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The stories on this page are not safe for work, parents, your grandmother, minors, miners, or literary critics. They are, perhaps more importantly, probably not canon, although every attempt has been made to stay true to the characters involved. What they are, or will be, is a series of short, fun vignettes written in response to the responses to the challenge I posted on the forum, asking readers to come up with a pairing that would break my brain. Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment. If you are too (and are of the legal age to view adult content in your jurisdiction), feel free to keep reading.
Slash 1: Ambrus and Anatoliy
The problem with pissing off his mistress, Ambrus mused, was that she had no feel for enjoyable, fun punishment. Oh, she understood the concept – there wasn’t much about human psychology she didn’t understand in concept – but her skewed implementation had put him in some pretty odd positions.
The worst of it was, he thought, as he studied the suitably gigantic erection of the trance-slumbered giant, even bigger up close than he’d thought it would be, and formulated a plan of attack, was that he wasn’t even sure what he’d done to deserve this. And that Anatoliy was so deeply tranced that he’d never remember this, except as a warm dream, presumably of someone he actually wanted.
Being a surrogate fuck wasn’t new to Ambrus, but he preferred having a chance to be acknowledged.
He worked his mouth around the head. Deep in the reverie Regine had crafted for him, Anatoliy moaned. One of those pie-sized hands rested lightly on the back of Ambrus’ neck, fingers splayed from the top of his skull down his back. It could have been oppressive – smaller hands of smaller men had been far rougher on him than this – but it was almost a caress. As Ambrus worked his mouth down the giant’s shaft, he spared a thought to wonder what he’d be like, truly conscious, as a lover.
But he had his instructions, and so he moved with the gentle pressure of that huge hand, wrapped both of his own hands – looking tiny and pale in comparison - around the base of Anatoliy’s penis and began working in earnest.
The moan took him by surprise. It sounded so coherent, so awake, that he glanced up the giant’s body to see if he was awake. But his eyes were still closed, even as the moans got louder and more intense. “I’m…” and that was a word, a genuine word, which was surprising considering both Regine’s skills and his own. “I’m gonna come. Oh god.”
A sweetheart, even tranced and half-stoned. Worth the painful stretching of his jaw. He took as much of him in as he could, glad for a lack of gag reflex.
He remembered at the last moment not to swallow, that Regine wanted this seed for her own purposes.
Slash 2: Luca and VanderLinden
His Mentor hadn’t warned him about Daeva.
She was hiding her horns behind a heavy Mask when he met her, but letting her tail trail out under the bottom of her skirt for anyone to see. Dangerous: not all humans were affected by the Blindness of the Gods, and not all Ellehemaei were kind to passing beautiful women, especially not to the sort with tails.
She seemed as out of place in the respectable restaurant as he was, dressed up nicely in a look somewhere between “rich” and “expensive,” but there was a spark in her eye that drew him in and so, with manners his mother would have been proud of, he bought her dinner.
She told him she was a widow - when they met later, under far different circumstances, she took great pains to point out that this was, in fact, true; that nothing she told him was, per se, a lie. That was of little consolation then, and of little consequence in the moment; he assumed “widow” was a euphemism. By the time dinner was done and he was paying for her hotel room, he was certain of it.
She was perfect. That was the first thing his Mentor hadn’t warned him of. Her body, lithe and agile and slender, round in all the right places, her smooth skin, her pink nipples and silken blonde hair; under the formal layers of clothing, which he opened and peeled off as if revealing a sacred object, her body was absolute perfection. Her lovemaking, the things she did and the little noises she made as she moved under him, drove him wild.
And she talked, afterwards, with a confidence and competence and a lack of silliness he had only found before in other Mara, as if she didn’t need him for protection but just enjoyed his company. That, even more than the amazing lovemaking, kept him there in her arms all night.
He left in the morning, understanding, even if he didn’t want to, that relationships which started with a financial transaction were not meant to last, and that he couldn’t afford more than another night with her without paupering himself.
She’d been perfect. The thought plagued him for another decade, and made time with human women seem cheap, and tawdry, and ultimately fruitless, until, mercifully, the memory of her in his arms faded a little.
By the time he saw her again, he had found a woman, a human woman, with the fire and the spark and the self-assurance he’d found so startling in Linden-Blossom, but more; his Janna had a fire and strength he’d never seen before in anyone.
He was pretty sure it was having Janna, knowing and loving her, that kept him from killing Linden-Blossom when he met him again, in the streets of Philadelphia twenty years later.
Slash 3: Conrad and Emrys: Go!
This is so very, very, non-canon; this is set early in an alternate-past 4th Year
Oralee was a beautiful girl, and the way her body moved could hypnotize a man, especially when the strap on her little bitty tank top went sliding down her shoulder. In his lucid moments, Conrad told himself that was how he’d ended up here; Oralee was luscious, and her friend Ivette, she of the perfect skin and the deep green eyes and those agile hips, was perfection in a cellophane dress.
There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for a taste of Oralee’s sun-kissed skin, or Ivette’s perky pink pierced nipples, which was fortunate, he mused, as he seemed to have gotten himself in a situation where he didn’t have much choice but to do whatever the two of them wanted. One at a time, at least, they were very, very pleasant company. Together, he’d found, they got a little scary, as they egged each other on to more extreme games. Two-on-one, they were very nearly terrifying, and absolutely hot.
Tonight, Oralee had told him, they were going to play with Ivette. The two of them had something special planned. Conrad found himself intrigued and a little concerned for his own well-being. He’d lost quite a lot of blood last weekend, enough that Dr. Caitrin had scolded him roundly while she patched him up…
…but Oralee had said she wouldn’t do something like that again. Of course, they got bored with their games quickly, and she hadn’t promised something worse wouldn’t happen, but a guy could hope.
She led him through the halls, and he tried to look calm and cool about the whole thing, not eager, not nervous, not even as he followed the sway of her ass in that little skirt and remembered the last time she’d let him touch her. After all, everyone wanted to look at her sublime curves, didn’t they? And only he got to, right now. Only he was willing to pay the price.
He wondered if that made him lucky or just very stupid.
She stopped in front of Ivette’s door, halting his wondering dead in its tracks, and turned to look him up and down. “Not a word,” she told him, her voice firm, “not a sound unless you’re given permission. Understand?”
He nodded, not really able to do much else, and, satisfied, she knocked.
“Come on in, darlings,” Ivette called, and they did. She’d rearranged the room again, shoving the bed against the wall and clearing the floor of everything except a new throw rug and a…
He was backing towards the door before he realized it, backpedaling desperately. Gods, fucking departed gods.
“Stay,” Oralee snapped. He knew, for a moment, just how far gone he was, that he stopped, head hanging, without even the urge to remind her that he wasn’t her pet. His only urge right now was to get out of this room.
Maybe it was a joke. They were known for their particularly sadistic jokes, after all. Let them see they’d struck home and maybe they’d be happy. He dropped to his knees, wanting to beg but constrained by her command, instead settling for kissing her sandaled, pedicured toes.
The guy kneeling on the rug sniggered at him. He shot a look his way, a glare, really, and then wished he hadn’t. He was already naked, trussed up tightly, and he still looked like an arrogant prig.
“Pretty, isn’t he?” Ivette purred, running her hand through the boy’s black hair. He twisted to glare at her, with a firm raspberry noise, and she backhanded him, all the while smiling at Conrad. “Beautiful, actually, no?”
He was, actually, if you liked that sort of thing. Conrad shook his head “no,” because, well, he liked girls, and if he survived this, he didn’t want the poisonous-looking boy to murder him in a dark hallway some night. He expected the hair tug, Oralee grabbing his ponytail to steer his head, so he didn’t react, except to move where she wanted him to.
“Take a closer look,” she murmured. “Remember, Ivette’s a succubus. She can read your desire – or, if necessary, create it.”
If he could have run, or whimpered, or shouted, he would have, but her commands had frozen him, so he took a closer look at the boy.
Emrys. He shared a couple classes with him, a sullen, angry kid that most of the teachers had already given up on; irritating, but with a mind behind the bitchiness that seemed sharp. Naked, presumably silenced by Ivette’s command, he was slender, smooth, pale, and with very little body hair, his expression sulky and yet still a little fierce. He wondered how many people called him pretty, and how many people survived doing so unscathed. He also wondered why Emrys was tied up while he was still unbound.
Oralee released his hair abruptly, and he struggled to not fall forward, catching himself with one hand. He looked up to see that she’d crossed the room to stand next to Emrys, and Ivette was closing on him.
He sat up straight, suddenly angry, as Oralee ran her hands through the other guy’s hair. No-one else got to be touched by her like that!
“Shh,” Ivette murmured in his ear, her hair trailing over his shoulders. “Take off your clothes, Conrad.”
He didn’t have to listen to her. Of course, if he didn’t, there’d be hell to pay, but that didn’t matter right now. He shook his head no, but she had knelt down straddling him, her lips on his, and she was pulling his shirt off.
She brushed her lips across his throat, just above his collar, and then below it, kisses each nipple with little butterfly-kisses, and worked her way down his chest and stomach until she was at the waistband to his jeans. “Pants,” she told him, and he struggled to pull them off over his growing erection.
“Good boy,” she murmured, taking him in her hand and stroking lightly. “Now…” Every word she said was like a caress brushing every sensitive area of his body, increasing his need and want. “I need your help with something.” She kissed the hollow of his throat again, her breasts against his chest.
Anything. He couldn’t say it, so he nodded his acquiescence. Somewhere inside him, a tiny voice of lucidity screamed, but it was such a small voice and she was right there in his lap, smelling so wonderful.
“I need to break Emrys. And Caitrin got so scoldy after last time.” Her hand was doing something divine to his balls, even as her nails raked down his back. Ow ow gods yes. “Would you help me?” She bit his earlobe delicately, and murmured, “I know you want to.”
Whatever you want me to do, just don’t stop touching me.
“Come here, Conrad,” Oralee called. He frowned for a moment, trying to figure out how to do that without removing Ivette from his lap.
She solved the problem for him by disentangling herself, letting him stand, her hands still trailing all over his body. “I promise,” she murmured, as she escorted him across the room, “you’ll enjoy it.”
Slash 4: Luke and Manira
If this story took place, it would do so around the end of Book Two, after the end of Hell Night.
Luke wasn’t expecting anyone to be knocking on his door. It was late, past midnight, and the chaos in the halls had finally died down. Luke had taken the early-morning shift, so Doug was out there now, putting out (hopefully metaphorical) fires. No-one should be knocking.
He answered the door anyway. On Hell Night, anything that could go wrong, would.
Braced for trouble, he was surprised to find, instead, a Fifth Cohort girl standing in his doorway, wearing something that probably counted as a dress but looked more like a tiny silk slip.
Manira. He knew her from class – competent, athletic, and dangerously acrobatic, she seemed like a good girl, the rural sort who were all adult-responsibility at eleven, serious and hard-working and grown-up by their late teens.
She looked grown-up, adult, and serious, all right, her burgundy hair spilling over her shoulders and back, one hip canted sideways – she was posing, the little minx!
“Manira,” he said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you, Sa’Luca Hunting Hawk.” The honorific at the beginning of his name had been archaic when he was born; from a teenager it was jarring. The curl of her lips told him that she knew it, too. “May I come in?”
Better inside the door than have her posing in the hallway. “Yes.” He stepped back to allow her into his apartment. “Please come in.”
As he was shutting the door, she stepped into his personal space, so that she was just a few inches away. In her heels, she was just about his height, her nose nearly brushing his. “I could feel your need all the way upstairs, Sa’Hawk. You can’t live all bottled up forever.”
“I don’t do kids,” he said, more roughly than he’d intended. She was unabashed; perversely, it seemed to make her happier.
“Can you keep a secret?” she murmured, “just between you and I? Promise?”
He took a breath to say no. Promises were unwise. Promises to half-naked students in his home were just fucking stupid.
Her scent was heady, earthy, with half-forgotten spices laced through it. Her eyes were deep, knowing, and lit with a spark he hadn’t seen in decades. “I promise I’ll keep your secret.”
“I’m not nearly as young as I look, not by… oooh… centuries. No question, love. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. But right now, you need me, yes?”
He looked down at her, fighting the growing desire rising in him. “I’m fine.”
“Mmm. You need to let go for a little while. Let someone else be in control. And when I leave… my promise to you.. we’ll never speak of it again. Just a little surrender?”
Her voice, like her scent, was intoxicating, rich, and knowing. “I don’t surrender, miss…”
“Just Manira, in the here and now. And you need to, once in a while. Lay down your burdens, Sa’Hawk.”
She was charming him. That, more than her words, convinced him she was no child. She wove an airtight spell, and he had no choice but to give in.
And that, he realized, was part of her intent. “For tonight,” he agreed, giving into her spell, “and only tonight. In the morning…”
“In the morning, it will be as if it never happened, and I’ll go back to my room unseen. But for now, you’re in my hands.”
“In your hands,” he agreed. The spell was almost completely wrapped around him now, and he could feel his concerns and objections floating away, as well as what remained of his volition. She was a beautiful woman, her smiles sharp and dangerous and her posture so completely sure of herself, her hair down to her narrow waist… he took two handfuls of it and brought it to his face, breathing in her unearthly scent.
“I wonder…” she murmured. “Sa’Hawk, do you have rope here? And I imagine you have a bed?”
He twisted his hands in her hair, pulling her close, lifting all that hair off of her neck. “Meentik unutu huamu… gamma… merintho,” he murmured, letting handfuls of soft cotton rope slide from his hands and fall around her in loose loops.
“So very convenient,” she purred. “And the bed?”
He knew where this was going, but… it was okay. She was a tiny little thing; even wrapped in spells and tied down, he could take her easily. And it might be nice to let it all go for a little while.
More than nice. He was getting more and more aroused, just thinking of it. He picked her up with a low growl, and carried her, ropes and all, into his bedroom.
His bed was giant, big enough to support his wings fully opened. He’d carved the posts himself, from four of the trees they’d felled to build the Village. He never really bothered with much in the way of covers, down here where the air was always warm, so there was nothing but a sheet for her to sweep dramatically off the bed. She did so anyway, once he’d set her down, and then removed his clothes, taking much more time with them, sliding his pants off so slowly that he thought he’d explode from the tension. He reached down to hurry the process, and she slapped his hands away. Chastised, he grinned at her and folded his hands behind his back.
She moved even slower, then, to punish him, her fingers barely brushing his skin. He wanted to push her to the bed, to rip her dress off – but that would end the game too soon, so he stood still, his hands clenched. Finally, he stood naked in front of her while she ran fingers over his scars.
“And now, Sa’Hawk.” Her nimble fingers tickled his hips. “Would you lay down for me?”
She wanted him helpless, at her mercy. He wanted to be inside of her, his hands in her hair, her smooth skin against his. He wanted to be on top – but he’d agreed to put himself in her hands tonight, so he laid down, carefully, his wings spread beneath him, watching her the whole time.
“You know what comes next,” she purred. He nodded, and licked his lips. He was nervous, as ridiculous as that was. She was a tiny little bit of a girl, no threat to him… but it had been a long time. He didn’t want to fuck this up.
She straddled his stomach, holding the rope loosely in one hand, and he put his hands over his head, knowing it was what she wanted. She leaned over him, her silk-covered nipples inches from his face, and pushed his arms further apart. Her knotwork was quick and efficient, and – he tested with a tug – very secure. It would take breaking the ropes or the bed to get himself undone.
She repeated her work with his ankles, and jumped lithely off the bed to admire her work. He pulled against the ropes again with a surge of panic – what if she walked out now? – but the ropes held, cutting into his wrists as he struggled. He surrendered to it, and fell back onto the bed.
She was going through his dresser, an invasion that normally would have made him angry. Right now, it just made him impatient. Her pert little ass wiggled as she dug through his drawers, and he wanted to grab it and…
… he fell back against the bed, his wrists burning from the ropes. She turned, smiling mischievously at him, dangling something from her hand. His bandanna? What?
Oh, fuck, she really did want him helpless. And she was crawling back up his body, the silk rubbing against his skin, holding the bandanna tight against his throat with both hands, forcing him flat to the bed, forcing him to gasp for air.
She twisted the bandanna tighter against his throat, and, as he gasped, kissed him, stealing what air he could take in with a fierce, passionate kiss. She writhed against his erection as she kissed him, and he bucked upwards, damn the ropeburn, pushing against the strangling, just to be closer to her.
Just as he thought he would pass out, she released her grip. He gasped, gulping air in ragged breaths, his vision gone to stars and white spots.
She forced the bandanna into his open mouth in the middle of a breath, and tied it while he tried to push it out with nothing but his tongue. “Relax,” she breathed, her breath warm against his ear, “you don’t need a voice right now.”
He could still do a Working like this… but it would be a lot harder. He settled down, chomping a little at the bandanna. She was all silk and smooth skin against him, even as one long-fingered hand wrapped around his throat. “You’re in my hands tonight.”
A sound between a moan and a gasp escaped his lips, garbled by the gag. Her fingers tightened around his windpipe, cutting off his air even as she took him.
She took her time, her body moving on top of his in a tantalizing dance. She took her pleasure of him, moaning her orgasms out over his prone body, bringing him closer and closer to the edge and never letting him reach it. She took his air, squeezing tight against his throat until he saw stars before letting him breath just a little bit, just enough.
He strained against the ropes until his hands and feet began to go numb. He strained against her hands, even when his vision began to blur. He fought against the gag, although it did him no good. He moaned and gasped and, finally, surrendered.
He flopped back against the bed, his whole body tense with need and slick with sweat. She, too, was wet, her hair and the little silky dress sticking to her every curve. “In your hands,” he told her. Although the words came out mushed and garbled by the gag, she seemed to know what he meant. Panting, she smiled down at him.
“You are,” she agreed, sounding pleased with him. “How does that feel?”
Like his body would explode with tension and need. Like his limbs ached from struggling. Like the battle was over and he didn’t need to fight anymore.
“Wonderful.” If only for a little while.
“Good.” She kissed him around the gag, her sharp little teeth worrying at his lip, and thrust her hips down with a renewed ferocity. “Come for me, love.”
Discuss
The stories on this page are not safe for work, parents, your grandmother, minors, miners, or literary critics. They are, perhaps more importantly, probably not canon, although every attempt has been made to stay true to the characters involved. What they are, or will be, is a series of short, fun vignettes written in response to the responses to the challenge I posted on the forum, asking readers to come up with a pairing that would break my brain. Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment. If you are too (and are of the legal age to view adult content in your jurisdiction), feel free to keep reading.
Slash 1: Ambrus and Anatoliy
The problem with pissing off his mistress, Ambrus mused, was that she had no feel for enjoyable, fun punishment. Oh, she understood the concept – there wasn’t much about human psychology she didn’t understand in concept – but her skewed implementation had put him in some pretty odd positions.
The worst of it was, he thought, as he studied the suitably gigantic erection of the trance-slumbered giant, even bigger up close than he’d thought it would be, and formulated a plan of attack, was that he wasn’t even sure what he’d done to deserve this. And that Anatoliy was so deeply tranced that he’d never remember this, except as a warm dream, presumably of someone he actually wanted.
Being a surrogate fuck wasn’t new to Ambrus, but he preferred having a chance to be acknowledged.
He worked his mouth around the head. Deep in the reverie Regine had crafted for him, Anatoliy moaned. One of those pie-sized hands rested lightly on the back of Ambrus’ neck, fingers splayed from the top of his skull down his back. It could have been oppressive – smaller hands of smaller men had been far rougher on him than this – but it was almost a caress. As Ambrus worked his mouth down the giant’s shaft, he spared a thought to wonder what he’d be like, truly conscious, as a lover.
But he had his instructions, and so he moved with the gentle pressure of that huge hand, wrapped both of his own hands – looking tiny and pale in comparison - around the base of Anatoliy’s penis and began working in earnest.
The moan took him by surprise. It sounded so coherent, so awake, that he glanced up the giant’s body to see if he was awake. But his eyes were still closed, even as the moans got louder and more intense. “I’m…” and that was a word, a genuine word, which was surprising considering both Regine’s skills and his own. “I’m gonna come. Oh god.”
A sweetheart, even tranced and half-stoned. Worth the painful stretching of his jaw. He took as much of him in as he could, glad for a lack of gag reflex.
He remembered at the last moment not to swallow, that Regine wanted this seed for her own purposes.
Slash 2: Luca and VanderLinden
His Mentor hadn’t warned him about Daeva.
She was hiding her horns behind a heavy Mask when he met her, but letting her tail trail out under the bottom of her skirt for anyone to see. Dangerous: not all humans were affected by the Blindness of the Gods, and not all Ellehemaei were kind to passing beautiful women, especially not to the sort with tails.
She seemed as out of place in the respectable restaurant as he was, dressed up nicely in a look somewhere between “rich” and “expensive,” but there was a spark in her eye that drew him in and so, with manners his mother would have been proud of, he bought her dinner.
She told him she was a widow - when they met later, under far different circumstances, she took great pains to point out that this was, in fact, true; that nothing she told him was, per se, a lie. That was of little consolation then, and of little consequence in the moment; he assumed “widow” was a euphemism. By the time dinner was done and he was paying for her hotel room, he was certain of it.
She was perfect. That was the first thing his Mentor hadn’t warned him of. Her body, lithe and agile and slender, round in all the right places, her smooth skin, her pink nipples and silken blonde hair; under the formal layers of clothing, which he opened and peeled off as if revealing a sacred object, her body was absolute perfection. Her lovemaking, the things she did and the little noises she made as she moved under him, drove him wild.
And she talked, afterwards, with a confidence and competence and a lack of silliness he had only found before in other Mara, as if she didn’t need him for protection but just enjoyed his company. That, even more than the amazing lovemaking, kept him there in her arms all night.
He left in the morning, understanding, even if he didn’t want to, that relationships which started with a financial transaction were not meant to last, and that he couldn’t afford more than another night with her without paupering himself.
She’d been perfect. The thought plagued him for another decade, and made time with human women seem cheap, and tawdry, and ultimately fruitless, until, mercifully, the memory of her in his arms faded a little.
By the time he saw her again, he had found a woman, a human woman, with the fire and the spark and the self-assurance he’d found so startling in Linden-Blossom, but more; his Janna had a fire and strength he’d never seen before in anyone.
He was pretty sure it was having Janna, knowing and loving her, that kept him from killing Linden-Blossom when he met him again, in the streets of Philadelphia twenty years later.
Slash 3: Conrad and Emrys: Go!
This is so very, very, non-canon; this is set early in an alternate-past 4th Year
Oralee was a beautiful girl, and the way her body moved could hypnotize a man, especially when the strap on her little bitty tank top went sliding down her shoulder. In his lucid moments, Conrad told himself that was how he’d ended up here; Oralee was luscious, and her friend Ivette, she of the perfect skin and the deep green eyes and those agile hips, was perfection in a cellophane dress.
There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for a taste of Oralee’s sun-kissed skin, or Ivette’s perky pink pierced nipples, which was fortunate, he mused, as he seemed to have gotten himself in a situation where he didn’t have much choice but to do whatever the two of them wanted. One at a time, at least, they were very, very pleasant company. Together, he’d found, they got a little scary, as they egged each other on to more extreme games. Two-on-one, they were very nearly terrifying, and absolutely hot.
Tonight, Oralee had told him, they were going to play with Ivette. The two of them had something special planned. Conrad found himself intrigued and a little concerned for his own well-being. He’d lost quite a lot of blood last weekend, enough that Dr. Caitrin had scolded him roundly while she patched him up…
…but Oralee had said she wouldn’t do something like that again. Of course, they got bored with their games quickly, and she hadn’t promised something worse wouldn’t happen, but a guy could hope.
She led him through the halls, and he tried to look calm and cool about the whole thing, not eager, not nervous, not even as he followed the sway of her ass in that little skirt and remembered the last time she’d let him touch her. After all, everyone wanted to look at her sublime curves, didn’t they? And only he got to, right now. Only he was willing to pay the price.
He wondered if that made him lucky or just very stupid.
She stopped in front of Ivette’s door, halting his wondering dead in its tracks, and turned to look him up and down. “Not a word,” she told him, her voice firm, “not a sound unless you’re given permission. Understand?”
He nodded, not really able to do much else, and, satisfied, she knocked.
“Come on in, darlings,” Ivette called, and they did. She’d rearranged the room again, shoving the bed against the wall and clearing the floor of everything except a new throw rug and a…
He was backing towards the door before he realized it, backpedaling desperately. Gods, fucking departed gods.
“Stay,” Oralee snapped. He knew, for a moment, just how far gone he was, that he stopped, head hanging, without even the urge to remind her that he wasn’t her pet. His only urge right now was to get out of this room.
Maybe it was a joke. They were known for their particularly sadistic jokes, after all. Let them see they’d struck home and maybe they’d be happy. He dropped to his knees, wanting to beg but constrained by her command, instead settling for kissing her sandaled, pedicured toes.
The guy kneeling on the rug sniggered at him. He shot a look his way, a glare, really, and then wished he hadn’t. He was already naked, trussed up tightly, and he still looked like an arrogant prig.
“Pretty, isn’t he?” Ivette purred, running her hand through the boy’s black hair. He twisted to glare at her, with a firm raspberry noise, and she backhanded him, all the while smiling at Conrad. “Beautiful, actually, no?”
He was, actually, if you liked that sort of thing. Conrad shook his head “no,” because, well, he liked girls, and if he survived this, he didn’t want the poisonous-looking boy to murder him in a dark hallway some night. He expected the hair tug, Oralee grabbing his ponytail to steer his head, so he didn’t react, except to move where she wanted him to.
“Take a closer look,” she murmured. “Remember, Ivette’s a succubus. She can read your desire – or, if necessary, create it.”
If he could have run, or whimpered, or shouted, he would have, but her commands had frozen him, so he took a closer look at the boy.
Emrys. He shared a couple classes with him, a sullen, angry kid that most of the teachers had already given up on; irritating, but with a mind behind the bitchiness that seemed sharp. Naked, presumably silenced by Ivette’s command, he was slender, smooth, pale, and with very little body hair, his expression sulky and yet still a little fierce. He wondered how many people called him pretty, and how many people survived doing so unscathed. He also wondered why Emrys was tied up while he was still unbound.
Oralee released his hair abruptly, and he struggled to not fall forward, catching himself with one hand. He looked up to see that she’d crossed the room to stand next to Emrys, and Ivette was closing on him.
He sat up straight, suddenly angry, as Oralee ran her hands through the other guy’s hair. No-one else got to be touched by her like that!
“Shh,” Ivette murmured in his ear, her hair trailing over his shoulders. “Take off your clothes, Conrad.”
He didn’t have to listen to her. Of course, if he didn’t, there’d be hell to pay, but that didn’t matter right now. He shook his head no, but she had knelt down straddling him, her lips on his, and she was pulling his shirt off.
She brushed her lips across his throat, just above his collar, and then below it, kisses each nipple with little butterfly-kisses, and worked her way down his chest and stomach until she was at the waistband to his jeans. “Pants,” she told him, and he struggled to pull them off over his growing erection.
“Good boy,” she murmured, taking him in her hand and stroking lightly. “Now…” Every word she said was like a caress brushing every sensitive area of his body, increasing his need and want. “I need your help with something.” She kissed the hollow of his throat again, her breasts against his chest.
Anything. He couldn’t say it, so he nodded his acquiescence. Somewhere inside him, a tiny voice of lucidity screamed, but it was such a small voice and she was right there in his lap, smelling so wonderful.
“I need to break Emrys. And Caitrin got so scoldy after last time.” Her hand was doing something divine to his balls, even as her nails raked down his back. Ow ow gods yes. “Would you help me?” She bit his earlobe delicately, and murmured, “I know you want to.”
Whatever you want me to do, just don’t stop touching me.
“Come here, Conrad,” Oralee called. He frowned for a moment, trying to figure out how to do that without removing Ivette from his lap.
She solved the problem for him by disentangling herself, letting him stand, her hands still trailing all over his body. “I promise,” she murmured, as she escorted him across the room, “you’ll enjoy it.”
Slash 4: Luke and Manira
If this story took place, it would do so around the end of Book Two, after the end of Hell Night.
Luke wasn’t expecting anyone to be knocking on his door. It was late, past midnight, and the chaos in the halls had finally died down. Luke had taken the early-morning shift, so Doug was out there now, putting out (hopefully metaphorical) fires. No-one should be knocking.
He answered the door anyway. On Hell Night, anything that could go wrong, would.
Braced for trouble, he was surprised to find, instead, a Fifth Cohort girl standing in his doorway, wearing something that probably counted as a dress but looked more like a tiny silk slip.
Manira. He knew her from class – competent, athletic, and dangerously acrobatic, she seemed like a good girl, the rural sort who were all adult-responsibility at eleven, serious and hard-working and grown-up by their late teens.
She looked grown-up, adult, and serious, all right, her burgundy hair spilling over her shoulders and back, one hip canted sideways – she was posing, the little minx!
“Manira,” he said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you, Sa’Luca Hunting Hawk.” The honorific at the beginning of his name had been archaic when he was born; from a teenager it was jarring. The curl of her lips told him that she knew it, too. “May I come in?”
Better inside the door than have her posing in the hallway. “Yes.” He stepped back to allow her into his apartment. “Please come in.”
As he was shutting the door, she stepped into his personal space, so that she was just a few inches away. In her heels, she was just about his height, her nose nearly brushing his. “I could feel your need all the way upstairs, Sa’Hawk. You can’t live all bottled up forever.”
“I don’t do kids,” he said, more roughly than he’d intended. She was unabashed; perversely, it seemed to make her happier.
“Can you keep a secret?” she murmured, “just between you and I? Promise?”
He took a breath to say no. Promises were unwise. Promises to half-naked students in his home were just fucking stupid.
Her scent was heady, earthy, with half-forgotten spices laced through it. Her eyes were deep, knowing, and lit with a spark he hadn’t seen in decades. “I promise I’ll keep your secret.”
“I’m not nearly as young as I look, not by… oooh… centuries. No question, love. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. But right now, you need me, yes?”
He looked down at her, fighting the growing desire rising in him. “I’m fine.”
“Mmm. You need to let go for a little while. Let someone else be in control. And when I leave… my promise to you.. we’ll never speak of it again. Just a little surrender?”
Her voice, like her scent, was intoxicating, rich, and knowing. “I don’t surrender, miss…”
“Just Manira, in the here and now. And you need to, once in a while. Lay down your burdens, Sa’Hawk.”
She was charming him. That, more than her words, convinced him she was no child. She wove an airtight spell, and he had no choice but to give in.
And that, he realized, was part of her intent. “For tonight,” he agreed, giving into her spell, “and only tonight. In the morning…”
“In the morning, it will be as if it never happened, and I’ll go back to my room unseen. But for now, you’re in my hands.”
“In your hands,” he agreed. The spell was almost completely wrapped around him now, and he could feel his concerns and objections floating away, as well as what remained of his volition. She was a beautiful woman, her smiles sharp and dangerous and her posture so completely sure of herself, her hair down to her narrow waist… he took two handfuls of it and brought it to his face, breathing in her unearthly scent.
“I wonder…” she murmured. “Sa’Hawk, do you have rope here? And I imagine you have a bed?”
He twisted his hands in her hair, pulling her close, lifting all that hair off of her neck. “Meentik unutu huamu… gamma… merintho,” he murmured, letting handfuls of soft cotton rope slide from his hands and fall around her in loose loops.
“So very convenient,” she purred. “And the bed?”
He knew where this was going, but… it was okay. She was a tiny little thing; even wrapped in spells and tied down, he could take her easily. And it might be nice to let it all go for a little while.
More than nice. He was getting more and more aroused, just thinking of it. He picked her up with a low growl, and carried her, ropes and all, into his bedroom.
His bed was giant, big enough to support his wings fully opened. He’d carved the posts himself, from four of the trees they’d felled to build the Village. He never really bothered with much in the way of covers, down here where the air was always warm, so there was nothing but a sheet for her to sweep dramatically off the bed. She did so anyway, once he’d set her down, and then removed his clothes, taking much more time with them, sliding his pants off so slowly that he thought he’d explode from the tension. He reached down to hurry the process, and she slapped his hands away. Chastised, he grinned at her and folded his hands behind his back.
She moved even slower, then, to punish him, her fingers barely brushing his skin. He wanted to push her to the bed, to rip her dress off – but that would end the game too soon, so he stood still, his hands clenched. Finally, he stood naked in front of her while she ran fingers over his scars.
“And now, Sa’Hawk.” Her nimble fingers tickled his hips. “Would you lay down for me?”
She wanted him helpless, at her mercy. He wanted to be inside of her, his hands in her hair, her smooth skin against his. He wanted to be on top – but he’d agreed to put himself in her hands tonight, so he laid down, carefully, his wings spread beneath him, watching her the whole time.
“You know what comes next,” she purred. He nodded, and licked his lips. He was nervous, as ridiculous as that was. She was a tiny little bit of a girl, no threat to him… but it had been a long time. He didn’t want to fuck this up.
She straddled his stomach, holding the rope loosely in one hand, and he put his hands over his head, knowing it was what she wanted. She leaned over him, her silk-covered nipples inches from his face, and pushed his arms further apart. Her knotwork was quick and efficient, and – he tested with a tug – very secure. It would take breaking the ropes or the bed to get himself undone.
She repeated her work with his ankles, and jumped lithely off the bed to admire her work. He pulled against the ropes again with a surge of panic – what if she walked out now? – but the ropes held, cutting into his wrists as he struggled. He surrendered to it, and fell back onto the bed.
She was going through his dresser, an invasion that normally would have made him angry. Right now, it just made him impatient. Her pert little ass wiggled as she dug through his drawers, and he wanted to grab it and…
… he fell back against the bed, his wrists burning from the ropes. She turned, smiling mischievously at him, dangling something from her hand. His bandanna? What?
Oh, fuck, she really did want him helpless. And she was crawling back up his body, the silk rubbing against his skin, holding the bandanna tight against his throat with both hands, forcing him flat to the bed, forcing him to gasp for air.
She twisted the bandanna tighter against his throat, and, as he gasped, kissed him, stealing what air he could take in with a fierce, passionate kiss. She writhed against his erection as she kissed him, and he bucked upwards, damn the ropeburn, pushing against the strangling, just to be closer to her.
Just as he thought he would pass out, she released her grip. He gasped, gulping air in ragged breaths, his vision gone to stars and white spots.
She forced the bandanna into his open mouth in the middle of a breath, and tied it while he tried to push it out with nothing but his tongue. “Relax,” she breathed, her breath warm against his ear, “you don’t need a voice right now.”
He could still do a Working like this… but it would be a lot harder. He settled down, chomping a little at the bandanna. She was all silk and smooth skin against him, even as one long-fingered hand wrapped around his throat. “You’re in my hands tonight.”
A sound between a moan and a gasp escaped his lips, garbled by the gag. Her fingers tightened around his windpipe, cutting off his air even as she took him.
She took her time, her body moving on top of his in a tantalizing dance. She took her pleasure of him, moaning her orgasms out over his prone body, bringing him closer and closer to the edge and never letting him reach it. She took his air, squeezing tight against his throat until he saw stars before letting him breath just a little bit, just enough.
He strained against the ropes until his hands and feet began to go numb. He strained against her hands, even when his vision began to blur. He fought against the gag, although it did him no good. He moaned and gasped and, finally, surrendered.
He flopped back against the bed, his whole body tense with need and slick with sweat. She, too, was wet, her hair and the little silky dress sticking to her every curve. “In your hands,” he told her. Although the words came out mushed and garbled by the gag, she seemed to know what he meant. Panting, she smiled down at him.
“You are,” she agreed, sounding pleased with him. “How does that feel?”
Like his body would explode with tension and need. Like his limbs ached from struggling. Like the battle was over and he didn’t need to fight anymore.
“Wonderful.” If only for a little while.
“Good.” She kissed him around the gag, her sharp little teeth worrying at his lip, and thrust her hips down with a renewed ferocity. “Come for me, love.”
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