, "I haven't the time nor the tools nor the freedom to do anything too obvious to you, but we've played such games as these before, haven't we?"
They had, of course, rather more than the other kind, being young as they had been. Savion knew better the feeling of Lorant's hands than anything else.
Lorant put the heel of his hand over Savion's mouth and said, "Bite me. Unless you want them to come investigate."
He didn't have to say why, really, Lorant loved to tease him about how noisy he was.
Savion hated it, biting, because he hated the taste of blood, and Lorant always pushed him too far.
Even so, he opened his mouth and let Lorant push his hand further in.
He needed it, as he always needed something, because when Lorant touched him again, Savion could not stop himself from whining, and bit down hard.
"Good boy," Lorant said, and rewarded him for it.
Savion fell back against the trellis again, and Lorant chased him there again, holding Savion there with the weight and warmth of his body.
The decorations of the wrought-iron trellis dug deeper into his hands Savion clung to it, clung because if he let go he would surely rip into Lorant instead, marking Lorant as his, and only his.
Lorant would like that but it would be hard to explain. The bite mark on his hand would be hard enough.
Blood spilled into his mouth as Savion bit down, begging Lorant to go faster, to give him more, anything, anything.
Lorant chuckled and the sound rolled through him as it always did.
"That's it," Lorant crooned. "Love me, as only you can, because only you do."
There was too much blood in his mouth and Savion huffed against Lorant's hand.
Let go, he asked, but Lorant refused.
Bastard, always playing games. Savion pried his hands away from the trellis and shoved Lorant aside.
Lorant often played along with him, but this time he did not allow himself to be pushed away. He did remove his hand, but only to put it on the back of Savion's neck and pull him down into a kiss, taking care of the blood himself.
When he broke it he said, grinning, "I didn't say you could use your hands did I? But if you want to, I can think of something more interesting for you to use them for."
Yes, Lorant would love it if Savion clawed his back up.
Proving his point, he took a moment to undo his own coat and shirt, letting them fall off him onto the ground.
"So?"
Savion backed up against the trellis again but, when Lorant came forward, he wrapped his arms around the Lorant's neck and buried his face against his shoulder before biting down again, hard. His nails dug in to yielding flesh.
"I love you too," Lorant said, and mercifully resumed what he had been doing before.
It was Lorant holding on the trellis now, keeping their balance, and getting blood everywhere.
Beasts had only two guiding principles, blood or sex, but with Lorant it was always both.
He always had been greedy, even for a beast.
Savion moaned into his neck and knew what a lucky thing it was, to be loved.
He didn't tell Lorant that, but he didn't need to. The marks Savion left on his back would spell it out plain enough in the language they both knew.
Lorant just kept laughing, and muttering inane praise, or ribald comments.
The whole encounter could not have taken more than ten minutes, but then, it had been a few years.
And it was fortunate that there was an easy way down to the hot spring from here, because Savion would rather not have his comrade see him like this, flushed and flustered, blood on his lips and hands and more damning evidence elsewhere.
The water felt wonderful to him, although Lorant flinched when it hit the cuts and marks Savion had left behind, flinched and then smiled, satisfied as a cat in cream.
Lorant leaned forward and kissed his blood off Savion's face, until Savion pushed him away. This time, he went.
"Don't go and start that again," he said. Not that it wasn't possible, but rather it was too possible, and there was no guarantee either one of them would hold onto their self-control.
"No matter," Lorant said. "I know where you live now, next time I can chase you into your own bed."
There was no point in telling Lorant how dangerous it was to sneak into such a place. Something like that would never be enough to stop him, so Savion didn't try.
"I'm glad," Savion said, "that you're well."
"Of course I am, now that I have seen you again."
"Oh, hush," Savion said, and turned away. He could feel himself blushing again, but neither from the heat of the water nor their earlier physical exertions. "I'm sure you say the same to everyone," he said, as he always did.
"No I don't," Lorant said quite cheerfully. "Words like that are the domain of affection, not business."
"Lorant-"
"I have years worth, years and years, and sometime I'll tell them all to you. But for right now, Savion, I only need to say that I love you."
"I know," Savion said, smiling in spite of himself. And he did.
Another two-part one, which is in the Second Chances universe. This is happening about 5ish years after the events of the story. And it's 10 years after the next prompt involving Bri.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 3,661
Content: no warnings
No matter how excited Jakison was to return 'home' – and how unusual that was! – it always settled as soon as he crossed the gate's threshold. Not because he was not happy to be back, but only because the Winterlark Inn was almost certainly the calmest place in the world. That was how its landlord wanted it to be, and he enforced that desire magically.
Although it was called an inn, and it did let out rooms, it was not precisely one in actuality. There was not much need for inns in Lakeland Fair, which received very little traffic compared to the neighboring regions of Lakeland Proper and Lakeland Downs. In reality, Winterlark was a nearly self-sufficient estate, but no one called it that. It was a haven for anyone who had run and kept running until they reached the edge of the world. Calling it an inn rather than a refuge maintained the dignity of the residents, perhaps. It was unsurprising, in that case, that most everyone who lived there full time were women or shapeshifters.
In fact, it was very likely that the only 'custom' that Winterlark got was from demon hunters like him, who could use a taste of civilization in the wilderness.
It was relatively well known in the hunter's guild, but only Jakison had gotten stuck, the moment the quiet and unassuming landlord had turned those serious lilac eyes on him.
"Ah, a demon hunter," he had said, and that was not surprising given that all hunters shared a mere two dozen names between them. Not all demons could wreak mischief with someone's true name, but enough of them could that it was best practice that they all left their names at the door. They were likewise all used to the inevitable follow-up question, "But what's your real name?"
Brionen did not ask that. Instead he asked, "I take it you fight with a spear? We do have a blacksmith who can take a look at it, if it needs repair."
He was like that. He never asked what shouldn't be asked, and never said what shouldn't be said.
Jakison, baffled and charmed, could only admit that he did fight with a spear like his namesake had, and that his could use looking at.
So had his first stay at Winterlark commenced.
Neither his hunting partner nor any other hunters he had spoken to felt anything odd about Winterlark. Of course it was quiet and peaceful, it was in the middle of bloody nowhere! But that was not what Jakison felt, not what he meant. Winterlark was peaceful in a different way. It was peaceful like being in a church or some other holy place. He felt that from the beginning, although it was a long time before he found out why.
Before he found out that Winterlark was like that because Brionen was the son of a god and, while he did not have much to show for it, he certainly had enough power to see that his own little territory was a place that people could rest, a place where they were safe, a place where they belonged.
He could not have explained it but he had felt it from the beginning. Somehow, from the moment Brionen had said, "I hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Jakison," he found himself plagued with the thought that he ought to return this name to the guild and resume using his own.
Him!
Him, who'd been born in a wagon to a family landless these last six generations!
Him, who could not stand being in the same place more than a fortnight!
Somehow he had stayed at Winterlark until spring, and had still been sad to see it behind him.
Although no one would believe it of him given his reputation, nothing at all untoward had happened that first winter. He only found in Brionen a partner who knew some of the intricate and time-consuming games that he had grown up with, traveling as much as he had. And that winter, whenever he was not hunting, he somehow found himself in Bri's rooms.
They did nothing but talk and play games, but in that Jakison found a kind of relaxed comfort he'd not yet felt anywhere else. They did not talk about the future, and Bri had not asked him to stay. He never did ask anything awkward.
In the spring, he had walked Jakison to the gate himself and said, "May you have safe travels. You'll always be welcome here if they bring you back to my side."
Jakison almost turned around right then and there.
Jakison did return the next winter, and Bri welcomed him in a way that made it clear he didn't need to stay as a paying guest if another arrangement appealed to him, which it did.
It was an added bonus that his partner Garisdottir got to stay for free as well.
It wasn't time off, precisely. Demons caused heaps of trouble in the winter, which was what had brought them there in the first place. There were not many people in Lakeland Fair, but they always had a plethora of snow demons, which were tricky to get rid of. The first one especially, it'd taken them nearly all winter to hunt it down, and they'd still needed to rely on the help Bri offered. Bri was the one who had offered, but seeing the affect it had on him...well, it was something Jakison had never asked him for since. Without speaking about it, he and Garisdottir both were always careful not too complain too much about difficulties they may have.
In the end it wasn't necessary for him to offer again anyway. They got so much practice hunting snow demons that they quickly became known as the foremost experts in the subject, and never had that much trouble again.
No, he and his partner had many ways to keep themselves busy. They still hunted, and they still submitted their work to the guild, and they still got paid. Garisdottir never complained about it, though she did tease him, but everyone in the guild knew that the work was not why Jakison kept going back.
For the last five years, when winter came to Lakeland Fair, Jakison returned to Winterlark, and it felt like coming home.
Not a thought he'd ever expected to have.
Still, it was undeniable that there was nothing at all like walking back through that gate again.
They were stopped at the gatehouse.
"Mr. Jakison, Ms. Garisdottir!"
"Why, it's never Andias!" Jakison said to the gatehouse keeper, a young corv who had shown up two years earlier. "You've gotten so tall!"
Andias glowed with pride. "I got strong too, wrestle me later and I'll really show you something!"
"I'd be delighted."
The little corv beamed at them. "You're always right on time! Ms. Garisdottir, your room is ready for you. And the boss is waiting for you, Mr. Jakison, in his office."
"Then I shouldn't keep him waiting."
It was like that all the way through the grounds. There were some new faces, though by this point no one was in the least bit nervous of him, as they had been at first. Mostly, however, they knew everyone and everyone knew them, and everyone stopped them to say a few words. It was not just Bri, both of them had made a number of friends here over the past six winters.
They separated in the main hall, and Garisdottir winked at him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she said.
"I assuredly will," Jakison replied and, laughing, they went their separate ways.
The rooms for shapeshifters were all downstairs, where there were frequent doors and ways for them to get outside. Bri's apartment, and his attached office, were on the second floor at the back.
Jakison knocked on the door and let himself in. When he did so, Bri looked up from his desk and smiled.
"Welcome back," he said.
It always made Jakison giddy, Bri smiling like that. Garisdottir did tease him for it, saying Bri was like catmint to him, which was undeniably true. But it was obvious, from expressions like that, that he had the exact same effect on Bri. Whatever it was, the two of them fit together.
"I'm happy to be back."
Bri's office had been, Jakison thought, probably a dressing room or some such thing for whoever had actually built the house. It functioned as an office but was just barely big enough for the desk, shelf, and chairs that Bri had crammed into it. Jakison, as he very often did, perched on the corner of the desk next to him. He took Bri's hand, lifted it up to his lips and kissed Bri's fingers gently.
Bri just smiled.
He had been more skittish at first, needing to control everything, unable to withstand being constrained in any way. He had relaxed considerably, at least for little things like this. There was still plenty Jakison wouldn't do, even if Bri would almost certainly let him.
"Any trouble?" he asked, letting Bri pull his hand back.
"A bit of bother a few months back, the usual kind." Meaning, someone had tracked down a resident here, and had been sent running off with their tail between their legs. No one left Winterlark unless they wanted to. "Any with you?"
"No more than usual." Jakison leaned back in his hands. "But..."
"Mhm. This seems to be a game for younger folk than I, especially if I have something more pleasant I could be doing with my time."
Bri was far too controlled, and gave little away. In truth, Jakison wasn't sure what sort of reception to expect. Three months out of the year was a very different animal than what he was thinking of.
"Have you told Garisdottir?"
"I have. She's not overly upset about it." Nor, in truth, had she been at all surprised. "We've known each other for ages, long before this. Not hunting together won't change our friendship. But…"
"But?"
"Would you mind it? Having me under your feet all year long?"
"Oh," Bri said, now very definitely surprised. "You mean...you'd be retiring to stay here with me?"
Jakison could not help but laugh. Bri was always surprising him, too. "What did you think I meant?"
"Ooh, don't tease me! It was unexpected. I rather thought you were the kind of person who would walk that path forever."
"Me too. Everyone else in my family...but what does that matter? I found something much better."
Bri looked away briefly, embarrassed, and said, "I told you before, did I not? You'll always be welcome here."
"I needed to ask."
Having apparently schooled his expression, Bri looked back at him. "The fact that you would is why you don't need to."
"I will anyway."
"I know."
Bri hooked his fingers through the shoulder straps of Jakison's coat and pulled him forward to kiss him. Like everything else in Winterlark, it was soft and welcoming and went straight to his head. Bri made him feel like that, like being a kid again, or like being drunk, where the world was huge and the possibilities were limitless and every one of them was delightful.
But he was not done yet. Bri pulled back from him the barest amount and said, "I've missed you. I always miss you. I shall enjoy not missing you."
"You can't hope to get away with saying things like that," Jakison said. He pulled himself across the desk until he was seated directly in front of Bri, who had conveniently leaned back so that he could do so. "I'm going to keep asking you for more."
"Greedy," Bri said. "Wanting dessert before your dinner?"
Jakison had only been planning to ask for Bri to kiss him again but, well! He recognized an opportunity when it was presented to him. "How much can I ask for?"
"You can pray for anything you like," Bri said. "And maybe a passing god will answer you."
Jakison grinned at him, and said nothing. After all, prayers were silent.
They had never had a reunion quite like this, but they both knew that the residents of Winterlark were too courteous to interrupt and walk in on them on Jakison's day of return. Even if they were only talking, they'd always been left alone as much as possible. This was nothing more than Bri's love of control, his love of making silly little rules and having them be followed. Jakison, who had spent most of his life as either a loner or a leader had found, somewhat to his surprise, that playing along with someone else was its own kind of fun.
Bri, conscientious as always, got up and took everything off the desk, setting it down on the floor so that nothing would be knocked over. Only after that was done did he come back around to stand in front of Jakison.
There was never any telling what Bri was going to do, only certain knowledge that it would be dizzyingly slow. Jakison had always considered himself a fair lover, but the level of playing around Bri could get to had been completely out of his experience at the beginning.
Now he was used to it, as much as anyone could be, the kind of pace that Bri always set.
He set it now too, kissing Jakison again, not in any hurry.
Jakison had parted his legs so that Bri could step up to the desk, which he had done. His hands were flat on the desk on either side of Jakison's thighs. No other part of them was touching it all, and Jakison made himself sit still. Bri would move on when he wanted to. He didn't like being rushed, and he hated being grabbed if he hadn't asked for it.
He did not really need more than this, anyway.
Bri's kisses – every touch he could give, really – were not like those of any lover Jakison had ever taken. Maybe it was the divine blood Bri had that made him feel like this, like Jakison was something precious. Bri touched him like he was made of the finest crystal and, like crystal, Jakison always felt his soul ringing from it. It was for the best, probably, that Bri gave him rules to cling to. He might drown otherwise.
It did feel like surfacing, when Bri stopped kissing him.
Instead he loosened the ties of Jakison's coat and pushed it open. It did not come off so easily, functioning as armor as it did, but tied to the shirt under it as well. Bri untied those, barely touching Jakison as he did so, and waited patiently for Jakison to remove the coat himself, which he promptly did. This was another one of those things that Bri never hurried over, each tie or button or strap got full attention from him, and that was a kind of teasing in and of itself.
There wasn't anything intentional to it, Jakison thought. Bri just truly believed that every part of this was worth taking his time over, and that was its own kind of charming that he had not gotten tired of watching.
It was a brief respite only and then Bri's hands were on his chest, and Jakison had much less space to think.
It was like this every time, the first time back, the way that Bri mapped him out, surveying him for new injuries – which he always had – and soothing them with gentle fingers. Injuries from demons were like that, for humans. They never quite stopped aching, only faded to be usually ignorable. At least, until Bri got at them. He stayed briefly at each scar, even the older ones, exploring them for width and length and depth, each stroke banking the fire that had remained behind in his skin, and Jakison relaxed under his ministrations.
He did not bother wondering how long Bri would do this for. Like everything else, he would stop when he was ready to. But it did not much matter anyway. Jakison was sensitive to Bri the way he hadn't ever been to anyone else, and Bri's touch rid him of demon fire only to replace it with something hotter still.
Bri went, inevitably, from his shoulders on down and as he got lower, Jakison trembled more from it. His hands slid backwards seeking the edge of the desk, and closing around it. Bri did tease him intentionally then, chasing him backwards and recovering lost ground with kisses. Jakison let his head fall backwards and bit his lip to keep from saying anything as Bri returned, with his customary steady attention, to working Jakison loose from his trousers.
"What are you praying for, I wonder?" Bri said to himself and, when Jakison did not answer him, he laughed softly.
Truly, Jakison did not care what Bri did to him. Bri had studied all of it with him and so Jakison knew very well that he enjoyed all of it, and he liked the sense of surprise.
He prided himself that he did not jump when he felt Bri's tongue on him.
Everything Bri did felt wonderful, but there was something about the idea of a god kneeling for you that really-
Jakison let out a slow breath, putting everything he had into playing by the rules.
Bri, of course, as he always did, took his time.
Jakison concentrated on his breathing, and prayed that Bri continue doing so.
It was always nice, to pray to a god that you knew would answer you.
He knew that Bri would, because he knew that this was nothing more than his way of spoiling Jakison. Bri had been willing to learn, or rather, to let Jakison teach him, but had ultimately found sex to not be of particular interest. He had his own forms of intimacy that he asked for, which Jakison was happy to give him. This, though, was offered for no reason save that Jakison liked it, and Bri was unceasingly selfless when it came to taking care of people that mattered to him.
At some point, there was a knock on the door, and Jakison really had to work not to complain when Bri answered it.
"Yes?"
"Will you be having dinner with us or elsewhere?"
Was it nearly dinner time already? He could not remember what time this had started. When had they arrived? Afternoon, sometime, but when? No one but Bri could ever leave him like this, so scattered.
"We'll take dinner in our room, thank you," Bri said.
The girl made a noise of assent and hurried away. Jakison was just glad it was one of the human women that lived there, a shapeshifter would've known what they were up to.
"I suppose I best hurry," Bri said, "and we'll call it an appetizer rather than dessert."
An appetizer? That implied-
"Only if you want to," Jakison managed to say.
"You're supposed to be being quiet."
"Sorry, sorry."
Bri went back to his task with a will, and it was not very long after that that Jakison fell back nearly senseless onto the desk.
Nearly.
"I've never had a welcome like that before," he said.
"I've only ever told you welcome back, that was welcome home."
"Oh, is that the difference? I suppose I wouldn't know, I've never been welcomed home. But I'm not quite sure I'm going to be able to walk to dinner."
"Don't worry, I'll help."
"Or stand for dessert." With other partners in that past he hadn't had that problem, but Bri's patient and consistent attentions usually wore him out.
"Another day then, if need be. But, I have thought of something."
"Hm?"
"Would you like me to continue calling you Jakison?"
He would, Jakison knew that. If he said yes, Bri would call him that with no complaint or curiosity. It wouldn't be so unusual for him to request it, it had been his name for over twenty years at this point. But...
"No, that isn't necessary. But when I tell you my name, you're going to laugh."
"Surely it isn't as bad as all that." Bri held out a hand which Jakison took, and helped pull him back up into a sitting position.
He started putting his clothing back in some semblance of order. "My name is St. Maurie."
Bri, as expected, laughed. "It never is!"
"Hand to my heart, it is. My family is from Numeria originally, and every single one of us is named after a saint. You probably don't know this, but there are eighty-seven recognized saints in Numeria and you'll find my family has played host to every single one of them."
"And they kept the 'saint' part?"
"Mostly only when we're in trouble," he said, his turn to laugh. "Usually it was just Maurie. Of course, even then, it's so well-worn now that they really called me Sin Maurie, just like that. That goes for the whole lot of us."
"Well!" Bri said, then again,"Well, I suppose it's no wonder, that a god who isn't a god and a saint who isn't a saint would feel so at home with one another."
"I've thought along the same lines." And he had, many times. It would've been such a shame to give up a source of delight this easy, and continue going by Jakison. "It's a lovely word isn't it, home? I never knew what it meant until I met you."
"I think I can say the same thing. I'm very glad you've made it safely home, Maurie."
When Bri smiled at him like that, he could only wonder what fool idea of his had made him take this long. "I'm very happy to be home," he said.
These are relatively old characters (like Loecian really) and I enjoy coming back to them from time to time! It was really fun to come back to Bri being an adult as an adult and getting to rediscover what kind of people they both are and how my idea of what their relationship is has definitely changed
It is very sweet, and it made me want to write so much more about them!! I do want to write more from Bri's perspective so that you get more of what Jak has going on since he doesn't think about it himself very much hahaha
This one ended up much sweeter than I expected! I like it though ^^
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 3,515
Conent: Monsterfucking
It was not a wedding day such as any child would have dreamed of.
There was no wonderful outfit of silk and lace, no glittering jewelry, no flowers braided into his hair, just Naja as he ever was.
There was no joyous family members to see him off, to wish him well in his new life, just faithful Arthfel who had accompanied him all this way despite her unhappiness.
There was no wedding arch, no bedecked hall, just the bare stone mountains and the stark mouth of the cave cut into them like a wound which had stopped bleeding, but had not yet healed.
"Are you sure?" Arthfel asked him. "You can change your mind. You can come with me."
"And what of the next me, and the next? They may not be so lucky as to have a friend like you. None of the others did."
She meant well, she always did. But she hated the covenant – anything that smacked of magic, really – and she did not always see things clearly.
His family's house of cards had stood for far long enough. The covenant needed to come to an end. Naja had decided that a long time ago, that he would master the primal fear that his family would use to control him, had used to their benefit against all previous versions of him.
It was her, Arthfel, who had taught him about mastery, who had given him the knowledge and the tools.
Naja had spent his life building himself into the kind of person who could not be cowed by disgust or fear, and all of it done for this moment.
"No one can say that I haven't had my fun."
They always said that about him, the slattern prince, who wagged his tail for anyone, for everyone.
He had to.
His future was here, in the marriage bed of the Lord of Winter. He needed to practice, to become accustomed to, giving himself over to people he held no affection for, people who made his skin crawl, people he hated. What he got out of it was not – as they all said – fun, but armor.
Even Arthfel didn't know that.
Of course, even the most despised of his partners had still been human, and the Lord of Winter was a beast. Still, he had done his best with the tools available to him. What else was he supposed to do, take himself down to his family's kennels? The Lord of Winter may be a beast, but he was still a god, and Naja may be a slut, but he was still a prince. There was honor to consider, though some people may think he had no concept of it.
He had more of it than anyone would ever realize, almost all of it thanks to Arthfel.
Suddenly, he threw his arms around her as he hadn't done since childhood, and she clung back to him just as tightly.
"Thank you, for everything, but now it's time to put all this behind you. It's time for you to go home."
She shook her head. "Not yet. I'll see you off properly first."
Faithful Arthfel!
But there was no time to waste on long goodbyes. His family still wanted him dead, and the covenant still ruled them all until he was in the Lord of Winter's hands. Or paws, as the case may be.
He walked into the cave, Arthfel at his side.
They did not speak. It was not a place for speaking, that silent, cold scar deep into the earth.
The Lord of Winter, as any other god, did not live among mortals. One could only seek the company of the divine in the wounds they left in the fabric of the world, like this cave, and many other strange, unhealing places.
They walked in determined companionship until they came at last to a door. It was a plain door, very old, boards blackened and iron crossbars rusted.
"I don't think you should come any further. If you do, you may not make it back."
"I know. Keep yourself well, Naja."
It wasn't only her, fear was also his constant companion, his birthright, and it was there to telling him no! Run! As it always had done and would've continued to do if Arthfel had not come. Arthfel had grounded him, taught him, made him so much more than the curse of inherited panic. This was no future for anyone, but it was still what he was choosing of his own free will.
"I will. Goodbye, Arthfel."
"Goodbye." She hugged him again, just briefly, then stepped back.
Naja gripped the iron ring of the door, bitingly cold, and pulled it open.
Arthfel stood there, loyal and stalwart to the end, and watched him walk through.
On one side was the cave, dark and lonesome. On the other side-
It was a forest of pine, every needle dusted with snow like diamonds. Or no, maybe it was more accurate to say they were dusted with little diamonds like snow. Everything was sharp and glittering, hostile and untouchable, but nothing was precisely cold. It did not feel like anything. It was beautiful, in an utterly unnatural way.
Naja was not alone. There was something else there, raking falling diamond-dusted needles into pleasing patterns on the ground. A hare, he supposed, although he had a curious feeling that it was not that at all. He could not see what it was, he was too mortal for that, but he understood it as a hare, dressed in the colors of winter, white all over but for the black tips of its quivering ears.
"Goodness!" The hare said. "It's you!"
"It's me," Naja agreed.
"But why?" asked the hare.
"It's Midsummer," Naja said.
"Yes."
"My twenty-first birthday."
"I'm aware."
"My wedding day?"
A new voice broke into the conversation then saying, "None of the others have ever come."
It wasn't, but also was, a fox, likewise draped in white.
"But I have come here."
"There is a wedding feast," the fox said. "Everything is all prepared, as it is each time, but has never yet been eaten. You'll want to follow me for the rest of it."
"The rest of it?"
"You're not getting married in that, are you?" She sneered in the way of animals, ears back, fangs just barely bared, tail lashing back and forth.
"I suppose not."
She beckoned him and he followed, walking down a path through the forest. Like the hare had been standing, the fox also walked on two legs, although not quite in the way that a man would. Instead of front paws she had something that might be considered stubby hands. An animal, yet not an animal at all. Naja understood it just the same, this was the closest he could see, not really what she looked like.
"What is he like, the Lord of Winter?" He asked.
"Winter is nothing for you to be afraid of, human child," she said. "You'll see it for yourself at the feast."
It was a surreal experience, being prepared for the feast, and what came after. All of the Lord's attendants were 'animals', in that same not-animal way, all of them winter animals. But despite being animals, they were brisk and efficient in their attentions. There was a bath in a natural hot spring, first, before they helped him get ready.
It was not a wedding day such as any child would have dreamed of.
There was clothing prepared for him, which fit him perfectly, all of it white, bedecked in tiny diamonds. It was the color of snow, the color of cold, the color of mourning. He had always known, had he not, that this was to be less a wedding for him, and more a funeral. He supposed it was appropriate, if startling. There was jewelry too, diamond-studded silver at his throat, his wrists and ankles, dangling from his ears. There were still flowers, to braid into his hair. Winter plum blossoms, beautiful and fragrant, and of the purest white.
The clothing fit him perfectly, which meant they knew of him more than he would have assumed. He wondered how much they knew of his past, his multitude of partners, and what they thought about it, what the Lord of Winter thought about it. But regardless of any thoughts they may have, they said nothing on the matter, utterly professional the entire time.
The attendants then took the place of his family, shepherding him towards the wedding arch.
There was one, of course, ribboned in white silk and lace, wreathed with more plum blossoms, and sprigs of pine and mistletoe.
On the other side of it, standing in the hall of the wedding feast, was the Lord of Winter.
He, in that same way, was not and yet still was a tiger, massive and regal, with fur just tinged in pale gold rather than the brilliant orange one would expect. He wore no clothing, as none of them did, but was likewise bedecked in matching jewelry which glinted against his fur.
Naja couldn't be expected not to feel the rush of white-hot terror that he had been born with, to know that this god standing in front of him was his opposite, represented everything he wasn't, was a kind of death. He felt it, as he had known he would. His heart was in his throat and his stomach was tying itself in knots, but Naja was much more than that. He had made himself more than that.
The Lord of Winter was of the same construction as his attendants, and now he reached through the arch with that clawed, hand-like paw, just reached out and nothing more.
If Naja took it, those claws would close around him and pull him through to their owner's side, and the first of the three binding knots of marriage would be tied, leaving him to face this as his life for however long it lasted.
The Lord of Winter was not fur all over. He had paw pads, like a cat, and when Naja reached out, they were smooth and surprisingly warm under his hand. The Lord's fingers closed lightly around his hand and here was fur, soft against Naja's skin. He moved backwards one step at a time, leading Naja through the arch with gentle patience.
The hall was decorated as lavishly as would befit any royal wedding, and peopled with all kinds of 'animals' that gave out their own joyful cries when he came into view. There were minstrels in one corner, playing a bright, joyful music, and all the rest of it was filled with tables groaning under the weight of the food they were laden with. There was a table for them, at the head of the room, big enough for only two people, decorated with more pine and mistletoe.
The Lord led him there, saying nothing at all as they crossed the room, as he guided Naja to sit on his cushion at the table. But he wouldn't, would he? Winter was silent. Naja had always heard that, in stories and idioms, but hadn’t known it was literal.
There were worse things. If the Lord of Winter could not speak to him, then Naja would likely also not be required to speak, and possibly betray something that would upset him.
Well, not quite.
The feast, the second binding knot of marriage, was more or less like any other. Musicians played. People broke away from their own conversations to come pay their respects, to greet him, and Naja had to talk after all. The Lord of Winter carved food for his plate and poured wine for his cup, before seeing to his own. Naja, with years of experience in doing things that he did not want to do, made himself eat and drink.
The food was delicious, the wine – ice wine, of course it was – expertly made.
He ate the food and drank the wine, and thanked the Lord for giving it to him, and smiled and graciously chatted with everyone who came up to see them. Through it all the Lord sat next to him, silent as only winter could be, and as patient as the hunting cat he appeared as. Naja glanced at him from time to time. It was difficult, with a tiger, but Naja knew something of cats and it seemed to him that the Lord was relaxed. Happy. Whenever he looked at Naja, his ears perked up, and he would close his eyes, which appeared to be the closest he could get to smiling.
He had no conception of time in that place.
The feast went on for as long as it went on, the length of several courses, and dessert, at least, and then the Lord stood and helped Naja to his feet.
Many of the animals had already left, only some remained chatting and playing games. The Lord turned away from them utterly unconcerned, and walked away, Naja's hand held once again in his.
There was still one thing left to do before marriage was legally binding.
Maybe he should have taken advantage of the feast to get roaring drunk, to make it easier. But Naja hadn't done that. He had decided long ago that enough was enough, that the covenant needed to be broken, that he was going to do this. So he would see it through, no matter what.
He was slightly too distracted to pay much attention to the journey through the halls, but the Lord of Winter's bedchamber was much cozier than he would've expected, and surprisingly 'human'. There was a large bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, the topmost of which was dark green. The same color upholstered a plush sette which sat in front of a fireplace currently home to merrily crackling fire that warmed the entire room. Most of the wood floor was covered with deep blue rug, and there were matching curtains on either side of a window that looked out over the pine and diamond forest. Here and there and everywhere he looked were books.
He turned when the Lord shut the door behind them and the Lord, very unexpectedly, used the language of the hands to say, "You don't need to be afraid of me."
Naja only knew it because Arthfel had taught it to him, so that they could talk without anything for his family to overhear, or find later. He had no idea it would continue to be useful here.
"My fear doesn't rule me, but I can't help having it."
The Lord nodded and said, "The nights of winter are long, it is good for taking one's time."
Naja would rather just get it over with, but that would be a bit rude considering that the Lord of Winter had been forced to wait centuries to enjoy his wedding night, so he said nothing at all.
The Lord reached up and touched Naja's cheek with the back of his fingers, his fur velvet soft before signing, "You're very beautiful."
"Thank you." Naja had not felt this out of place in someone's bedroom since almost the very beginning. He said, "What would you like me to do?"
"You need not do much of anything, except let me love you."
"At the very least I can call you something. What should I call you?"
"Winter."
"That was always your name?"
"No, but I'd rather my true name not be spoken with fear."
That made sense so Naja nodded and dropped the issue.
Winter needed his hands to talk. If Naja kept talking to him, it would only delay the inevitable. He reached up to start undressing, but Winter took his hands away and did it himself.
His blouse closed with silver clasps at each shoulder, and tied at the wrists with silk ribbon. Winter undid those first, very patiently working the ribbon loose with his claws without snagging it, then undid the clasps, before undoing the final small tie at the side of Naja's waist and pulling the shirt off entirely. He paused a minute there, touching the little tattooed symbols that marched in orderly spirals around Naja's right arm and across his back.
"The covenant," Naja said.
Winter nodded absently but his attention was much more captured by Naja's left arm and shoulder and their cascading spill of tattooed flowers.
"Those, I just like."
"Of course." Winter said it with his ears perked and his eyes closed again and tail upright and curved over like a stalk of wheat, laughing, maybe, then returned to what he was doing.
The silk slippers came off easily. The pants tied closed with lace ribbon on each hip, and Winter undid those with just as much care. He did not bother with any of the jewelry, on either one of them.
Naja was not used to this. He was used to something rougher and quicker and less respectful, with partners who barely saw him, and certainly did not look at him like this, like they wanted to memorize him.
"I will need some help," Winter said, "the oil will make a mess of my fur."
Naja was going to say that he had already taken care of that but, looking down, realized that Winter was not sized or shaped like the human partners he was used to. Right. More would probably not be a bad thing. He followed where Winter directed and retrieved a vial, the contents of which he applied liberally, much to Winter's enjoyment.
He was purring.
Naja had not thought that tigers could purr – but then he wasn't a real tiger, now was he? There was no sound such as Naja was used to, but he could feel it, that deep contentment radiating out from Winter's belly to every part of him. He was grateful when Winter touched his shoulder lightly, indicating that he could stop, back up.
"You are my lawful partner," Winter said, "and I won't disrespect you by mounting you like a common doe. But that is not so easy for me, so please bear with me."
Naja nodded, mouth suddenly dry.
He allowed Winter to help him lie back on the edge of the bed, to position his legs as he needed, grasp him by the hips and lift up and-
Oh!
Winter went very slowly, moving Naja more than himself, and Naja was grateful for his patience because Winter was much larger than anything he was used to.
At first he brought his fist up to his mouth to stop himself from crying out but – although Winter's hands were busy and he could not talk – he was still able to make his displeasure known, with his ears back and his tail lashing from side to side. Winter would rather hear him, so Naja dropped his hand down to his side again, and let him.
It was not-
It was not like anything he'd ever felt before.
Naja had slept with men who were skilled, and men who weren't, and Winter was not precisely either. What he was, was attentive. Winter captured every move that Naja made, every expression, every noise, and adjusted himself until Naja was crying out in earnest.
Naja's fear was still with him, a challenge for Winter to overcome, but as Winter had earlier said, the nights were long and they had plenty of time. Slowly, under his attentions, Naja's fears were quieted, and then –
It was Naja that Winter was moving, not himself, and he took advantage of that to show off his flexibility. His tongue was just ever so pleasantly rough, like any cats', and Naja's skin achingly sensitive, and Naja himself well beyond the reach of either fear or words. All he could do was lay in Winter's grip and sing, helplessly content as any caged bird ever was.
Winter's enthusiasm was showing too, his movements a little rougher now, his claws no longer sheathed but prickling lightly against Naja's skin, purring silently all the while.
However long winter nights were, however long it took, Winter gave it all to him, until he saw Naja over the edge, shortly after he found his own.
Naja was not sure how long he lay on the bed in a sluggish daze before he realized that Winter was trying to say something. He did not want to focus, to make himself think, but he was very used to doing things he didn't want to do.
"Your tattoos are gone."
Naja looked hazily at his right arm and saw that Winter was right, the arcane symbols had vanished. "The covenant is broken, then."
"All that's left is what you like then, yes?"
"Yes," Naja said, a little wonderingly, that the fear that had shackled him all his life had vanished. Or, if not vanished, at least drastically quieted. "Yes, I think so."
Winter started purring again.
Soon, Naja thought, he'd be able to ask for Winter's name, and Winter would answer him.
This one also, really, really one of my favorites for the entire month! I'm really glad that it was also one that you liked a lot! I've done other stuff with Naja but I'd never gotten this far in the story, so this really ended up not being what I initially thought it would be, but it just came out so beautifully I think ^^
Every day, Jovany had to wonder if his decision to go along with this 'marriage' had actually been a good one.
Oh, he was aware that he had not really had a choice in the matter. If it hadn't been him, it would've been someone else, almost certainly someone who wouldn't care about Nino's youth or a lack of common language. Someone who probably would beat him for his consistent and intentional disobedience.
Jovany wasn't the type, not to force anything, and certainly not to beat anyone, but he'd be damned if he could say he'd ever met someone half so stubborn!
At least that day, if he'd had to come home to a mess, it wasn't anything Nino shouldn't have access to, only things he should have respected as private property. Of course Jovany already knew that Nino didn't much care for such a concept.
What a mess it was!
Nino had papers spread all around him and was busy crosschecking them against each other and taking notes in a quick, certain hand.
Jovany walked over and picked up what he was writing, prompting Nino to scramble to his feet.
"Ai!" He said, holding out his hand. "Give by you."
That was the best that he could manage with his curiously clunky, backwards language.
Jovany looked at the sheet of paper. It was divided into three columns, one of words he knew and two of words he didn't.
A dictionary?
Though he doubted Nino would know a word like that just yet.
"So at you I talk," Nino said, snatching the paper back out of Jovany's hand.
Jovany did not bother to correct his mistake because, in this case, it wasn't much of one. Nino talked more than anyone he'd ever known, despite being a foreigner and having no one to talk with.
"Well enough," Jovany said, and Nino beamed. When he smiled like that, it almost reminded Jovany of the impression he had of Nino at first, of someone sweet and docile, with all the innocence in the world in those big cow eyes of his. How wrong he'd been at that point!
He felt, perhaps, just a little guilty, for not having had the time to really help Nino learn the language of the place he'd so suddenly found himself.
"So we talk."
"What do you want to talk about?"
Nino crossed his arms and let out an annoyed huff. "The husband of mine is you. But, for my husband, I have not....not…" He paused there, muttering to himself under his breath in his own language, presumably trying to remember what it was he wanted to say. "Not much good?"
It did not help that Jovany's mind had gone completely blank at the very first sentence and at this he could only manage a somewhat startled, "What".
Nino tried again. "I am not liked by you? No good?"
"No, Nino, no." But how was he supposed to explain, in words that Nino knew, the position that the two of them had been in? His agreement to the marriage had been a matter of safety on Nino's part, and necessity on his.
Jovany could not help but once again wonder who exactly Nino was. How was it that his circumstances had so drastically changed four times in as many weeks, and this was how he reacted? Shouldn't he instead be glad that Jovany hadn't taken advantage of Nino's youth and inexperience and inability to properly withhold his consent?
"Nino, you're too young." At Nino's puzzled expression, he changed words. "Too little."
Nino glared back at him. "Not! I am..." He buried his hands in his auburn hair, clearly frustrated, before saying, "I am big."
If little was taken to mean young, then big could only be taken to mean grown. In his culture, maybe that was so, but he still couldn't be more than seventeen, if that. Jovany wasn't exactly used to considering people of that age as anything other than children, because in his own culture, the age of maturity was twenty two. Given that he had already passed that, even if it hadn't been all that long ago, the gap between them could not be said to be small.
When Jovany said nothing, Nino continued. "Cooking cannot be done by me, nor sewing, and cleaning is done badly, this is known. But other wifely duties can be done, have been done, by me."
Nino's proven uselessness at household tasks was not, by now, a surprise. But then, by 'other wifely duties', he could truly only be talking about sex, couldn't he?
At his age!
It wasn't possible, was it, that he had been some kind of prostitute? Jovany could not accept that. Nino could read and write and even do figures, and he could interpret maps and charts.Those weren't skills that were taught to just anyone. Just who in the world was he?
Jovany could understand, if Nino truly was considered an adult among his own people, then being 'married' only to be seemingly snubbed would be frustrating. But the situation was preposterous, and Jovany found himself internally squirming. He had not even wanted to get married in the first place, and was not prepared for something like this.
"Nino…"
Nino shook his head. "We are talked about by them. That I am not good is said by them, the other wives. That I am not as good at some things as them is known, but I..." He paused again before speaking the rest very deliberately, and slowly, putting much more effort into how he talked than usual. "I am not a weight at your neck, I can also be a wife, do these things. And I do not like being just one person in this house."
A weight about his neck...a burden? That he unquestionably was, but it would be cruel to say so, and Jovany held his tongue. As for 'just one person in the house', he could only assume Nino was trying to say that he was lonely. That was understandable in his situation, but they needed to have a much bigger conversation about this.
"Nino?"
"Yes?"
"You know, I'm not from here."
"No," Nino said, "from a…water...cart."
"Boat," Jovany said, automatically. He knew that, he had heard it from the women who had been brought in with Nino, about the storm and the wreckage and the one single boy cast upon the shore still living. But that wasn't what he had meant. Nino had been working hard to talk to him, and was probably tired, and had gotten the pronouns backwards as he often did. It was not the right time to try to be talking about something like this, but he clearly couldn't put it off any longer, either.
"No," Jovany said. "Me. I am not from here."
"From a...boat you also have come?"
"No, that's you," Jovany said.
For lack of something better to do, Jovany knelt down and grabbed a spare piece of paper and the charcoal stick Nino had left behind. He drew, in a few quick strokes, a village.
"Us," he said, and Nino nodded.
Then he drew the shore, and a boat. "You," he said, and again Nino nodded.
Much further away in another direction he drew another town and said, "Me."
Nino laughed softly. "Eh, known already by me," he said. "Black hair boy." He shook his head and muttered something to himself.
Well of course Jovany did not look like his current hosts! But that was not the point.
"Soon," he said, "I will go home."
"So go I," Nino said.
"Yes."
Not that he really wanted to drag Nino along with him, but they were married for the next three years, and breaking that marriage contract to leave Nino behind here would put him in a very precarious situation indeed.
"Here you are my wife," he said. "But in my home, you are not old enough. You're too little," he said, again, "to be a wife."
Nino puzzled through what he had said, and it was clear when he had done so, because his face fell. "I am not old enough," he repeated bitterly. "But I am old enough, I am not a child."
Well, that was debatable, but Jovany could concede the point if Nino insisted upon it.
"But…it's also not good if they are talking about us."
Mostly for the worse, Jovany had been the subject of rumors the entire time he had been staying here. His refusal to get married had been a big source of contention. He had finally agreed, under duress and the mistaken assumption from his hosts that he only liked men. If the knowledge that their marriage was not consummated was traveling around the camp, that could only bode ill. But he was so young!
There was no possible way of knowing, at this time, what kind of life Nino had led before. Everyone else who had been on the ship was already dead. If Nino was telling the truth about being an adult, and being 'experienced'…well, the ship had come from somewhere far enough away that none of them recognized the language that he spoke, and voyages like that weren't short. More than likely he'd been involved with someone on the ship. And if Nino was someone who had both had and lost a partner of some kind, then being viewed and treated as a child and shut out of things would certainly be grating.
It was no wonder that he would try to confront Jovany about it, even with his limited use of the language. And it wasn't too much, was it, for him to offer Nino this, to live as properly married for the time that remained to them here? It was also possible that, having been in a relationship, Nino hadn't precisely meant that he felt lonely. Jovany tried, then, to make it something that Nino would understand. "This is what you want? You won't be made to do anything you don't want by me."
Nino gave him another brilliant smile, then knelt down and threw his arms around Jovany, which sent both of them down into a mess of papers. "This is known," he said, after pushing himself up on his hands, "this is wanted. And nothing will be said on it in your home by me."
Well, that was something, at least.
And it really wasn't much for Nino to ask of him, or much for Jovany to give him, whatever his own thoughts on the matter, but there was a problem. Jovany had not come home tonight expecting any such thing, and he also didn't have the eyes necessary to see Nino like that. He had no idea at all how to start, so all he could say was "You already had a husband before?"
Nino sat back on his heels. "This is disliked by you? No, no other husbands. Any other wife was had by you?"
"No," Jovany said. "No wives."
"Ooh," Nino said, laughing softly again.
Jovany had a sudden feeling that Nino had misinterpreted what he had said, as he had not reflected Nino's own emphasis. It wasn't that he was totally inexperienced! But that was, he thought, what Nino must have gotten out of it.
Nino moved surprisingly quickly, straddling him and lifting Jovany's hands up to the buttons of his vest. It was clear enough what he wanted, and Jovany began undoing the buttons while Nino waited patiently.
Jovany was still on his back, and could not remove the vest, which Nino did for him, before bringing Jovany's hands back up to his throat. It wasn't as if Jovany didn't know what he was doing, but as he was lacking both comfort and urgency, he still let Nino guide him.
One by one he did each bone button until something came into view which made him stop. A grouping of scars in stark relief against Nino's pale skin, from the left shoulder down across his chest, as if he had been clawed by something. Jovany pushed his shirt open to see better and ran his fingers over them, which Nino did not object to, just shivered slightly.
There were more, Jovany could see that after he had opened his shirt so, another set of seeming claw marks on his right shoulder – from being held down? – and something at the side of his neck which looked very much like they had come from fangs.
Nino didn't stop him from any of this but did look somewhat troubled. "These have already been had long ago. This is disliked by you?"
"What?" Was he worried that Jovany would find them ugly? Some warrior he would be if scars stopped him! But it must've taken a lot of courage for Nino to ask this of him, when he apparently thought he'd already been rejected, and may have thought he was bound to be rejected again. "No, no. They aren't disliked."
Jovany pulled up one of his sleeves, showing off that he had scars of his own from battle and training. Different to look at, but scars all the same.
Nino took Jovany's hand and put it back on his chest. "Being seen is liked by me," he said.
He wondered if that had been a problem for Nino in the past. Jovany wished suddenly that he had done more to help him learn, that they could communicate better. In a moment like this, there were a lot of things he wished he could ask.
"You are seen," he said instead, and Nino smiled at him.
And really, the view was not so bad at all. Nino was pretty, and he was very warm and yielding under Jovany's hands, obedient for once. He could not say that he had wanted their relationship to come in this direction, and rather wished it had not, but, he supposed, there were certainly worse fates.
He went back to slowly unbuttoning Nino's shirt, which fell down around his shoulders as it was opened.
There were more scars there, on his arms, where he must've held them up to protect himself. It had to have been a wild animal, right? It was too big for a cat, and dogs didn't scratch like that. Besides there were animals in abundance in the village and Nino had never reacted to any of them. But it was no good speculating. He would have to ask, someday.
For now, Jovany paused, having reached the place where Nino's shirt was tucked into his trousers.
But Nino was apparently content to leave things sitting there just now because he leaned forward and started returning the favor instead, unbuttoning Jovany's vest and shirt much more quickly.
It was well enough for him, Nino was still straddling Jovany and his urgency was clearly apparent. Jovany couldn't let Nino keep leading however, because this was a pace he certainly couldn't match. It would be much better if he could take his time, and see to Nino without having to commit himself to anything he didn't want to do. But he also really wasn't looking forward to spending that much time on the hard, wooden floor.
He put his hands around Nino's waist and sat up, careful not to let him fall, before picking him up and carrying him to the bedroom.
On the bed like this, even Jovany could admit that Nino was quite appealing to look at. His pale skin was pleasantly flushed, his eyes were shining, his hair was mussed, and his wrinkled clothing was still half hanging off of him, begging to be removed. But all in good time.
Nino wanted people to look at him, so Jovany looked at him, admiring him for a moment before leaning forward and kissing him. That, clearly, came as a shock, because Nino did not respond with any familiarity. But his mouth open in surprised and Jovany used that to push further forwards until he finally broke it off, breathing hard.
"What?" Nino asked, and the baffled expression on on his face was quite cute too, in a different way. Apparently this was something that he had no knowledge of.
Jovany traced his thumb over Nino's mouth, and he parted his lips in response. "Kiss," Jovany said.
"Kiss," Nino repeated. "Yes."
Taking that as approval, Jovany put a hand under Nino's neck, tilting his head and kissed him again. Nino played along perfectly by reaching up and wrapping his arms around Jovany's neck, digging his fingers into his shoulders, keeping him there.
That would hopefully keep his mind and his hands busy, and Jovany could take care of the rest. He shifted his position slightly, so that he was straddling just one of Nino's thighs, which would hopefully also help keep him in place. Nino recognize that too, because he huffed irritably against Jovany's mouth, but did not actually attempt to protest.
So, he only behaved when he was going to get what he wanted out of it. Somehow, that made perfect sense.
Although behaving was a little generous, perhaps. Nino was squirming impatiently against him, and Jovany put his spare hand at Nino's waist to help hold him down more securely.
He left Nino's mouth then to concentrate on other places. His jaw, his neck, his collarbone, over his scars. For someone who was as chatty as Nino was in his day-to-day life, he was a surprisingly quiet partner. The only way that Jovany knew he didn't mind was that he had not moved his hands, to either push him away or try to regain control.
He left kisses all the way down Nino's chest, stomach, and what parts of his hips were showing, it was only when he teased the skin along the band of Nino's trousers that he said, "Jovany," in a particularly plaintive whine and tried tugging him forward.
"All right," Jovany said, and kissed him again properly.
If Nino had any complaints about that he didn't have a chance to voice them, but he jumped when Jovany unbuttoned his trousers and took Nino in his hand.
Hopefully this would be enough for him, it would have to be. He seemed satisfied enough right now, panting into Jovany's kisses and straining against the grip that still held him down.
He was not sure why a few scars would be enough to deter anyone. Nino's usual rambunctiousness made him an incredibly satisfying person to have at one's mercy, enough that Jovany almost, almost reconsidered his decision against going further than this. But no, this was the most that he could offer Nino, at least right now. Still, he had to ask.
"Nino, are you happy?" He asked. "With this?"
"Y-yes! Yes, Jovany!"
It was not always so bad, he thought, being a husband.
"All right," he said again, and this time it was Nino who kissed him, before he even had a chance to.
More Northbound characters, but this is a different country.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 3,153
Content: Dubcon | sensory deprivation
Only someone like Tadj could possibly think of something this ludicrous. Of course, Idrin could say the same for almost everything Tadj had done so far during the relatively brief period of their acquaintance.
Whoever heard of using words of power for something like this? No one, that's who. Because no one would ever possibly suggest it.
"You're quite certain," Idrin asked him, again.
"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have suggested it. Is it so odd?"
"Yes."
"Hm. Well, it's not really a concern of mine if other people think it's odd."
No prisoner of war, if Idrin could truly be considered that, had ever had an incarceration like this. He was sure of it.
It was not enough that Tadj had been a consistent nuisance to him in battle, no, of course not. It was not enough that he was one person – just one! – who continuously broke Idrin's stanzas as if it was nothing. No, he had to be captured by that selfsame nuisance, who was now here everyday with 'ideas' and 'experiments'. Tadj was, in a way Idrin had never before seen, testing the limits and uses of words of power.
Tadj wasn't a speaker himself, so it should have been impossible by all conventional wisdom, but he consistently broke through stanzas with fanatical precision.
Frankly, Idrin continued agreeing to all of these 'experiments' partially out of curiosity, and partially out of the need to eventually best him somehow. Plus they were not, strictly speaking, enemies. Had things not shaken out in the peculiar way that they had done, Idrin and Tadj probably would've been on the same side. But that didn't mean that they were friends, either.
Even so, this was nothing like any of his other 'ideas'. For one thing, Tadj was actually in the room with him. For all previous attempts, he had been on the other side of the wall, its cut-out decorative lattice allowing them to speak to one another. It wasn't that Tadj didn't come in and out during the regular day-to-day activities of caring for a captured opponent. But they had never done anything like this without a wall between them.
"So, to clarify," Idrin said, again, "you want me to use a stanza against you. Here."
"Yes."
"Without being in it myself."
"Just so."
"And while you try to break out of it, you want me to 'distract' you, here."
"Exactly. I've been lucky so far, but people under the influence of words of power are still at the mercy of the real world, though they may not be able to see or hear or feel it. I can't continue to practice in a calm environment and expect it to see me through."
It made sense, though it was mad, utterly mad. No one had done it before, to his knowledge, because speakers had their own ways to fight back and non-speakers had always been unable to act at all. There were not very many people like Tadj.
"I could just kill you," he said.
"You're not the type," Tadj said, cheerfully.
Well, he wasn't wrong. Idrin wouldn't really take that particular course of action. "I could just walk out of here and leave you stranded."
"You could," Tadj agreed.
What in the world?!
Tadj continued. "What you do while I'm fighting my way out is completely at your discretion. That's the point."
There was no reason to ask why him. Tadj was from the desert, as were all of his compatriots, and they could not use words of power. Princess Sielle was here, apparently, but she had never been a very strong speaker. If Tadj wanted to practice this kind of thing, Idrin was his only option. That was, as far as Idrin could gather, exactly the reason that Tadj was still holding him prisoner. He needed to be able to test himself.
He'd already had his suspicions but now he was sure that Tadj was, really and truly, a complete lunatic.
What exactly was he expecting, that Idrin would try to torture him? It wasn't exactly his idea of a good time, and it also wasn't a very good repayment for someone whose only sin was being an annoyance. Plus, there was Princess Sielle to consider. Idrin had always supported her, and had only acted the way he had because of the deliberate misinformation that she had been killed. But she was alive, supposedly, and here, supposedly, and working with Tadj, supposedly. Which meant Idrin should be working with him too.
Even if he was annoying.
And, really, Tadj had treated him exceptionally well.
And, of course, Idrin could not say that he wasn't curious about all the things that Tadj had and would continue to discover doing experiments like this.
"Very well. But I'm not going to make it easy for you."
Tadj brightened. "You never do. That's what I'm counting on."
But what was he supposed to say? No one used words of power like this.
"I do have a condition," Idrin said.
"What's that?"
"I don't want you to hear it, I'm not going to let you pull that snowfield trick on me again." He almost would've been worried that Tadj would refuse, but that would be crediting him with far too much sense.
"You're right," Tadj said, thoughtfully. "I won't necessarily hear a stanza in battle either. I do think there's some wax around here somewhere. Hold on." After saying so, he left the room.
He really was giving up every advantage he had!
But it was Tadj's willingness to consistently pit himself against the best Idrin could offer that left him unable to refuse. No one else had ever taken him so seriously, or recognized how skilled he was. Well, other than Princess Sielle, but she didn't count. They'd grown up together, after all.
Tadj came back into the room and began plugging his ears with wax while Idrin continued thinking of what to say.
It was best if it was art. Tadj struggled most with things that were, as he put it, "true even if not real". If he tried to make it realistic, something in Tadj's almost limitlessly pedantic knowledge would let him break it much more quickly. And ideally it should also be something that Tadj was unfamiliar with, which meant another draw on his hazy memories of his original home.
Just not in winter this time, that would be too mean.
Tadj indicated that he was ready and Idrin turned away from him so that Tadj wouldn't be able to read his lips either.
Idrin launched into describing what he had thought of, a fairy tale from his homeland, about the Troll King's labyrinthine palace. Let Tadj find his way out of that one, if he could!
When Idrin turned back around, Tadj was standing there, paying no attention to him. That was the thing about words of power. Unlike the true magic of the north and west, it only affected the mind.
If given enough time, Tadj would certainly be able to break out of this. But that was what the distraction was for.
But what to do?
Tadj had given him total control, which was a damn fool thing to do, but he was right in thinking that Idrin was unlikely to kill him or hurt him seriously. Idrin didn't really want to hurt him at all, when it came down to it.
So what?
He looked around the room, seeking any kind of inspiration, and his eyes fell on the bed.
Well…
Tadj did want to be distracted, didn't he?
He had said that it was at Idrin's discretion, hadn't he?
There was no way to ask now, because Tadj would not be able to answer him even if he heard the question. Honestly, the fact that Tadj retained enough presence of mind to take notice of anything in the real world was already impressive. He had not said anything about that, but Idrin had noticed it in their past experiments. Tadj, to some vague degree, could still notice things that were going on around him.
Granted, he didn't actually need to be able to recognize that he was feeling something for it to interfere with his ability to think. But the fact that he probably would did add something to Idrin's enjoyment.
Very well, one distraction coming up.
Idrin hooked his hand around one of Tadj's arms and led him back across the floor towards the bed, then pushed him down onto it. He undid Tadj's belt and used it to trap his hands around one of the bars of the headboard.
That was a precaution for both of them. People had been known to react strongly to the visions crafted by words of power. Who could say what Tadj would do with two sets of events to process and react to at once? Probably nothing, but he didn't want to bet on that.
He left Tadj's mouth free, however. If Tadj did have the ability to recognize what form this distraction took, and had the level of thought needed to beg a reprieve of it, Idrin would grant him one. It would take a strong will to do so. Tadj was probably talking quite a lot in his own mind, analyzing everything in the way that he did, but he was not saying anything in the real world. But that didn't mean that he couldn't. If anyone would be able to, certainly Tadj would figure it out.
It wasn't as if this was some sort of romantic assignation, though, and he was working on a deadline. Idrin didn't waste much time in freeing Tadj from his clothing, as much of it is he could do anyway. But he could admit, when he had done so, that Tadj was not exactly hard to look at. He may be a scholar on the surface, but he was still a mercenary, and took good care of his body. There were certainly worse partners he could choose.
There was an additional bit of fortune, in the fact that this area had such a dry climate, because he had been provided lotion for his stay, which would serve nicely.
Oh, Tadj could definitely feel it.
There were two things that were especially satisfying about this, both of which he noticed immediately.
The first was the fact that Tadj had jumped slightly, under Idrin's hand, which confirmed, finally, that he could still take notice of the real world. Perhaps that also was why he was able to break through stanzas when most non-speakers couldn't.
The second was that Tadj had been scratching around the edges of the stanza, Idrin could feel that, just as he also felt it vanish right then.
So, was this distracting enough for him? It seemed so.
Served him right, doing something stupid like this!
It was a little bit of a shame that the speaker of a stanza could not truly say how it affected the people stuck in it if they were not also in it themselves. Like this, he could tell when it was under pressure, being countered, being broken, but felt nothing if it was unchallenged. He would have to ask later, if this changed the vision Tadj was experiencing, or if he was merely aware of it as a background.
Maybe it was a pleasant dream for him.
He certainly reacted to Idrin expressively enough, his body trembling under Idrin's hands. He was not sure how much Tadj was aware of, was doing on his own, and how much was instinctive, the way that he strained against the belt around his wrists, the way he pushed against the place that Idrin held him down, the way he chased after Idrin when he teasingly pulled his hand away.
Twice he felt Tadj almost get a grip around some part of the stanza, and was able to pull escape away from him with a vicious satisfaction he would not have credited himself as being capable of feeling.
With as many times as Tadj had gotten the best of him, maybe it was to be expected.
Tadj wasn't so easily beaten though, either.
The third time he felt Tadj digging into the stanza he had made, Idrin realized that he needed to make a choice. How far was he going to go? This was only supposed to be a test for Tadj, an experiment. The idea was that he would find a way to break free no matter what, but Idrin really did not want to let him do that. There was something about having a helpless enemy underneath you that went to one's head, perhaps.
Well enough, he knew it wasn't fair to call Tadj an enemy.
Perhaps rival would be a better term. Idrin had yet to win against him even once, and he desperately wanted to.
Not to mention, having an attractive bed partner panting and squirming against you was its own kind of intoxication too. Not just anyone either, but Tadj, who was always so perfectly controlled and put together, so unfazed, so effortlessly and endlessly practical, so non-reactive. Idrin did not think there were very many people who could claim to have seen this side of him.
Gentlemanly? Certainly not. But Tadj had wanted to be distracted. Tadj had wanted to test himself. Idrin, as he had all along, wanted to win.
Tadj was reactive enough that Idrin was getting a feel for what he liked best, and deliberately turned it against him now, and felt Tadj lose his grip again. How wonderful that was, to stymie him for once!
There was only so long that he could maintain a stanza, as well. Either Tadj would break the stanza, or Idrin would lose it, or...or he could win, by exhausting Tadj before himself.
Was Tadj always this excitable? Or was there something about being functionally helpless and unaware that was making it more enjoyable for him? From Idrin's experience, Tadj seemed quite close already.
Would twice be enough, Idrin wondered, to exhaust him? He didn't really know what to expect from the vitality of a mercenary, he'd never bedded one before.
Tadj was clawing at the stanza rather desperately, and Idrin refused to let him have it. Idrin was going to see to it that Tadj paid attention to him. Idrin teased him shamelessly, slowing or stopping his actions until he felt Tadj gather himself together for another attempt at breaking free, and then mercilessly dragged Tadj back under his control.
Every part of it was satisfying, the way that Tadj fought against him, the way that he pulled or pushed uselessly one way or the other, the way that he kept arching his back, the way that he was trembling and weak-limbed, the noise he made when he lost that particular battle and collapsed back against the bed panting.
But Idrin was not done yet.
Even from that, he thought, Tadj could probably find his way back.
He waited.
He did not have to wait very long before he felt it again, that insistent poking and prying, weakened, yes, but not defeated.
Honestly, he was glad. He wasn't exactly immune to the performance that Tadj had put on, and hadn't really looked forward to letting him go without having his own turn.
He waited until Tadj seemed to almost be making progress, then slipped his hand between Tadj's legs.
The way he gasped was seconded only by the satisfaction of feeling him once again lose his hold on the stanza Idrin had trapped him in.
He put up a valiant struggle, truly he did, but he did not manage to regain any purchase on the stanza. Idrin had him in a stranglehold now, body and soul. Tadj did absolutely nothing after that but react to him, which was exactly what Idrin wanted.
It was a shame that he was getting a bit tired himself. If he hadn't been maintaining that stanza, too! Ah well.
With his free hand he reached up and freed Tadj's wrists. Idrin wasn't really worried about Tadj being able to do anything at this point, and he wanted to move Tadj into a more comfortable position, which he promptly did.
If he was not quite able to spend as much time teasing Tadj this go-round, he didn't think Tadj was in any state of mind to notice. Idrin certainly wasn't in the state of mind to take his time any longer.
Idrin pushed into him, and Tadj gave up any semblance of fighting at all. It was amazing, if not surprising, how much control Tadj had still been able to exert over his body the first time, but not this time. This time he merely curled and uncurled his fingers against the bedspread, occasionally letting slip some little noise or another in an already pleasure-soaked voice.
It was a good thing his body was already wound up, because he lost his second battle moments before Idrin would've lost the stanza on his own. Instead, he dismantled it, and finished what he had started with renewed vigor.
He leaned back against the footboard when he was done, content and drowsy.
"I admit," Tadj said, eventually, "this did not occur to me at all."
"You came into my room and gave me complete control over you and didn't expect me to use it like this?"
"Not for one moment," said Tadj.
"You really are a very strange person."
"No, it's just that I rather thought you were in love with Princess Sielle."
Idrin shook his head. "She's just my friend."
"So I gather."
But that was a risk that Idrin had not considered at all. "You don't have a wife or partner or anything do you?"
"No, nothing like that."
"That's a relief, I would have felt bad. Now I don't have to. And in the end, you couldn't get out of it, now could you?"
"No, although I have a feeling that the scan of your fifth line-"
This again!
"You couldn't even hear me!" He really had no idea how Tadj managed to be aware of such things. Recognizing the grammar behind a particular stanza was something that even a lot of other speakers couldn't do. "Tell me about it later, all right?"
"All right."
After that Tadj fell silent and Idrin had half fallen asleep by the time Tadj spoke again. "I doubt it's the kind of situation that I'm likely to face, but I'm not opposed to more practice, either."
"Oh good, I was thinking about suggesting that you need it."
"Mhm," Tadj said, as gracious in defeat as he was in victory. He really was annoying! The one time Idrin had managed to beat him, and he had to do in a way that left Tadj much too contented to be upset about it.
I have so much I need to work out about how the words of power actually work so actually this was a hilarious way to do that. There's something really wrong with Tadj actually, it was great to write about him being insane. As always, I'm glad it was a good time!! And if I get my shit together, you might actually see these two at some point for real
These are pretty new characters and I haven't written much about them but it's very fun to get metaphysical ;)
Kinktober Roundup
Word Count: 3,053
Content: Capture | Dubcon
It should have been easy. Uncomplicated, even if it was annoying. Every folk remedy he knew had come to naught, which was endlessly irritating, but the solution was simple. They had need of what people called 'proper' magic, and so Faolan, cursing all the while, had gone to the source of it.
That presented no challenges. For as much as they relied on their conduits to maintain their control, the church was surprisingly careless.
So now the required conduit was here, tied wrist to wrist with him using the same kind of rope that they usually used for monsters. If monsters couldn't remove it, Faolan had thought, perhaps conduits couldn't either. He wasn't sure if that was actually the case, but at the very least the conduit had made no attempt to untie it and had simply allowed himself to be dragged hither and yon over the hills.
"I see," he said, his first words to Faolan in days, very nearly his first words at all, as he peered up at the rift that had opened up in the mountains above the village. "But I can't help on my own."
"I'm a mage," Faolan said, and could not keep the disgust out of his voice when he did so. "All I need is the magic. I can do the rest myself."
"But," the conduit – Faolan really should've asked his name before this – said again, "we aren't bound."
He scoffed. "That fancy jewelry of yours just makes it so you can share magic over a distance. We hardly need it when we're standing right next to each other."
"It's forbidden to share magic directly."
"I'm not asking you," Faolan said.
He didn't care one jot about the church's arbitrary rules to begin with, and he certainly wouldn't choose to follow them over the lives of his friends and family. But now that he was thinking about it, Faolan probably didn't want this little lamb's guard dog interfering. He reached over and carefully removed the conduit's earrings, then took his hands and removed his rings too, one by one. The conduit flinched when Faolan touched him, but said nothing, simply sitting there staring at him with eyes like a wounded dove.
There were a lot of things that Faolan couldn't stand about the church, and mages, and conduits, but that was probably the worst sin of the lot. Conduits were completely and utterly helpless unless they were being told what to do, they never even tried thinking for themselves. He probably could have used ordinary rope. He may not have even needed any rope at all. It may not have occurred to this young man to try to escape on his own.
And sure, he knew what everyone knew. Conduits and mages were both raised by the church. Mages got to leave all the time, but conduits rarely left it except for ceremonial purposes, and were never without their watchers. It may not have been his choice to be like this, but even so, Faolan couldn't understand that kind of life.
This conduit was no different than any of the rest of them. Faolan had grabbed him during the middle of a ceremony and carried him off, and he had not protested or struggled at all. He let out only a single, startled, "What" when Faolan had grabbed him, and then said nothing else. He did not ask who Faolan was, or why Faolan had abducted him, or to be let go. He did nothing when Faolan tied that rope around his wrist, and had done nothing but listen to and follow him since.
Absolutely, infuriatingly, pathetic.
But it wasn't going to be his problem for very long.
He said, "I already did as much of the set up as I could, all I need is a few minutes of your time."
He didn't even want help sealing up that rift. All he wanted was to put a barrier around his village. Surely a conduit could not object to that! He must do this kind of thing all the time. Monsters never gave any trouble to any village that had even the smallest branch of the church in it.
Not that he was giving the conduit any choice anyway.
Faolan tugged at the rope and the conduit followed after him as obediently as always. They traveled together down the hill towards the village, which took them through all of the village fields before they finally reached the wall that surrounded the village proper. There he turned and walked around the outside of the wall.
The wall was good, solid, but it was only effective sometimes. It was not so much a problem when they were only pestered by the occasional monster traveling through the woods. It was much more of a problem when they had an entire rift all to themselves, spitting out monsters regularly. They had been dealing with monsters for a long time and had a great deal of knowledge, but that was too much even for them. So it was that after trying everything else, Faolan had turned at last to the church's magic, placing the necessary sigils on the wall at the five astronomical points of the village. The only thing that remained was filling them with magic, and, as they were all connected, they only even had to work from one spot.
It wasn't fancy, nor technically skilled. It was not, Faolan thought, very much ask.
Even so, the fact that he had to rely on magic was more than grating enough, so he led the conduit around the wall until they reached the orchards, which were not currently being tended, and where they could work without being watched.
Then he said, "Well?"
"I've never done magic like this before," the conduit said.
"And I have?"
The conduit, after hesitating for just a moment, held out his hand palm up, for Faolan to match his hand against, which he promptly did.
But as soon as he did Faolan felt…well…it was certainly nothing like he had expected. He knew that he had the proper constitution for using magic, but had never used it before. Even so, when he had thought about it, he had pictured it more of a force, like water. The conduit was a pitcher, and he was a glass. Moving magic from one to the other was a simple exchange, he had thought.
That was not the case.
Magic was not some divinely gifted thing that only conduits could process and distribute. It was part of him, the young man who was now standing completely transfixed in front of Faolan.
It was part of him, and taking it in hand was like the pride of carrying your friend's whispered secrets, like the thrill of stealing kisses in brief moments of privacy, like the anticipation of undressing a lover, like the satisfaction of looking at someone and knowing that you owned some part of them that no one else did.
Given the conduit's startled expression, it was obvious that sharing magic using binding jewelry was not like this, and it was no wonder that the church forbid it! This kind of vulnerability and sincerity would rot them from the inside out.
And, certainly, it made doing magic very difficult because it brought all kinds of things to mind which had nothing whatsoever to do with the problem at hand.
Faolan shook his head to clear it and pulled the magic offered to himself. He very nearly lost it immediately, because the first touch had shocked the conduit into frozen silence, but taking charge of the magic prompted him into making a very distracting noise, which undid all of Faolan's efforts to make himself concentrate.
Faolan looked at him, and was met with a sight even more distracting, because the conduit had clearly been hit by this even harder than he.
Faolan was going to tell him not to make such noises, but given that he looked like that, how he was flushed and flustered and breathing like he was in a panic, it wouldn't do any good.
Who could have predicted that magic felt like this?
The conduit backed away from him until the rope stretched taut between them, and then clung to the nearest tree like a drowning man to a raft.
But it didn't matter, the magic already stretched between them, hot in Faolan's hands. Oh, he knew that, didn't he? The reason that conduits wore clothing like that, layers and layers of fur-lined wool, was because giving up magic gave their body heat up with it. But to Faolan it was hot, hot enough that he felt feverish.
He needed this to be done with.
Faolan turned and put his hands against the sigil and focused on letting the magic run from his hands and into it. He had to focus on that and not on the pretty, tousled young man behind him who soul he was so thoroughly enmeshed in. Magic dripped off his hands like blood and brought with it a bevy of confused feelings, just occasionally brushing against him as they passed, each one requiring him to steady himself, to concentrate, concentrate, no, not on him, on the spell.
Everything the conduit was was in his control right now. They could not have been more entangled if Faolan had opened up the conduit's chest and took hold of his heart directly. He realized it then, either from the magic or the conduit or making his own connections, but he realized it in any case, that if he wasn't careful, the conduit would die. It would be easy to kill him, and it would be easy to cross that line without realizing it.
If magic to Faolan felt like the pleasure of ownership, to the conduit it must be...what? The pleasure of trust, perhaps.
The spell had already started, and he had no choice but to trust Faolan, to trust that he wouldn't take too much, that he would give something back, that Faolan would take care of him.
And Faolan didn't even know his name.
So he asked, much better late than never, "What's your name?"
"...Mioritza."
"And I'm Faolan. I think I'm almost done."
"O-oh...all right..."
It went on that way for just a few heartbeats longer before the spell snapped closed and Faolan dropped the magic from his hands like hot coals. But that wasn't enough, was it?
He had all of Mioritza's leftover magic, but mages could not give magic, and conduits could not receive it. It was not possible to do the reverse of what they'd just done.
If the giving of magic was an act like death, then the restoring of it must be an act like life.
Ah.
Well, there must be a reason that Mioritza was weak-kneed and panting, and Faolan had not been able to keep his mind out of the bedroom.
If he'd known it would turn out like this-!
Conduits were barely allowed outside, was there any chance at all that Mioritza had experience in this area? Unlikely. Deflowering someone that he had kidnapped in the first place didn't rank very highly on Faolan's list of priorities.
But he hadn't known, and what was done was done. He didn't know any other way to deal with it, so this was what was left. He'd apologize for it later.
There wasn't anybody too terribly close by to see how things had turned out, but that could change at any moment. The least Faolan could offer Mioritza was to not screw him out in the open where anybody could walk by.
He crossed the distance between them in a few steps and scooped Mioritza into his arms and oh, if Mioritza didn't melt against him like butter!
No, there wasn't time for that, not just yet.
"Faolan," Mioritza said, "I feel-"
"I know," Faolan said, "don't worry."
Faolan carried him deeper into the orchards. People may come along the wall for one reason or another but were unlikely to come into this area right now, he hoped. When he could no longer see the wall, he knelt down and laid Mioritza on the grass on his back, although that was easier said than done, because Mioritza had wrapped his arms around Faolan's neck and did not want to let go. Well enough.
Then there was nothing to do but bend over and begin the incredibly laborious process of unwrapping Mioritza from his ceremonial garb. The church did like to make things complicated!
First there was the cloak, which fastened at his throat. After that was a narrow belt, and then Mioritza's robes, which were more of a problem. Those fastened only partway down his chest and needed to be pulled over his head. Mioritza still didn't want to let go of him. But there was something to be said, in this situation, for the blind obedience of a conduit.
"You have to let go," he said, and Mioritza did.
After that his clothing was almost normal. A wide sash at his waist, easily removed, a blouse which closed with toggles down the front, and britches and boots. There did seem to be a million of the stupid wooden toggles, he thought, as he undid them one by one, but it wasn't so bad.
"Faolan!" Mioritza complained.
"I know," he said again, as he worked. He had a brief thought that he could kiss Mioritza to distract him, but dismissed it. Faolan thought that he was already taking more than enough. He should leave Mioritza something, if he could. Instead he hurriedly divested himself of his overcoat – the rest could stay – and brought his fingers to Mioritza's lips.
"Open your mouth."
Mioritza, obedient as he had been all along, did.
He slid his fingers into Mioritza's mouth and said, "Suck."
And Mioritza did, albeit it clumsily.
At least it kept him quiet.
His body temperature really was worryingly low. Faolan didn't know if there was a time limit to this kind of thing, so he could only do the rest as quickly as he could with one hand.
Soon, though perhaps not soon enough for Mioritza's taste, Faolan touched his hand to Mioritza's leg and said, "Open your legs."
Mioritza, unsurprisingly, did exactly as he asked.
When he pulled his fingers out of Mioritza's mouth he further said, "You need to stay relaxed. I'm going to take care of you, but you have to be relaxed."
At first Mioritza nodded but when Faolan got started he gasped and then hesitantly said, "I don't know if…"
"All you have to know is that I'm taking care of you, all right?"
"...All right..."
It was obvious that he was trying to do as Faolan told him, but that this was a stretch of even his obedience. The magic helped, how it had made him feel helped, but that didn't make it easy. It was very likely that he had no idea what was happening, and almost certainly no idea what to expect.
"Can..."
"Hm?"
"Can I hold onto you again?"
"I think you better should."
So Mioritza reached up and locked his arms around Faolan's neck again, closed his eyes, and did his very best to obligingly leave himself in Faolan's hands.
It was not so bad, really. The magic had done most of the work, and Mioritza's own nature did the rest but…
But...
If doing magic with Mioritza was nothing like he would have expected and not quite like anything else he'd ever felt before, bedding him was just as different. Here, then, was the exchange he expected, almost. Except it was nothing like the placid changeover he would have thought, but something as natural and inevitable as the tides. It almost felt like that, some rolling in the pit of his stomach like the tide changing. Magic had come in and something – heat or energy or life or some other thing he couldn't name – went out with every motion he made.
He had intended to apologize, to say that he hadn't known, and hadn't planned on doing this, but found himself unable to speak a word of it. He felt it clearly just then, with Mioritza in his arms making such pleasant little noises against his shoulder, that magic – just like any other natural thing – had a cycle, and this was just part of it.
He did not need to say anything.
They were still entangled with one another, physically and otherwise, and Faolan still got flashes of what Mioritza was feeling, or thinking. A brief sense of wonderment, that the church had been wrong, as he had thought – had he thought so? – of course, of course he had, he just couldn't say it, he didn't know how. A feeling of assurance from someone who understood magic, that this was right, that the ritual was supposed to be shared, that the risk was not supposed to be on the conduit, and the reward on the mage, but everything shared equally. A very hazy, confused sort of acceptance, forgiveness, maybe.
Faolan would not have been able to stop for any reason, was no more able to stop this than Mioritza had been able to stop him from using magic. He was the one acting, but Mioritza was the one in control, and Mioritza pulled and pulled and pulled, digging into him, seeking whatever it was that he had given up and now needed back. It may have been the first time Mioritza had ever asked for anything in his life, and Faolan wasn't about to deny him.
"Whenever you want," Faolan managed to say, gazing into the sweet brown eyes of the young man below him.
"Everything," Mioritza said back, clinging to him more tightly than ever.
Everything.
So that was what Faolan gave him.
What a waste it was, Faolan briefly thought, that he had spent so long disliking magic when he could've been having this much fun all along. Mioritza must've caught that one, for he laughed.
Next time-
Next time?
Next time!
Next time, they would be a lot better prepared.
It was Faolan's turn to laugh, then he rested his forehead against Mioritza's, and just followed where he led.
Admittedly this was SUCH a speed run of what I intend to happen in the story but. In the way that I consider sex the least interesting part of sex, I love doing stupid metaphysical shit like this. This one was so fun to write and I am so glad so many of the lines got you like they did!!
Yrfan did not bother to ask why. Tarhir had told him – though not yet ordered him – that it would be better if he didn't talk, and so far Yrfan had listened. There was no way for him to get through to Tarhir even if he did disobey. He was also not sure if Tarhir would be able to articulate why, even if Yrfan asked it of him.
He already knew, had to admit to himself by now, that his Tarhir was gone. That this was nothing but a demon that wore his face and talked in his voice. But it was not him. It did not act like he had, nor speak like he had, and it certainly did not feel like he had. This Tarhir did not eat, he fed off of people. Yrfan felt it, the way this thing drained the magic out of him, leaving him often sick and exhausted. Yrfan had never felt anything like it before. Certainly the real Tarhir had never done it. But he had been human, and this thing was not.
This was much worse than simply losing a partner, this becoming he was forced to bear witness to. Not that it mattered. Tarhir, real or fake, still owned him, and so long as he held that contract, there was nothing Yrfan could do except obey him.
So, Tarhir told him to strip, and he did. So, Tarhir built a lounge of pillows on the bed and told him to lie on it, and he did.
He did not ask why.
He probably didn't want to know.
"Yrfan of the Silver Halls," the thing that was not Tarhir said, and Yrfan felt the obedience spell engraved in the collar at his throat waking, "I command you to stay."
In the early days of this, whatever this was, this transformation, or taking over, Tarhir had usually tied him up anytime he left. Now he didn't bother. Why waste his hard stolen energy when the spell would do the work for him? That's what it was there for, after all. He might as well use it.
Yrfan reclined nude on the bed as Tarhir had arranged him, and watched him walk away.
Whatever errands Tarhir intended on, they most likely would not take him long. It had not been more than three days ago that the king had been torn down from his throne, and the celebration had not yet stopped. There were plenty of drunken fools a stone's throw away from their door for Tarhir to prey on.
And as he had thought, shortly after Tarhir left the door opened again and chatter interrupted the relative silence of their temporary apartment.
Tarhir came back into the room and three strange men followed after him, laughing and jostling amongst themselves. No one seemed at all surprised to see him there. Yrfan did not bother wondering what Tarhir had told them.
"Remember," Tarhir said to them, "no one is allowed to touch him but me. And you," he turned to Yrfan, "get to watch."
Yrfan was vaguely aware of the men playing some sort of game – to decide who got to go first, probably – but he could not focus on that because he was watching Tarhir as he had said to. Tarhir stripped out of his heavy winter clothing with the ease of excessive practice and climbed onto the bed, balancing himself against Yrfan. His soft body was warm and familiar, but utterly wrong.
It wasn't as if Yrfan hadn't suspected that this sort of thing was going on whenever he was too tired to be of any use and Tarhir left the house for hours at a time. He had known. But to see the way this thing was abusing his love's body was too cruel to ask of him.
Yrfan saw someone else's hands grab Tarhir by the waist, their backs rough against the insides of his legs, as one of the men took place behind him, and set to work. The rhythm of his movement caused Tarhir to move invitingly against Yrfan, too, and Tarhir kept his balance by locking his arms around Yrfan's chest. He closed his eyes. No sooner had he done so did he feel the collar about his throat spring into burning life, cutting off his breath.
Once, because of Tarhir, he had almost forgotten what that felt like.
Now, because of Tarhir, he never would again.
But Tarhir had also commanded him to stay, so he suffered in frozen silence until he could not bear it any longer and opened his eyes, as Tarhir wanted him to.
These days the skin on Yrfan's neck was always red and raw, bruised and sometimes bloody from overuse of that obedience spell. Once he had thought it a form of protest, not to heal his own injuries. That maybe Tarhir would see the result of his actions, and regret them. But that was before Yrfan had been forced to admit that this was not Tarhir. Now, protest had nothing to do with it. This fake Tarhir didn't even leave him enough energy to heal something so simple.
The demon in front of him reached up with Tarhir's hands and slid his fingers under Yrfan's collar, kneading against the sensitive skin there. At this point, Yrfan didn't even flinch at such things.
"I told you to watch," Tarhir said.
Yrfan met his eyes. There was nothing even remotely human about them anymore, nothing comfortable in that cold and hungry gaze, gray and pitiless as the mountains, but he was already used to that. It had taken Yrfan a long time to truly admit to himself when he already knew was true. During that time, step-by-step, Tarhir had dragged him deeper and deeper into this game of mingled pain and pleasure, of hurt and comfort and guilt, of jealousy and hunger and need. But recently, those steps were such that Yrfan could not take, would not take. Things that even orders could not compel of him, and his refusal left the demon that looked like Tarhir perpetually unsatisfied.
He was quite used to this Tarhir looking at him like that. It was the way the real Tarhir used to look at him that he could no longer remember. His eyes had been soft and warm as wool, but what did that look like? It was lost to him, now.
"From where you sit," Tarhir said, "you can see all of it, can't you? So you can see his hands on me, impersonal and uncaring. You can see the other men waiting their turn. You can see him fucking me, as you'll be able to see them fucking me. I want you to see all of it."
Yrfan didn't want to, but no one in this godforsaken country had ever cared what a mage wanted except for Tarhir, the real one, and he was long gone.
Yrfan watched, as Tarhir wanted him to, as the movements Tarhir made crept slowly into his blood and Tarhir's voice formed a constant buzzing commentary at the back of his mind.
"I know you saw them before, the bite marks and blood and bruises, in the shape of someone else. You never said anything about it, I thought you disliked it. But maybe it's the opposite. You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? I can tell. Do you like watching someone else play with your toy?"
Tarhir had never been a toy, to him, and this was not Tarhir. This was just some doppelganger who had stolen Tarhir from him, and never let him forget that fact.
"No, you'd much rather it be you, isn't that right? You know very well how I feel in your hands."
Yrfan did.
The first man finished and stumbled backwards, clearly much more exhausted than he would've thought himself to be. Yrfan knew exactly how that felt. Tarhir stretched over him like a cat, still rubbing against him, a pleased expression on his face.
"If you worked harder, you wouldn't need to share me with anyone," he said as the second man stepped up to take his turn.
"I also want it to be you," Tarhir said. "No one fucks me like you do, but you hold back too much. I want all of you, Yrfan. I want you to carve yourself into me so deeply I never need anyone else. If you do that…if you do that, I can be anything you ask of me."
No, because he could never really be Tarhir ever again.
"I want you so badly, Yrfan, can't you see how much I need you?" The thing that wasn't Tarhir cried piteously against his chest. He was paying no attention to the other men at all, but why would he? They were nothing but food to him. It was clear that he was getting nothing out of sex like this, except for whatever it was he was stealing from them. He was not enjoying it, it had no meaning. But Yrfan, oh that was different. He still wanted Yrfan in his bed, because when Yrfan touched him he reacted, and it was a lot more than just eating.
It most likely was not even him that reacted, but some ingrained memory of Tarhir's. Tarhir, the real one, had possessed all of Yrfan, heart and body and soul, an unmatched devotion that Yrfan had happily given to him of his own free will.
But Tarhir, the real one, was dead, and Yrfan's heart along with him.
This demon might have Tarhir's memories, it appeared, but that love was not something Yrfan could give him, nor was it something that could be claimed from him with orders and punishments.
This second man lasted for much less time than the first, and neither one of them took any notice of him or his successor at all.
It wasn't about that.
"But," Yrfan said, his first words in weeks, "I don't want you."
It flipped from pleading to rage in an instant, glaring up at him. There was no word for the way that it spoke except snarling, as it told him, "You do! You do want me, I can feel how much against my belly! I can prove how much you want me!"
It's hand snaked down between their bodies and closed around him, and Yrfan did know exactly how that felt, and his body reacted accordingly. He was only human, after all, unlike this thing.
"You do want me," the thing that was not Tarhir said. "Your heart is pounding so loud I can hear it, and your breath is disordered, and your skin is flushed, and your dick is hard and slick in my hand."
He wasn't sure why he was even bothering to fight back. Nothing about the situation had changed. But something about seeing Tarhir like this had finally pushed Yrfan just a step too far. "No," he said. "The body is easy to convince, but that's not what you want. You want the rest of me, and you'll never get it."
He was not at all surprised to feel the fangs of the obedience spell snapping shut around his throat again, but this time it went on long enough that Yrfan had the hazy thought that Tarhir might really, actually, kill him with it. But no, he never had been that lucky.
He was only partially aware of the fact that Tarhir was clawing at him now, as if he could dig his way straight down to Yrfan's soul and stick a flag in it. "You do want me," he muttered to himself, "you do, you do, you're mine. Every part of you belongs to me!"
"No," Yrfan said again, his voice so rough it was barely distinguishable as a word.
But it was distinguishable enough.
It screamed against him, in a noise of such agonized frustration that he had never before heard its like, nor indeed, ever heard again.
"Why won't you listen," it said. "Why won't you follow me? Why won't you admit that you're mine, mine, mine?"
"I was never yours," Yrfan said. "I was his."
It stopped, completely still and silent in a way that a human would not have been capable of. For all he could feel, Yrfan may as well have been in an empty room with nothing but the sounds of celebration outside to keep him company.
"He is mine," the thing that was not Tarhir said. "And you are mine. If you won't give yourself to me, I'll take you instead. If you won't break yourself open for me, I'll break you myself, and hollow you out until you don't remember he ever existed."
He had never seen it lose control like this. Yrfan was vaguely aware that Tarhir had blood on his hands, and that it was his. It didn't hurt yet, over the aching of his throat, but Yrfan had a feeling it was about to. Still, maybe it would break him so badly that he really would die, and he could find wherever it was that the real Tarhir was waiting for him. He must be waiting somewhere. Yrfan could not and would not believe that perhaps this thing had eaten him. Even more unthinkable was the idea that this really was Tarhir's soul warped into an unrecognizable shape.
It couldn't be.
It had to be that this demon was drawing on Tarhir's memories and wanting what Tarhir had once had. It could not be Tarhir wanting what he had possessed but no longer able to recognize why he had possessed it.
Yrfan said, "It will never be love."
"It will be," Tarhir said. "I'm going to plant it in you myself, and you'll thank me for it. No, no, you won't remember a time that you didn't have it. I'm going to carve myself into you so deeply that anyone who looks at you will see it and know that you're mine."
Yrfan just looked at it.
"Give yourself to me," it said, finally issuing a command which superseded the other one, and Yrfan relaxed from the position he had been held in.
In all the time that he had known Tarhir, in all the time they had been lovers, he had never once wanted to bed Yrfan like this. But then, this wasn't Tarhir, now was it?
"Even if you rip my soul out by the roots," Yrfan said, "all you'll find is soil nothing else can grow in."
"A farmer can plow his own field as often as he wants to," it said, unconcerned, "and he can plant whatever he wants in it."
Something about this was wrong. Yrfan couldn't say what it was, and didn't want to draw attention to it, but he had the feeling the demon had overlooked something. That its anger at him had overtaken its judgment. There was something, some kind of idea, forming at the back of his mind, that he could not yet make out the size of.
It pulled Yrfan into place, nails leaving more bloody furrows on his skin as it did so. It was not gentle. If it had been capable of being so, they would not have ended up in this situation.
Tarhir had been very gentle, and Yrfan tried to remember what he had been like, before. Before this thing had hatched in him, and taken his body for its own.
It was not easy, because this hurt, damn it all. This Tarhir didn't know very much about human bodies, how delicate they could be. It did nothing to avoid causing pain, and always wanted to be hurt itself. That was one of things Yrfan had been unwilling to do.
Finally, there was something this thing could give as well as it took.
That was it, wasn't it? That was what he had been thinking of. This thing, like Tarhir had done – though not for the same reason – always played the submissive role. Tarhir had liked it best. But this thing? This demon did it because it only knew how to take, it couldn't give anything. It was too hungry for that. Yrfan always found himself utterly drained afterwards, like those three poor idiots laying slumped around the room were. It had always only ever taken from others.
But he did not want to let himself hope too much, either.
In Tarhir it had been a preference, maybe that's all it was here too.
But he did not think so. That was the thing about magic channels, they could go both ways.
Yrfan did his best to ignore it. The way that it muttered about possession, the frenzied way it tore at him, the violent way it rode him with no thought in its head at all except claiming him. None of that was important. If it injured him so badly that he died, then he died. If it didn't, he would heal himself later. If he got away, he'd be able to.
All he needed was for it to end up as senselessly exhausted as it usually left him. He knew exactly where his contract was shut up. If only he had enough time he could destroy it, he could run. He'd never had a chance before, because this Tarhir neither ate nor slept, and it never left him untied or not under command.
It was hard to concentrate. Yrfan did not bother with any kind of resistance, not even to stop himself from crying out. Right now his body was on its own. It was fortunate that mages were trained the way that they were, to be able to do magic under almost any condition. It was expected that their masters would be violent with them, that they may need to do what was required injured or drugged or half dead. Yrfan had not needed those skills since leaving the Silver Halls, but he still had them to rely on, dusty though they were.
Yrfan knew his own magic. He knew the way that his magic left him, and found that channel, and followed it backwards, but softly, softly, so Tarhir didn't notice. At the other end of that channel he found Tarhir, a vile assortment of magic stolen from others. But Tarhir did not use magic, he just ate it. He had no feel for it, and made no reaction as Yrfan wormed his own power into it.
Tarhir's actions were rougher and quicker than ever, so it was almost over, and as soon as it was-
He was not wrong, that this was how this particular channel activated. How could he be, when Tarhir had demonstrated it over and over again? Tarhir certainly would've lost something to him, but Yrfan was ready. He pulled his own magic back, and like called like, the other magic following. He took it all.
It uttered a surprised little cry and collapsed against him, and for a moment Yrfan also laid where he was, hurting and sick in a totally different way, stuffed with magic that was not his. But that was a problem for later, later. He could work around it. He must. He forced his aching body to move, pulling himself slowly off the bed.
He did not think, somehow, that would be enough to kill the thing. But it lay unconscious on the bed and Yrfan looked down at the man who had once held every part of him. But of course, that had been belonging with one another, not ownership. This Tarhir couldn't tell the difference.
Stealing the magic from it like that would not kill it, and Yrfan knew that he probably should. If he didn't, it would just go on to hurt other people. But...
How could he?
It was, in some way, still Tarhir, and Yrfan could not stomach hurting him. He'd never been able to. He'd been purchased to keep Tarhir alive. Even if he should kill this thing, Yrfan could not bear it. So, although he knew he shouldn't, Yrfan left the thing that wasn't Tarhir alone where it lay.
He dressed, stiff and awkward from yet unexamined hurt, and retrieved his contract from the traveling case where Tarhir kept all of his important items. Then he, for the first time, walked away from Tarhir.
I really have no idea why I ended up writing about possession for Kinktober so much, I don't even consider a bit that big of a kink for me (despite what my output may say) but I'm so glad that you enjoyed it!!
So, I finally had a chance to write about them in the actual canon storyline. This is probably about two years after the events of Second Chances.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 3,180
Content: Non-human character
It was not a surprise to Izare that he came home to a note. Well, not an note, but a map. He hardly needed it. Today was his birthday and Mahesha always did something, and there was only one place that he would've gone. Mahesha would be, of course, in that same little grotto that they always went to, the same one that he had proposed in, the second time.
But he wasn't expecting this.
When had Mahesha found the time?
It was not quite the same, but then, they were not rich. So it was not silk that clung to him like a second skin, but a soft linen in deep burgundy. The cut was very similar, something which hid very little and offered easy access to much. They could hardly afford jewelry, and Mahesha must've made most of this himself, with carved and painted wooden beads. They did not have access to the shimmering face paint used in Kovaria either. But Mahesha had let his hair loose, that tumble of shining black curls spilling over his shoulders that Izare loved.
"Mahesha! You look beautiful!"
Mahesha ducked his head briefly, as he often did when embarrassed, then looked up, bright blue eyes shining. "Happy birthday, Izare. I have a picnic dinner for us."
Izare settled onto the blanket next to him and Mahesha started serving food from the basket he brought along. Hand pies with pork filling – and how much had that cost him? – which were still warm. There was cider for Izare to drink too, a little crock of it being kept cold in the brook that ran merrily by. Izare didn't need to see the dessert to smell it, honey rolls, no doubt made with acorn flour as they were both most used to.
"You spoil me too much," Izare said, and Mahesha smiled.
He was stunning like this, and Izare loved seeing him, but he had no idea how Mahesha could stand it. There were times that Mahesha had played at being a courtesan again, very lightly. But to dress up like this!
Still, his posture was relaxed as they ate, chatting about this and that, so Izare knew that Mahesha wasn't forcing himself to do this for his sake. Izare considered it while they ate, and cleaned off in the brook, and returned to their spots on the blanket. He knew that Mahesha had not dressed like this just to be looked at.
"Mahesha?"
"Hm?"
"How do you like to be touched?"
He did not have to specify what he meant. Mahesha understood, and Izare knew that he did, because he went suddenly very still.
Mahesha had come a long way, Izare knew that. They both had, and most of it together. Mahesha was no longer ashamed to take the physical comfort that Izare offered him, or to ask for more when he needed it, as shapeshifters very often did. He no longer referred to himself as a beast, the way he had done, the benefit of being born in Kovaria. But all the same, Izare knew that Mahesha still put an overwhelming amount of effort into moving and sounding and acting human.
"Tonight is supposed to be about you," Mahesha said, a trifle stiffly.
"That's why I'm asking."
Once, Izare would've accepted Mahesha saying he didn't know. But that could not be the case. There was no way that Andreal would have left Mahesha ignorant to his differences from humans. Not when Andreal could turn that knowledge into a stick to beat him with.
Mahesha said nothing.
"I don't want to leave that part of you in his hands," Izare said.
It wasn't as if he didn't think Mahesha enjoyed their time together. He clearly did, and was usually the one who initiated. But…
Sometimes his reactions seemed odd, or forced, or missing. Sometimes he seemed, for lack of a better word, restless. And he was always oddly silent.
Izare was not stupid, though plenty of people would say so.
He knew that when Mahesha cried, he did not sound human, and that Mahesha rarely allowed it of himself. In over twenty years of knowing one another, Izare had only heard him cry twice and both of those comparatively recently. And there was that quiet little chirp he sometimes made when amused. Usually, Mahesha laughed in the way a human did, but every once in a while, when he was taken off guard, his control slipped.
Even if Izare was stupid, it didn't exactly take a genius to realize that Mahesha must certainly be guarding his reactions and needs in the bedroom too.
The most Izare had ever gotten along that line was something that Mahesha would not have been able to hide from him, and that was only the fact that early spring was mating season and every year Mahesha went into heat. But even then he controlled himself, and – other than a slight tendency to bite – it was all very human. As human as Mahesha could make it.
Mahesha had been raised by, and for, humans. Izare knew that. Izare could accept that there were probably a lot of things that would be instinct to other haltiat which, in Mahesha, had by now been completely suppressed. There were almost certainly things that regular haltiat needed that Mahesha didn't, or at least didn't know that he did. But Izare also knew – because Torin had confirmed it for him when Izare had finally overcome the humiliation of asking her – that the different shapeshifter races had their own physicality, their own things that they enjoyed, and that would not go away through training or denial.
Mahesha was simply not telling him about it, most likely because he still found it embarrassingly inhuman, in a very similar way to how Izare had once struggled to give voice to his desires because he had been raised to think that they were immoral. But in this one case, Izare had gotten over himself faster than Mahesha had.
Mahesha had once said, in bitterness during an argument, that their relationship was not a secret but Izare was still acting as if it was. The same could be said about Mahesha now. Everyone knew that he was not human, but Mahesha still acted as if they didn't. As if they couldn't.
"Courtesans are supposed to do as they're told, aren't they?" Izare asked, and knew exactly how much he asked by doing so. "I want to see you put on that kind of show for me."
Izare waited, not moving, for him to respond.
Finally, Mahesha let out a shaky breath. "I like," he said, with tangible reluctance, "the back of my neck being stroked…like…preening."
That made sense. Haltiat were not birds but from what little Izare had gathered from Mahesha, they were certainly birdlike. In the noises they made, in the way that they moved, the way that Mahesha had moved when he was young, before he had learned to hide it better. At the very least haltiat usually had wings. Mahesha still had the scars from losing his.
Izare reached over and dragged his fingers lightly down the nape of Mahesha's neck.
Shapeshifters could be, sometimes, quite funny. Mahesha had so not wanted him to know this but reacted to it instantly, going almost limp. He fell forward slightly and caught himself on his hands and that was where he stayed, head hanging down and hair providing a convenient curtain to hide behind.
"Up and down, or just down?"
"...down..."
Probably had something to do with the way their feathers lay. It would be helpful if he could ever see what Mahesha actually looked like, but that was not possible. He had lost the ability to take his true form years ago, and haltiat did not naturally live in the north. There were those artistic depictions he had seen, but those were more abstract than helpful. And while Mahesha had eventually agreed to help foster any young haltiat Torin and her compatriots freed from slavery in Kovaria, that had never yet happened.
So Izare could only figure it out a little bit of time. Izare just went on 'preening' him while Mahesha shivered under it, clearly at war with himself.
"If you..."
"Hm?"
"...use your nails, rather than your fingertips," Mahesha said, "that..."
Izare did so, and heard Mahesha's breath catch in his throat. Well, haltiat probably had talons or claws or something, so this would feel more accurate to him.
"What else do you like?"
"I…my back where-"
Where his wings would be. But he did not have wings anymore, there was nothing there to be acted upon. Even so Izare let his hand fall lower and found that Mahesha apparently liked being touched all the way down his spine. Izare continued that way, going from the nape of his neck down as low as his outfit was cut, over and over again while Mahesha, probably mostly against his will, relaxed into it.
Shapeshifters were like that. Or, at least, Mahesha was.
This was the sort of care a haltiat would usually provide their mate, and Mahesha had not felt comfortable asking it of him. There was no point in confronting him about that. Even a year ago, Izare would have blamed himself, but he knew now that it was not a reflection on him, it was just another facet of Mahesha's own self-denial. They both had their obstacles to overcome, and could only continue on as they had been, together.
Still, Izare thought, he would like to hear Mahesha make some noise.
So he pressed on. "And?"
"My...my stomach is sensitive, when I'm...I'm like this. I don't know anything else."
"That's not quite true, is it?" Izare asked. "You like to bite, don't you?"
"S-sorry," Mahesha said. "I try not…I know humans don't heal as easily…"
"Mahesha, I do know that you're not human."
"..."
"It's all right," said Izare. "It's all right. I don't mind it."
Mahesha sometimes wanted things much faster and rougher than Izare was prepared to give him. He didn't know if that was because of Andreal's training or Mahesha's own nature, but it was one place they were incompatible. Haltiat healed very easily, but Izare didn't want to do anything that would hurt him, even if Mahesha wanted it. Humans did not heal so easily, and Mahesha was almost always gentle with him, even in the spring, despite expressing frustration over it in the past. Biting though, that was something Izare could handle. That was something Izare could give him.
There was certainly something about his mouth.
It was not just biting, Mahesha also liked kissing, a lot. That, at least, Andreal had no hand in. It wasn't the kind of thing that someone did with a whore, or a shapeshifter. Even to torment him, Andreal would not have thought of it. Even if he had thought of it, he wouldn't have given it any serious consideration.
"Mahesha, look at me please."
It was sometimes difficult, with Mahesha. Haltiat had silver blood, and dark skin, and could not blush in a way humans could see. He could tell a little, touching Mahesha like this, because haltiat usually had a low body temperature and his had risen considerably. But Izare had seen Mahesha look at him like this before, a little helplessly, as if he had no idea what to do next.
He probably didn't. That was usually the case, when it came to anything having to do with his needs as a shapeshifter.
He didn't know what thought prompted it, but Izare took his hand and ran his thumb along the edge of Mahesha's jaw, like one would do with a cat. With cats he knew it was affection, belonging, ownership. Mahesha had been totally unprepared for it, possibly had not even known he would like it, and it clearly caught him off guard. Izare did it one more time while Mahesha just stared at him, then Mahesha threw his arms around him and they both fell backwards.
"Izare!" Mahesha cried out and buried his face in the crook of Izare's neck, rubbing against him.
Izare just laughed and went back to stroking Mahesha's neck and back.
This time, finally, Mahesha did make a noise, a delighted little trill that was utterly inhuman, and utterly perfect.
Izare rolled to one side, spilling Mahesha across the blanket on his back. "You said your stomach is sensitive too, yes?"
Unfortunately, his stomach was the only place that wasn't easy to access in an outfit like this without undoing it. Izare unbuckled the belt and undid the little tie under it, and the whole outfit fell open. Izare took a moment to marvel. Mahesha really was beautiful, and he never got tired of looking at him.
"Something about," Izare prompted.
"...about simulating the-"
As he had done earlier, Izare dragged his nails lightly down Mahesha's stomach and the rest of the sentence trailed off in another enthralling trill.
"Simulating what?" Izare teased him.
"T-the mating experience in males," Mahesha said, all in a rush.
Izare did not have to ask who had said that.
It was probably about feathers again. Haltiat, Izare knew, did have a ridge of feathers that ran all the way down their backs. It makes sense that it would be noticeable to them during sex, enjoyable, and that it was just another thing it was possible to mimic. Haltiat were very susceptible to that. Mimicry, of all kinds of things. Mahesha, having lost his bond and all of the instinct that went with it, was even more susceptible than most.
"When I…when I planned tonight," Mahesha said, "this isn't exactly-"
"What you had in mind, I'm sure," Izare said. "Would you prefer me to stop?"
"It's your birthday."
"That's right, it is." Izare went back to what he had been doing and Mahesha did not do anything to gainsay him. He did occasionally let slip a handful little chirping or trilling noises and then Izare decided that while he was down here he may as well put his mouth to good use and at that point-
At that point Mahesha started purring, or something very similar to it, a sort of low, rolling trill. Purring! It was not overly loud but he could feel it because his hand was still resting on Mahesha's stomach. That was exactly the kind of thing that he was hoping for, hoping to learn. These were the kind of reactions that had been missing, because Mahesha tried so hard to act human that he wouldn't ask for the games that prompted them.
Now, Izare pulled back. "Mahesha?"
"Mm?"
"It's time for you to undress me," Izare said.
Mahesha stared at him a moment, but then he gave a small smile. "Of course, Mr. Harrickson."
That was something else Izare hadn't expected, but it sent a shiver all the way through him. Mahesha was really being serious about this! But it didn't appear to be upsetting him any, so Izare had no trouble playing along.
He was kneeling, but Mahesha pushed him back slightly and settled between his legs. There wasn't that much to remove, given that it was nearly midsummer, but Mahesha managed to make a show of it anyway, pulling Izare's shirt out of his pants with agonizing slowness, then pushing it all the way off in such a way that it gave him free rein of Izare's chest.
"How much clothing do you want removed, Mr. Harrickson?"
"All of it, I should think."
Mahesha removed the rest in a similarly overly complex fashion, first Izare's boots and and socks and then – after spending an unnecessarily long time 'untangling' the ties – his pants.
"What would Mr. Harrickson like served to him this evening?"
As if he really had to ask. Still, Izare thought, one of the trees would do well enough. Yes, that one. He got up and knelt in front of one of the trees then leaned forward to find that, as he had thought, these particular knots in the bark made perfect handholds to support himself against.
"Mount me," Izare said, "just like this. Free use of your hands is allowed, biting is allowed."
"As Mr. Harrickson wishes."
Mahesha had not dressed like that to be looked at, so he certainly had not come out here unprepared for what it meant. And sure enough, from the corner of his eye Izare saw Mahesha remove something else from the dinner basket and then come to kneel behind him.
"How long would Mr. Harrison like, like this?"
"Not all the way."
Mahesha made a noise of assent.
Mahesha was very good with his hands, and often that was enough, but it was not precisely what he wanted that evening. Mahesha knew exactly how far he could push Izare, and took his time getting Izare there. His revenge, Izare supposed. He couldn't say he minded. By the time Mahesha gave up that particular game, it was Izare's turn to hang his head, with his breath caught in his throat. His fingers dug into the tree bark so hard that pieces of it crumbled.
"Is Mr. Harrickson ready?"
"Yes," Izare said. "Keep going."
"As Mr. Harrickson wishes," Mahesha said again and Izare felt it as Mahesha settled against him, and how his hands slid slowly over Izare's shoulders.
They were used to each other by now, but he still gave a pleased gasp when Mahesha entered him.
Mahesha was almost always very gentle with him, because that was what Izare liked. But he could admit the light pressure of Mahesha's teeth – not enough to break the skin, just barely enough to leave a mark – was a wonderful counterpoint. Even better was the fact that he could, just barely, feel that Mahesha was purring again, whenever his thrusts brought him up against the skin of Izare's back.
"I hope you know," Mahesha muttered against the back of his neck, "how deeply I love you, Izare."
As if he had ever had any doubt! At the moment Izare found it a bit difficult to say anything other than Mahesha's name, but it was important, so he managed. "I know. And I want you to know how much I love everything about you, Mahesha. I mean it. Everything."
"I do, Izare. I do."
Somehow, Izare managed to reach up and find his way to the nape of Mahesha's neck again, and Mahesha sang out more of his little trills, until he buried them by biting Izare again.
"You know," Izare managed to say, "I think this may be the best birthday you've given me yet."
For that Izare got the reward he loved most of all, that understated little chirp that Mahesha made when he was amused. He had gotten a lot out of Mahesha tonight, but some things were simply too difficult to beat.
"Don't worry, I'll find some way to make it better next year."
I've written about Kyraen before too, which takes place about 9 years after this.
Kinktober Roundup
Word count: 2,423
Content: Incest | noncon | underage characters
It was a fury that Kyraen expected, the way Koztun's grip around his upper arm was strong enough to bruise, the way Koztun slammed him against the wall of his room, the way he raised his hand and struck Kyraen across the face, like he was a servant. Koztun was a crown prince, and he wore rings of brass that split Kyraen's lip and scratched his cheek.
"Just what did you pull that fool stunt for?" Koztun hissed as Kyraen wiped the blood off his face.
For this, Kyraen did not say. To see him angry, and humiliated.
Koztun had been so proud. He'd found and hunted and killed a mountain tiger by himself, an impressive feat for a young man. He showed off its pelt to everyone.
At least, he had done. Kyraen had let the dogs at it, and they had ripped it to shreds.
"Because," Kyraen hissed back at him, just as venomous, "I hate you."
It changed nothing. No one cared how he felt about any of this, least of all Koztun. It changed nothing, but at least it was satisfying to say.
"You're such a spoiled little brat, you don't know how to be grateful that anyone wants you. No one else would."
Koztun always said that, and Kyraen knew that it was true. He knew it because their parents just told them to 'get along', because the servants looked awkwardly away, because the shaman merely sighed and held her tongue. If anyone should say something...but no, she couldn't. Princes could not be shamans, and shamans could not rule. The magic in his blood and the pale eyes and white hair it gave him made him worthless, unable to be an heir or even to be married off properly. The most he could hope for was to marry someone much below his station – which wouldn't get his parents anything – or perhaps be a concubine, if someone could overlook the fact that he had magic.
So, to them, if Koztun wanted him, Koztun could have him, no mind nor matter to whether or not Kyraen wanted him.
Kyraen had heard that in the south, magic could create fire and call lightning, could hurt, could kill. How he wished! He could not be trained in any case, but northern magic was not so obliging. It was gentle, for healing and reading weather patterns and strengthening crops.
Useless, useless, useless, like he was.
Koztun sighed and shook his head in a pitying manner. "Don't cry. If you'd stop to think before you acted, you wouldn't find yourself in these situations."
Was he crying? Kyraen scrubbed his face against his sleeve and did not bother saying that it was not guilt he felt, but pure, helpless rage.
"Such a natural little madam," Koztun continued, scolding him, indulgency like insult in his voice. It was the way a prince talked to his concubine, not to his brother. "I know I haven't paid you much attention these last few days, but you didn't need to do such a thing to pull it back to you."
As if he would!
It was not why Kyraen had done what he'd done, and Koztun knew it. They both knew it, and it changed nothing.
Koztun thought it was funny, that Kyraen was no different from his hounds, who could only pace the shape of the kennel Koztun had built for them. No matter how they snapped at the bars, they were still trapped. No matter what Kyraen did, Koztun would twist it round again and again, until he was spoiled, until he wanted attention. It was not because Kyraen dislike this, no, but because he wanted it too much.
Acting out against that was stupid, and he knew that it was. Kyraen should probably be grateful any time Koztun was ignoring him. And he was. But he made very little effort to stop himself from pulling these 'fool stunts', as Koztun called them. If Koztun was going to make his life a misery, the least Kyraen could do was make it cost him something. Even if it always ended up like this. It was going to end up like this anyway, and this way Kyraen at least got the satisfaction of watching the dogs destroy Koztun's precious trophy first.
Koztun reached up and wiped away more of his tears. "It's all right, I can forgive you, and let you make it up to me."
It was easy to tell himself that, remember it in the moment, it was much harder now, to hold onto the satisfaction that made this worth it. He did not want to be here, but what could he do? Nothing. There was no shelter for a storm like this, not for him.
Koztun tilted his head up and kissed him, ignoring the taste of blood and how it made Kyraen's split lip sting, just as he ignored the way that Kyraen bristled at his touch.
He had felt this a hundred times, more. Every way that Koztun touched him was branded in him, down to the bone, each carved in with their own special hatreds.
Kyraen had once thought, naïvely, that people could get used to anything. That he would get used to this, grow immune to it. Maybe if he had, Koztun would've lost interest. But that wasn't what had happened. It did not matter that several years had passed, it was never any less hateful to him.
Koztun ran him in circles, one minute spoiling him, the next, in anger, hitting him and breaking his things. It was always the same, it was his fault that Koztun lost his temper. He was the one who provoked it, every time. Kyraen was the one who had to behave better, be quieter, more obedient, more eager, and Kyraen refused to do that. He knew exactly what Koztun's endgame was, what he wanted, and what he would take if Kyraen didn't offer it to him. Everything led to the same spot each time, it was either contrition or correction, and Kyraen still hadn't figured out which one was the least humiliating.
But, Kyraen reminded himself, at least this time it was not a trap that Koztun had pushed him into. It was not anything that Koztun had set up. Kyraen was being punished for something that he had done, had chosen to do, and had enjoyed doing. It was very flimsy armor, but it was still armor.
Koztun let go of him and backed up, expectantly.
Kyraen knew all of this, the special way Koztun knotted his breeches, the exact temperature of his body against Kyraen's, the shape of him, and the taste, what he liked and the way he praised Kyraen when he got it, and the way he would rest his hand on Kyraen's head, heavy as a blade with ill intent. If Kyraen acted up, Koztun would pull his hair until it brought tears to his eyes. Or worse, he take hold himself and do as he liked, while Kyraen could do nothing but choke around his lack of care.
He didn't know which was more humiliating, but it was better to do it himself, if only to avoid giving Koztun the satisfaction of seeing him like that.
He did it himself.
Even though every part of him screamed against it, Kyraen sank slowly onto his knees. He would not look at Koztun, not like this, but it didn't help that much.
"Good boy," Koztun said. And, "You always did look prettiest on your knees like this."
Kyraen's face burned, humiliated as he always was by these games and his brother's patronizing words, but he did not bother to respond. That really wasn't worth it.
He went by rote, actions he'd done over and over.
Kyraen untied Koztun's breeches, and pulled him loose from his clothing, and took Koztun into his mouth as he liked best, balancing himself against Koztun's thighs.
Koztun rested his hand on Kyraen's head as he always did.
"Ky, oh, Ky, what am I to do with you?" Koztun asked. "You must know how I love you, but these childish outbursts, really! I'm a prince, a real one, unlike you. I can't be at your side all the time."
It was only with exceptional effort that Kyraen did not clench his hands in anger, which would certainly displease Koztun.
"Not to mention the triennial gathering is coming up, and I'll naturally be busier. You can't be running around doing things like this."
There, at least, they would have separate tents. That was what had happened last time. What was allowed to go on in this household was family business, but it wasn't as if everyone involved didn't know what other people would say. He was still a prince, he was still underage, he was still Koztun's brother. Granted, it hadn't been total protection last time. Well, it had been after the hunting accident that had confined Koztun to his tent for the rest of activities. But not entirely before that, when he somehow had still found ways to get Kyraen alone twice. Still, it was better than nothing.
Kyraen wondered, briefly, if there was something he could do that would anger Koztun enough that he would have to be left behind. Either because Koztun was too angry to look at him, or because he'd lost his temper too badly to be explained away as Kyraen being 'clumsy'. It would be worth it.
He had hoped the tiger pelt would get him some reprieve, but clearly it wasn't important enough to do so. Was there anything Koztun cared about enough that Kyraen would actually be able to hurt him with it?
"After dinner, I'll give you all the attention you could want. I'll prove my love to you until you're sick of it."
He was already sick of it!
But Kyraen knew what that meant, anyway. Usually this is what Koztun asked of him, it's what he asked of the milkmaids and the stable boys too. Kyraen had no way of knowing personally, because he'd be damned before he would ask, but he assumed it was less a favorite and more that Koztun preferred to avoid anything which had even the slightest chance of proving enjoyable for another person. He was not, by nature, generous.
Or, just as likely, he enjoyed seeing people driven to their knees in front of him. He was not magnanimous by nature, either.
Or, perhaps, it was only that it was easy, and unlikely to cause trouble. Koztun had gotten older but, other than Kyraen, the age of his partners had not so changed. That was another thing their parents and the servants pretended not to see. Kyraen wasn't sure what that said about Koztun's nature, but he did know that going to bed with someone – even their prince – might be protested by an innocent, but this was not so much to ask, surely. It was not so much that would send anyone crying to their parents, or cause a fuss.
If he was going to be bothering with Kyraen, then he wouldn't be harassing the younger servants. It was a small comfort, and not in the least like why Kyraen had acted as he had, but it wasn't nothing.
By all the gods, Kyraen hated him.
How long did he need to keep thinking like that, at least this, at least that, at least, at least, at least?
Koztun had his other hand against the wall, and he leaned into it now, over him.
"Oh Kyraen, you're so good at this! It's just as well you have magic, it would have been such a loss to the world had you been a real prince."
Kyraen tried so hard to disconnect himself from it, all of it, but somehow Koztun always found a way around his best laid defenses. He always said something just hurtful enough. Kyraen recoiled, back against the wall, then gasped when Koztun predictably pulled his hair.
"You don't get to stop with the job half done. Keep going."
Kyraen broke his own rules then, and looked up at his brother. "One of these days," he said, "I'm going to make you pay me back for all of this."
"If you had the guts for that, you wouldn't be on your knees right now." Koztun shrugged. "I don't know why you're so offended, everyone has to be good at something, even you. But throwing tantrums when you haven't even finished your first apology? You really are childish."
There was already nowhere that he could go, he was trapped against the wall by Koztun even if he wasn't actually being held in place by him, but he could not bring himself to move even an inch.
"You're delusional if you think that anything else could possibly await you," Koztun continued. "A tainted prince like you, huh! I'm sure someday our parents will find you your proper place, selling you off to be some warlord's whore, but right now you're mine to train, and you'll do as I tell you."
Why? That was what Kyraen didn't understand. Why? Why was Koztun like this? Why was he like this? Why was he here, kneeling at his brother's feet, shaking and blinking back tears and crying out when Koztun pulled his hair?
Why couldn't he find some way out of it?
But he knew the answer to that one. There was no way out.
"You destroyed something precious," Koztun said, "and have yet to offer your heartfelt apology for it. Your prince is waiting."
There was no way out, not for someone like him.
"Open your mouth and apologize."
There was also no way that Kyraen could ever become immune to this. There was no way that Koztun would ever lose interest in him.
There was no way out.
Kyraen, hatred setting his blood alight and revulsion squirming in the pit of his stomach, opened his mouth, and apologized.
"Good boy," Koztun repeated, his hand once again resting innocently atop Kyraen's head. "Actually feel free to keep acting up. Your apologies are simply better than anyone else's."
There had to be a way out.
Had to be.
Had to be.
No matter what he had to do, Kyraen was going to find it. He swore that to himself. This may be his tonight, and tomorrow, next week, but it wasn't going to be his life, not with Koztun, no, and not with anyone else either.
I think I talked to you about it at the time, they are actually full-blooded brothers... This is all pre-story stuff for Northbound and I don't want to deal with it too much in the story, so it was interesting to actually get to write about him at this time and reverse engineer it based on how it affects the way he ends up growing up
I didn't even actually intend to write this and I would have preferred to do something canon but it wasn't doing anything for me SO in fact this is an alternative (and much less likely) follow-up to this piece with the same characters. An AU of something already canon-divergent lmao
Mahesha reminded himself again that this was for Izare. The meaning of that excuse changed every day. The original meaning had all but died.
It should not have done. None of this should've mattered. Mahesha should have been angry, that Andreal had lied, that he had put himself in this position for nothing.
No, not for nothing. For Izare. The motive had been pure even if the result hadn't been. But the motive wasn't so pure now, either.
He had already come to terms with the fact that he was not a very good example of a haltiat, anyway.
He had come here for Izare and that hadn't worked and Mahesha – unreasonable and greedy – was in some ways pleased that it hadn't. He had anticipated a lifetime of mistreatment and knowing that because of it, Izare was safe at home and living the kind of perfect, happy life with Nelles that Mahesha could not offer him.
But that plan had not worked.
Izare was not at home. Izare was here.
Izare did not want Nelles. Izare wanted him.
And that, in spite of everything that Andreal could and certainly would bring to bear on them, still thrilled.
He was not sure how it was that he had not noticed, with the way that Izare looked at him now. But Izare had never looked at him like that before. Izare had held that secret close to his heart all these years, and Mahesha had never known, never even suspected. Andreal had realized it, and Andreal had forced out of him, and Mahesha could still revel in it, a bulwark against everything else.
Izare was already there when Mahesha entered the bedchamber, gagged as he always was, naked, and held in place with ropes, the marks of which against his bare skin gave testament to how long he had been there. His hands were tied behind the back of the chair and his legs were spread, each tied independently to its respective leg of the chair as well.
It was hard to mind dressing up in the silk and paint of a courtesan again when Izare looked at him, even trussed up in such a state, with such blatant desire.
It was hard to even mind Andreal's touch when Izare watched everything with such pained, starving jealousy.
Andreal could hurt Mahesha, of course, and Izare would watch and blame himself and agonize over it. But Mahesha knew how Andreal thought. He knew that in Andreal's mind it was better to see Izare enjoying it, wanting it, and hating himself all the more. Andreal was certainly also secure the idea that pleasurable infidelity must be digging painful, poison-tipped claws into Mahesha's soul when actually-
Well, let Andreal think Mahesha was enjoying himself under duress, and he would keep doing the same thing, and Mahesha could keep seeing how much Izare wanted him.
Mahesha walked into the center of the bedchamber and Izare stared at him. He could no more keep from looking at Mahesha than free himself, and Mahesha felt Izare's gaze on his skin as real and pleasurable as any caress. It was, in fact, the only way Izare had ever touched him and it was perhaps the absence of the real thing which made it feel like this. He enjoyed it in any case. As always, Mahesha followed the progress of Izare's eyes with great interest. The way he was drawn to this area or that one, following the line of Mahesha skin against silk or silver, and the way he quickly glanced away, embarrassed, and the way he was inevitably drawn back again.
They had played this game perhaps a dozen times since midwinter night, and Izare still always acted as if it were new. Mahesha could not tire of it, being looked at like that, like he was desirable for himself, and was not just some tool.
Izare looked briefly up and met Mahesha's eyes, and Mahesha returned that look with a gaze full of affection. Izare blushed pink and looked away.
But it was not only the two of them in this game, Andreal was there too and he now buried his hand in Mahesha's hair, dragging his attention away.
Mahesha performed his expected responsibilities without being told, freeing Andreal from multiple layers of restrictive formal clothing while Izare watched every movement of his hands.
Afterwards a sharp tug on his hair made Mahesha sink onto his knees. He took Andreal into his mouth and Andreal, reward for him and punishment for Izare, went from pulling on his hair to stroking the back of his neck, which had an effect on him that he was already used to. But it was fine to let Andreal continue to think that he was such a masterful hand with his slaves, and that beasts were so uncomplicated you could push one button get the same response every time, that Mahesha was enjoying this because of him. He was much less interested in Andreal than he was in taking surreptitious glances at Izare.
Andreal, too, was much less interested in Mahesha than gauging Izare's reaction to them.
"My, my," Andreal said at one point, "and no one's even touched you."
Mahesha glanced at him again and found Izare in a state of frazzled, red-faced arousal that he could not have hoped to hide in the position he was in. Izare let out a muffled noise of protest, though there was no point in doing so. They had played this game every night, and Izare got no satisfaction or relief from it at all. Not even from himself later, Andreal used magic to make sure of that. That, like so many other small, embarrassing, inconvenient things, was well within his power level.
So it was that Izare, caught between the fangs of humiliation and desire, came to this point earlier each evening, and Andreal never failed to remark on it.
But this time, Andreal followed that comment by tugging on Mahesha's hair again and Mahesha pulled back, sitting patiently on his heels. Andreal walked over and ungagged Izare for the first time in this series of evenings.
"Now then, Mr. Harrickson, what is it that you want me to do to him for your entertainment?"
The corners of Izare's mouth were red from being so consistently gagged and he swallowed several times before he was able to talk. "I...I want him for myself," Izare finally said, voice hoarse. "Why would I ask you to touch him?"
Andreal did not even bother to answer right away, just glanced down, and Izare bit his lip.
"It's this or nothing, Mr. Harrickson. But I fail to see the problem when you're already so accomplished at using your imagination."
Izare did not bother refuting that, he'd already admitted to it at midwinter. He said, instead, "We have very different desires."
"Don't be cute with me, Mr. Harrickson," said Andreal. "If you don't want to watch, there are always those who will."
The same threat as always, but it always worked.
"No," Izare said. "I.."
"What is it then? Shall I mount him hard as another beast would, or drag him softly out until he begs me for mercy? Shall I undress him for you, or do you prefer to see him still partially clothed? Shall I force him down onto his back, or take him on his knees, or have him straddle me? Even you can have an opinion on such basic things."
Mahesha should've been keeping his eyes to himself, but it was his turn to stare, watching Izare's every move and breath. He was desperate to know too. However Izare wanted him, whatever Izare wanted from him, all of it was fine just so long as Izare wanted him.
"I don't want you to hurt him," Izare said.
"I have no interest in what you don't want."
There was a period of silence as several shades of desperate discomfort flickered across Izare's face.
"Then…I…I want him here in front of me. The arms of the chair-"
"He's not allowed to touch you."
"I know, but they're high enough..."
"Very well. What else?"
"On his back, and…undressed, and I want you to be gentle with him."
"I would almost not agree to your request to the chair if I didn't find your particularly violent form of self-denial funny. But very well. Pet, bring some ties over."
Mahesha did so, going over the chest where Andreal kept such things and coming back with two lengths of silk, which he handed Andreal.
Then he disrobed. It was easy enough to do, this outfit barely closed as it was. A clasp held it together at his side. Undoing that let the whole outfit slide off easily. He watched Izare's face as it fell, the way he tracked its descent and the way his eyes lingered on skin that had been revealed – though there was admittedly little enough of that – his eyes full of guilt-laden hunger. But no matter how hungry he was, Izare was not allowed to touch him. He could do nothing but watch.
Even at midwinter, Izare had been bound, part of it without being an active participant. That was what Andreal wanted from him. That was how Andreal tortured him.
The chair had a wide foot rest which had been pushed out of the way when Izare had been tied to it. Now Andreal moved it back, turned the wrong way around. That way, it was just long enough for someone of Mahesha's slight stature, and Andreal pushed him down onto it. Mahesha made no effort to protest or fight while Andreal manhandled him into place, making him lie back and pulling his arms back and up to tie them to the underside of the chair's high armrests. The chair's armrests were narrow, and Mahesha curled his fingers around them as Andreal continued minor adjustments to his position.
Then Andreal touched his hip lightly and Mahesha automatically spread his legs. As Andreal knelt to take his place between them, Mahesha tilted his head back and watched Izare.
Andreal's body was more than familiar enough to him by now, but was still not so to Izare. His eyes were glued to the way Andreal's hands gripped Mahesha's waist, and on the way Andreal slid into him, slowly and gently as Izare had requested.
It was not how Andreal usually treated him and Mahesha shuddered and squirmed, though he could accomplish nothing against Andreal's firm hold on him. Izare watched that too.
"Can you see well enough?"
"Yes."
"Watch closely then."
Izare nodded.
Mahesha would rather pay attention to Izare than Andreal, but he was not used to being taken like this.
Andreal used Mahesha as much as he wanted, and that was almost always for his own pleasure. He made sure that Mahesha enjoyed himself, of course, because it was embarrassing, but never spent more time on him than necessary to achieve that. He was much more likely to use – as he had done at midwinter – the kind of drugs and tricks that would simulate Mahesha going into heat, when his standards were much lower, and fuck him hard, and mock him for how much he ended up begging.
But this kind of tortuously slow pace-!
This he was not used to or prepared for, not the feel of it, nor the way that Andreal's thumbs on his waist gently stroked up and down, another easy button to push for his body, nor the way he could feel Andreal's magic closing in around him. So this situation would continue until…until Andreal got whatever it was he wanted from Izare, of course. It had nothing to do with Mahesha, Mahesha was nothing but the whip Andreal was wielding against Izare.
It was having the desired effect.
Mahesha was not a demonstrative or vocal person, by nature. Even in bed, even with Izare watching, his reactions were slight and subtle. But this was unknown to him, and this is what Izare had asked for, and one or both of those things had an effect on him that was just as unusual. There was no point in trying to control anything that his body did like this, so he left himself in Andreal's hands and simply tried to pay attention to Izare.
Mahesha wanted to see all of it.
The fixation of Izare's gaze, following Andreal's movements, and Mahesha's when he struggled against the control Andreal was exerting over him. The way Izare leaned forward, straining at the binding ropes as if he could break them, not caring that they dug into his skin harder than ever because he wanted to see. The way that his chest heaved and his heartbeat was visible in his throat. The way that his lips were parted. The way that he shivered anytime Mahesha made any kind of noise. The way Izare kept making noises himself, little gasps and moans, as if he was the one being touched like this.
Mahesha wanted all of it, because it was all his, because Izare was his. Izare was his in a way that he did not belong to Nelles or anyone else, and although it made no sense, Mahesha was willing to put up with Andreal just to hold onto that for a little while longer. It was selfish of him, and it was cruel, when he should've hoped that Izare could escape all of this.
He should have, but Mahesha only wanted Izare to keep looking at him like this, wanting him like this.
But there was still only so much that he could bear, and far less like this than any other night, before he came up quite hard against the restrictions Andreal had placed on him.
Andreal did not have to tell him that he wasn't supposed to talk, Mahesha knew that he wasn't. At the very least, he wasn't supposed to talk when Izare was around. He was not gagged, in the way that Izare usually was, because Andreal often wanted Mahesha to use his mouth, and because Mahesha was supposed to have the self-control not to talk.
"Please," Mahesha said, "please, Izare."
Everything stopped.
"I wonder," Andreal said, voice cold, "whose name it was that you just called out."
Mahesha had barely even realized he'd said anything at all, but it had been-
It had been Izare's name.
That was not the way things were supposed to go. Mahesha was a slave, he belonged to Andreal. He was not supposed to be enjoying this for any reason other than Andreal forcing it out of him. He wasn't supposed to talk, and if he did talk, the only name in his mouth should have been Andreal's.
"Whose name did you call?" Andreal asked again.
"Izare's," Mahesha said, very slowly. And then, because he had not been driven so far that his wit had totally deserted him, he said, "He's the one who asked for this. He's the client."
Andreal's grip around his waist, which had tightened considerably, relaxed again. "How business minded of you, pet. But I don't want to hear it again. You should only call my name, and make him wish it was his."
Mahesha nodded. He was not sure if Andreal actually believed him or if he'd be punished for the slip up later. But it didn't matter. Mahesha had said Izare's name, now he could only hope that Izare would understand what he meant, no matter whose name it was that he called.
Placated, temporarily or otherwise, Andreal looked at Izare. "I've got him begging and you're still not satisfied, are you? Shall I keep going, Mr. Harrickson?"
Mahesha glanced up at him, and Izare looked nearly as dazed as he felt, with all manner of emotions making a brief appearance on his face as he considered Mahesha's body in front of him. Mahesha recognized some of them, mirrors of his own feelings. He recognized that Izare felt he should say no, because he shouldn't want this, even if he did. Because even if he wanted it, he shouldn't be enjoying it, even though he was. Because even if he enjoyed it, he shouldn't be allowing Mahesha to be raped for it, which is what he was doing.
But Mahesha recognized something else too. Izare understood, in the same way that Mahesha did, that in this place, in these circumstances, they could have a ghost of something which was not permitted of them in the real world. Even if it was hurting both of them, it was still theirs, and Izare wanted it just as much as Mahesha.
"Keep going," Izare said.
Mahesha, despite everything, was glad.
It really was hard to mind any of it. Andreal's touch, or his mocking commentary, or the shape of his name in Mahesha's mouth, or the torturous nature of the evening's activities. It was hard to mind any of it, when Izare was looking at him like that.
And because Izare was looking at him, because Izare wouldn't look away, Mahesha knew that Izare understood what he meant when he moaned Andreal's name.
