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Slash 4: Luke and Manira

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August 13, 2016 by Lyn

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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