tcdohertyafterdark

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Misc | Yeva x Seraltem

Seraltem springs a surprise on Yeva on a very important night

Saturday Smut Club homework :3c

Canon (?) 3.3k

Ages are 15 & 16.

This is very tame but even so:

Sex outdoors| underage characters

"Well," Aarlis said in her usual steady manner, with one hand resting lightly along his spine, "for once I'm happy to be proven wrong. There's no sign that your curse is reappearing."

"But it is possible for it to do so?" Yeva liked Aarlis, not only for saving his life, but also because she never lied to him. She was not easily impressed nor frightened, could not be bought, and neither dramatized nor undersold anything. One could not say the same for all, or even most, inhabitants of the city. Aarlis could be sharp-tongued, that was undeniable, but it was always truthful.

"The seal that I put on you should hold it in check but it's in your blood, boy. Of course it can sprout again. It's just as well Seraltem wants you for his hart, you'd still run a risk of infecting your children, should you have any."

"I don't know about all that."

"Are you doubting my word? You've got guts in you, at least."

"Oh no, I wouldn't dare." It wasn't necessarily that he doubted Seraltem's intentions, it was more like the situation was so obvious that it had never actually been brought up or discussed between them. "Seraltem aside, I know I'm not exactly a…popular choice, with certain people."

Aarlis snorted and handed him the sleeveless shirt he had discarded earlier. 

Yeva slipped it on.

"What does that matter? It's impossible to force someone to choose a hart for themselves, especially if you go about it in the traditional manner. But it must be said that if it isn't your curse acting up, yet your life is at risk as I know it to be, it can only be from Her Highness Arlenia."

Yeva sighed as he did up the buttons on the front of his shirt. "She really hates me, doesn't she?"

"It's not respectful of your elders to waste what little time they have left asking questions you already know the answers to. If you accept Seraltem's offer, you'll live all your life like this. Best get used to it. Oh, and be sure not to accept food or gifts from unknown sources."

"I already avoid that."

"You've more sense than that harebrained prince of yours. I do hope you accept, you'll settle him."

"I do intend to, once he gets around to asking. He hasn't as of yet." Time was running out, rather. Yeva didn't say that.

"You've no need to worry about that. By now his highness will be looking for you in the city gardens."

"The city gardens? But isn't there a banquet tonight for the ambassador that arrived this morning?"

"I did say he was harebrained. Be off with you. Take the trail behind the temple."

Yeva signed a gesture of respect to her and left her chambers behind. As Aarlis suggested, he didn’t leave the temple down the wide main steps, but followed the walkway around the temple walls until he reached the back of the complex. From there he swung wide a gate and took the trail it opened to down the hill and into the city gardens.

The problem was that there were miles and miles of those, spreading out in a wide embrace of the entire city, and the prince could be anywhere. There was nothing for Yeva to do except start looking.

He didn't know he had succeeded until a hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged, pulling him through a hedge to find himself on his back, looking up at his prince.

Even after all this time, Yeva was sometimes so struck by how different Seraltem was to how he had once imagined him to be. Undeniably, in public Seraltem was good at holding himself together, acting the sort of prince Yeva had imagined him to be from portraits he had seen and stories he had read. In private he was more scattered, and significantly less sure of himself.

"Please tell me nothing is wrong," Seraltem said.

Yeva had once built Prince Seraltem up in his mind as caring and kindly, but still untouchable. In portraits that was how he appeared, serious, bright blue eyes like still water, white hair lending an additional air of ethereality to him. In reality he was never so still, nor so serene. Seraltem was kind, but hardly untouchable.

"It's only your mother wanting me dead," Yeva reassured him.

"Oh," Seraltem relaxed. "That's nothing new."

It wasn't, Her Highness Arlenia had been dead set against him from the first, and had never changed her mind.

"I suppose she'll probably try something in the next month, to get rid of me." He pulled himself up into a seated position and brushed leaves and flower petals from the hedge off his pants. "I'll just take extra care."

"I won't let her do anything to you."

"I know you won't."

"No, I won't-" Seraltem paused. "Ah, Yeva, you are going to be my hart, aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

He did not get a chance to say that he wasn't sure Seraltem was ever actually planning to ask him, because Seraltem kissed him, light and quick as summer rain.

"Y-your highness!"

"Because I want you to be."

Seraltem had never kissed him before, and while Yeva couldn't say he hadn't thought about it, he wasn't sure he'd expected it to be quite like this. He couldn't help but bring a hand up to his mouth. "Next month-"

But Seraltem shook his head. "I don't want to wait! You don't want to, do you?"

"Sera…"

"That doesn't mean anything anyway, it's only ceremonial. I want you to be my hart for real, like they used to do, and we have to do that tonight. And my mother won't be able to do anything to you, after. Not anything!"

Yeva had known very little about this whole system of harts and hinds before he'd come here. All he really knew was that they were titles people seemingly had, but knew nothing of their responsibilities. He did know a little bit more about that now, but as for how the tradition had gotten started? It was a system people took for granted, political, legal. They didn't discuss it in terms like that.

"…is that because your mother is at the banquet?"

"No! Can't you feel it? Tonight's the night of the covenant, magic is everywhere! If we wait, then we have to wait a whole other year!"

Yeva did not bother reminding the prince that he didn't have active magic himself and couldn't feel anything at all when it came to ambient magic. He also didn't bother chastising Seraltem for not bringing this up earlier than tonight, apparently the very night in question. Both of those things would be pointless.

"What covenant?"

Seraltem sighed. "The first covenant, the covenant between the hart and the hunter. Because my ancestor, long ago, was exiled into the desert with all his people. They wandered and wandered and were lost, and living was hard. The king, my ancestor, felt responsible and wandered far afield looking for any food. One night, this night, once long ago, he came across a magnificent white hart, and drew his bow. The hart was young and strong, but did not flee, merely looked at him and then knelt down before him.

"My ancestor did not have it in him to accept the hart's sacrifice and instead threw his bow away. In gratitude, the hart led the king to an oasis, this oasis, where he founded this city. When he drank water from the oasis, the hart turned into a young man, and he and the king swore a covenant between them and guarded each other and the city all their days."

It wasn't that Yeva had never heard anything about this. He did know that the city had apparently been founded when the king of the time followed a wild hart and found an oasis, but he had never heard the rest of it. Certainly nothing at all about magic or any kind of pact or covenant. People in positions of wealth or power did often fill this position, hart for men and hind for women. The people in those roles functioned as trusted advisors and lifelong friends. Even so it was, he had thought, simply a fancy, symbolic name for a companion and nothing more.

"What's the difference between this covenant tonight and the ceremony next month?"

"Everything! The covenant is totally different! That ceremony it's just…it's all surface. Taking a hart is not the same as a marriage, it's not about legality or contracts. The ceremony next month will label you as some form of servant, that's how they're viewed. But that's not right."

"Isn't it?" The hart was, after all, mostly an advisor, making sure that their designated "hunter" was not taken advantage of or led astray. They were trusted, and often a friend, but they had their designated roles and responsibilities all the same.

"Do you think I think of you as a servant?" Seraltem asked.

"Well, no, I know that you don't-"

"You aren't understanding. The hart and the hunter are equals. Do you see? It's not enough for you to be mine, I also need to be yours. The covenant is the real ceremony, the traditional one, and it has to be done tonight. It will bind us together, properly bound, magically, the way it used to be."

Aarlis had clearly known about this, most likely Seraltem had gone to her for advice on the matter. 'No need to worry about that indeed'. Huh! She could have said instead of just sending him down here blind.

"Ah, sorry, no, I know I should've asked you earlier but my mother, you know. I didn't want her to realize what I was going to do, because she might've done something drastic. Will you? Make a covenant with me?"

Seraltem always meant well, he just didn't always go about things in the right way. But he wasn't wrong about his mother either. And where was the harm? Yeva had already intended to say yes. Now or next month didn't make much difference.

"What do we need to do?"

Seraltem brightened.

"Usually the covenant uses blood but-"

Yeva opened his mouth but Seraltem cut him off before he could say anything.

"No, no, I know, your curse, Aarlis said the same. She said it's tied to your blood and not your spirit so it shouldn't affect me through the covenant, but she's made us a substitute to use for the spell. It's fine this way, it doesn't affect anything to use this instead of blood, she said so."

And Aarlis, of course, never lied.

Seraltem was still going. "Usually we would both give of our blood to make the paint, in essence carving our roles into our bodies. But I think it's nicer this way anyway. You have to start though, the hunter has to be named first. Look."

Seraltem pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it, revealing a guide to some complicated looking symbols and their placements. He then followed this with a bottle of red liquid and a horsehair painting brush.

"Can you?"

The symbols were complicated but not that complicated. Complicated to try without practice, certainly, but not so much so that he would refuse. "Do I have to say anything? Magical, I mean. You know that I don't have any magic."

"No, the actual spell was cast a long time ago, we're just joining it. You don't have to say anything, you just have to paint the symbols like that."

"I'll do my best."

Seraltem unbuttoned his shirt and set it neatly to one side before kneeling patiently. He was excellent at sitting still when he needed to, that was a princely sort of skill. Yeva wasn't quite certain of his own steadiness, so he maintained his balance by holding onto one of Seraltem's shoulders.

He looked back at the document frequently. It was a lot, with markings needed on the forehead, chest, and also covering the backs of both hands before crawling up his arms to the elbow – further than that on the right one. He was sure the symbols probably meant something, but he didn't need to know what he was writing in order to copy it. 

He copied.

Although the liquid in the bottle moved like oil, it didn't drip at all once it touched Seraltem's skin, but clung there, leaving red lines behind as paint, the excess liquid beading like dew along them.

Something did seem to be changing as Yeva worked, as if the night was paying attention to them. As if something was watching them. Magic, he supposed, this covenant thing being awoken from a long slumber to judge the people who planned to fit themselves to its name. It was not an aggressive sort of feeling, the feeling around them. More alike to the way a jeweler examined a stone, turning it this way and that way and seeing how the light hit it, seeing if there were any flaws.

They weren't moving, but he still felt as if they were being moved.

It was with great relief that Yeva set aside the paintbrush and rocked back onto his heels. He took his shirt off too, for the second time that day, and waited for Seraltem to start.

Seraltem did not need a guide, he had memorized his role in this, that was very like him. To be totally prepared and ready for something, to have clearly thought so much about it, and yet to have forgotten to even mention it. Focused, but harebrained, as Aarlis would say. Ah well, it was simply how he was.

Yeva found, then, the markings for the hart were different. There were some on his forehead still, but also his throat, his stomach, and around his wrists.

The brush tickled against his skin, and the oil sat where it was painted, warmer than the air around them, which was already quite warm enough.

Yeva had no active magic, but even he could feel when a spell like this was happening. He did feel it, drawing closer and closer around them like a net, narrowing the world to just this little section of the garden they were in. The weight of history was heavier on him than it had ever been since he had come here, enough that Yeva was not convinced he would be able to move even if he wanted to. He felt, too, a reaction from the curse in him, dormant but not dead. That was an aggressive, slithering thing, until the weight of the spell around them covered it, quieted it.

"...Sera..."

"Hush now, I'm almost done."

It had been a struggle to talk at all, so Yeva fell silent. But he wondered if the first hart had felt like this, looking at the king's deadly arrows, and deciding to accept them.

What was it that Seraltem was feeling now, if that were true?

Slowly and silently as the feeling had built in him, it broke all at once like a fever, and Yeva let out a shaky breath.

He was still trying to get his bearings when Seraltem kissed him again, hungrier this time.

"Is this…also part of it?" He asked even though he knew that it was not, because the spell had already broken. Seraltem, like Aarlis, never lied to him, and didn't now either.

"No," Seraltem said cheerfully. "Aren't you also tired of waiting?"

"I haven't waited near so long. Don't forget I'm younger than you, your highness."

Seraltem kissed his throat, which felt decidedly odd, because Yeva could still feel the magic there too, warm and tingling.

"Should I stop?"

He would stop, if Yeva asked it of him. He would stop and he wouldn't resent it, because Seraltem was always accommodating like that.

But right now Yeva felt a little giddy, dizzy almost, from the spell, maybe, and Seraltem's hands on his skin were the only things that felt real.

"No," he said.

"Certain?"

"Yes."

The position of hart was not by nature romantic or sexual, although it often became so. Parents even encouraged it, as it was an excellent way to avoid bastards. That was one of the reasons Her Highness Arlenia hated it so much, hated him so much. The land she came from had only husbands and wives, not wives, and concubines, and the hart or hind besides. She wanted her children to have "stronger moral fiber" than their half siblings, and the fact that both of them embraced the idea so eagerly soured in her like vinegar.

Even if it had not been an expectation, it wasn't as if Yeva hadn't known where they were heading. Seraltem had spent all his life dreaming about love, and he considered that the gods had brought Yeva here for him. And Yeva had spent most of his life dreaming about Seraltem. It wasn't unwillingness or shyness on either end. It was only listening to convention, being patient. But did they need to be patient? They had done the covenant, just now.  

And Yeva knew something else as well. A month from now, Seraltem would turn seventeen. A few years after that, at twenty-two, he would go missing, vanishing the pages of history entirely. There was nothing in any book Yeva had ever read about what happened to him, and his nameless hart – whoever it had been originally, it was him now – had also gone entirely unmentioned after that point. Whatever it was that happened, that would happen, might mean their time together was limited, or it might not. So what was the point in waiting? 

There wasn't one.

They had done the covenant, and they were already alone and half undressed anyway.

Yeva let himself fall backwards and pulled Seraltem down with him.

"You may as well finish your hunt, my prince."

"Don't worry, my arrows always fly true, don't they?" Seraltem asked, grinning, before kissing him again.

Bold of him to say when neither of them really, properly knew what they were doing, but the night itself, or the effects of the spell, blunted the sharp edge of embarrassment and softened awkwardness into something lighter and more affectionate, though they both still had their fair share of laughter that evening.

Perhaps it was better, doing this on a night like this, which was meant to draw people together. It was better, outside of the castle and away from the politics and the judgment and the prying eyes. Out here, they were just the two of them, equals and friends, which was how both of them preferred to be. If they fumbled a little, or slipped, where was the harm in it? Neither of them had to be perfect, when it was just the two of them, and no one else needed to know about it. This night was not for anyone else, other than them.

Yeva knew little enough, but he did his best to help. To lead Seraltem as the first hart had led his king, and knew that this was also the founding of something new between them. If the beginning was urgent, and clumsy, that was all right. They had all the rest of their lives, however long that ended up being, to build upon it.

"I do love you, Sera," he said. It had always been obvious, he thought, and so he had never said it, just as Seraltem had never asked him officially to be his hart until tonight. But tonight was a night for saying things, and Seraltem beamed so beautifully when he said it. 

"And I love you my hart, my heart, oh, do I! I thank the gods every day for bringing you to me, but we have to do the rest ourselves, don't we?"

In answer, Yeva kissed him, and Seraltem returned it eagerly.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Second Chances | Izare, Mahesha, x Pietcha

Izare makes a bargain for the cost of their release

Saturday Smut Club prompt by @bloodlessheirbyjacques

Canon-divergent, follows the previous one (5.3k)

Dubious consent | gags | sex in public | forced by a third party

"I don't care much for it," Pietcha said, and took a sip of his wine.

Izare did not understand it from him, because Pietcha spoke only Kovarian. No, it was only when Mahesha repeated the words for him, translating, that Izare could know what Pietcha had said. It had been, one might say, a rather trying evening.

"Don't care for what?" Izare asked, as he was meant to do.

"Seeing a man forced into the role of a beast," Pietcha told him, in Mahesha's voice. "Even as a prisoner, humans are entitled to a certain amount of respect."

As if he had any intention of treating Izare with respect. He could not hold back a wave of bitterness that rose in him at the thought. He had experienced a lot since being captured by the Kovarian army, but respect had never been part of it.

"Taking me out for dinner doesn't change the end result of the evening, now does it?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Pietcha said. Mahesha's voice was much softer than his as he repeated it. "Father does enjoy making us earn our birthright, but I'm not uncivilized."

The whole situation was baffling to him. Midwinter first of all, and then Andreal 'visiting' him in his cell, and now he was here, sitting across the table from one of Andreal's sons and being expected to act as if nothing at all had happened.

It was all casual to Pietcha, a game, nothing more than a quick way to increase his portion of his father's money.

At least Andreal was not there, Izare did not know that he would be able to face him. Not like this, not yet, maybe not ever again.

Pietcha seemed to have the same idea. He had taken Izare – dressed up in Kovarian military finery – to what currently passed as an officers' club. Andreal, he had explained through Mahesha, very rarely interacted with his men socially if he could avoid it.

All evening he had made standard – if somewhat insulting – conversation with Izare, using Mahesha as a translator. Pietcha chastised Izare's nervousness as impatience, saying he never discussed business over dinner. So Izare had no idea what he was planning to do to 'earn his birthright', as he so blithely put it. He could only sit there, and pick at his food, and wait.

Pietcha looked very much like his father, mildly handsome and blandly pleasant, with the same ash-gray eyes and sun-gold hair, just younger. 

It made him sick to think that a mirror of the Andreal Mahesha knew most was now sitting at his side.

Not that Mahesha reacted to it.

Even though it was worse than Pietcha just looking like his father.

"He's grown since I last spent time with him," Pietcha had said, of Mahesha. And Andreal had laughed and replied, "But he hasn't forgotten you."

It was in Kovarian, of course. But Andreal had repeated it specifically for Izare's benefit, just to let him know. To let Izare know that Pietcha had helped 'train' Mahesha back then. It was horrible to think about. Mahesha had only been a child.

Mahesha hadn't reacted. 

He had looked past them, as if he did not hear them, as if he did not see them, as if none of it mattered. But he did not look at Izare.

Mahesha was dressed up again too, this time in dark silk that shifted color like the sea, and jewelry of colored glass and pearls, with silk sea lilies woven into his hair. It was the first time Izare had seen him since midwinter and even after everything, he took Izare's breath away in a manner that dug into him like a knife.

Andreal, and Pietcha, and who knew how many others, and Izare could still look at him like that too, could not stop himself from it.

Pietcha, in contrast, had barely looked at Mahesha, then or over the rest of the evening. There was no plate for him at this awkward dinner, no effort of inclusion, nothing at all.

Izare didn't know how Mahesha did it.

He gave nothing away, not anger or fear or disgust or hatred, no reaction to Pietcha, except that he wouldn't meet Izare's eyes like he always had before, even at midwinter. But was that actually because of Pietcha, or was it because of what had happened with Andreal, as Andreal had implied would happen? Because haltiat cared about fidelity, and Andreal was taking that away from both of them?

Izare swallowed his own feelings with difficulty, and limited success.

"I don't think acknowledging you can do whatever you want with me is being overly dramatic."

Pietcha gave him an uncharitable look. "It may be to my father's taste to have toys who hang themselves on a rope of their own insecurities, but I don't find such childish outbursts endearing. Ah, but this is exactly why I hate Numerians. You're totally unable to control yourselves."

Childish?!

He really hated Pietcha, maybe even more than his father. At least Andreal enjoyed what he did. The pleasure he took in it may be sick, but it was still pleasure. That was perhaps more bearable than this, this attitude that causing harm was a minor but necessary inconvenience.

"Which is it," he spat out, before he could think about what he was saying. "I should expect to be treated with respect, but being upset that your father raped me is childish?"

"What of it?" Pietcha asked, and Mahesha closed his eyes as he said it. "After he inevitably gets bored, you can sue him for reparations. Though with as much as you reportedly enjoyed yourself, you'd have a hard time convincing any judge of your lack of willing compliance."

"You-" he stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. Everyone in the officers' club turned to look at them as Pietcha very calmly told him to sit.

Izare picked up his chair and sat back down, stiff in his anger and embarrassment.

He had not truly spoken to Mahesha since Mahesha had tried to rescue him, several months ago now. And he knew that the implications in Pietcha's words were not his, Izare did not need to speak to Mahesha to know that, but even so, hearing it from him hurt.

He supposed that was the point of this entire farce, being belittled like that, from Mahesha's mouth.

"Now my father know several differences between the two of us. Such as that I take my vows to my wife seriously. Such as that I have little interest in the male of the species, human or beast. Such as that even if I were in the mood for that, I would take a trained pet over a man. He knows that, and he doesn't care what I do so long as it humiliates you."

"I don't understand the point of you bringing me here," Izare said, though he was not sure he would like the answer when he heard it.

"It's hardly up to me to humiliate you, now is it? You do it on your own perfectly well. Your cowardice, that you dare not fight back, though you are not now bound in any way and even have a knife to hand."

"I-in the middle of an army camp?" Izare asked.

Mahesha didn't stumble over Izare's words when he said them.

"It takes more than one strand for hangman's rope, though your manners ought to be one of them – interrupting like that. You can take your pick of the others. Shame, lust, guilt. You can't take your eyes off me can you?"

Izare looked up, startled, and found Mahesha looking at him properly, for the first time that evening.

That-

That wasn't what Pietcha had said, was it?

'You can't take your eyes off me'.

Had Pietcha said that meaning himself, his resemblance to his father? Except Izare wasn't looking at him, so it could not have been what he said. Most likely he had been referring to Mahesha, and Mahesha had chosen to change the wording himself.

"I… I-" he could not keep himself from blushing, which would be obvious even in the low, flickering candlelight of the club. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course not. Well, will you take what you want even if you find it embarrassing, or do you prefer to keep denying yourself so you can cling to the saddle of your high horse, for whatever that's worth?"

"What's the catch?"

"What catch? I don't care at all about my father's tricks and games, it's so tiring. Regardless of what you choose, when we leave this room we'll all go back to where we belong. You to your cell and him to my father and I to my own lonely bedroll. So, do you want dessert with your dinner or not?"

The rules had not been explicitly stated but Izare knew he was not supposed to speak to Mahesha directly. Still, he couldn't help himself.

"Mahesha?"

"Don't speak to him," Pietcha said, but Mahesha managed to get his own answer anyway, continuing it, "I don't belong to you."

Pietcha continued, "You have to make this choice yourself," and so did Mahesha. "Though I rather would."

"Do you understand?" 

"Yes," said Izare.

Despite what people might say about him, Izare was not stupid. He would not have thought to bring any kind of suit against Andreal for his treatment, but since Pietcha had brought it up as an option, Izare now knew what trap he was being guided towards. Morality aside, this would ruin him.

Even if Andreal did let him go, even if Izare could bear to let anyone know what had been done to him, he would not be able to sue Andreal for anything, because they would attack him with this.

No one would believe a charge of rape if witnesses – and there would be, in a public place like this – could say they saw him with another man almost immediately after. Whatever Kovarians might think about it, no Numerian lawyer would help him.

Izare had the right to expect certain treatment even as a prisoner, Pietcha had said. And now he wanted to know what price it would take Izare to give those rights up.

This was an insane thing to offer.

It was an insane thing to think would work.

It was insane that even after what Andreal had done, Izare could still consider it.

Or maybe it wasn't so insane. He had wanted Mahesha for so long, it would take more than Andreal to fully put a stop to that.

And Izare could negotiate, couldn't he? He could. He could.

He wouldn't have thought so from the way the soldiers acted, but Pietcha's presence gave lie to it. Civilly, it would be damaging to Andreal's reputation, that he treated humans the same as he did shapeshifters, even if they were prisoners. It was not the way that things were supposed to be done. Humans, even prisoners, had rights.

"How much of my humiliation would it take," Izare asked, "for your father to release us? Both of us?"

Izare did actually think it was possible that Andreal would get bored. He even thought it was possible that Andreal would simply let him go. But that would never happen to Mahesha. Even if Andreal did get bored of him, he would just send Mahesha off to be used as a courtesan again somewhere else.

Andreal wanted to humiliate him? Fine, so long as Izare could make it entertaining enough, he might save them both. That he could live with. Well…well, at the very least he could see them through this.

"Father would never agree," Pietcha said.

"He might. But this time I would want it in writing, signed by both of you." Even if Pietcha's presence did signify that Izare could damage Andreal's reputation, Izare didn't think Andreal really cared much about the prospect of being sued. Pietcha clearly did. He wouldn't have brought it up otherwise, and that had been a mistake. "If he doesn't let us walk out of here, I'll sue you both for breach of contract and everything will come out – what he does, and what you do to prevent people from finding out."

Because of course he had to have done this before, Andreal had to have done this before. How many other times had Pietcha tricked people, or paid them off, to protect his family's reputation in the eyes of Kovarian society?

Pietcha looked almost gray.

"You may as well ask him," Izare said, with a casual confidence he did not at all feel. "What would I have to do to earn that?"

Pietcha left, but not before instructing one of the officers to set the table in his stead. It was clear that he gave them instructions, most likely not to move and not to speak to one another, but that was not what Mahesha said.

"You can sell my blood," he said, something which made no sense to Izare at all. "It works for you, and it's useful to an army. You might need to know that."

He said nothing else to explain himself, and Izare could not ask any questions.

Mahesha had betrayed some surprise when Izare started bargaining, but he was now back to his mask of total neutrality. Izare could only do his best to match him, to steel himself.

He was sure Andreal could still make things worse for him, but even if he could, anything Andreal thought of would likely come to pass anyway before he got bored. It may as well mean something, right?

He wasn't expecting Andreal himself to accompany Pietcha back to the officers' club. Andreal just smiled in that way he had, mild and pleasant, and Izare felt like his heart had stopped beating.

He swallowed the taste of fear on his tongue and reminded himself to breathe.

"Mr. Harrickson," Andreal said as he sat down.

Pietcha took back his chair from the officer, who vacated it in a hurry, though he and several others continue to watch them from their own tables.

"Lord General."

"I hear you want to bargain with me."

"Am I able to?" Izare concentrated on everything else, anything else, do not think too closely about what he was doing, about who was sitting across from him. The sound of Mahesha's voice as he translated what Izare said to Pietcha, the soft sound of conversation around them, his breathing, his posture, the feel of the tablecloth under his hands, anything.

"Well, and why not?"

It was neither encouraging or discouraging.

"What would I have to do to buy Mahesha, and win my freedom off of you?"

"Isn't slavery illegal in Numeria?"

"We aren't in Numeria."

Andreal hummed to himself.

Izare thought this might be his best chance, despite how distasteful it was. Mahesha had said it, earlier. 'I don't belong to you, though I rather would'. He was right, Izare had realized as he thought about it. As free men, Andreal would not let them go, but if he owned Mahesha, maybe. Just maybe. Andreal might find it funny. He would know, of course, that Izare would release Mahesha immediately. But all of them would know too, that he had actually "purchased" Mahesha, had owned him at one point.

"Greedy, aren't you?"

"What would it take?"

This time Andreal laughed, a deeply unsettling sound as always.

"These are two separate matters. You are nothing but light entertainment to me, but highly trained courtesans are expensive commodities. I don't know that you can afford him. I'd offer you could take his place, but you'd enjoy it too much."

Of course. Of course, Mahesha had predicted this. That was what he had meant. But Izare couldn't let them know, couldn't mess it up.

He did not stop himself from blushing, or stammering, before he suddenly said, with real reluctance, "His blood works for me. Surely that can be of some use to you during a war and…" He felt sick, but Mahesha was looking at him, and he inclined his head, a fraction, enough that it might have been an illusion, though Izare knew it wasn't. "I'm sure you would enjoy seeing me hurt him."

"Now that idea does have merit," Andreal said. "If it's true. I should need proof first, of course."

Without a second thought he took one of the knives off the table and cut a bloody  gash across the back of his hand, before handing the knife to Izare, who took it gingerly.

Mahesha also extended his arm with no hesitation or reluctance, but Izare could not look at him as the knife bit into his flesh.

Mahesha's silver blood was still startling, but not so much as watching Andreal's wound heal without a trace, just as Mahesha's own did.

Andreal considered his hand for a moment. "That may indeed be worth the price of his contract, but it's quite expensive. As for the other matter…"

"My humiliation in some fashion, for your entertainment, I assume," said Izare. "Anything you have in mind?"

Andreal glanced around the room. "A public show, perhaps? More deliberate than what Pietcha intended. I'm sure some of the men miss attending things like that. Well then, Mr. Harrickson, will you play the bitch in front of my officers?"

That-

That was it?

Not that it wouldn't be humiliating, Izare knew it would be. But…somehow, Izare was expecting worse. Maybe Mahesha's blood was just that valuable? Or maybe Andreal was already bored of him, and didn't much care.

"I… I will. After you sign a contract."

"Patience, patience. There will be rules, of course."

"What rules?" He could not help but think of midwinter, and Andreal's infuriating questions. But even something like that, Izare thought, would be less bad a second time.

"Gagged, I should think," Pietcha said, through Mahesha. "And you can encourage audience participation, like at a real show."

"Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Harrickson?"

"You can gag me," Izare said.

"I suppose you don't have much experience using your mouth anyway, you'd only disappoint them. And audience participation?"

Izare didn't really know precisely what that meant, but even if it meant getting raped by every man in here, it was still worth it if the two of them could leave, afterwards. Although it wouldn't be rape, would it? That was the whole point of this, that Izare was agreeing to it. He agreed to it. "Yes."

"My, my." Andreal laughed. "And you'll behave yourself."

"Yes."

"Very well. For the price of one evening's entertainment and twenty vials of his blood, I will let you both leave. I think you should be able to get that much from him before he starts resisting you. And you, as agreed, won't resist at all, will you?"

"I'll sign to that," Izare said.

That was when he noticed that Pietcha had brought a case back with them, because after Mahesha finished translating, Pietcha pulled out paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink to give his father. Andreal began to write, two copies of something on two pages, which he handed to Mahesha. Mahesha read them both, and nodded.

So Andreal signed it, and Pietcha signed it, and Izare signed it. Mahesha, of course, was not offered. Andreal even gave one of the two copies to Mahesha to hold onto. He may actually keep his word, this time. Even if he didn't, Izare could at least say he really had tried his hardest, this time.

"It will be Pietcha starring, of course," Andreal said suddenly. "I should like to spend more time with my pet while I still can."

And Izare suddenly understood. The cost was not high because it was no longer either one of them that Andreal was interested in punishing. He wanted to punish Pietcha, for bungling this whole situation. He would force Pietcha to take Izare, which he had no interest in doing, and it would happen here, in public, and then he would probably even tell Pietcha's wife about it. Still, Izare couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for Pietcha at all.

Pietcha said something then, something almost sulky, petulant, and Andreal waved a hand at him.

Mahesha did not bother to translate it as he took Izare's hand and pulled him towards the center of the room. Izare held onto him with all the strength he was capable of, and Mahesha squeezed his hand once in return before letting go.

Andreal was talking in Kovarian, loudly, and Izare was painfully aware of everyone in the room turning to stare at him as Mahesha backed him up against an empty table in full view of them all.

"I'm sorry," Mahesha said, barely audible under the sound of the room. "I shouldn't have interfered."

"Don't be," Izare said.

He could not say anything else because Mahesha had untied the sash Izare's borrowed uniform and held it up. Izare understood. He wanted to say more, that none of this was Mahesha's fault. That even if he hadn't come here, hadn't attracted Andreal's attention to Izare in this way, Izare would've just ended up being tortured in the regular way. There was no situation with Andreal that Izare could've emerged the victor from. The fact that he was walking away with his life, with both of their lives, was already good enough.

But he did not say that, any of it. He opened his mouth and let Mahesha gag him.

No one was bothering to translate for him anymore, so he had no idea why Mahesha was doing this rather than Pietcha, but it was Mahesha who was here, undressing Izare with agonizing slowness.

Kovarian dress uniforms were complicated, and took a lot of steps to be done up…or undone.

There was the sash, which Mahesha had already removed, and two lines of silver buttons on the jacket, ten in each row, which Mahesha took his time on. Izare couldn't stop himself from watching. It was only undoing buttons, wasn't it? How was it that Mahesha managed to make his hands move like that, sensual and evocative, as if it wasn't buttons that he was caressing?

It seemed to be part of the show, given the comfortable level of chatter happening around them.

Saints and demons though, Izare did not know how to feel about this.

It was Mahesha, but even so…

The result was worth the cost, but even so...

The jacket fell open as Mahesha undid the last button, but it could not be removed because it hooked onto something almost like a harness to keep the lines of it sharp and proper. Those clips would have to be unfastened first.

It was Mahesha, but Izare still flinched when he felt hands on his chest, and shivered as Mahesha slid them around to unhook the jacket.

He didn't mean to, and he didn't even know that it was entirely in fear. It was hard to think about anything else, with Mahesha touching him.

Mahesha pressed up against him to slide the jacket off, inch by inch, sliding his hands down Izare's arms in its wake.

If Izare had taken the bait Pietcha offered, he might not have even minded. Because it would be just Mahesha, even like this, even in public. But he knew that it wasn't going to be just Mahesha now, and he did not know exactly what to expect. He really might not have minded that way, but he did not think that it would feel precisely like this, because it was how tense he was that made him hyperaware of every one of Mahesha's light touches, noticeably cooler than his own rising body heat.

Mahesha slid the straps of the harness down his arms too, freeing him from them in the same way that he had the jacket.

The harness itself connected to a wide leather belt, and Mahesha knelt down to unbuckle each of the multiple straps.

Maybe Izare ought to close his eyes and think of something else, but he could not look away from Mahesha like that, where he was, what he was doing.

It was a little…

The belt gave way and clattered to the floor, but Mahesha wasn't done yet. He unlaced and removed Izare's boots one and then the other before turning his attention to the laces of Izare's pants. Then Izare really did need to close his eyes, although it didn't precisely help him any, and he found himself watching again soon enough. With that opened to his satisfaction, Mahesha took one of Izare's hands and began loosening the laces that held his sleeves closed at the wrists. Only once both of those were open did he stand up.

He pressed against Izare again to unlaced the neckline of his shirt. It was unnecessary, impractical, and also much more difficult to ignore with the belt gone and everything loose and himself feeling already about half undone at Mahesha's hands.

Izare shivered again and held onto the table for support.

Everything about Mahesha really was-

A few men whistled or cheered when Mahesha tugged the rest of the shirt free and pulled it over Izare's head, fingers trailing against his skin as he did so.

Izare could not pay attention to them at all.

Someone tossed something at them, something glittering in the candlelight, and Mahesha caught it. It turned out to be a small vial similar to the one at midwinter.

Right.

Izare remembered, how could he have forgotten?

Izare could tell his face was burning up again, and Mahesha stayed pressed up against him with cool hands and cool silk against his bare skin as he made Izare wait several agonizing minutes while the gathered officers began commenting and – seemingly – arguing with one another.

Audience participation. Oh…

Were they trying to decide what Mahesha should do to him? Though Izare thought options were rather limited, because Mahesha was a courtesan, which meant he was a shapeshifter, and could only play specific roles. They wouldn't think of anything else.

Andreal settled the argument with a laugh that set Izare's teeth on edge. The sound of it grated on him, and he could not help but remember Andreal's claim that he and Mahesha would never be able to do anything without thinking of him.

Izare did not want that to be true, and Mahesha certainly moved with no sign of hesitation, but Izare was no longer even slightly comfortable as Mahesha finished undressing him.

"Turn around and put your hands on the table," Mahesha said, just that and nothing else.

Izare did, but if he could not see Mahesha, he would really rather close his eyes.

He heard Mahesha pull the stopper out of the bottle, then put it on the table, but he could only wait. When Mahesha finally put a hand at the base of his spine, Izare jumped again. Mahesha did not feel anything like Andreal, because his touch was cool and light and gentle, but Izare could not help what his body remembered instead. It had not been more than a few days since Andreal had "visited" him. Which Mahesha knew, because he had been punished then too, locked up somewhere in the dark, just close enough to hear what was going on.

"Don't think about it too much, Izare," Mahesha said, very quietly. "Not any of it. Think about something else."

How? How, Izare wanted to ask, but he couldn't, because he was gagged.

"Think about…think about the vale, the one you showed me, with all the flowers. How often did we shut the world out and spend the day there? Just one more time, Izare."

Out of the corner of his eye, Izare could tell that Mahesha had his head bowed, and his face was hidden behind a curtain of his own hair. That was how he was able to get away with talking, as long as he was quiet. And he did not stop talking. It may have been the most Izare had ever heard him say at one time.

"Remember, I may not belong to you just yet, but you do belong to me, right now. I'm not going to hurt you. Just listen to me. Behave for me."

Izare could not nod without giving away that Mahesha was talking, but he let his head fall down and kept it there.

And Izare tried, he did, letting Mahesha's voice lead him somewhere else, and it almost worked. It almost worked as Mahesha slid his other hand down Izare's stomach and took hold of him. It almost worked, until Mahesha moved again, the first hand, then slid a finger inside him, and Izare felt himself tense again. He made an involuntary noise, a cry or a whine or something else, which was swallowed up by the cloth in his mouth, though he thought Mahesha had probably heard him.

Mahesha didn't stop, he just kept talking in that same soft, even tone of voice.

He was reciting poetry, poetry Izare recognized. They were the poems his mother had loved, the ones in the book Izare had later purchased for Mahesha, who had also loved them.

It was the first real gift Izare had gotten him, that first midwinter together.

Midwinter…

They had spent midwinter together again, and Mahesha felt much the same now as he had then. He really was good with his hands, and he paid attention, and Izare could like that. But he could not help but remember that they had not been alone, Andreal had been there. And thinking about Andreal...

No, Izare didn't need to think about that. He had to pay attention to Mahesha's voice and not his hands.

Mahesha was still talking, and Izare listened.

He listened, and he paid attention, at least until Mahesha's hands became entirely impossible to ignore and Izare whined against his gag in quite another matter.

That was as far as they got together, because Andreal said something and Mahesha fell silent, then pulled away from him, leaving him there alone.

The next hands that touched him were human, Izare could tell that. Pietcha's, he assumed, and Pietcha had no interest in being gentle.

The crowd of officers, which had fallen very briefly silent, resumed their commentary and arguments in earnest.

Izare closed his eyes and repeated Mahesha's poems to himself.

It had to be Pietcha, didn't it? Andreal wasn't so clumsy.

Was it stupid to think like that? But it had to be him. Andreal had made it feel good, that was part of the problem. But Andreal didn't care about Izare tonight. Andreal cared about Pietcha, who was frustrated, and took that frustration out on Izare.

It was not gentle, but Izare had already been shown more than enough times that he did not need it to be. And of course, there'd been Mahesha, and his hands were so skillful, and he had pulled Izare quite far along on his own. If he did not like this quite as much, he didn't hate it either, and that was almost more embarrassing. 

Andreal had been right about him. Maybe he truly did enjoy being at somebody else's mercy that much. Maybe there was something about the lack of control and the humiliation that got to him, because neither Pietcha nor the watching officers bothered him nearly as much as he thought they should have.

Pietcha wasn't as good as his father, or Mahesha, but Izare didn't need him to be. He moaned anyway, a sound that could not entirely be held back by the gag, and which the officers laughed at.

Oh well, he didn't mind it so much, at this point, that they were laughing at him.

Izare had no doubt he would enjoy it, because he was simply like that, as Andreal had said. He was that pathetic, or that easy, or however anyone else wanted to say it. No, he knew he would have enjoyed himself by the end.

Still, Izare thought, it was going to be a very long night.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Hildspel | Estienne x Gidie

Gidie looks suspiciously like someone Estienne used to know very well

Canon (2k)

Ages, Gidie 22~ and Estienne 19~ (maybe, I might decide to make this scene happen later idk)

This is for The Hildspel of Athelhyrst, aka The Anglish Novel. It is written in Anglish. Since it's primarily dialogue it's not that difficult to read, but it certainly has its moments. Also incredibly tame, even by my standards, because. It's written in Anglish LMAO

I could have pushed it further but I like it as is.

Also technically these characters being from a different country need not actually follow Anglish rules when they're speaking alone because they would be speaking their own language (as it will be in the actual novel) but where's the fun in that?

I don't think I even need to tag anything for this but I did put together a glossary of Anglish words in order of appearance

The simble dragged on, stound upon stound, and Estienne could abide it no longer.

Could not abide sitting at the board, hearing over all else that reard, that laughter he so well knew, from the gleeman called Gidie.

His nemmen was not Gidie.

It could not be, for Estienne knew him. His reard, aye, the teasing in it, the hield. Knew the brown of his eyes, knew the shape of that smile, knew that swart hair, how it lockered.

But he – Gidie – could not be the man Estienne once knew, for he was dead and buried, and Estienne's heart aside him.

Estienne had not mourned, could not have done, to find him here. To be looked at with eyes empty of love or acknowledgment. To be so heaned, as if he were fickle, as if he should ever listen to words spoken to him like that, spoken as if by a comeling.

He could not, would not, abide it.

Estienne did not drink, but nor could he eat.

If Gidie was of freem to Cynefrith, Estienne would not gainstand him, but he need not break bread with him either.

He left the board, seeking frith in the swy outside of the atstall.

Gidie would not atithe even that to him, following him into the night like a ratch after a fox.

"Hail," he said, all in lightness, which fit Estienne's mood not in the least.

"See yourself away," Estienne said, words frough as libwater, though it soothed his heart not at all to say them.

"Nay, we two must speak. You dislike me, for I bring someone else to mind, is that not so, Nene?"

Only one man had ever called after him so, even his own alders had never said such to him.

"Lo, and who is Nene? Nich."

"Milse, milse, I beg of you."

Estienne ought to stand with the might of an oak, unstirrable, he ought to. Let him beg, let his words shatter against an iron heart. But Estienne's heart was not iron, more alike to clay, and shaped most eathfully by the one behind him.

"By what right do you ask mildheartedness of me? Why should I give it? Why, when I have so often washed your swere in tears? I have mourned your loss!"

"I know."

He wended about then, though the other man gave him little enough to see, ansen as of stone.

"Whist! You know nothing! I… I… Am I to swallow this? Am I to swallow being set adrift at your say-so, and being pulled ashore by your hand when you seek to hold it to me? The gall of you, Silv-"

"Whist!"

"You do not have leave to say that to me. I am no hound of yours, to wag my tail at any sight of you."

"No hound ever was so angsome, nor highmoody, you are a stag and naught else."

"Get yourself gone from here. I have no wish to speak to you."

"Nay, I will not. Lay down your geweihe my stag and listen. It was not by my hand that you were cut loose. La, Nene, but listen. Don't shake your head so. Listen to me."

He was near to beseeching, as near as he was ever like to get, and Estienne could feel his will cracking, could feel the potter's hands about his heart again. Was he really so weak as that? He could not be. He would not be.

"I do not fit myself with liars, Gidie."

Gidie, but it was not Gidie then, rather Estienne's own Atheling Silvius there in the moonlight. It was Silvius who kissed him, just as he always had, pulling Estienne down to meet him.

It was the same, for Estienne knew him, knew the feel of his hands and the depth of his hunger and all of him, swetch and rine and warmth and all the rest too.

"Silvius," he breathed out, so light none but the two of them could hear it, and Silvius did not this time upbraid him.

It was right, that Silvius should take this, as it was right that Estienne would bend to him, for Estienne had always been his, from the day they had met and all days after. He belonged with Silvius, but even so, he was not weak.

"La, Nene, but you bear your heart in your eyes, for any and all to read. I was doused in atter by witherwin unknown and fell full sick for many months. When I came at last back to myself, I found myself to be a dead man. They are in shadows and you are all in the light, and our entanglement all too well known. It was witherweight to my heart to leave you so, but that I should like even less to lose you forever. I should not now tell you either, but for the scathel I saw in you."

"You ought not have a rode that I dare not be wroth about." For that was what Silvius had, setting aside the wark it did him. But he would not set it aside, not all of it.

Silvius only laughed and kissed him again.

"Have I your forgiveness, then?"

"Not as such. Not like this."

"How not?"

"Atheling Silvius is dead, and I am not fickle."

"You are not…you do not say this in earnest."

"I am always earnest."

"It is not seldom seen that folk find new lovers."

"Not me. I am unyielding in my troth."

"You will not go to bed with me for I am not me?"

"I will not. You are thinking with neither heart nor head now, and I will not bend to that."

Silvius gave another laugh then, disbelieving, and angered. "No one would look on you unkindly. It has been full long enough."

"I will not do it. I will not go with you, as such."

"Then say you drank too much ale."

"I don't drink."

"Estienne." It was no longer soft, but the reard of an aethling.

"You forget yourself, to talk to me so."

"Lo, I do? And what of your troth? Am I not your selfsame aethling?"

"Well, and am I your hound or your bondman or your whore? You forget I am of high blood and more your wife than anyone. My atheling? Your deeds are no better than that of any baseborn churl. Can you not think even to say to me that you are sorry? You seek my forgiveness and bid nothing to earn it."

"I have told you-"

"You have told me. Can you not speak softly on it? Can you not give me even one rueful word? Milse, you ask of me, but have none for me? You are wolfhearted my lord, to put your fangs to the throat of your stag and think to hear it ask for your bite."

Silvius stood still and many moods showed themselves on his anlet, anger foremost among them. Then he did sigh and took Estienne's hands in his.

"You are right, I forget myself without you. And I am sorry. I never wished to drive a knife so deep in your heart. Will you give me leave now to likewise remove it?"

"Why should I believe a gleeman, who are known to be so light of tongue and loose of hield?"

"Hield is too mild a word by far for me to use on you. Do you think in truth that I could trust anyone else to stay at my side? Do think I could want them to? Nene, you are my one and only beloved, and I have missed you more dearly than I would miss my own soul."

"Can you not set aside your silver tongue and speak afoldly to me, my lord?"

"Aye…aye, I can. I'm sorry, Nene. When I awoke, I learned you had been left well alone, and I thought I should rather see you with a new love and a new life than dead along of me. Better it may be, but I can not any longer give you it. It is harder to swallow when I can see you afore me, and I will not now let you loose. Your lord is a lackwit, in truth, but can you forgive him?"

"He need only have asked me deevely."

"Your eest is endless, my love. But now I should like to steal you from myself."

"I have also missed you," Estienne said, and kissed him.

Silvius did not give it back to him in half, throwing his arms about Estienne with a yearning that spilled them both onto the grass.

His hands found their way to Estienne's belt with the ovest of the hewcouth, though the knot took more heed than he might wish, and from there to unfasten his rooc, and pull up his sark.

"Outside, my lord? Estienne asked, when he could, for the dew was cold against his back.

"Well, and why not? All else are still at the board."

"Not the wards."

"La, and to see you so unseemly is the sunderright of none less than an atheling, is that it?"

"Mayhap I will be overcome with guilt over my trothlessness."

"Nay, I beg you. We might go to my tield."

"Mightn't we."

Silvius stood and pulled Estienne to his feet before leading the way to his tield, his fingers entangled with Estienne's.

Now they were truly hidden from all else and one another in the thester, but they did not need to see to find each other as they always had.

"I'm sorry," Sylvia said again, with his fingers light on Estienne skin. "For the forthwitten and what is to come of this, but I cannot hold myself from you."

"Why ever should I want you to? I am whole only at your side, come flame and ferdmen or fea and frith."

"And you wonder that I should have anyone else! Who amongst us is hyeless?"

"Still you, my lord."

"Well! Then I shall show you my glewness."

"I hope so. I should hate to lay aside my kist for nothing."

"La, but bide and I will feed your words to you."

There was laughter in Silvius' kisses and fea in his rine, both of which Estienne had so missed these last years.

Silvius' silver tongue was no longer frough but sweet, and his teasing no longer had any fangs.

Unseemly, Silvius had said, and so what if he was, now?

If he buried Silvius' nemmen in his mouth, never to call it again, what of it? Silvius was the same as ever, Estienne could not mind if Silvius were atheling or bondman or gleeman or aught else.

If he shed more tears now, what of it? Liss brought them near to hand and who would deem that not right?

If some may say he gave way too eathfully, what of it? Silvius had said he was sorry, in those words, not once but thrice, and that was much to ask of an atheling.

Estienne minded not at all, not any of it.

Silvius' fingers left behind rows of fire, warming a heart he had thought long since frozen. And Silvius himself was no less hot, no less lustful, for Estienne could feel him.

"La," Sylvus said, breathing hard, one hand resting on Estienne's thigh, "I've mind to put my fangs to your throat again."

"Bite, then," Estienne said.

If Silvius asked much of him, if he was not milklithe, if they fit together with more need than thild, what of it?

Silvius was his lord, and Estienne his heart's fere before any other. Let Silvius carve that belonging into him, he could be no less than glad for it.

Silvius was alive, alive and here, here and in the arms Estienne had thrown about him, and he should never be so far again.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Misc | Tarhir x Yrfan

Convinced Yrfan is cheating on him, Tarhir decides to assert his authority

Canon (4.3k)

Ages are mid to late 20s, Yrfan is slightly older

Power imbalance | control | bondage

"Do you think it's a good idea, with everything that's going on?" Tarhir asked.

Yrfan did not stop his task of braiding beads and decorations into Tarhir's red-gold hair, but did meet his gaze in the small mirror above Tarhir's dressing table.

"What's that?"

"This party, obviously."

He paused in his work briefly, then shrugged. "...I think everyone could use a chance to relax."

"You don't sound as if you really think that. You're not a royalist, are you?" It was the king who was cracking down on feasts like this, claiming they were immoral. Even so, the nobles continued on as they always had. Tarhid did not really expect that Yrfan supported the king, or think he had any particular thoughts about politics to begin with, he just wanted Yrfan to joke with him like he used to. He would've reacted to something like that before, but no longer.

"You know I'm only worried about your health."

But he did not need to worry about Tarhir's health anymore, Tarhir had seen to that himself. The witch he had gone to see might've been expensive and of dubious character, but she had undeniably kept her word. Why couldn't Yrfan understand that?

"So you want to go, but you don't want me to go, hm? Who are you hoping to see while you keep me packed away like the family silver?"

A few months ago, Yrfan would've come up with some ridiculous answer to say in that deadpan way of his, but not any longer. His expression was strained, mouth tight and eyebrows drawn together.

"No one, Tarhir, you know that." His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, as if Tarhir was made of glass. But he wasn't sick any longer. Yrfan was a healer, he should know, so why was he so obstinate about it?

Or was it only that he preferred being in the company of people weaker than him? People who had no choice but to rely on him? That made more sense.

"Seva is given to fits, isn't she? I'm sure she would love such a dedicated and capable healer. Or, no, you prefer men, don't you? Damos, maybe? That accident didn't do anything to mess up his pretty face."

"Tarhir, please."

"I'm not going to let anyone else have you."

"When have I ever asked you to?"

"You can't use your magic for them, I forbid it."

"I never have."

Tarhir reached up and twisted his fingers into the collar about Yrfan's neck, the sign that he was a mage, and also that he belonged to this family. To Tarhir. Truly to him since his father's death had put the papers in his hands. He pulled, attempting to tug Yrfan off balance, maybe, or to startle something out of him.

He did fall forward, and the decorations in his hand clattered against the wooden floor, but he was not startled.

"I don't care how much you wag your tail chasing after others, you'll never get me to agree to sell your contract."

It was his, his, and he would never sell it. Never release Yrfan, even if he begged.

"I have no desire for you to do so."

What was this? Yrfan made no attempt to disentangle himself, just kept his balance by holding onto the back of Tarhir's chair. His words were soft still, softer, like talking to a spooked animal or having a conversation near someone's deathbed. But Tarhir's deathbed was no longer so near, but years and years in the future, now.

Where was his Yrfan? The one who had bantered with him so easily, who had always voiced such dry wit? The one who would've been happy that Tarhir was healthy enough to attend a feast like the one his mother was hosting that evening? The one whose heart had actually belonged to him, without needing any paper to say it?

That Yrfan was nowhere to be found.

The man he knew had been replaced somehow, by this dog looking for a new master.

Dogs did sometimes need retraining, didn't they?

He let go of Yrfan's collar. Yrfan picked up the scattered beads and bells and went back to placidly braiding Tarhir's hair, as if nothing had happened at all.

Before he would've scolded Tarhir for teasing him, for giving him more work, for making a mess.

But back then there had been no truth in the words Tarhir had said. Were there, now? 

It had to be Damos, didn't it? Damos was pretty, and needy, a handful for any healer, which was what Yrfan liked. Tarhir could picture them together very easily, could see Damos in his place right now, subject to Yrfan's gentle ministrations. Could see how Yrfan's hands would look tangled in his darker hair, could hear how he would respond to Damos' remarks in the way he had once responded to Tarhir's. How long had it been going on?

He had to make sure that Yrfan remembered where his eyes ought to be resting.

He had to remind him of what Tarhir could do for him, and how much more he had to offer now that he wasn't sick.

"Wait for me outside," he said, when Yrfan had finished his hair. Yrfan was still supposed to help him dress, but he didn't protest.

"As you wish," he said, and walked out.

Tarhir looked around his room. His room, their room, the one that they shared, and had done for years.

The first thing he needed to do was to keep Yrfan away from others, to chain his dog into its proper garden, where he couldn't go getting treats from anyone else.

And where to do that? It couldn't be here, their room was too easily accessible.

There was that servant girl, right? The one who was out visiting her sick mother. Nesi-something. He couldn't remember her name but it didn't matter, her room would be empty, and no one would go in there. She wasn't due to come back for another fortnight.

That would do for a garden this evening.

And the chain?

There wasn't much available except that, that spool of silk ribbon left behind by a tailor in between fittings. It was a deep blue-green that she insisted worked well with his hair color, but it would look just as stunning against Yrfan's pale skin, he thought.

Tarhir took that and a pair of shears before leaving the room.

Yes, he thought, it was a good idea.

Yrfan was waiting in the hall as he had asked.

"Come along then," Tarhir said.

He hummed to himself as he led the way into the back of the house, where the servants' rooms were.

Yrfan had stayed here once too, originally, before Tarhir's health had taken a temporary turn for the worse, and he had simply never moved out. Tarhir hadn't wanted him to, then. Perhaps Tarhir ought to request that again, to remind him. Perhaps he would, later.

He entered Nari-whatever's room and surveyed it with a critical eye. A bit dingy, but in the way that indicated no one had been in here, nor would come in here. Yes, he supposed it would do.

"Tarhir?"

Tarhir turned around, grinning. "Take your shirt off."

"What?"

"You're neither stupid nor deaf, and I haven't asked you to play so. Take your shirt off."

Yrfan had not yet begun getting ready for the feast that evening, he was only in his loose undershirt, which he now pulled over his head reluctantly.

"What are you intending?"

"Intending? Attending. Yes, attending. You're not attending tonight, you're going to wait for me in here."

"Don't be ridiculous. What if you need-"

"You don't get it, do you? I don't need you Yrfan, I want you. I won't let you learn the feeling of someone else."

"I don't understand where this is coming from, Tarhir. I've never been unfaithful to you. I've never wanted-"

"Shut your mouth. Do you think I'm stupid enough to listen to you lie to me?"

Yrfan said nothing, just stood there looking aggrieved, as if Tarhir was slandering him. But he didn't fight back anymore nor deny it.

For one brief moment Tarhir wondered what he was doing, wondered when Yrfan – who was so dedicated to him, who was always at his side – had time for anyone else.

Then he remembered.

It was nights like this one, of course. Nights where he had not been able to attend his mother's engagements, because the strain would be bad for his heart, and he had to take sleeping draughts to help with the noise, and nothing stopped Yrfan at all, because Tarhir couldn't watch him.

Nights like this one. Well, not again. Not anymore.

"If you're so loyal to me, prove it. Lie back on the bed."

Yrfan did, with a noticeable stiffness. Unwillingness, perhaps.

Tarhir frowned.

If Yrfan had nothing to hide, then why was he reluctant? He'd not really made up his mind as to whether or not to use the ribbon that he'd brought along, but it looked as if he would. He did not trust Yrfan to stay here just because Tarhir told him to.

He straddled Yrfan on the bed, which is not at all an unfamiliar position to either of them. Why wasn't it enough, for Yrfan? Had he gotten bored? But Tarhir could prove that he wasn't boring.

Yrfan moved to hold onto him automatically as he always did, resting his hands on Tarhir's hips.

"What's this about?" he asked.

"About? It's about you wanting me. Don't you want me?"

"You need never doubt that."

"You'll wait for me?"

"As long as you need me to. But why here? I could wait in your room."

Oh his room, not their room. His room, on the same side of the house as the dining room, where someone could easily slip off to meet him? Maybe Yrfan really did think he was stupid.

"It's my house," Tarhir said, coldly. "Every room in it is mine."

He took the ribbon and the shears out of his pocket and cut off a decent length.

Tarhir began with tying it around one of Yrfan's wrists, yanked it back towards the headboard, then went further down his arm. He enjoyed seeing Yrfan wince when he wrapped it too tightly. If it hurt, all the better, then he would hold the lesson longer.

Yrfan was neither small nor soft and could have easily overpowered him, with or without magic, but he was docile as a lamb under Tarhir's hands as Tarhir tied him to the bed.

Mages were trained for that of course, submissive, calm, easily led.

Tarhir just had to make sure that Yrfan would not follow anyone else. He was the only bellwether Yrfan needed. Didn't the bells Yrfan had braided into his hair prove that?

He admired his handiwork when he was done, the ribbon criss-crossing Yrfan's arms, chest, and throat looked as good as he had thought. In some places patches of red were blooming, setting off the ribbon even better. Too bad he wasn't at all artistic, it would make an excellent painting, the kind someone would commission but never display in public.

He took advantage of the position he was in, rocking against Yrfan in a way that was familiar to both of them, but only briefly, only until he felt Yrfan respond to him, as Yrfan always responded to him. Then he smiled and climbed off the bed.

"Behave yourself," he said. "I'll be back to collect you later."

So saying, he left the room, and found the click of the door swinging closed behind him immensely satisfying.

***

It was after midnight, and the feast was still going on, but Tarhir was bored with it.

He excused himself, leaving the guests to his mother. With his history, that attracted no attention whatsoever. He made a show of going back to his room, but not to sleep. No, instead he got ready and snuck back into the rear of the house.

The room was dark, no one having bothered to light an oil lamp for Nana-so-and-so and Yrfan squinted at the sudden appearance of light, and Tarhir.

He looked a bit of a mess in the flickering light of the lamp, Tarhir's inexpert hands not having found the most comfortable position for him to hold for the hours that he had been in here.

Yrfan could not correct himself, because Tarhir had woven the ribbon through his collar and around his throat, forcing him to stay where he was. He would also avoid using his healing magic on himself because, as he would say, what if Tarhir needed him?

The red and irritated skin was a just punishment. If he trusted Tarhir, cared enough to pay attention to him, he would know that he didn't need to hold back like that.

Tarhir set the oil lamp on the small trunk next to the bed and traced the lines of ribbon on Yrfan's nearer arm.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning," Yrfan said, and he sounded a little hoarse. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Not half as much as I'm about to."

"You ought to get some rest," he said. "It's so late-"

"Why, so you can join in the festivities behind my back? Don't be silly, I had a good night and I want to spend some time with my lover. Damos asked about you, did you know?"

Yrfan just shook his head.

"Arrogant of him, my personal healer, in my own home no less! But it doesn't matter. Forget about him. He doesn't know you. No one else knows you like I do, do they? No one else can do what I do to you, can they?"

"Tarhir…"

Tarhir slipped his hands into Yrfan's trousers and enjoyed the way it didn't take long at all, less even than it had earlier, before Yrfan bucked against him, and then immediately fell back, breathing hard when the collar pulled tight across his throat.

Yrfan's body was as familiar to him as his own, and even better at doing what he expected of it.

No one else could hold him so literally in the palm of their hand, and Yrfan shouldn't be wanting them to.

"Don't tease me so," Yrfan said. "If you want to spend the night together you ought to untie me."

"Why?" Tarhir asked. "Isn't everything just fine like this? I think so."

And it was. Despite everything, Yrfan still responded to Tarhir the best. He did his utmost to hold still, panting, and made no further effort to take charge, but that was as it should be. Tarhir was the master here after all, it was high time Yrfan remembered that.

Eventually, Tarhir thought, Yrfan had had enough of the stick. Training required the carrot too, he knew that.

Tarhir slipped out of the robe he'd changed into, and pulled Yrfan's trousers down just enough for Tarhir to be able to settle where he should be.

"Tarhir," Yrfan said again, a bit more breathlessly.

Always before Yrfan had listened to him, but he'd always set the rules, set the pace, out of concern for him. But this time Yrfan was truly unable to interfere or stop him.

They were not strangers to one another, but it almost felt as if they were, Tarhir having never seen him like this, so completely powerless. It was good, wasn't it, to see mages like that? People who could do so much, who were so powerful, being reduced to so little. Perhaps that was why they needed to be collared in the way that they were. Everyone else had understood that faster than Tarhir had.

Then he was the one who was wrong. If Yrfan had strayed because Tarhir had given him too much leeway, the blame could only be placed at his feet. But he could fix that, be a better master, exert more control.

Usually Yrfan helped him balance, as he had earlier, which gave Yrfan control, a guiding hand on the reins. Now he couldn't touch Tarhir at all. Now, he was totally dependent on Tarhir, for once.

Tarhir leaned forward and entangled his fingers in the ribbon against Yrfan's skin to keep his balance on his own, and set the pace for them.

Tarhir had always wanted much more than Yrfan had ever been willing to give him. Always before he had listened to Yrfan, who was slow and careful and concerned. Who stopped, who looked away. Mages were like that, weren't they? They had to be controlled, to keep hold of their magic.

But Tarhir didn't want that. He didn't want Yrfan as a mage just then, but as a man. He wanted Yrfan to look at him, to be possessive, and if Yrfan wouldn't take that kind of ownership, Tarhir would thrust it into his hands anyway.

He would make Yrfan love him, even if it took all night.

He was not particularly demonstrative, was Yrfan, nor vocal, he held himself much too strictly for that. Even so, his chest was heaving under Tarhir's hands, and Tarhir could feel, likewise, how quickly his heart was beating. He was used to looking for those kinds of signs.

"Does it feel this good for you, with Damos?"

"There isn't…there isn't anyone else, Tarhir, there hasn't been. I haven't had a partner other than you since I was still in training. Tarhir!"

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter who it is. I'm going to win you back anyway."

"You never lost me, Tarhir. Gods..."

"I'm not stupid! You were so willing to die with me, when I was dying, but you aren't willing to live for me? Do you even know what love is, or do you only know dependency? You can't meet someone as an equal, can you? You always have to be in control, don't you?"

Yrfan closed his eyes. "No, Tarhir. I don't understand why you won't believe me. What have I done to upset you so?"

"Don't turn it back on me! I know it, I'm not good enough because I don't need you anymore, but I still need you. Can't that be enough? Why isn't it enough?"

"You've always been enough for me, Tarhir."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying to you."

There was no point in talking, if Yrfan was going to be like this. Tarhir just had to teach him.

He knew everything Yrfan liked, because he knew Yrfan better than anyone, and Tarhir gave it all to him now. Gave it to him, loving how Yrfan only panted under him, much too distracted to keep lying.

Having Yrfan in his power like this, shaking and weak and quietly honest, was not an intoxication he was ready to give up just yet.

No, he was not at all done yet, by the time Yrfan gave in to the pleasure Tarhir was offering him. Forcing on him, as he would force Yrfan to be honest, and to love him.

Tarhir looked down at him, flushed and messy, in the grip of pain and pleasure both and said, "Use your magic."

"W-what?"

"You're a healer, aren't you? I know you've played games like this before, with your friends during training. I can play those kinds of games too. So, get us ready."

"It's irresponsible. Hard on the body. Tarhir-"

"I didn't ask. Use your magic on us. Don't try to tell me that you can't do it without your hands, I know that's not true."

"I don't understand, Tarhir." Yrfan was looking at him, but it wasn't the look Tarhir was hunting for. "This is too dangerous, your heart-"

"It's your heart that matters!" Tarhir said. "I'm not going to stop until I'm the only one in it."

"You already are!"

"I know that isn't true. Now I'm ordering you, Yrfan of the Silver Halls, to use your magic on us as I instructed."

Tarhir rarely had to resort to such things, but Yrfan could not refuse a proper order. If he tried that collar would throttle the life out of him, until the one who held its contract told it to stop. Until Tarhir told it to stop.

Yrfan did not disobey him.

He was very used to the feeling of Yrfan's magic, how warm it was, the way it landed against his skin like mist, the way that it sunk in, the way that it soothed him. It had soothed a lot of things for him over the years, had broken fevers and controlled the rhythm of his heart and corrected his breathing, it had sent him to sleep after nightmares, and washed away the pain when Tarhir had broken his arm all those years ago, and hundreds of other times. 

But he had never felt it like this before.

Had never felt it pooling in him as it did now, smothering the exhaustion and satisfaction of sex, restoring strength, and rekindling the urgency that had been there before. 

He had not felt it like this, filling him up, sating some hunger that he had not even realized was nagging at him. Yrfan had not needed to use magic on him for several months and he wondered, briefly, if one could become addicted to magic in the way that they could to some medicines, and if that's what this feeling was. But that was a question for another day. 

Because as ordered, Yrfan used his magic on himself as well, and he felt Yrfan's body react to it beneath him, which wasn't something he was likely to forget the feeling of.

"How many times can you do that?" Tarhir asked, fascination momentarily replacing his irritation with his wayward partner.

"It's dangerous, Tarhir. The cumulative effect on the body-"

"Not what I asked. Tell me, won't you?" He leaned forward and kissed Yrfan for the first time that evening, and Yrfan had no choice at all but to answer him. Now if only he would actually answer him. Like this, Tarhir thought, he could really take his time. Really tease him, really teach him, really make sure that he forgot anybody else his wandering eyes had drifted to. "How many times?"

"I don't know, I don't know how many times I could do it before it starts to hurt you."

"You can just heal the damage."

"Healing magic can't fix everything," Yrfan warned, annoyingly responsible even in the state he was in. He always had been, of course. Holding back in the way he always did. Mages were like that, but Tarhir didn't want him like that. He wondered if he could push Yrfan far enough to see what his magic was like, when he wasn't controlling it. To see Yrfan the way he must have been before they met, when he was still learning the control whose yoke he lived all his life under.

"I know. It couldn't fix me, now could it?"

Yrfan gave him a pained look. "I always did the best I could for you."

"No you didn't. If you had, you would've found a way to fix me. But it's all right, I can forgive you for that. So long as you do the best you can for me tonight. Together we'll use your magic to fix that cheating heart of yours."

"I've never been unfaithful to you," Yrfan lied, again.

"No matter, you certainly won't ever do it again. Will you?"

Yrfan was a mage, he could've taken control of the situation before Tarhir would be able to stop him. He could have used magic to burn through the ribbons, or put Tarhir to sleep, or immobilize him. There were a lot of things he could've done. But he didn't do any of them.

"No," he said quietly. "I won't ever be unfaithful to you."

"And you'll use your magic for me as much as I need you to, won't you? As much as I tell you to? All for me and not for anyone else."

 "Yes."

"Was that so hard? I'm a forgiving person, we can work through anything as long as you're honest with me." Tarhir said. "I'll reward that. Honesty. I enjoy rewarding you. I don't like being mad at you."

"You have nothing to worry about, Tarhir."

He would say that, look at him like that. But it wasn't the passion Tarhir was looking for. "I'm looking forward to discovering your limits with you, and showing you how I can overcome them. I do love you, Yrfan, and I want you to love me."

Tarhir leaned forward again, as if to give him another kiss, but waited just above him. Yrfan pulled himself up instead, to kiss him, and stayed there as long as Tarhir wanted him to, although it must've been uncomfortable, although he could barely breathe.

When Tarhir finally allowed Yrfan to fall backwards, he asked him "You do love me, don't you?"

Yrfan was too out of breath to answer properly, so he nodded instead.

That was okay.

"Of course you do, because you're mine aren't you?"

Yrfan nodded again.

Tarhir, satisfied with that, began the process of rewarding him. Because Yrfan was his, his to punish or reward, his to love. Yrfan was his, and Tarhir was going to prove it to him, prove it to him in a way that he would never be able to forget.

Yrfan would never forget it, he would never stray again, Tarhir knew that. He wouldn't even have to forbid it, because no one else could hold Yrfan in the palm of their hand like this, or make him feel like this.

No one else could do it, because Yrfan was his. Tarhir had always known it, and now Yrfan would know it too.

It was a lesson Tarhir was really looking forward to teaching him. 

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Misc | Savion x Lorant

Savion is struggling with his feelings and Lorant is not helping

Extra credit assignment for the Saturday Smut Club, based on a prompt from @bloodlessheirbyjacques

Tagging @cee-grice and @tryingtimi because it's your boys

Canon (3.4k)

Age is...15ish?

Dubious consent | gags | blood | risk of discovery | underage characters

Savion had been avoiding Lorant for quite some time, which was not what the church officials wanted from them, but he didn't care what they wanted. He simply couldn't stand the way that Lorant looked at him now, with that aching neediness which wasn't his, in the same way that Savion’s overwhelming urge to answer it wasn't his own either.

Lorant was proud, arrogant even, as all beasts were, and Savion did not understand why he did not fight this, did not care to try, but had willingly submitted to it, reveled in it, even.

Savion didn't like it, that there was now something else in him, something other, something which disordered his thoughts and jerked his heart around hither and yon.

Lorant didn't feel the same way about it, he was not offended nor afraid nor violated by what had been done to them.

It was easier to avoid him.

Because Savion's feelings were all twisted up in him, round and round, and he couldn't sort them out.

A spell was not a physical thing, and there was nothing to feel, not really, though he felt it anyway. He felt the way it slithered around in some sort of base of him, some center of him he could not catch it out from, and how it sent creeping tendrils around to explore and control every part of him.

He would've dug straight through his skin to his soul to rip it out if he could have. Sometimes when he woke up it seemed he'd even tried, as he found that there were places where his skin was red and raw and scratched and stinging.

He had taken to sleeping with gloves on.

In all the ways he could, Savion felt sick. It was not him in his own body anymore, and his mind was flooded with thoughts that weren't his until he could scarcely hear himself, a state which he could not find his way out from.

Maybe sometimes he almost did, but seeing Lorant turned him all inside out again.

It was much easier to avoid him.

When he saw Lorant…

When he saw him…

When he saw Lorant like that, leaning against the wall with one arm, caging in a female acolyte-

Much too close, he was much too close to her and he shouldn't be that close to other people-

Interest evident in every line of his languid body-

Which he should not be, not be interested, not like that-

The way he leaned into her as if he belonged there-

Which he didn't, not with her-

Hearing the way he purred out innuendo in that provocative voice of his-

Which sent shivers all the way through him-

The way that she, that girl, that nobody, was blushing and giggly-

Lorant's eyes flicked up, gold like honey, meeting Savion's, and he smiled so slowly, that smile a promise which had him blushing-

He reached down and brought the acolyte's hair to his lips, spilling his usual sensuality all over it in a way that left her breathless-

But his eyes were only on Savion, peering at him through those thick eyelashes of his, in a way that left him breathless.

Lorant was taunting him.

Savion knew that.

But his heart had been taken from him, taken and replaced with the thing that made him ache for Lorant's touch and-

Made him see red.

Savion dragged Lorant away from her and shoved both of them through a nearby door, which thankfully led into a room not currently occupied, not that he could pay much attention to their surroundings right now, because he only had eyes for Lorant.

"Jezebel," he hissed.

Lorant laughed, a sound that rolled straight through him like thunder and brought with it the promised relief of any storm breaking-

That feeling was not his, the way that Lorant's laughter riled him up in the same way that tossing meat to the church's hounds did to them, that made them fight each other for whatever scraps they could get.

It wasn’t his, it was only an echo of starvation from something else-

"I was only talking," Lorant said, innocence all over his face, as if it were not his fault. As if every word that fell from his mouth wasn't as sticky-sweet as molasses and full of things that made one's heart race, as if they were not burrs that clung to one’s heart and never let go until Lorant patiently removed them with gentle fingers. 

"No, no, you were-" but Savion did not know the word in the language they partially shared, that Lorant had been flirting. But he knew that's what Lorant had been doing, just as Lorant knew it, knew it and merely pretended otherwise. "I know you judge women to be more pleasing."

"No," Lorant said. "Men or women, humans or beasts, it's all as one to me. Save for you."

Savion was shaking his head, trying to get himself under control, control that fled him as soon as Lorant touched him, as soon as he rested his hand on Savion's cheek and ran his thumb lightly over Savion's mouth, and Savion’s lips parted in response.

"I think you're-"

But Savion didn't know the word Lorant said, only read it in his eyes, which were as gold as the eyes of all beasts, and just as hungry. Lorant wanted, in the way Savion wanted, in a way that had not been theirs, had been forced on them, into them, but it didn’t bother him.

Lorant changed words then, saying “Beautiful,” which Savion did know, but knew, knew from his eyes it wasn’t what Lorant had said, and Lorant shook his head immediately after. “It's not the right word, but I'll tell you someday.”

Lorant had touched him before, before, because he was a physical person, but it had not been like this, before. Savion had not reacted like this. He didn’t think he had, anyway. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, because they were changed-

"Your desire is not genuine."

He didn't know if Lorant understood him. He knew the words of course, but the meaning-

"I want you," Lorant said, simply, in return.

"Mine is not. Not genuine."

Lorant kissed him and oh! It was sweet and Savion fell into it, fell and fell, until he suddenly remembered, remembered that this was not him, and he shoved Lorant away.

Lorant stumbled backwards and Savion backed up too, until his back hit the wall.

They stood staring at each other across the empty room, a classroom, Savion suddenly realized. The classroom where the younger children learned about the gods who had once lived, had been servants of the church. One of them the very same god he and Lorant were now irrevocably tied to. 

In the room next to them, behind his back, the choir was practicing with all the grace children were capable of. He clung to the racket to keep himself afloat from the siren song of Lorant's voice, his eyes, his smile, his touch.

"It is not real." Real, right, that was a better word than genuine, less stiff, less academic. It was the word Lorant would use, instead.

"Then why did you call me jezebel?" Lorant asked.

Savion said nothing.

"You don't want me talking to women, because you think I like them more."

"It is none of my concern who you talk to," Savion said, reminding himself that it was true.

"You can't stand it, can you, that anyone else should look at me the way that you want to."

"No. No, I…"

Lorant was grinning and Savion couldn't look away from him, from his soft lips and golden eyes and tousled brown hair, which had been short when he’d arrived but now curled as it brushed against his shoulders. Couldn’t look away from his tanned skin and muscular frame and active, expressive hands. Lorant was also beautiful. He was, he was, and that, Savion thought, might even be how he felt.

He couldn’t remember, but maybe.

But the rest of it-

The rest of it-

The violent, urgent desire attempting to claw his way out of him was not his.

He knew that, didn’t he know that? Didn’t he remember?

It wasn’t his.

Lorant was not his.

"Shall I teach you, church boy?"

Teach him?

Teach him what?

His mind provided far too many answers, which were not his either because good, moral members of the church did not know such things. It was Lorant who had spoken of them, filled him with the forbidden knowledge to match this false desire.

Savion wanted to make it so Lorant never looked away from him again, but that need was not his. Neither, he could admit, was the skill to do so, matching his amateur theatrics against Lorant’s wealth of experience would accomplish nothing. Even so…

Even so…

Lorant would submit to him.

There was not a question in his mind as to the veracity of that.

Lorant would submit to him, because it's what he wanted to do.

The desire to see that dug into him with claws like daggers as Savion shoved it away.

Because these feelings were not real.

Because the two of them were cursed.

Because if Lorant submitted to him, he would also die for him, and Savion truly could not bear that. Because he had liked Lorant before, before, even if he could no longer recognize the shape of his own feelings through the fog the church had poured into him.

Taking what he wanted meant losing it.

There were no exceptions to that.

Lorant knew that too, but he didn't care. He wanted it, and would agree to it without protest. It’s what his eyes begged for, when he looked at Savion like that.

Savion did want it, too, even if he didn't, even if it wasn't him-

He wanted to force Lorant to the ground.

He wanted to run.

Savion didn't move.

On the other side of the wall, the choir had begun a second attempt, which was going no better than the first. He couldn't even recognize the song. The puzzle of that could support him, keep him sane. Maybe.

Lorant stalked up and leaned against the wall, a copy of how he had stood in the hallway with that girl.

He was so close, so close that Savion could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the forest on him, as all beasts carried it with them, the forest. Lorant had said that, but Savion did not know any other beasts and so to him it was just the smell of Lorant. Lorant, who was right there. Close enough to touch, which Savion longed to do.

No.

Which the thing inside him longed for him to do.

The choir was no help at all.

"Shall I teach you about what's real?"

He placed a hand on Savion's chest, above his heart, resting there briefly before trailing his fingers down.

Even through three layers of clothing Savion could feel that, and craved more from him.

"Shall I-"

But he didn't know what Lorant had asked.

"What?"

Lorant laughed again and from this close…from this close Savion could feel his amusement from the quick twitch of the hand which had reached his stomach, and it chased all the breath straight out of him.

"Would it soothe you, if I had you in the way a man takes his wife?"

His heart tried to follow his breath then, jumping straight into his throat, and stayed there.

To have Lorant in a way that that girl wouldn't-

What was he thinking?

Savion swallowed, pushing his heart back down to where it belonged.

"No…we are too…too young to be married."

The answer made no sense to him even as he said it, as he knew what sort of games Lorant got up to in the forest and knew he was capable of it, knew they both were, knew they weren’t that young, but that desire was not his, and it frightened him.

What he wanted, and what he didn't want, and what the him who wasn't him wanted…it was all too confusing and tangled up. He did not know anymore, truly, where one ended and the other began. But right now he couldn't, wouldn't, go that far. Even if he wanted it, because he was not sure that he did. He could not remember, anymore, if he had wanted it before, before, when Lorant had first teased him with the knowledge of it.

He hadn’t, had he?

Had he?

Lorant was not bothered but instead amused by his nonsensical answer, clearly, from the sparkle in his eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners.

He leaned in even closer and said in a whisper that rolled all the way down Savion's spine, "But you do want me to touch you."

It was not a question.

Lorant's hand had slipped into his robe and was sitting on his inner thigh.

He wasn't asking, he already knew the answer.

Knew how much Savion wanted this-

But he didn't, it was the thing in him that wanted this, not him, he didn't-

Did he?

But he couldn’t, because these feelings were not his, he knew that they weren’t his-

Most of them. Some of them. Who even knew anymore? He didn’t, he just clung to it, to it not all being his-

But which ones weren’t his?

"Yes." He answered anyway, even though it hadn't been a question, and the feelings were not real, and not his.

Lorant's hand moved up and Savion could not at all help the sound that bubbled out of him.

Lorant, reacting quickly, put his other hand across Savion's mouth.

"Oh, you're-"

Savion did not know the words that left Lorant's mouth, but he knew, knew from knowing him, they could only be vulgar and embarrassing, teasing, from the satisfied look on his face. What was he implying, that Savion was eager, perhaps? Or easy? Or something even simpler like noisy?

Lorant was still touching him – as he had asked him to, why had he – and in the next breath he would-

Savion bit down, hard.

Which backfired because Lorant's blood – viscous and thick like any beast's – flooded into his mouth, and Savion choked on it for he had always hated the smell and taste of blood.

Lorant did not let go of him.

"Greedy," he teased, and forced his hand further into Savion's mouth, pushing tearing flesh against his teeth, asking for more, more. Lorant always asked for more.

And Savion could tear into him, bite him until he scarred, and Lorant would adore him for it. Savion could, and Lorant would.

Savion could tear him apart and Lorant would only look at him with such hopeless devotion while he did it, and he would ask for more and more and more because it was never enough, and he wanted to do it, wanted to-

No, not him.

He didn’t want that.

Not Savion.

Savion hated the taste of blood, and his tongue was slick with it, and it was all he could smell, and he needed it out, out, out-

The blood and violence shocked some sense back into him and he shoved Lorant away again, breathing hard.

Lorant, nonplussed as always, began licking the blood off his hand.

Savion was temporarily mesmerized by the movement of his tongue, the way it curled around him-

But his mouth was full of blood and he could not ignore that. Because he hated the taste of blood and he felt sick from it, and he knew that was real.

Savion needed to get rid of it but he could not spit it out here, not on the floor of the children's classroom with its colorful, well-used furniture, not with all the children's religious drawings tacked onto the walls, scratchy figures of the gods staring at them.

He swallowed it reluctantly, and it slid into him no less repulsively than the church's curse had, but he had swallowed it and Lorant seemed pleased.

Then again, he would. Beasts were like that.

Lorant might kiss him, looking at him like that, and it would taste like blood and violence and love, and Savion did not want that.

"You're a full choir yourself." Lorant said, instead, teasing him again.

"Be silent."

"Sure, I can, but can you?"

"Baseborn wretch," Savion said, and knew that his lack of familiarity with the church's high holy tongue weakened him. He could not properly insult Lorant like that. It was not his fault that the church had moved on while the beasts had not, and that the church’s idea of academic interest did not include vulgarities or slang. Sometimes, as now, it was very annoying, because he couldn't catch up to Lorant, or make himself understood.

"Sure," Lorant said again, unaffected by his pathetic attempt at cursing.

"Bastard. Fuck off." It made him feel better, even if Lorant didn't know what he said. "Get away from me."

"You shouldn't start something you aren't willing to finish," Lorant said. "That's a rule in the forest."

"We are not in the forest."

"So you want to walk out of here like that, jezebel? What a sight. What if the little ones see you?"

He certainly could not go out in a state like this. Savion did not need a mirror to know that.

"No…" Savion admitted.

"Someday I want to hear the song you’ll sing for me, but for now…"

"For now what?"

"You won't know the word," Lorant said cheerfully. But he took the sash off of his robe and began rolling it up, and Savion got the general idea. "Open your mouth."

This was ridiculous, he didn't even want it, not really-

He opened his mouth and let Lorant gag him, Lorant’s sash in his mouth and Savion’s own tied around him, holding it in place.

It was uncomfortable, forcing his jaws open and digging into the side of his mouth, but soon enough Lorant's hands were on him again and Savion had no more mind for it.

Lorant bore them both the ground and Savion did not fight him as his hands burrowed through his clothing to reach bare skin for the first time.

He was thankful for the cloth then, biting down so hard his jaws ached as Lorant's hands danced over his skin like rain, the fall of which he was so desperately thirsty for, all his soul now a garden that bloomed for this.

For Lorant.

Those feelings were not his, most of them, some of them, but they had grown so deeply into him he could not fight them, and did not, at this moment, want to.

At least until he felt the Lorant push his legs off to one side.

Then he made a noise of protest, or tried to, at any rate.

Lorant understood him anyway. "I haven't forgotten," he said, his voice so thick with amusement Savion was surprised he didn't choke on it, "that we're too young for matrimony."

He did not have to say it like that, repeating Savion’s panicked nonsense back at him. But of course he would. Lorant was like that.

Savion could not ask him what he meant to do instead.

He did not need to anymore as Lorant thrust himself between Savion's thighs.

Part of him was a little…disappointed, surely not, no, that feeling was not his, that Lorant was not taking what he wanted, since Savion was so thoroughly at his mercy. But another part, a bigger one, one that might've even been him, liked this quite a lot.

Had he…

Had he wanted this? He couldn’t remember.

He wanted it, now.

He brought one hand down from the home they'd unknowingly made of Lorant’s shoulders and touched him in return, touched both of them and Lorant adjusted into that, taking advantage of it, and he was once again very grateful he was gagged.

Lorant said something else then, which he didn't know, but the shape of which was affection rather than mockery, and began peppering his throat and jaw with kisses.

Some of those would leave marks his robes wouldn't hide, but right now he didn't mind. Let them see that, all of them, and know the way Lorant looked at him. Let them know that, and stay away from him. Let them know Lorant was his.

Those feelings were-

"My feelings," Lorant said suddenly, "are real."

Savion could not say he knew that, so he merely nodded, and gave himself up for loved.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Misc | Savion x Lorant

Savion is struggling with his feelings and Lorant is not helping

Extra credit assignment for the Saturday Smut Club, based on a prompt from @bloodlessheirbyjacques

Tagging @cee-grice and @tryingtimi because it's your boys

Canon (3.4k)

Age is...15ish?

Dubious consent | gags | blood | risk of discovery | underage characters

Savion had been avoiding Lorant for quite some time, which was not what the church officials wanted from them, but he didn't care what they wanted. He simply couldn't stand the way that Lorant looked at him now, with that aching neediness which wasn't his, in the same way that Savion’s overwhelming urge to answer it wasn't his own either.

Lorant was proud, arrogant even, as all beasts were, and Savion did not understand why he did not fight this, did not care to try, but had willingly submitted to it, reveled in it, even.

Savion didn't like it, that there was now something else in him, something other, something which disordered his thoughts and jerked his heart around hither and yon.

Lorant didn't feel the same way about it, he was not offended nor afraid nor violated by what had been done to them.

It was easier to avoid him.

Because Savion's feelings were all twisted up in him, round and round, and he couldn't sort them out.

A spell was not a physical thing, and there was nothing to feel, not really, though he felt it anyway. He felt the way it slithered around in some sort of base of him, some center of him he could not catch it out from, and how it sent creeping tendrils around to explore and control every part of him.

He would've dug straight through his skin to his soul to rip it out if he could have. Sometimes when he woke up it seemed he'd even tried, as he found that there were places where his skin was red and raw and scratched and stinging.

He had taken to sleeping with gloves on.

In all the ways he could, Savion felt sick. It was not him in his own body anymore, and his mind was flooded with thoughts that weren't his until he could scarcely hear himself, a state which he could not find his way out from.

Maybe sometimes he almost did, but seeing Lorant turned him all inside out again.

It was much easier to avoid him.

When he saw Lorant…

When he saw him…

When he saw Lorant like that, leaning against the wall with one arm, caging in a female acolyte-

Much too close, he was much too close to her and he shouldn't be that close to other people-

Interest evident in every line of his languid body-

Which he should not be, not be interested, not like that-

The way he leaned into her as if he belonged there-

Which he didn't, not with her-

Hearing the way he purred out innuendo in that provocative voice of his-

Which sent shivers all the way through him-

The way that she, that girl, that nobody, was blushing and giggly-

Lorant's eyes flicked up, gold like honey, meeting Savion's, and he smiled so slowly, that smile a promise which had him blushing-

He reached down and brought the acolyte's hair to his lips, spilling his usual sensuality all over it in a way that left her breathless-

But his eyes were only on Savion, peering at him through those thick eyelashes of his, in a way that left him breathless.

Lorant was taunting him.

Savion knew that.

But his heart had been taken from him, taken and replaced with the thing that made him ache for Lorant's touch and-

Made him see red.

Savion dragged Lorant away from her and shoved both of them through a nearby door, which thankfully led into a room not currently occupied, not that he could pay much attention to their surroundings right now, because he only had eyes for Lorant.

"Jezebel," he hissed.

Lorant laughed, a sound that rolled straight through him like thunder and brought with it the promised relief of any storm breaking-

That feeling was not his, the way that Lorant's laughter riled him up in the same way that tossing meat to the church's hounds did to them, that made them fight each other for whatever scraps they could get.

It wasn’t his, it was only an echo of starvation from something else-

"I was only talking," Lorant said, innocence all over his face, as if it were not his fault. As if every word that fell from his mouth wasn't as sticky-sweet as molasses and full of things that made one's heart race, as if they were not burrs that clung to one’s heart and never let go until Lorant patiently removed them with gentle fingers. 

"No, no, you were-" but Savion did not know the word in the language they partially shared, that Lorant had been flirting. But he knew that's what Lorant had been doing, just as Lorant knew it, knew it and merely pretended otherwise. "I know you judge women to be more pleasing."

"No," Lorant said. "Men or women, humans or beasts, it's all as one to me. Save for you."

Savion was shaking his head, trying to get himself under control, control that fled him as soon as Lorant touched him, as soon as he rested his hand on Savion's cheek and ran his thumb lightly over Savion's mouth, and Savion’s lips parted in response.

"I think you're-"

But Savion didn't know the word Lorant said, only read it in his eyes, which were as gold as the eyes of all beasts, and just as hungry. Lorant wanted, in the way Savion wanted, in a way that had not been theirs, had been forced on them, into them, but it didn’t bother him.

Lorant changed words then, saying “Beautiful,” which Savion did know, but knew, knew from his eyes it wasn’t what Lorant had said, and Lorant shook his head immediately after. “It's not the right word, but I'll tell you someday.”

Lorant had touched him before, before, because he was a physical person, but it had not been like this, before. Savion had not reacted like this. He didn’t think he had, anyway. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, because they were changed-

"Your desire is not genuine."

He didn't know if Lorant understood him. He knew the words of course, but the meaning-

"I want you," Lorant said, simply, in return.

"Mine is not. Not genuine."

Lorant kissed him and oh! It was sweet and Savion fell into it, fell and fell, until he suddenly remembered, remembered that this was not him, and he shoved Lorant away.

Lorant stumbled backwards and Savion backed up too, until his back hit the wall.

They stood staring at each other across the empty room, a classroom, Savion suddenly realized. The classroom where the younger children learned about the gods who had once lived, had been servants of the church. One of them the very same god he and Lorant were now irrevocably tied to. 

In the room next to them, behind his back, the choir was practicing with all the grace children were capable of. He clung to the racket to keep himself afloat from the siren song of Lorant's voice, his eyes, his smile, his touch.

"It is not real." Real, right, that was a better word than genuine, less stiff, less academic. It was the word Lorant would use, instead.

"Then why did you call me jezebel?" Lorant asked.

Savion said nothing.

"You don't want me talking to women, because you think I like them more."

"It is none of my concern who you talk to," Savion said, reminding himself that it was true.

"You can't stand it, can you, that anyone else should look at me the way that you want to."

"No. No, I…"

Lorant was grinning and Savion couldn't look away from him, from his soft lips and golden eyes and tousled brown hair, which had been short when he’d arrived but now curled as it brushed against his shoulders. Couldn’t look away from his tanned skin and muscular frame and active, expressive hands. Lorant was also beautiful. He was, he was, and that, Savion thought, might even be how he felt.

He couldn’t remember, but maybe.

But the rest of it-

The rest of it-

The violent, urgent desire attempting to claw his way out of him was not his.

He knew that, didn’t he know that? Didn’t he remember?

It wasn’t his.

Lorant was not his.

"Shall I teach you, church boy?"

Teach him?

Teach him what?

His mind provided far too many answers, which were not his either because good, moral members of the church did not know such things. It was Lorant who had spoken of them, filled him with the forbidden knowledge to match this false desire.

Savion wanted to make it so Lorant never looked away from him again, but that need was not his. Neither, he could admit, was the skill to do so, matching his amateur theatrics against Lorant’s wealth of experience would accomplish nothing. Even so…

Even so…

Lorant would submit to him.

There was not a question in his mind as to the veracity of that.

Lorant would submit to him, because it's what he wanted to do.

The desire to see that dug into him with claws like daggers as Savion shoved it away.

Because these feelings were not real.

Because the two of them were cursed.

Because if Lorant submitted to him, he would also die for him, and Savion truly could not bear that. Because he had liked Lorant before, before, even if he could no longer recognize the shape of his own feelings through the fog the church had poured into him.

Taking what he wanted meant losing it.

There were no exceptions to that.

Lorant knew that too, but he didn't care. He wanted it, and would agree to it without protest. It’s what his eyes begged for, when he looked at Savion like that.

Savion did want it, too, even if he didn't, even if it wasn't him-

He wanted to force Lorant to the ground.

He wanted to run.

Savion didn't move.

On the other side of the wall, the choir had begun a second attempt, which was going no better than the first. He couldn't even recognize the song. The puzzle of that could support him, keep him sane. Maybe.

Lorant stalked up and leaned against the wall, a copy of how he had stood in the hallway with that girl.

He was so close, so close that Savion could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the forest on him, as all beasts carried it with them, the forest. Lorant had said that, but Savion did not know any other beasts and so to him it was just the smell of Lorant. Lorant, who was right there. Close enough to touch, which Savion longed to do.

No.

Which the thing inside him longed for him to do.

The choir was no help at all.

"Shall I teach you about what's real?"

He placed a hand on Savion's chest, above his heart, resting there briefly before trailing his fingers down.

Even through three layers of clothing Savion could feel that, and craved more from him.

"Shall I-"

But he didn't know what Lorant had asked.

"What?"

Lorant laughed again and from this close…from this close Savion could feel his amusement from the quick twitch of the hand which had reached his stomach, and it chased all the breath straight out of him.

"Would it soothe you, if I had you in the way a man takes his wife?"

His heart tried to follow his breath then, jumping straight into his throat, and stayed there.

To have Lorant in a way that that girl wouldn't-

What was he thinking?

Savion swallowed, pushing his heart back down to where it belonged.

"No…we are too…too young to be married."

The answer made no sense to him even as he said it, as he knew what sort of games Lorant got up to in the forest and knew he was capable of it, knew they both were, knew they weren’t that young, but that desire was not his, and it frightened him.

What he wanted, and what he didn't want, and what the him who wasn't him wanted…it was all too confusing and tangled up. He did not know anymore, truly, where one ended and the other began. But right now he couldn't, wouldn't, go that far. Even if he wanted it, because he was not sure that he did. He could not remember, anymore, if he had wanted it before, before, when Lorant had first teased him with the knowledge of it.

He hadn’t, had he?

Had he?

Lorant was not bothered but instead amused by his nonsensical answer, clearly, from the sparkle in his eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners.

He leaned in even closer and said in a whisper that rolled all the way down Savion's spine, "But you do want me to touch you."

It was not a question.

Lorant's hand had slipped into his robe and was sitting on his inner thigh.

He wasn't asking, he already knew the answer.

Knew how much Savion wanted this-

But he didn't, it was the thing in him that wanted this, not him, he didn't-

Did he?

But he couldn’t, because these feelings were not his, he knew that they weren’t his-

Most of them. Some of them. Who even knew anymore? He didn’t, he just clung to it, to it not all being his-

But which ones weren’t his?

"Yes." He answered anyway, even though it hadn't been a question, and the feelings were not real, and not his.

Lorant's hand moved up and Savion could not at all help the sound that bubbled out of him.

Lorant, reacting quickly, put his other hand across Savion's mouth.

"Oh, you're-"

Savion did not know the words that left Lorant's mouth, but he knew, knew from knowing him, they could only be vulgar and embarrassing, teasing, from the satisfied look on his face. What was he implying, that Savion was eager, perhaps? Or easy? Or something even simpler like noisy?

Lorant was still touching him – as he had asked him to, why had he – and in the next breath he would-

Savion bit down, hard.

Which backfired because Lorant's blood – viscous and thick like any beast's – flooded into his mouth, and Savion choked on it for he had always hated the smell and taste of blood.

Lorant did not let go of him.

"Greedy," he teased, and forced his hand further into Savion's mouth, pushing tearing flesh against his teeth, asking for more, more. Lorant always asked for more.

And Savion could tear into him, bite him until he scarred, and Lorant would adore him for it. Savion could, and Lorant would.

Savion could tear him apart and Lorant would only look at him with such hopeless devotion while he did it, and he would ask for more and more and more because it was never enough, and he wanted to do it, wanted to-

No, not him.

He didn’t want that.

Not Savion.

Savion hated the taste of blood, and his tongue was slick with it, and it was all he could smell, and he needed it out, out, out-

The blood and violence shocked some sense back into him and he shoved Lorant away again, breathing hard.

Lorant, nonplussed as always, began licking the blood off his hand.

Savion was temporarily mesmerized by the movement of his tongue, the way it curled around him-

But his mouth was full of blood and he could not ignore that. Because he hated the taste of blood and he felt sick from it, and he knew that was real.

Savion needed to get rid of it but he could not spit it out here, not on the floor of the children's classroom with its colorful, well-used furniture, not with all the children's religious drawings tacked onto the walls, scratchy figures of the gods staring at them.

He swallowed it reluctantly, and it slid into him no less repulsively than the church's curse had, but he had swallowed it and Lorant seemed pleased.

Then again, he would. Beasts were like that.

Lorant might kiss him, looking at him like that, and it would taste like blood and violence and love, and Savion did not want that.

"You're a full choir yourself." Lorant said, instead, teasing him again.

"Be silent."

"Sure, I can, but can you?"

"Baseborn wretch," Savion said, and knew that his lack of familiarity with the church's high holy tongue weakened him. He could not properly insult Lorant like that. It was not his fault that the church had moved on while the beasts had not, and that the church’s idea of academic interest did not include vulgarities or slang. Sometimes, as now, it was very annoying, because he couldn't catch up to Lorant, or make himself understood.

"Sure," Lorant said again, unaffected by his pathetic attempt at cursing.

"Bastard. Fuck off." It made him feel better, even if Lorant didn't know what he said. "Get away from me."

"You shouldn't start something you aren't willing to finish," Lorant said. "That's a rule in the forest."

"We are not in the forest."

"So you want to walk out of here like that, jezebel? What a sight. What if the little ones see you?"

He certainly could not go out in a state like this. Savion did not need a mirror to know that.

"No…" Savion admitted.

"Someday I want to hear the song you’ll sing for me, but for now…"

"For now what?"

"You won't know the word," Lorant said cheerfully. But he took the sash off of his robe and began rolling it up, and Savion got the general idea. "Open your mouth."

This was ridiculous, he didn't even want it, not really-

He opened his mouth and let Lorant gag him, Lorant’s sash in his mouth and Savion’s own tied around him, holding it in place.

It was uncomfortable, forcing his jaws open and digging into the side of his mouth, but soon enough Lorant's hands were on him again and Savion had no more mind for it.

Lorant bore them both the ground and Savion did not fight him as his hands burrowed through his clothing to reach bare skin for the first time.

He was thankful for the cloth then, biting down so hard his jaws ached as Lorant's hands danced over his skin like rain, the fall of which he was so desperately thirsty for, all his soul now a garden that bloomed for this.

For Lorant.

Those feelings were not his, most of them, some of them, but they had grown so deeply into him he could not fight them, and did not, at this moment, want to.

At least until he felt the Lorant push his legs off to one side.

Then he made a noise of protest, or tried to, at any rate.

Lorant understood him anyway. "I haven't forgotten," he said, his voice so thick with amusement Savion was surprised he didn't choke on it, "that we're too young for matrimony."

He did not have to say it like that, repeating Savion’s panicked nonsense back at him. But of course he would. Lorant was like that.

Savion could not ask him what he meant to do instead.

He did not need to anymore as Lorant thrust himself between Savion's thighs.

Part of him was a little…disappointed, surely not, no, that feeling was not his, that Lorant was not taking what he wanted, since Savion was so thoroughly at his mercy. But another part, a bigger one, one that might've even been him, liked this quite a lot.

Had he…

Had he wanted this? He couldn’t remember.

He wanted it, now.

He brought one hand down from the home they'd unknowingly made of Lorant’s shoulders and touched him in return, touched both of them and Lorant adjusted into that, taking advantage of it, and he was once again very grateful he was gagged.

Lorant said something else then, which he didn't know, but the shape of which was affection rather than mockery, and began peppering his throat and jaw with kisses.

Some of those would leave marks his robes wouldn't hide, but right now he didn't mind. Let them see that, all of them, and know the way Lorant looked at him. Let them know that, and stay away from him. Let them know Lorant was his.

Those feelings were-

"My feelings," Lorant said suddenly, "are real."

Savion could not say he knew that, so he merely nodded, and gave himself up for loved.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Northbound | Kyraen x Risaul

Kyraen intentionally loses a wager

For Saturday Smut Club (although the deadline is next week, I'm already done with it so…)

Canon (3.4k)

Ages 23 & 25

Altered state | Comfort | Allusions to previous abuse

"You aren't who I expected to see," Risaul said as he entered his war tent for his nightly meeting. "Where's Kyraen?"

Tsellia, who was assuredly not the acerbic tactician who ought to have been there, pushed herself at him, coming up against him in a very inviting way. "He's in your tent with a bottle full of wedding wine."

"And just what is he doing there?"

"He lost a wager."

"Oh, did he?"

"Some strategist he is, when he can't even win such a simple game as that!" Then she pouted, tugging on his sleeve at the same time. "My lord, it's a long past time you put him in his place. He's a concubine same as us, but he puts on such airs!"

"That's because he knows I don't need another bed warmer, I need a strategist. Be a dear and go tell him to get himself in here."

Tsellia flounced out of the tent in a huff, but he knew she would do what he asked.

Kyraen, when he arrived, presented a more interesting problem.

Outwardly, he looked a bit put out, perhaps. But nothing more than that. He was just himself, in his usual tight-laced clothing, and with the usual slight, wary look in his pale shaman's eyes. He made no effort to move further into the tent than the entrance.

"Well," Risaul said, "it's good to know my strategist is still sharp. It takes real skill to intentionally lose to someone as air-headed as Tsellia. Would you like to tell me what this is about?"

Kyraen crossed his arms. "I'm one of your whores too, am I not? You did request me specifically, as I recall."

"And you're oh-so-desperate for me to prove that I want you for your body and not your mind? I don't believe that for a moment."

"If you want me for both it only proves how much better I am than the rest of them."

"Because you've always cared so much about their opinions of you. Yes, of course. What's this really about?"

Kyraen said nothing.

He had clearly planned this. It would not be at all difficult to goad Tsellia into offering such a pointless challenge. Nor side-stepping it, if he had wanted to, which he apparently hadn't.

But why?

He and Kyraen, as all gossip in the camp would attest, had never had that kind of relationship. For all that Kyraen was his concubine on paper, Risaul didn't think of him that way, and had never once brought it up.

Not for lack of interest, but because there were other factors to consider.

Kyraen was a natural strategist, which meant he had some sort of objective behind doing this, but what was it, and why had he chosen now to do it? The same mind that made him such a brilliant tactician meant he could be equally difficult to figure out the rest of the time.

Risaul glanced at the map spread out on the table behind him.

If Kyraen had done this, then there was a reason for it. And since he had chosen to do it now, that meant the reason likely had to do with where they were. Risaul decided to hazard a guess. After all, if it was about sex...

"Do you think," Risaul said, very casually, "that we ought to revive the triennial summer gathering? Keep the people from getting restless?"

Kyraen shifted awkwardly and glanced at the map as well.

So, that's what it was then.

"I was going to suggest it, to keep the ten tribes from rioting."

"Ah." Risaul turned around and studied the map with feigned attention. "Something to consider while we're in the area. Should I specifically dis-invite Koztun, do you think?"

"Who-"

Risaul said nothing, and did not turn around.

"Who told you?" His voice was very quiet.

"I've known since you were thirteen, from the gathering that year."

"You-! Were you going to deign to tell me this at any point? Or have you been having too much fun mocking me?" His voice was not nearly so quiet, anymore.

"I simply thought that if you were comfortable with me knowing, you would tell me yourself."

But of course not, that was a little too generous to apply to Kyraen. He never was so straightforward. Instead he had concocted this whole scheme just to maintain control of the situation. But it was that exact same penchant for dramatics and trickery that Risaul liked so much about him.

Risaul turned around and Kyraen was not meeting his gaze.

"I knew it the moment I saw the two of you together. I could've killed him. A shame, I never could get the hang of archery."

Kyraen looked up, at that.

"Archery…? That was you? I thought it was an accident…"

"It was an accident, that I missed," Risaul said. "It would've been nice if I were a better shot."

After all, who would've been able to say that it hadn't been accident? There never were any adults around when the crown princes were let loose to compete against one another in the very forest they were now camped in.

"You were only a child," Kyraen said.

"And you weren't? I so wanted my second chance, facing him in battle. But he never had half your guts, did he? Directing from the rear lines. Tch."

"I shouldn't have thought a crown prince would have any attention to waste on us spares."

"Oh, no, I was totally smitten with you from the prior gathering, when you so thoroughly thrashed me at nine rounds of hares and hounds in a row."

"I do remember that," Kyraen admitted, a ghost of a smile hovering about his lips.

"But I was willing to wait for us to grow up. I'm still willing to wait for you. You don't need to force yourself like this. If you don't want to see Koztun, I'll make sure you don't."

"I already drank the wine."

Had he? Kyraen was a bit flushed, perhaps, but Risaul would have attributed that to his momentary flash of anger.

"That was a nice touch, I admit. However did you manage to make Tsellia think of it?"

"It wasn't hard. They all think I'm frigid."

And Kyraen clearly also doubted his ability to make it through such an encounter without the aid of drugs. Although he apparently did not doubt the necessity of such an encounter, just his ability to tolerate it.

He was such an odd and convoluted person, and always had been. Even so, this, complicated as it was, was his way of asking for help.

"Only a fool doesn't listen to the advice of his strategist. So tell me, what's the objective of this operation?"

Kyraen jumped eagerly on the track Risaul offered him, easier than speaking frankly. "Reclaiming territory which is under enemy control."

"Far be it for me to ignore territory of value. And what of the terrain?"

"No accurate maps have been produced."

Risaul shrugged. "Not the first time we've done our own cartography. Is there any likelihood of ambushes or resistance?"

Kyraen paused a moment, and Risaul waited for him patiently. After all, drugs like that worked on bodies, but not on minds.

"Likely," he said, eventually, "but reports…reports indicate it's nothing that a skilled general can't surmount."

"Anything else to report?"

"…reports also indicate that discussion is entirely off the table."

"Well enough. Come here then."

"Hm?"

"Is there a better place to prepare for a military operation? I also recall a certain promise that the more typical battlefield was off-limits."

He had said that, and it was very fun to turn it against him just now. If he insisted otherwise now, naturally Risaul would go along with it, but he didn't.

Kyraen just let out a breath and crossed the tent to stand next to him, one hand resting on the table.

"What does my strategist recommend? Do we map as we advance, or should I be more cautious and follow his lead?"

"It's the general who leads the troops."

"Ah, but this is your operation, I won't challenge you for that if you want it."

"A strategist's job is to advise."

"Understood, then I'll merely rely on your support should you find it necessary to provide."

Kyraen nodded.

When Risaul reached over to untie his sash, he spoke again.

"Your…your strategist ought to know if you intend a sortie or a campaign."

"Does my strategist have a preference? Or somewhere else to be, perhaps?"

"I…"

Risaul waited.

"Can you…"

"I won't fail to meet any objective my strategist puts in front of me."

"… I want you to make me forget what he feels like."

"Nothing at all would make me happier," Risaul said, and meant it.

He paused when he had divested Kyraen of coat and tunic and undershirt, and ran his fingers lightly across the scars on his shoulder, his upper arm, his back.

Had already been three years since Kyraen had been dragged off the battlefield, hissing and spitting like a wildcat, cursing enough for an entire regiment? It had been such a struggle back then to even treat his injuries.

The physical wounds he had received during that battle were nothing compared to the damage Koztun had done to his heart.

Risaul had requested Kyraen specifically as part of his tribe's surrender, that was true.

"I'm a prince," Kyraen had spat out, at the news, "not a whore. You can sign whatever treaty you like, but don't expect to be able to call me to your bed."

Risaul had expected that.

Expected, and been willing to live with it.

He had not expected anything like this. Kyraen always was full of surprises.

"What?" Kyraen asked.

"Just remembering the last time I saw you without a shirt on. You know, I've had so much fun with you at my side these last few years, campaigning with you, training together, even bickering with you is fun."

"Oh..."

"We ought to play some rounds again. Hares and hounds, like we did back then."

"I'd crush you."

"I know." Risaul laughed. "That's what I like about you. You're smarter than me, and not at all interested in flattery. So I know you only say yes when you mean it."

"Because you kept your word back then. I know you understand what no means. I know…that you'll take care of me. If that's what you say, that's what you'll do. I trust you."

Risaul could not stop himself from grinning, giddy as a kid. He wanted so badly to kiss him, but Kyraen had put that boundary down already.

Discussion is entirely off the table.

Nothing, he had indicated, that involved his mouth. And Risaul would respect that, as he had always respected all of Kyraen's boundaries and little games and attempts at control, always, save for that first, frantic attempt at medical treatment which could not have been put off until Kyraen was ready to allow it.

But that was the only boundary, this time. Everything else was fine. Resistance to be expected, but should be overcome.

Risaul didn't need to kiss him when he'd been given so much else to explore.

He did not think, all things considered, that Koztun had ever spent much time on Kyraen's enjoyment.

And now he'd been been provided an objective to correct that.

Make me forget what he feels like.

Oh, he would certainly do that.

Risaul took his time just they were, exploring Kyraen's chest and back, finding scars both physical and emotional, and doing his best to soothe them.

Kyraen had drugged himself to surmount this, and Kyraen had given him permission to use force if necessary.

But Risaul had already told him, years ago now, that he had never once relied on force in the bedroom, and had no plans to ever do so.

He had recognized immediately what Koztun was doing to Kyraen, because he grew up seeing those same reactions and expressions on his mother, and all his father's other concubines too. He may only have been a child, as Kyraen had said, but he'd grown up with that and he knew exactly what caused it.

Risaul was nothing like his father.

He proved it now, as he'd been proving it all his life.

"Are you…are you having fun?" Kyraen asked eventually, although his intended sarcasm was a little undercut by something else.

"I'm campaigning, surely my strategist knows how important it is to thoroughly scout the terrain."

"Your strategist thinks it's wise to press the advantage while resistance is significantly weakened."

Risaul laughed.

"Is it your opinion that resistance is significantly weakened, then?"

Kyraen's body was more than willing, but that had not been Risaul's main concern. If he was involved enough now to be tetchy, that was an encouraging sign.

"Your strategist recommends further advancement."

"Understood." He untied the lacing of Kyraen's breaches and slid them down. "Perhaps a heartfelt address will convince the enemy to lay down their arms."

"What do you- o-oh..."

After all, Kyraen had not said that Risaul couldn't use his mouth.

"Yes I think-"

And this wasn't the sort of thing crown princes were supposed to do.

"It may just-"

Koztun was just like Risaul's father, that sort of arrogant prince who would take what he wanted, or demand to be serviced, and never was humble enough to return the favor.

"Do that," Kyraen said. Then again, "Do that."

"Well," Risaul said, pulling back, "I don't want to pressure them into agreeing to anything. I ought to lay out my debate quite thoroughly, but I wonder whether my strategist agrees?"

Kyraen leaned harder into the table.

"Your strategist…wonders if you're as good an orator as a general."

Risaul took Kyraen back into his mouth, slowly, and Kyraen let his head fall back.

"Y-your strategist also doesn't have anywhere else to be."

Risaul grinned again. How different this was, from where they started. From what Kyraen had expected, tried to arrange.

"Ah..."

"I can certainly take care of you."

"Risaul you're such-"

"I said that once, and I meant it. I still do."

"Such a tease-"

"We are on an extended campaign, after all."

"Why do you keep-"

"Wasn't that your recommendation?"

"Keep stopping?"

Risaul stopped again then, to laugh.

"I'll never beat you at hares and hounds, so forgive me for savoring victory at a game I'm good at."

"Brat," Kyraen said, but there was no fire at all in his words. "You ought to have more respect for your elders."

"Kyraen."

"Hm?"

"How far do you want me to go? Really? Will you be all right? Don't lie to me."

"If it's you…" He paused.

"We don't have to do everything at once, you know. You can take your time. I told you, if you don't want to see him, I'll make sure you don't."

"No. I told you already. Risaul I want you, need you, want you to make love to me. Don't stop, don't stop until I forget him."

"All right."

"I can't…I can't stand being afraid. But I can't bear to face him, and that infuriates me. I have to…have to overcome this. And..I'm not alone anymore, am I? I have the backing of the best general in the north."

"You do."

"And you always listen to your strategist."

"Naturally. Unlike Koztun, I'm capable of recognizing that he's the most brilliant man in the north. Only a fool wouldn't listen to him."

"Finish this then."

The bedroom would be better, but the war tent would serve. Kyraen had not protested at that, and they'd already come this far. 

Risaul walked over to retrieve a vial of weapon oil from a storage chest in the corner.

"Does my strategist have any plans of attack for me? Any advice?"

"I just… I just want to be able to see that it's you."

So he took a seat in his chair and pulled Kyraen into his lap.

Three years ago he'd had to tie Kyraen down just to treat his injuries. And now he followed Risaul's direction easily, kneeling over him on the chair, with his hands on Risaul's shoulders, not resisting him at all.

He'd only been teasing earlier, taking his time, because he did not want this to be as impersonal and possibly harrowing as Kyraen had been preparing himself for. But now, for this, Risaul thought it would certainly be best to distract him.

"You're doing well," Risaul said.

Kyraen shook his head. "It's the general who's so skilled."

"I don't just mean now. I mean all the time. You were willing to accuse him publicly, despite the fact that it ruined your reputation. Yes, I heard about that, don't look so surprised. Gossip spread, but there were no real details." 

"Only because Kerrie was getting to that age and I didn't know…I was so afraid...if our parents wouldn't stop him, maybe our people would. I just wanted someone to keep her way from him."

Of course the reason would have been something like that. Kyraen didn't care what people thought of him, so long as he could protect someone else. Outwardly he was so prickly, but he had such a soft heart. That was another thing Risaul loved about him.

Risaul pressed forward, in action and distraction both, keeping Kyraen's attention on his voice.

"You were willing to fight on the front lines, to protect your people, and invented a whole new kind of magic in order to do it."

"I failed in the end," he said.

"No, no, don't try to convince me it was your idea to fetch up on that moor, I won't believe you. What is it that you wanted to do?"

"Ah…"

"Kyraen."

"Oh...I thought a false retreat, leading to...an ambush in the foothills. It would've worked on Circen."

"Yes, it certainly would have."

"A-and Lauki."

"Yes, him too. Maybe even Virea. You could've had a decent crack at least a third of my army with a trick like that. Your people didn't lose because of you. They lost because Koztun wouldn't listen to you."

"I could've fought him harder, I should've…but he just looked at me like…like…I couldn't face him. I should have tried harder."

It was no wonder Kyraen had been as worked up as he was when he was captured. He was certainly quick to anger, but that had been something else. Forced out into what he had known all along would be a losing battle, by a general who had not only used and abused him, had been allowed to, but who was also totally unwilling to face responsibility and take the field himself. 

No wonder.

And he'd still fought to the end, even after he'd been captured and they had sealed his magic, he had still tried.

It had taken three people to tie him down, that day.

"You can't blame yourself, listen to me, listen, I'm serious. Nothing you ever did would've been enough to make him listen to you, because he doesn't respect you, he never has. But you know something?"

"W-what's that?"

"A strategy like that wouldn't work on my army anymore, because you've earned their respect, and they'd listen to you if you told them not to pursue an enemy. Virea would, Lauki would, even Circen would listen to you. You're no coward. I know it, and they know it."

Kyraen ducked his head against Risaul's chest and curled his hands in the fabric of his tunic.

"If any of them knew what Koztun had done to you, they'd put him down like a dog."

"That would be...ah...very bad for internal relations."

"It would, but I can't say I wouldn't be right alongside them."

"Risaul..."

"I've always had nothing but the highest respect for you, Kyraen. I just want you to know that."

"Then why…why are you...t-teasing me so much? Ah..."

He chuckled. "Just making sure you remember me."

"Brat," Kyraen breathed out, again, but it was his hands the undid the lacing of Risaul's clothing. "Your strategist recommends that… that you accept the surrender you're being offered."

"I always listen to my strategist," Risaul said, and helped him only as far as adjusting their positions.

This was a surrender after all, not a conquest.

"They may…may be open to discussion, now."

"Hm?"

Risaul hands and mind both were too full now to continue to pay attention to the game they'd been playing. This had been, he thought hazily, very worth the wait.

"Fool," Kyraen said, his voice full of affection, and kissed him.

The enthusiasm with which Risaul returned that particular action surprised a laugh out of Kyraen, and after that there was no need for any further distractions.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

As I work on slowly finishing refs for my million, bajillion characters

Anyway

It's Savion (L) and Lorant (R)!

Savion has spent his entire life living in cultures that have either a uniform or a dress code, so he just wears what he's provided and doesn't have a lot of opinions about clothes.

Lorant wears literally anything whenever he feels like it since beasts have basically no norms of any kind about clothing, who should wear what, what is acceptable or unacceptable amounts of it, or whether anything is appropriate or not based on gender

He loves clothes and has So Many things he can wear

Other random facts about them:

Savion is just a few inches taller

Beasts wear a lot of jewelry which is usually either silver or carved & painted wood, they don't wear gold because. well. everything else is gold all the time

All beasts also have stripes, which includes Lorant. They are visible when inside the golden forest. Outside of the forest they show up whenever magic is being done nearby. They get more stripes as they get older, and the designs might occasionally change. Especially if someone receives a particularly traumatic injury, then the stripes might be different after it's healed

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Miracles | Arishen x Kishar

Kishar is tired of Arishen avoiding his responsibilities and decides to fix it himself

For Saturday Smut Club :^)

Canon-divergent (4.6k)

Dubcon | Noncon | Incest (half-brothers) | Altered state

As always happened on any evening that the gods chose to get together for a banquet, Arishen attended for a few brief hours, lurking around the edges, and then fled.

Kishar followed him.

Arishen had taken refuge in one of his own temples that evening and it was-

Well.

Arishen's temples were hardly fitting of the name, always small and tucked away, silent and dull, and usually empty. There was no grandeur, no presence, and hardly any decoration. Hardly any people. None at all, tonight.

They were places of study, not worship, is what Arishen would say if asked. After all, he was not a 'god', and his 'followers' asked very little of him.

There were a few desks to work at, and a few shelves covered in scrolls and assorted volumes, but there were no scholars that night. That's probably why he had to come to this particular temple. Arishen jumped when Kishar closed the door behind him.

He whirled around as quick as a hunted animal, and barely relaxed at all when he saw who had come in.

"Oh, Kishar. Didn't I spend enough time?"

"It's where you belong."

But Arishen shook his head, and the silver chains which made up that damnable veil he always wore clinked together. "They don't want me there, nor do I wish to be there. I have never belonged with them."

"You belong with me," Kishar said simply.

Arishen was always so nonreactive now, compared to how he had been in the past, but Kishar's comment made him fidget. He twisted his fingers together and did not try to argue.

He couldn't, after all. That would be a lie, and Arishen could not lie.

That was one of the conditions branded into his body by the beast-witch who had taken control of it. No, not taken, that was not fair. Even Kishar could admit that Arishen had given up his control quite willingly.

Kishar did not understand it.

Arishen had always been shy, cripplingly so. As a child he had clung to Kishar's cloak or sleeves, and hidden behind him, and run to him with all his problems. It had been cute then, it became less so in their adolescence when Arishen had run crying to him for so many things, fears and problems Kishar simply could not understand.

Could not understand, and did not want to try. Arishen ought to grow up more, he'd thought.

When Kishar snapped at him, frustrated by Arishen's increasingly neurotic behavior, he had taken to locking himself in his room instead. And when Kishar finally managed to get him out of it, begging and pleading, Arishen had run, and found somebody else to cry to.

"Arishen."

Arishen was shaking his head again. Kishar could not understand it at all.

"Don't call me-"

She had tried to take that name from him, too, but Kishar wouldn't let it go.

"No, Arishen is your name. Your real name. You are one of us, and you can't keep pretending otherwise. Even if you aren't confirmed-"

"Don't, Kishar, don't, you don't understand-"

He didn't.

He never had.

Arishen had once been so bright and promising, it was hard to reconcile that with how he was now, with his desolate 'temples' and severe black clothing, and that veil across his face, and his tense but unflappable expression, and his youthful appearance.

She had done that to him too, eternally youthful in a way that even gods didn't have.

Arishen ought to be an adult by now, but he had not changed in well over a century.

He was afraid of growing up, afraid of reaching the age of confirmation, and that had been her solution, for him to remain perpetually just shy of it.

"Things can't go on like this," Kishar said. "I won't let them."

"Killing me would be kinder than asking what you're about to ask of me."

Arishen frustrated him, so much, always, and Kishar did not think then, nor notice, nor remember, nor care, that Arishen could not lie.

"Arishen this is ridiculous. You're not a child anymore, you can't keep running away from things and throwing these tantrums-"

"I wanted to die."

Silence descended between them.

Arishen would not look at him.

"I wanted to die," Arishen repeated. "The way everyone looked at me, talked about me…I couldn't bear it. I would rather be dead. That's why I went to her, back then."

Kishar had asked, everyone had asked, when they'd dragged Arishen back to the heavens, why he had run away. He had never answered them, not once. This was...

She had been called the God-killer back then, back when Arishen had truly been the age he still appeared now. When he had run away, on the eve of Kishar's confirmation ceremony.

"I know you don't understand me, but even if you can't understand me, can't you at least let me be?"

"I can't, I won't. You belong with me. The rest of this nonsense is just in the way, so we need to deal with it. "

"Kishar..." 

"I went to see the Night Queen," Kishar said, and Arishen did look at him then, shock giving him a hint of an actual expression on his face.

"You?"

He did not understand Arishen, did not understand and had fought against that lack of understanding, raged against it, for so long, trying to make Arishen understand him. He never would, neither of them ever would. But Kishar had finally decided he didn't need to, they didn't need to understand one another, so long as he could do something about it.

So he had gone to see her, the one called the Night Queen, who had once been called the God-killer, the one Arishen so laughably called 'mother', an eternal insult to his real parentage.

"Yes, just recently."

Kishar had seen her before, in battle, and she was no less terrifying in times of peace. Her or her subjects, who had trailed him as he made his way to her castle. How was it that his shy little brother, who was afraid of everything and everyone, could feel so at home with them? Could talk of the Night Queen with such honest affection?

"She told me what I need to do to help you," Kishar said.

Arishen's silver eyes widened in panic, an expression Kishar knew well, and expected.

Arishen would never face something that he could run away from.

But Kishar knew that, even if he didn't understand it. The Night Queen knew it too, and so she had given him something to help.

Kishar had to work quickly, before Arishen had a chance. Kishar used his power first, divine power, sealing the temple. No one in, nor out. Immediately after doing so, he grabbed Arishen's wrist and snapped the bracelet the Night Queen had given him closed around it. 

It was a temporary measure, but it would prevent Arishen from being able to use sorcery. That kept him from being able to escape, and took away one of the things that he used to suppress himself. It was less a bracelet and more shackle, really, one which would not unlock without Kishar choosing to let it.

Arishen was clever, and he knew the Night Queen's magic, and Kishar could tell that he understood the purpose of the bracelet immediately. His expression was strained.

"Don't do this, Kishar. Please. Don't do this to me."

"I can't stand to see you like this anymore, Ari."

And neither could the Night Queen.

"My child is suffering, and so I'll tell you what you want to know," she'd told him, "but first you need to swear an oath to me. And if I find out you've broken it, it will not be the Night Queen who shows up in the heavens looking for you."

"I understand," he'd said, and meant it. War he understood very well. "I'll swear any oath you like."

Arishen just closed his eyes as Kishar reached forward to unhook the veil he always wore. It clattered on the tile floor after he flung it away.

"You can't learn to control your magic if you never use it. Trinkets like this can't help you. The Night Queen can't help you. But I can."

Arishen shook his head and backed away, but there was nowhere for him to go. His temples were so small, after all.

He stopped when he ran into the offering table, which was just that, a table. Like a mortal's kitchen table, solid and undecorated.

Arishen denied himself on every possible level, and his followers usually shunned excess as well.

"Kishar, please. Please. Don't do this. Don't ask this of me."

"It's time for you to grow up, Ari."

Fear was evident in every line of his body, the stiff way he stood, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the table, clinging to it until his knuckles were white. Without his sorcery, without that veil, Arishen was completely defenseless.

"My power doesn't work on you," Arishen said, pleading. "Please. Kishar. Please."

"It doesn't, passively. But you can use it on me. Which you will. You'll use it on both of us."

He would need to. They were already lovers, in the mouths of everyone else in the heavens, they might as well be bed partners too. Kishar was no stranger to bedroom games, but he would still need help, from Arishen. Because Kishar was perhaps the only person in the world who could see Arishen like this, with no veil and no magic, and still look at him without desire.

Arishen was his beloved little brother.

Kishar adored him and always had, ever since their mother had first put Arishen into his arms and Kishar had met those bright silver eyes.

But adoration was not lust, and that was what Arishen provoked in others, all others, against his will.

His divine nature, the part of himself that he could not control, that he would apparently rather die than give into. Kishar would not let him, not let him run away anymore, nor let him die.

"I'll bring it out in you," Kishar said. "She told me how to do it, and that I can, because our powers are from the same source."

"Kishar, please-"

"You're a sorcerer, aren't you? You can master her magic but not your own? It's pathetic, Ari. This fear is unbecoming of a god."

"Once it starts, there's no end to it. You know that. I can't…I can't live like that, Kishar, I can't. I can't be like mother and father. I would rather die. I would. I will, if you try to ask that of me."

The beauty gods were the playthings of the heavens, and that was something that Arishen was afraid of. Kishar knew that, even if he didn't understand it.

He stepped forward and took Arishen's face in his hands, making Arishen look at him.

"No, Ari. You belong with me. You're mine. I won't let anyone else touch you. No one, not anyone else. Not even my father."

That was what the Night Queen had wanted from him, for Kishar to swear to protect Arishen from everyone else, and most especially from his father, the war god.

As much as Kishar loved his father, even he could admit that Arishen was right to be afraid of him. His unwillingness to believe that Kishar would stand up for him was likewise understandable.

Kishar had agreed to swear that oath, on his own condition, the condition that Arishen agreed to let it be him who fixed this. The Night Queen seemed less than pleased, but she must have decided it was acceptable, for she'd still helped him.

Tears spilled over Arishen's cheeks, and at last he looked like himself. He always had been such a delicate, sensitive little thing.

"Ari, everyone's been playing along with you all this time, but they're going to lose their patience sooner or later. Even the Night Queen won't back you on this, anymore. Either you agree to do this with me, to become mine, and I'll protect you, or refuse me, and become theirs. One way the other, it's ending tonight. Tonight, Ari. It's me, here and now, or I'm taking you back to the heavens like this." 

Taking Arishen back to the heavens like this, with no veil and no magic, was leading a lamb to slaughter. They both knew that. Kishar's father would be first in line, but certainly not the last. They probably wouldn't even bother waiting to confirm him first. Appearance aside, he was old enough. More than old enough.

"Please. Please don't. The Night Queen doesn't understand this, she doesn't know what you're doing to me. She means well but she doesn't know. If she did she wouldn't have agreed to help you. Please, if you care about me at all-"

"Of course I care about you. That's why you need to make a choice."

"I chose already, Kishar, I did, I chose her, the Night Queen. And sorcery, and living a life where everyone else hates me for it. I don't care, Kishar, I don't care about that. Please let me go."

"No, that's not an option you're allowed to choose. You only have two choices, me, or them."

Arishen was still crying. Kishar did not understand what he was so afraid of, why he was so reluctant. But this rebellious streak had gone on long enough, it needed to be dealt with.

"You're not a child anymore, Ari. You have to choose. Me, or them."

Arishen closed his eyes. "You'll...keep him away from me?"

Arishen was a sorcerer, second only to the Night Queen herself, and could easily protect himself so long as he kept from panicking. But Kishar's father always had terrified him, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to think properly, if the war god really did go after him. And of course, right now, he had no magic to rely on. He could only rely on Kishar.

But he should be relying on Kishar, instead of something unnatural like sorcery. Kishar was his big brother, after all.

"I will."

He was still holding Arishen's face, and now he wiped away the tears just like he'd always done.

Arishen shivered, but did not protest.

Kishar did as the Night Queen had taught him, and used his own power to rouse Arishen's, working through their physical contact. It was just the same as pouring water into a deep pitcher to bring up something that had fallen into it. The more power Kishar poured into him, the more Arishen's would rise in response.

It was not easy.

Arishen's self-denial was enough to drive him all the way to the God-killer, back then. But that same person had now taught Kishar too, although not nearly to the same extent.

Bit by bit he worked Arishen's power loose, into the temple, and into the two of them.

Arishen was beautiful.

Kishar knew that, but usually could not notice it, not in the way everyone else did.

Did not notice his eyes like that, expressive as quicksilver behind his tears, or how his hair shone like starlight, or his smooth skin, or any of the rest of it.

Kishar kissed him, gently, and Arishen was still stiff. Unyielding, reluctant.

"You ought to be taking advantage of this lesson I'm offering you, young scholar."

In order to learn how to control his power, he had to understand it. In order to understand it, he had to learn the feel of it. To sit with it, let it run its course with him. That was something Arishen could not bear to do.

Arishen was flushed and flustered, and unfortunately Kishar knew him well enough to tell that it was not from his power. He was embarrassed and uncomfortable, in an ordinary way.

"Don't tease me, Kishar."

Kishar thought embarrassment was better than fear. Ideally, Arishen would be a willing partner. If that wasn't doable, Kishar could settle for embarrassment. Arishen would probably be angry later, because of it, but anger was something Kishar could deal with. 

Arishen was not as affected by his own power as others were. 

For whatever reason he had it, this resistance was as much a part of him as his power, and Kishar would need to work hard to smooth it over. Fear would be a detriment to that, but embarrassment could be an asset, could keep him off balance and vulnerable, but not running.

"Just pay attention," he said.

He reached down and hoisted Arishen onto the table before closing the gap between them again.

It had to be done, but Arishen would not allow anyone to do it. Kishar wouldn't allow him to keep denying his nature either. And if it had to be done, as it did, he may as well enjoy it, and overcoming Arishen's resistance could certainly be made enjoyable. As a god, most bed partners came to him too easily. He was rarely forced to work for it. He was willing to do so.

But gently, gently, because Arishen had a glass heart, and broke so easily.

Kishar kissed him again.

Arishen squirmed, but there was nowhere for him to escape to, Kishar wouldn't allow it. He had to accept this, and Kishar would make him do so. Make Arishen respond to him. That was what he had been born for, after all.

All the beauty line gods were beautiful, in the effortless way of the heavens. In the way of people whose lives revolved around sporting and entertainment, who lived off liquid ambrosia and ate only when they felt like it, whose beauty was maintained by magic and divine will.

Arishen did not drink ambrosia. He cooked and ate like mortals did, and spent most of his life studying.

He was softer, and heavier, than most gods, pretty in the way that mortals were, much more yielding than gods.

Not that Arishen was yielding, as of yet. But Kishar could get him there. He would.

All of Kishar's favorite bed partners had been mortal, and he liked the feeling of Arishen's body under his hands just as much as he'd liked theirs, how much there was of it for him to touch. It was new for him, too, because even as a child Arishen had been fussy and usually hated being touched by anyone, even him.

Kishar wanted to make up for lost time while he had the chance.

Arishen had relaxed into his kisses now, finally. At least, as far as Arishen was capable of relaxing. He wasn't trying to pull away. Kishar could count that as a victory.

Kishar kept an eye on his power, and could feel it creeping up to meet him, overwhelm him, which it would, as long as Arishen let it. As long as he was distracted enough not to notice it.

He undid the clasp at Arishen's shoulder, causing the neckline of his robe to fall open.

He let Arishen sit with that moment, so he would not panic, and spent an enjoyable length of time leaving love marks on Arishen's neck.

Arishen was completely and totally silent, aside from the shallow sound of his breathing.

Another challenge, then, to bring something else out of him.

Arishen's power would move through him from one side, and Kishar would have to do so from the other, to bring him through this.

Kishar liked to think of himself as an engaging and interesting partner, but that wasn't right for Arishen.

His power was catching up to him but only barely, he was still tense, still gripping the edge of the table as if it were a lifeline.

In order to make sure that his power was not impeded Kishar had to go slowly, and not do anything too surprising. Nothing that would make Arishen panic.

It was like being an adolescent again, except with more grace and self-assurance.

Even so…

He wanted a little more. Something, at least. Anything.

Kishar rocked against him, one hand on Arishen's lower back to prevent him from moving away, and enjoyed the feeling of how they fit together. It was something, at least. And rewarding too, in the way that Arishen's breath caught in his throat, and in the way his body reacted, barely, but noticeable.

It was an agonizingly long time that Kishar spent on him, freeing Arishen from both his severe black clothing and his denial.

Finally, finally he started to succumb to it, and Kishar could move a little faster. Only a little.

He was still holding Arishen in place with one hand, and now he palmed Arishen's length with the other, slowly, slowly.

Arishen stiffened again when Kishar touched him directly. He didn't say anything, but his face was red even against his dark skin, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Are you paying attention?"

Arishen bit his lip, then nodded.

"Good."

It was driving Kishar wild.

He was a talented lover, but not necessarily a generous one. He had never spent so long on someone without getting anything in return.

"You ought to help me undress," he said.

He thought Arishen would refuse, but after a moment he let go of the table for the first time and began undoing the clasps of Kishar's clothing with trembling hands.

It was a relief just to feel them slide off.

"Touch me."

Arishen just gave him a sort of helpless, pleading look.

Kishar elected to ignore that.

Arishen could not say he was not enjoying this, his body gave lie to that, as did the fact that he was no longer trying to escape. And if he was enjoying himself, as he was, then he ought to show his gratitude.

Kishar finally stopped holding him and used his free hand to guide one of Arishen's.

"If you don't know what to do, just copy what I'm doing."

He did not let go of Arishen's hand, showing him what to do, making a participant out of him.

Kishar did not make a point to seek them out like some gods did, but he could admit virgins had their own charms, sometimes. And Arishen was so virginal, awkward and needing help. Encouragement.

"You're doing well," Kishar said, at some point, and Arishen reacted to that more than he would've thought, with a sharp inhale and a shudder.

He seemed even more embarrassed immediately after, and leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of Kishar's neck, probably because it was the only way Kishar could not look at him.

"Don't tease me."

He realized it right then, Arishen was not used to being praised for anything. Even the child that he had been, with all that potential, had always been scolded and criticized for wasting it.

"I'm not," he said, "you're a quick learner, aren't you? Your hand feels really good, what you're doing. And the rest of you too. You're perfect, Ari."

Arishen made another noise at, another little gasp, and clung to Kishar with his free hand.

"Oh, you like that, hm? You just want someone to tell you what a good boy you are? You could have simply told me."

"S-top," Arishen said, but his breathing was more rapid and he moved against Kishar in a way that could almost be called willing. Kishar still didn't give up his guiding hand, though. Ari wasn't that willing, yet.

"I'll tell you that as much as you want, Ari. About how beautiful you are, and how much I love the way you feel, and how clever you are, and how good you're making me feel, and how badly I want you. I do want you, Ari!"

"K-Kishar…please...don't, don't…say those things."

"Are you still paying attention?"

"Yes..."

"Good boy."

Arishen squirmed against him again, but into him rather than away, and Kishar smiled, because Arishen belonged with him, and this was how it should be. Arishen was a god. He should be playing these kinds of games, acting like this. This was who he really was. Who he should be.

The imagery struck him then, and entertained him, and so he said, "Let me make an offering to you."

"What do you mean?"

"This is your offering table, isn't it?"

"Ah..."

Kishar pushed Arishen down onto the surface of the table, and took a moment to admire his handiwork.

Arishen did not look at all like himself, as he was usually so immaculate, but he made such a pretty picture there, amongst the scattered candles and other offerings, mussed in that most appealing way.

He was flushed and panting, lips swollen from kisses and glassy eyes and hair coming loose to fall around his face, his neck and chest littered with the marks Kishar had left behind.

He looked at all of that, and then he simply did not want to wait anymore. Kishar adjusted their posture slightly and took both of them into his hand.

Even after all of this, Arishen still flinched when Kishar touched him again. That brief moment had been too long, and his power had slipped, and it was up to Kishar to bring it back.

"You're beautiful like this too, Ari," Kishar said. "A proper god. Who you really are."

"You're...you're no different than them," Arishen said. "All you want is a trophy."

"I just want my brother back, and I'll do whatever it takes to achieve it."

He would like to bed Arishen properly, it almost seemed a waste not to, but he had a feeling that might still push things too far. He would have to settle for just this much, this time.

Kishar kissed him again, and kept kissing him as he used his hand and movements to take them both over the edge.

Kishar found that somewhat satisfying, at least, and stretched as he stood up.

Arishen sat up on the table, more gingerly, and pulled his discarded clothing to himself like it was armor. He held out his arm, the one with the bracelet.

"Get this off of me," he said.

Kishar didn't like his tone, or the look on his face. "You're not even going to thank me for helping you?"

"It's not me you're trying to help," Arishen said, and his voice was bitter. "You don't see me, anymore than any of the rest of them do. You'll protect me from your father? You are your father, Kishar. I might not be able to stop you, but you've had your fun, so let me go."

Why was Arishen like this? He was wrong, and he couldn't even see that. Why was it that his heart and his power were so misaligned? But it didn't matter. Arishen was a god, it was his power that dictated the life he should live. Kishar had hoped to make him see that, but as it turned out once hadn't been enough. Or had simply been too gentle, had made too many considerations for his heart.

But his heart was what was wrong. That was what had led him astray, had caused him to run away, had brought him to the Night Queen, and sorcery. That was the thing that needed to be suppressed, not the power he so desperately tried to deny. 

It seemed there was still a lot that he needed to learn. And since Kishar was his older brother, the responsibility of teaching Arishen naturally fell to him.

Kishar grabbed Arishen's outstretched wrist. "Why would I take it off? I'm not done with you yet."

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Second Chances | Izare x Andreal

Andreal pays Izare a visit in the dungeon

Answering a prompt from @cee-grice

Canon-divergent, follows the previous one (2.5k)

Noncon | Humiliation

"I must commend you, Mr. Harrickson," Andreal said. The lord general stood outside his cell, hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like someone's kindly grandfather. "I didn't know that haltiat could even be sexually motivated. Truly education is a lifelong journey."

He was talking about the other night, and Izare could not stop himself from blushing. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, he confronted me about breaking my promise, but shut up ever so quickly when I offered you to him." Andreal smiled blandly. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Where…where is he?"

Because Andreal was alone, and that worried him.

"Mahesha?" And he smiled a little less blandly. "Did you think I didn't know? Still, naming him after a prince is a little inappropriate, don't you think?"

Izare didn't like the way Mahesha's name sounded in Andreal's mouth.

He shook his head.

"No accounting for taste I suppose."

"Where is he?"

"In timeout, to think about what he's done. After all, it was quite naughty of him to end up in such a state."

He didn't need to say anything else. Izare knew what that meant, that Mahesha had been shut up in the dark somewhere, alone. He knew what that would do to him, from having seen Harrick do the same thing.

"It's my fault, he doesn't deserve to be punished for that."

"I disagree. But I do wonder what makes you think he's the only one I'm punishing?"

"I…"

"Do you know why beasts will never be free?"

The change of topic caught him by surprise, and Izare could only shake his head again.

"They're slaves from birth, slaves to their instincts. Until they surmount that, humans will always be a step ahead of them. But instinct has its advantages too. A miscalculation on my part, not to think of it."

He walked forward and unlocked the cell door.

There was nowhere for Izare to go so he stayed where he was, perched on the edge of his cot.

"I don't understand."

"Haltiat have an almost pathological need for fidelity. It's easy to break them, in the normal course of events. But Mahesha is a whore, he's never been faithful to you from the beginning, save for emotionally."

Andreal shrugged and walked into the cell.

"You see, he's martyred himself, thrown himself on his sword for love – as much as any of them are capable of it – and with the way that haltiat are, that makes him almost untouchable. I suspected it might be the case. That's why I kept you, because you aren't so strong, are you?"

"No," said Izare, knowing it was true. He didn't like the way Andreal was looking at him, studying him.

Izare had accused Mahesha, back then, of always trying to pay the price for his mistakes.

"I admit it's hardly a punishment for you. As we know, you quite enjoy letting people have their way with you, don't you Mr. Harrickson?"

Mahesha had said, in return, "I would spare you this."

Izare had known that Andreal was a sadist. Everyone knew that.

But only Mahesha had really known what that meant. Understood the depth of Andreal's interest in pain, and his breadth of knowledge in how to cause it. Understood how he twisted things around, turning people into actors set to scripts of his own design.

"That's not true," Izare said.

"Is it not?"

Andreal closed the distance between them abruptly. He yanked the chain of Izare's shackles up with one hand and pushed him back against the wall with the other and, and-

Kissed him.

Izare had been kissed, often, but never like this. Overwhelming and aggressive. There was no affection in it, it was less a kiss and more a wolf tearing into captured prey.

And he was captured, unable to resist, though he tried.

Andreal held him easily like that, kneeling on the cot, with his hands against the wall.

Andreal's other hand was busy wandering across Izare's chest and he jumped when Andreal began toying with his nipples through his shirt.

Izare couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move, his hands held above his head and one of Andreal's thighs between his own.

Andreal pressed against him, laughing between his kisses, and Izare's face burned.

After what felt like an eternity, Andreal dropped him.

"You can't stand me, can you Mr. Harrickson?"

"No," Izare spat out, chest heaving.

"Excellent. I hope you hold that hatred close to your heart. It won't protect you, but I did so enjoy seeing that humiliated look on your face."

Andreal grinned at him, feral and totally inhuman. Izare thought, knew, that shapeshifters were people, whatever anyone else had to say about it. He wasn't sure about Andreal, though. Kovaria was said to be full of demons, right?

"No choices or games this time, Mr. Harrickson. I'm going to fuck you senseless and you're going to beg me for it. When he looks at you, if he can stand to, he'll think of me. When he touches you, if you can stand to let him, you'll think of me."

"I'm not…not just going to let you rape me."

"If you did, it wouldn't be rape. I do hope you'll fight me, conquest is so much more satisfying than consent." He shrugged. "To that end, I've always found beasts a little boring. My family never understood my decision to enter the military, but that was what I learned as a young man. I like power, Mr. Harrickson, and control. Beasts are convenient, but there's no real pleasure in having control over something that never had nor ever could have had any to begin with."

"You're sick," Izare said, and Andreal laughed.

"You won't win, even if you fight, though I hope you do anyway. Words, however, will get you nowhere."

There was no way Izare could win. He'd been maltreated for weeks, and was still chained. Andreal was not much taller but was heavier, unimpeded, and had several decades of experience on him.

He knew it, and Andreal knew it. But he had to try.

He tried.

He tried.

He dodged when Andreal grabbed for him, rolling to one side and making a break for the still open door.

Andreal simply kicked him down, then stepped around to stand on the chain before Izare could get up.

Andreal was quick, Izare barely had time to process what was happening before Andreal pulled him up by the hair. The pain of that was nothing compared to what Andreal had done to him before. He could bear that.

He saw, of course, when Andreal intended and clamped his mouth shut.

Andreal was not put off by that. He just covered Izare's nose until he had no choice but to open his mouth again to breathe.

Izare gagged and choked as Andreal forced himself into his mouth.

Izare could not regain control.

Andreal set the pace and the motion, with his hands tangled in Izare's hair and his foot still pinning the chain of his shackles to the floor.

Izare scratched, clawed at his legs, but could do nothing against the heavy leather boots that went up higher than he could reach. It only made Andreal laugh more. Laughter came so easily to him, when someone else was hurting.

"Is that the best you can do? Well, I suppose no one really resists when it's what they want. Oh yes, do keep glaring at me. I wonder how long you can keep that up."

He was so…uninterested, almost, in what he was doing, talking as calmly as he did.

Like he didn't care.

As if it was nothing more than a mild amusement.

He laughed as Izare struggled against him, laughed as Izare gagged when Andreal spilled his seed into his mouth, laughed at his attempts to spit it out.

He stepped back off the chain and Izare took advantage of the momentary respite to wipe his mouth off.

"Yes," Andreal said as he did so, "young men like you have always been my favorite. Still, you can blame Mahesha for this. Had he been less content with martyrdom, I would've let you leave."

Somehow, Izare doubted that.

"Nothing to say? I thought you liked words."

"In Lattencrest they said that loving another man was Kovarian behavior. I used to believe them." Izare said. "Only now do I learn what Kovarian behavior really is."

"How noble. I suppose this means you don't hate yourself anymore? No matter, you will. You ought not to have stopped yourself from calling out his name, because now the first name you moan will be mine, and you'll never forget it."

"I won't say your name."

"You will. Don't forget, you've spent so long being a good boy, Mr. Harrickson, that you've made yourself quite desperate for what it is you really want."

"You aren't what I want."

"Tell yourself that, if you please."

Izare was still kneeling, and now Andreal kicked him again, forcing him backwards to the ground before following him down to kiss him again.

It was pointless, Izare knew that.

Even without Andreal tangling his hand in the chain and jerking Izare around like a puppet on a string, he wouldn't be able to win.

It was pointless.

Even if Andreal's touch was sickening, he couldn't stop himself from responding to it all the same.

It was pointless.

Everything Andreal said about him was true.

Izare could pretend otherwise all he liked, that didn't mean it wasn't true.

Izare still tried, he had to try, twisting and struggling as Andreal ripped the clothing off him and took what liberties he wanted.

Andreal forced his fingers and Izare's mouth and pumped them in and out, no less aggressive than before, not caring as Izare choked.

He had a better idea of what to expect this time, when Andreal finally pulled his fingers out, slick with spit.

But even so-

"Ah-!"

"Didn't even try, hm?" Andreal was smiling like a cat in cream.

Why-

Why did it feel so good?

Why was his body such a traitor?

"You're just a needy little boy after all, aren't you, Izare?"

He jumped at that, Andreal saying his name, and knew that it meant he had completely and totally lost. He could never have won, but now Andreal's victory was assured, and that still stung.

"Oh yes," said Andreal, pleasure evident in the purr of his voice, "that's the humiliated face I was waiting for. They say this is unnatural, hm? In Lattencrest? But you want it so badly, don't you? Do you want to know why you've lost?"

Izare shook his head, but Andreal went on.

"You've thoroughly denied yourself what you want, and you've trained your body to react under duress. Hm, trained it quite well in fact. I think I could take you all the way just like this, don't you agree? Pathetic. Let's do that, then."

Izare's face burned hotter than ever but he was caught, caught between Andreal's hands in him, on him, caught by his mouth, the kisses and teasing comments both.

Andrew wasn't holding the chain anymore, but it didn't matter.

Izare lay on the cold stone floor of his cell panting and moaning, all thoughts of fighting gone from him.

"The reason you like this so much is because you're my opposite, Izare. You want someone, anyone, to take control. If you aren't in control then it's not your fault how you feel. You aren't doing anything wrong."

"Shut…shut up. I don't want this!"

"Your body disagrees with you. I suppose I ought to thank Nelles for training you so well. Maybe I'll send her some flowers and a nice letter, what do you think? Of course I have to thank you, too. Her for training you, and you for wanting her to."

Andreal kissed him again, and Izare let him.

He really was pathetic.

Andreal had gotten him like this, had done it so, so easily. He was still immaculate, nearly fully dressed, not a hair out of place.

A man like this, old enough to be his father, older, even, who had tortured him, who had hurt Mahesha so badly…

A man like this, really…

All the way, just with his hands, that's what he'd said.

"Not...not like this, please, please."

"You'd rather have me fuck you?"

Izare nodded.

"That's not how you ask."

"Fuck me..."

"Is that all?"

"P-please..."

"And just who are you asking?"

No, no, he had planned it, all of it, he had-

He was such a bastard-

He was so, so-

"Lord General-"

"We're so much closer than that now, aren't we?"

"A-Andreal...please, not…not like this. Please...please fuck me instead, Andreal..."

"Exactly like this, Izare," Andreal purred.

"No, please, I asked-" He had begged, more like, just as Andreal had promised he would.

"You did. But I don't have to grant it to you."

Andreal's other hand crept up to Izare's chest again.

Andreal had gotten exactly what he wanted, and he wasn't going to give Izare anything. He really was a bastard.

Izare couldn't help himself, not from crying out, not from being pushed over the edge by his traitorous body.

And it was not enough, still not enough, for Andreal, who began working him over again.

"Please," Izare said, pointlessly, as Andreal mounted him for real.

"You did ask it of me, just now."

But that hadn't been-

Andreal just laughed again. "I did say I was going to fuck you senseless."

"Twice… I can't, I can't-"

"A young man like you? I hardly believe that. I can get you there, and further too. Senseless, Izare, that's what I said. I usually keep my promises."

Izare wanted to call him a liar, but could he? Andreal kept what promises were convenient for him, and broke the rest. There was no point in fighting that.

"It's quite fascinating, Izare. I've used no magic, no drugs, you're really just like this. I can't wait to see how far I can push you. Let's find out together, shall we?"

Izare shook his head, but of course that didn't mean anything. He had already lost.

Andreal played him like a fiddle, bringing things out of him Izare did not know were there.

"Oh, Andreal-"

Izare moaned his name as Andreal had promised he would, and Andreal kissed him, and laughed against his lips.

"Haltiat care such an awful lot about fidelity. I wonder, where do you think Mahesha is?"

Izare could barely think, but, but-

"N-nearby?" Of course he would be, somewhere nearby, close enough to hear them. So that he would know, so that it would change the way Mahesha looked at him.

"Good job, Izare, you're such a clever boy. Why don't you really give him a show?"

Izare didn't want to, he didn't want this, and he had never wanted to hurt Mahesha.

But he had already lost long before, and was far past his ability to fight.

"A-Andreal!"

[tcdohertyafterdark]

This one too!

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

Mahesha & Izare 🫶

Okay because you asked for angst, I hope that you can eat well! >:}

Readable after you finish chapter 30

Word count: 900

I'm play this ask game~

The problem was – no, he knew that the problem was him, he knew it, and he was trying, wasn't he? He was trying, and failing, as he always tried and always failed.

The problem was, Izare had always possessed a vivid imagination.

It was killing him, that he could so easily imagine what he didn't, shouldn't, didn't, didn't, want.

Mahesha never refused him anything.

And Izare could very well imagine it.

His father wasn't there, in some ambiguous, unimportant way. His father wasn't there, and Izare could come home to just Mahesha, to their home. Mahesha would be cooking, he was usually cooking at that time. Mahesha would say, in that way he had, "Welcome home, Izare." The way he said Izare’s name was an invitation impossible to resist. Izare could come home to that, he could imagine it, he could come home and wrap his arms around Mahesha.

It wouldn't be like that, Izare knew. Mahesha never said no, but Izare knew he hated being touched, knew how fear, even in compliance, turned him stiff and awkward.

But he could imagine it, right? He could imagine how Mahesha would relax against him – even if he wouldn't, and Izare knew he wouldn't – could imagine how Mahesha would stop cooking and turn and throw his arms around Izare's neck and kiss him. He could imagine Mahesha like that, all soft and welcoming and warm.

But he shouldn't, shouldn't want like this, shouldn't think like this.

But he could.

He could imagine the way his hands would fall, to rest at Mahesha's waist, no, the table, that was better. But it wasn’t what he wanted, was it? No, he didn’t want any of it. But he could imagine it, couldn’t he? The way his hands would fall, and they would come to rest naturally around Mahesha's slender waist. Could imagine how he would push slightly back and Mahesha – smiling like he so rarely did – would follow where Izare led and…

And…

And? Izare shied away from that, he couldn't, couldn't, couldn't and didn't, didn't want to.

But he knew all the same, he knew where that horrible, greedy, vivid imagination of his lead, it led to dinner being late and neither of them minding at all.

When he came home and Mahesha was cooking, Mahesha said nothing, and Izare said nothing, and fled to his room.

Izare had a vivid imagination.

He could imagine it, harvesting berries side-by-side in the summer and being distracted – Mahesha was distracting – and kissing him. He could imagine that, how Mahesha would be warm from the sunlight filtering in through the leaves and how he would taste like the berries he’d eaten instead of saving. He could imagine it, although it was always Izare who had done that as a child, had eaten the berries he should have brought home. Mahesha never had. He was responsible. But Izare could imagine it.

But Mahesha picked berries alone. Izare wouldn't go with him, anymore.

Izare had a vivid imagination.

He could imagine it, walking hand-in-hand during the midwinter festival. He could imagine it, the way snowflakes would land on Mahesha's eyelashes, highlighting his ice blue eyes. Izare would brush them away while Mahesha tilted his head up so obligingly and, after a moment of eyes meeting and breath entangling, the sun would break the horizon and Mahesha would surprise him, rising up on his toes to steal the first kiss of the new year. Izare could imagine it, how sweet it would be, and how he would resolve to be the victor next year. There would always be a next year, in his imagination.

But Mahesha didn't attend the midwinter festival beyond the bonfire if Izare didn't invite him, and Izare never invited him.

Izare had a vivid imagination.

He could imagine it, the way that Mahesha would ask, on his birthday, for Izare to sing for him. He would do it, it wouldn't be awkward at all. He would do it, but he wouldn't finish, wouldn't finish because of the way Mahesha always looked at him like that. He wouldn’t finish because he would lose control, stop singing, and cover Mahesha in kisses instead. He could imagine it, could imagine the way Mahesha would squirm and protest, protest but not mean it, because he would be smiling, because he wouldn't be upset, because it was the birthday gift he wanted. But no, it wasn’t, it was the birthday gift Izare wanted to give him.

But Izare pretended he didn't remember when Mahesha's birthday was.

Izare could imagine it though, couldn't stop imagining it, a hundred scenarios were Mahesha would look at him like that – the way Izare wouldn't allow anymore. A hundred scenarios where Izare would kiss him and Mahesha kissed him back, or the other way around. A hundred scenarios where Izare could touch him and Mahesha would respond the way…the way Izare wanted him to, he knew it was the way he wanted, because it was his imagination, wasn't it?

Mahesha wasn't like that, didn't want that.

It was what he wanted, wanted, wanted and couldn't have, shouldn't have.

It was killing him.

And when he came home, and Mahesha said, "Welcome home, Izare." Izare nearly jumped out of his skin. But then Mahesha said, "Dinner will be late, I apologize. I hope you aren't too hungry."

"No, I don't really want anything anyway," Izare lied.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

I still won't have anything for a few days so I thought I would reblog some other shorts with the same characters I've written about for additional context, even though they are not explicit :3

Writetober Day 6: Golden

Of course I had to use them, I had fun with this one :^)

Other shorts with Savion and Lorant:

[1] [4]

@did-i-do-this-write @magefaery @bloodlessheirbyjacques

"What does ambrosia taste like?" Savion had asked, once. They were alone on a large balcony which was used for ceremonies in the summer, and never at all in the winter. Cold didn't bother Savion, and nothing bothered Lorant, so they had taken to coming here, where people wouldn't pester them. If he leaned over the edge he could just barely see the outermost fringes of the forest creeping up the mountain.

Lorant, laying stretched out on his back in the sun like a cat, laughed. "There's no such thing."

"Then…" There were a lot of things he could ask. How Lorant had come to have beast's eyes. Where the miasma came from. Why some beasts fled the forest as wraiths, driven mad by something. "Why is the forest golden?"

Because it was golden. It was not only the beasts' eyes and stripes. The leaves and bark of the trees were also a full rainbow of yellows, all year long.

"What runs through the forest isn't ambrosia, it's the blood of the god Lalaihaim who sacrificed himself for the Beast King Garrant. Ichor is gold."

Savion clenched his hands and looked away. He didn't want to hear about Garrant and Lalaihaim.

Lorant knew that. He barely allowed any pause before he said, "your priests don't know their asses from their elbows. When beasts talk of devouring, imbibing, we don't mean eating and drinking. If we did, we'd say eat and drink. If ambrosia like they think existed, those greedy pigs'd be into it up to their necks. The delicacy that beasts have is something they'd be too cowardly to take even if we offered it, given how allergic they are to sincerity."

He didn't even hear Lorant move, but the next thing Savion knew, Lorant had tackled him and Savion and was looking up at him from the cold stone tiles of the balcony.

"Lorant…"

"Do you want to know what our 'ambrosia' taste like?"

Savion was the one who had asked, but not to lead to something like this!

"Anyone could see us," he said, not answering the question.

Lorant laughed. "What you think I'm going to do to you? You have such a dirty mind."

Savion flushed. "No that's not fair! You're the one who always talks like-"

Lorant was laughing at him again.

"Oh, get off of me," Savion snapped, using anger to cover up his embarrassment. "You're horrible. Always teasing me."

"I'm serious, I'm serious," Lorant said, after he stopped laughing. He had not moved at all. "I love you, you little fool. I want to share my heart's blood with you."

"I hate the taste of blood," Savion said.

"You won't, if it's mine. Heart's blood is different. It's…" Lorant seemed to struggle with his words, which was very unlike him. "I want to love you, you know, the way we do in the forest. As Lalaihaim to Garrant."

It was the wrong thing to say, because Savion hated hearing about them. As Lorant very well knew.

"We aren't in the forest. And we never shall be." Savion shoved Lorant aside and sat up.

Lorant, as he always did, took it in stride. Done being serious, he grinned. "If you change your mind, I'll let you taste ambrosia anytime," he said, in a tone of voice that was pregnant with all kinds of implications, none of them wholesome.

"Now look," Savion started to say, before Lorant swallowed the rest of his complaint with a kiss.

Savion graciously made the sacrifice to allow Lorant to make up for his earlier blunder.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Anthem & Ithea Mahesha & Izare Azhar & Yuliy Dante & Nyari Kit & Anrikas Iskandar & Clovis Rolan & Morgaine Wren & Lukas Savion & Lorant

kiss prompts

feel free to use any of these. ♥

"Kiss me." "What?"

"Of course I want to kiss you."

"What if I kissed you right now?"

"If you didn’t want things to change, you shouldn’t have kissed me."

"I really, really want to kiss you right now."

"Can I kiss you?"

"On a scale of one to ten...how mad would you be if I kissed you right now?"

"I never said I didn't want to kiss you."

"I think I deserve a kiss."

"I can't stop thinking about the last time we kissed."

"I've been waiting for this kiss since the moment I laid eyes on you."

"You kissed me! You kissed me, how's that not a big deal?"

"You kissed me, remember?"

"I'll give you a kiss if you can guess what I'm thinking right now."

"You can't just kiss me and expect everything to be okay."

"Just one kiss, that's all I'm asking for."

"You can tell a lot about a person by the way they kiss."

"Are you daring me to kiss you?"

"What's stopping us from just kissing right now?"

"I can't believe you kissed me like that."

"I can't stop thinking about that kiss."

"Don't look at me like that if you don't want me to kiss you."

"It's just a kiss, what's the big deal?"

"Let's make a deal, one kiss and I'll do whatever you want."

"You kissed me back, so don't act like it was all me."

"Do you still remember our first kiss?"

"Why do we keep pretending we don't want to kiss each other?"

"You're making it really hard for me not to kiss you right now."

"Let me show you what a real kiss feels like."

"If you kiss me, I promise I'll stop teasing you."

"No goodnight kiss for me?"

"If you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask."

"I think we need to talk about that kiss."

"Kiss me and then tell me you don't feel anything."

"You're jealous, just admit it, you want to be the one kissing me."

"Do you ever think about that drunken kiss we shared?"

"How can I focus on anything else when you're kissing me like that?"

"Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean I don't mean it when I say I want you to kiss me."

"Another kiss like that and I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"You say you don't love me, but you kissed me back like you did."

my masterlist | more prompts | buy me a coffee

[tcdohertyafterdark]

My throat is finally on the mend so I should be able to go back to dictating things soon, and I'll have some stuff to share by next week :3c

[tcdohertyafterdark]

15) jealous sex in the alleyway behind the bar

Any couple you think fits ! Obsessed with this one and interested to see what you can come up with!

@bloodlessheiratnight

@bloodlessheiratnight

Misc | Savion x Lorant

Lorant purposefully provokes Savion's jealous side

Canon (2.1k)

Follow up to this.

Blood | knife play | scarring | sex in public

Most people only thought of the Golden Forest as some alien wilderness where beasts roamed about like feral animals fighting and fucking one another, which was not the truth. At least, not the whole truth.

Some parts were little more than that, but most of it was quite civilized.

The way any part of the forest was depended on the will of the lord who oversaw it, and how much magic they were willing to expend to urge it to grow into forms that suited their desired functions.

Beasts had wilderness, but they also had great cities to rival anything humans had built, and Lorant delighted in showing Savion around. He tried to hide it, but he was surprised, and Lorant loved that look on his face.

Slightly dazzled, and then embarrassed about being so. Lorant couldn't get enough of it.

So he showed Savion everything. He bought pretty things for him at the markets, to make up for the clothing that had been destroyed…and also just so that Lorant could see him like that, decked out in the forest's "barbaric finery", as humans would say. Most beasts were rather far from human form, but they sold all kinds of clothing. Humans shopped here too, sometimes. The ones that were brave enough.

Lorant bought him things to wear to theaters and restaurants, and things to wear to dances, and to bars.

They were at a bar now, in his own dam's city, a more informal prequel to meeting her the following evening.

It started out innocently enough, but they were in the city that he'd grown up in. Everyone knew Lorant, and he knew everyone in return. He couldn't help it if everyone wanted to speak with him or – just as often – flirt with him.

He could help it that he encouraged them horribly, it was only fair to admit.

Savion liked to pretend that their feelings for each other were not real, despite the fact that the church had only picked him because he had gotten on with Lorant from the beginning. He liked to pretend that he was pressured into everything, despite being just as often the instigator. He liked to pretend that he was not – between the two of them – the avatar of Garrant. He liked to pretend that he he was not hungry, that he had no inconvenient desires of his own.

Lorant supposed Savion had to pretend all of those things, to hold onto the image he held of himself as being someone rational and reliable. As someone "normal". Lorant was a beast with a human body, but Savion was thoroughly human and unremarkable, in his own eyes.

Really, Savion was the most deeply jealous and possessive person Lorant had ever met.

Lorant loved that about him. The way Savion sometimes looked at him like, like…well, like he wanted to devour him, or rip into him, anything to drag his attention away from other people, and hold it.

Lorant understood, if Garrant had ever once looked at Lalaihaim like that, then Lorant completely understood Lalaihaim's decision to allow Garrant to devour him.

He wanted Savion to give into that urge, wanted it and wanted it. Savion was his Garrant, and Lorant would let Savion do anything to him. Sweet and bland were things Lorant could get anywhere, but the way Savion looked at him sometimes was something he couldn't get anywhere else. He would happily give up body and soul if Savion wanted it, but he didn't. He wouldn't ask.

He wouldn't ask. Humans did not allow that of themselves, and Savion always turned away from that side of himself, pretending it did not exist.

Normal humans did not understand violence as an expression of love, and Savion pretended that he didn't either.

But that night, that night Savion was drunk on the liquor of the Golden Forest, and he was jealous, and Lorant provoked him shamelessly.

Eventually he saw Savion slam his drink down and leave the bar.

Lorant gave him a moment to stew in it, then left the girls he was chatting to behind and followed after.

Savion was behind the bar, leaning against the tree into which it was built, head tipped back against the bark and throat so temptingly available.

Lorant stalked up to him and placed a kiss there, while his hands settled temporarily on Savion's hips.

Savion jerked against his touch.

"Go back to your whores." He pushed at Lorant's shoulders, but Lorant stayed where he was, nibbling on his neck.

"I claimed you in front of everyone," he said against that swan-white skin. "It's all over the forest that you’re mine. What more do you want?"

He was leaving a trail of marks on Savion's throat, and his hands were boldly exploring the planes of Savion's taller frame under his clothing.

Fortunately, Savion was drunk on jealousy and he was not so easily placated today. He gathered his strengthen and shoved Lorant away.

"I want you not to look at anyone but me," Savion said. "I want you to be mine."

Savion was beautiful, so beautiful, when he looked like that. When his desire and hunger were clawing their way out of him, when his hazel eyes shone with the heart of a beast.

Lorant felt giddy and breathless.

He would happily let Savion claim him in front of the whole forest if that's what he wanted, but that would ruin it. Suggesting it would ruin this, because Savion refused to believe that he was Garrant, and he was afraid that he might be, and his fear would leash him when Lorant wanted him free.

But…

Lorant had an idea suddenly, one that made his knees threaten to give out.

His hands fumbled at his belt for his dagger, and he couldn't get it loose, couldn't, until it finally slid out of its sheath with a hiss like a promise and he pushed it into Savion's hands.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What?" Savion looked at the dagger.

Lorant was scared that Savion would look away this time, that he would go back to being human.

That wasn’t what he wanted ever, but especially not right now.

"What are you going to do," he asked again, "to prove to everyone that I'm yours?"

Savion was looking at the dagger, looking and looking, and Lorant watched every thought flicker across his face with mounting excitement, for Savion had not rejected the dagger, which meant that he would use it.

Suddenly Savion's eyes snapped up and Lorant felt a thrill just at the look on his face, hungry, and domineering. The kind of look Savion like to pretend he didn't have in him.

Savion shoved him backwards again and Lorant went eagerly, until his back hit up against a tree. He dug his fingers into the bark behind him as Savion lifted the point of the dagger to his throat.

"What is it you want me to do about it?"

He did not answer as Savion knelt down, and took the dagger slowly with him, dragging it lightly down Lorant's chest.

He thought about asking what Savion planned to do, but then thought better of it. Because asking might ruin it. That might make Savion think about what he was doing.

Savion undid the wrapped belt around Lorant’s waist and allowed hiss pants to slide off of him. He didn’t fight that, nor did he fight when Savion pushed against him to make him spread his legs further apart.

Only after Lorant felt cold steel kiss his inner thigh in fire did he ask, "What are you doing?"

"Labeling you," Savion said.

Labeling!

"Oh…" Lorant breathed out, doing his best to stay still. Savion had such a pretty handwriting after all, he'd hate to ruin it.

The cuts, though certainly not deep, throbbed with every beat of his heart, and blood was running down his leg, perfuming the night air with the smell of ambrosia. That most peculiar scent that belonged only to the beasts of the Golden Forest.

It hurt, it hurt in the deeply delicious way that love did, and Lorant truly was breathless from it now. Tree bark was crumbling beneath his hands as he clung to the trunk with all his strength.

He gathered himself at least enough to say "It needs to be deep enough to scar" and got chills when Savion said back, so confidently, "It will."

"I love you, Savion, I do, I do!"

"You hardly act like it, although it's obvious right now," Savion said wryly, and ran his thumb down the length of him.

Something had shifted, in his tone and his touch, and Lorant knew that Savion had finished his self-appointed task and now was only thinking about sex.

But Lorant had not yet had his fill of love.

He reached down and claimed the dagger, slick with blood, his blood, and looked down at Savion, who was still kneeling there.

While he loved the feeling of Savion's hands on him, there was something he wanted more.

"My turn," he said, and forced Savion down, following him to the ground. "We need to match, because we belong together, and everyone needs to know it."

He expected Savion to protest, even though he had started it, but he didn't say anything.

He waited patiently while Lorant undressed him, and did nothing except dig his fingers into Lorant’s shoulder and whimper slightly as the tip of the dagger danced across sensitive skin.

He hadn't closed his eyes this time, and there was no regret on his face either, only the sort of fierce satisfaction one could find here, in the Golden Forest.

Lorant had always wanted to take Savion to the Golden Forest, to see him like this, honest, himself. More than that, to fuck him like this, bloody and demanding and desperate, on the ground behind who even remembered which bar anymore.

He wiped off the dagger on his fingers, and that mix of their blood together was more intoxicating than anything the bar had been able to offer them.

Savion agreed, at least this night, because when Lorant brought his fingers to Savion's mouth he took them eagerly, and moaned around them.

Lorant heard movement behind him and knew that they'd attracted an audience, but he didn't look away. It wasn’t unusual here, and it only helped prove that he was Savion’s and that Savion was his.

Savion sucked on his fingers and Lorant stroked his cheek lightly with his other hand, leaving streaks of blood behind.

"I only look at you, Savion," he said. "I've only ever looked at you, from the moment I met you. But I love the sharp fangs of your jealousy just as much as every other perfect part of you."

He pulled his fingers loose and Savion panted.

"Prove it," he said. "Prove it to me. I don't believe you."

"Every day darling, if that's what you need," said Lorant. Then, "You know, the color of my blood suits you best of all."

Savion wrinkled his nose. "I suppose you're going to tell me again how symbolic it is."

"I don't care if it is, I just want to make use of this lovely gift you've given me."

There was plenty of blood on his leg to use, as it was still flowing. Savion didn't protest further, nor did his body reject it as vehemently as last time. But of course not, this time it was Lorant's blood, and Savion wanted so badly to own every part of him.

But then Lorant paused.

"Proving yourself a liar?" Savion asked.

Lorant shook his head. "I'm aware," he said, "that I'm nothing more than my dam's prized stud horse, but I've never viewed you as one of my mares. I don't want to take you like that. But...I worked so hard to make my handwriting as neat as yours. I don't want to ruin it."

He saw the understanding dawn on Savion's face. "I shouldn't like that either. But I think you're underestimating me. I'm fairly certain I can get my legs hooked over your shoulders, or even further up."

"You think so? Should we try that?"

"What else are you going to do? Walk away from me?"

"How could I possibly do a thing like that? I'm yours, after all."

Lorant was nearly as pleased as Savion to discover that he had not been exaggerating about his flexibility. That, he thought, deserved to be thoroughly explored another time. Right now, though, Lorant had everything he needed. From the look on Savion's face, and the way he called Lorant’s name, and the way he clawed at the ground below him, he was just as satisfied.

Lorant caught that, all of it, for he did not once look away.

[tcdohertyafterdark]

Now that I got this blog set up I can take some of these prompts

If you want to send anything more specific, you're getting to know my characters a bit better @cee-grice @tryingtimi @bloodlessheirbyjacques

smut prompt list no. 3

1) mirror sex

2) sex in front of a big window where anyone could glance up and spot them

3) fully clothed x stark naked

4) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds)

5) body worshipping 

6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)

7) finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc) 

8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck

9) revenge sex

10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them

11) quickie where you don’t take any clothes off, just tug and pull and expose the essentials 

12) fucking, but one is still trying to keep all of their attention on the game they are playing

13) getting a little too handsy on the dancefloor

14) library sex for those dark academia vibes

15) jealous sex in the alleyway behind the bar

16) accidental i love you’s during sex 

17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place

18) a/b/o

19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit

20) sleepy domestic sex

[tcdohertyafterdark]

so much context is missing from literally all of those lmao

Anyway Second Chances and Untitled 6 are in the same world, different countries, about 20 years apart

Mahesha and Yaniv (and Yuliy) are all the same race

I'm not even gonna try with all the shit Lorant and Savion have going on. They're just freaks, okay?