Fic: Before the Masks Are Dropped (Roshana/OFC, NC-17)
Title: Before the Masks Are Dropped
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roshana/female reveler
Summary: Roshana is never alone on the Longest Night.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Anonymity, bondage, spanking, public sex
Word Count: ~1980
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for the
kink_bingo square "anonymity". Also posted at the AO3.
The horologists have cried the hour; the Sun Prince has arrived in his glittering chariot and swept away the grey robes of the Winter Queen; joie is free-flowing, and in every corner lovers writhe and kiss and pant together. Roshana, clad in the deepest of green and shining with jewels, is dissatisfied. She casts her eyes among the revelers and sees nothing to her liking, not a usual occurrence for her. Mayhap I need a drink, she thinks to herself. Or mayhap I've had too many drinks already. She isn't one for drunken melancholy, but there is a first time for everything.
Movement catches her eye; slinking around drunken courtiers and elegant sculptures, a pretty young thing offers her a tray and a whisper. "Joy, my lady."
She is not inclined to accept, but it is ill luck to refuse the wish of joy at midwinter. A glass it is.
"Joy," she says, and drinks it down, closing her eyes at the indefinable heat of it. The noise of the masque presses in upon her; around her are voices, some easily identifiable, others indistinct or unfamiliar. Too few of the latter; Roshana hungers for fresh blood. Tilting her head to catch the sound of footsteps drawing nearer, she lets the glass fall from her hand and hears it shatter, ice on stone.
"Will you not open your eyes and look at the wares on display, cousin?"
A smile crooks her lips, and she opens her eyes to look at Mavros, grinning down at her from under a mask nearly the twin of her own, sapphires lining the edges of the black leather instead of emeralds. "I think not. I have sampled most of them already, after all."
"Ah, so you crave somewhat new? I think you may find what you're looking for over there." He nods to someone behind her, and she follows his gaze. The L'Iles sisters; a young man she thinks hails from Namarre but is far too pedestrian for her tastes; another cousin, this one clad in amethyst, and -
"Oh," she breathes, and Mavros laughs in her ear.
"I wouldn't blame yourself for missing her. She's been keeping to the shadows all night."
"A shy one, then?" Long limbs and hair the color of brandy; a slim neck and a pearl-embroidered dress the shade of fine fino, tinged with a blush.
"Mayhap. Certainly one new to court. A sweet peach ripe for the picking, isn't she?"
"Luckily I have a taste for such fruits," Roshana murmurs, and frees her hair from its chaos of pins to let it fall over her shoulders, a black spill of ink.
"Enjoy her; I know I would," Mavros says with a smirk, and turns away, hailed by yet another cousin dressed in garnet.
No matter; she has her eye on this pretty creature now, and it's a simple thing to slip away from her circle of friends and seek out her prey in the courtyard.
Poets have declaimed the beauty of the scions of Kushiel in pursuit of a lover. They say they move like hawks on the wing, swift and sure and deadly; they say they stalk their quarry like wolves encircling a deer. Roshana believes these to be overwrought similes incapable of catching the true splendor of the chase. At its core, it is simple: she is predator, they are prey. The hunt is a thrill, and the kill is a glory; she will seduce this girl, teach her to dance on the dagger's edge between pain and desire; when at last she slips into Roshana's arms, she will receive a thousand tiny cuts of pleasure, bleeding passion and torment until there is only one word left in her mind. Roshana will make her say it tonight.
The girl has been watching her out of the corner of her eye, a sure invitation if any were needed. Roshana catches her gaze and smiles, eyes burning a phosphorescent blue; where her cousin is charming, she is sultry, and sure enough she earns a blush with the slightest quirk of her lips. After a pause, the girl comes to her, lured in by her unspoken flirtations.
"You look beautiful," the girl says; an awkward opening. She's certainly inexperienced in the dance of courtship, yet bold enough to approach Roshana near to immediately. Roshana approves. "May I ask what you are tonight?"
"Naught but an emerald in a string of jewels, incomparable to you," Roshana purrs, and the girl colors yet again. Pale skin, easily flushed; welts from a whip would glow beautifully on her back and thighs. "And you?"
The girl steps closer, places her hand on Roshana's arm. Ah, the power of compliments. "A summer peach."
Roshana laughs, a tolling of sweet bells; Mavros was more accurate than he knew. "How lovely; it suits you."
"Thank you," the girl says with a shy smile, and tilts her head slightly. "May I ask what your plans are tonight?" Her eyes flick to Roshana's hair, her eyes. "Perhaps the Night Court? The Valerian adepts are there, I know."
"You recognize me, then?" Roshana asks, amused. She finds it highly unlikely the girl knows her name, unless she has been asking around.
"No, my lady - " Oh, my lady, Roshana likes that! " - but I recognize the features of House Shahrizai - your hair and your eyes are unmistakeable."
"My mask has failed at its task, then." She puts a hand on the girl's waist and pulls her against her body, the opening gambit of her private game. "But no, I will not go to the Night Court. What need have I of Servants of Naamah when you are here with me?"
The girl's lips part, and Roshana lips curve in satisfaction, a huntress' gleam in her eyes.
"Me?" the girl says, equally shocked and pleased. She glances around the courtyard. "Here?"
"Anything can happen on the Longest Night," Roshana says, and kisses her deeply.
. . .
Her peach is Siovalese, judging by her accent, and her signale is immortality. She hasn't removed her mask, still hasn't said her name, but Roshana doesn't care to know; the less information she has, the better for her game.
The fabric of the girl's dress tears easily under Roshana's teeth, but it's strong enough to bind her wrists and hold despite her struggles. And oh, she struggles, bent over the balustrade and arching her back as if to escape, craning her head to track Roshana's movements; her dark eyes are wide and wanting beneath her silk mask, and her breath comes in shudders. It's beautiful, truly beautiful, an exquisite creature like this moaning at her first taste of the sharper pleasures. Roshana slides her hand under the girl's pale dress, runs her nails up the creamy skin of her thigh, leaving red trails in their wake. Her girl shivers, and her next exhale is a groan of anticipation. Roshana laughs.
"Already so eager, and we've barely started," she croons, and hikes up the girl's skirt to bare her legs and softly rounded hips. Her flesh is too tempting to resist; Roshana slaps it, hard enough to leave a mark, and the girl cries out and and wiggles in ineffectual escape. Now she drags her nails across the reddened flash, sensing the girl's desire, and receives the same reaction as before, a shudder and a moan and a thrust of her hips. There is a time to be gentle, but this isn't it; Roshana's game is discerning unknown lusts, hidden within unknown people, and this pretty girl wants to be taken hard. Roshana kicks her legs apart and parts her thighs, finding her pearl and rubbing it, no teasing, no warning. It's too much too quickly for the girl, and she whines and jerks her hips. When Roshana thrusts her fingers inside her -
(the noise she makes is indescribable, a cry strangled in her throat, she's wet and wanton, craving, needing)
- and grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks it back, the girl tries to twist away, but she is panting, echoing Roshana's sighs of pleasure. Her hips move with the rhythm of Roshana's hand, three fingers deep inside her. Behind them a cluster of people passes, their laughing voices caught on the wind, and the girls gasps and shudders and presses her forehead against the balustrade. Roshana doesn't need to see her face to know the signs, and oh! her peach not only wants to be used but to be seen; Roshana would wager on it. She twists her fingers viciously and thrusts them hard, drawing another cry from the girl.
"Shall I invite my cousins to join us?" Roshana asks sweetly, rubbing the girl's back kindly, then her voice drops low and she purrs, "Would you like to be passed around the Shahrizai like a nameless whore?" She speeds her thrusts, curls her fingers, and the girl goes rigid, thighs trembling, a sob caught in her throat - midway through climax and in tears already, so perfect. Roshana spurs her along, slapping her thighs and buttocks, again and again, harder and harder until the girl is nearly screaming.
"I won't tell you my name," Roshana muses, tone conversational as if she's unaware of the woman bearing her bruises shuddering beneath her. "Nor my cousins'. I rather think that adds spice to the game. You'll never know who tore you to pieces with pleasure. Every time you see one of us, you'll wonder." She pinches the girl's sore red flesh, and presses a kiss against her spine that rapidly turns harsh, Roshana's teeth scraping along her skin. There is only one correct answer to her next question. "Do you want to tell me who you are?"
A pause the length of two quick heartbeats, and the girl whispers, "No."
So she will play the game, and has seen the face of her own keen desires; good, and better when she bites her lip and tries her best to look at Roshana, slipping in the process and blushing for it. The heat low in Roshana's stomach turns tight and pulsing, yet she must wait. In the pleasure-chamber the girl's mouth will be put to use, but Roshana has no taste for exhibitionism; she is not willing to cede her self-control to onlookers. This girl, though - she wants it badly, and Roshana is happy to accommodate her.
"What should I call you, my lady?" she asks, her voice taut with anticipation.
Roshana laughs, an impromptu chime, and says, "Address me with respect, my peach, and we will both be pleased."
Giving her one last slap, Roshana walks by her side, lightly stroking tickling fingers along her ribs to see her writhe, and unties the knots. The girl nearly collapses, but Roshana grabs her by her hair and upper arm; her mask sits askew, her dark eyes peering up at Roshana. They're wanton and glazed with pleasure, her cheeks wet with tears.
"My lady," she says reverently - Kushiel has truly sent Roshana a gift tonight - "my lady, yes."
Then Mavros' voice, amused and sensual. "What have we here, cousin? She's not so shy after all, I see."
"We're off to the pleasure-chamber," Roshana says pleasantly, giving the girl's hair a sharp tug, and she rises, standing with her head bowed. "Would you care to join us?"
An hint of menace threads his laughter, and the girl moans and raises her face to the two of them, her mouth forming a silent plea.
"Naturally I would," Mavros drawls. He strokes the girl's face along the edge of her mask, then suddenly drops his hand and pinches her nipples hard through her dress. The girl shuts her eyes, tears leaking out of the corners, and quivers with desire.
Roshana can't imagine how she'll be sobbing by morning, but she can't wait to find out.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roshana/female reveler
Summary: Roshana is never alone on the Longest Night.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Anonymity, bondage, spanking, public sex
Word Count: ~1980
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for the
kink_bingo square "anonymity". Also posted at the AO3.
The horologists have cried the hour; the Sun Prince has arrived in his glittering chariot and swept away the grey robes of the Winter Queen; joie is free-flowing, and in every corner lovers writhe and kiss and pant together. Roshana, clad in the deepest of green and shining with jewels, is dissatisfied. She casts her eyes among the revelers and sees nothing to her liking, not a usual occurrence for her. Mayhap I need a drink, she thinks to herself. Or mayhap I've had too many drinks already. She isn't one for drunken melancholy, but there is a first time for everything.
Movement catches her eye; slinking around drunken courtiers and elegant sculptures, a pretty young thing offers her a tray and a whisper. "Joy, my lady."
She is not inclined to accept, but it is ill luck to refuse the wish of joy at midwinter. A glass it is.
"Joy," she says, and drinks it down, closing her eyes at the indefinable heat of it. The noise of the masque presses in upon her; around her are voices, some easily identifiable, others indistinct or unfamiliar. Too few of the latter; Roshana hungers for fresh blood. Tilting her head to catch the sound of footsteps drawing nearer, she lets the glass fall from her hand and hears it shatter, ice on stone.
"Will you not open your eyes and look at the wares on display, cousin?"
A smile crooks her lips, and she opens her eyes to look at Mavros, grinning down at her from under a mask nearly the twin of her own, sapphires lining the edges of the black leather instead of emeralds. "I think not. I have sampled most of them already, after all."
"Ah, so you crave somewhat new? I think you may find what you're looking for over there." He nods to someone behind her, and she follows his gaze. The L'Iles sisters; a young man she thinks hails from Namarre but is far too pedestrian for her tastes; another cousin, this one clad in amethyst, and -
"Oh," she breathes, and Mavros laughs in her ear.
"I wouldn't blame yourself for missing her. She's been keeping to the shadows all night."
"A shy one, then?" Long limbs and hair the color of brandy; a slim neck and a pearl-embroidered dress the shade of fine fino, tinged with a blush.
"Mayhap. Certainly one new to court. A sweet peach ripe for the picking, isn't she?"
"Luckily I have a taste for such fruits," Roshana murmurs, and frees her hair from its chaos of pins to let it fall over her shoulders, a black spill of ink.
"Enjoy her; I know I would," Mavros says with a smirk, and turns away, hailed by yet another cousin dressed in garnet.
No matter; she has her eye on this pretty creature now, and it's a simple thing to slip away from her circle of friends and seek out her prey in the courtyard.
Poets have declaimed the beauty of the scions of Kushiel in pursuit of a lover. They say they move like hawks on the wing, swift and sure and deadly; they say they stalk their quarry like wolves encircling a deer. Roshana believes these to be overwrought similes incapable of catching the true splendor of the chase. At its core, it is simple: she is predator, they are prey. The hunt is a thrill, and the kill is a glory; she will seduce this girl, teach her to dance on the dagger's edge between pain and desire; when at last she slips into Roshana's arms, she will receive a thousand tiny cuts of pleasure, bleeding passion and torment until there is only one word left in her mind. Roshana will make her say it tonight.
The girl has been watching her out of the corner of her eye, a sure invitation if any were needed. Roshana catches her gaze and smiles, eyes burning a phosphorescent blue; where her cousin is charming, she is sultry, and sure enough she earns a blush with the slightest quirk of her lips. After a pause, the girl comes to her, lured in by her unspoken flirtations.
"You look beautiful," the girl says; an awkward opening. She's certainly inexperienced in the dance of courtship, yet bold enough to approach Roshana near to immediately. Roshana approves. "May I ask what you are tonight?"
"Naught but an emerald in a string of jewels, incomparable to you," Roshana purrs, and the girl colors yet again. Pale skin, easily flushed; welts from a whip would glow beautifully on her back and thighs. "And you?"
The girl steps closer, places her hand on Roshana's arm. Ah, the power of compliments. "A summer peach."
Roshana laughs, a tolling of sweet bells; Mavros was more accurate than he knew. "How lovely; it suits you."
"Thank you," the girl says with a shy smile, and tilts her head slightly. "May I ask what your plans are tonight?" Her eyes flick to Roshana's hair, her eyes. "Perhaps the Night Court? The Valerian adepts are there, I know."
"You recognize me, then?" Roshana asks, amused. She finds it highly unlikely the girl knows her name, unless she has been asking around.
"No, my lady - " Oh, my lady, Roshana likes that! " - but I recognize the features of House Shahrizai - your hair and your eyes are unmistakeable."
"My mask has failed at its task, then." She puts a hand on the girl's waist and pulls her against her body, the opening gambit of her private game. "But no, I will not go to the Night Court. What need have I of Servants of Naamah when you are here with me?"
The girl's lips part, and Roshana lips curve in satisfaction, a huntress' gleam in her eyes.
"Me?" the girl says, equally shocked and pleased. She glances around the courtyard. "Here?"
"Anything can happen on the Longest Night," Roshana says, and kisses her deeply.
. . .
Her peach is Siovalese, judging by her accent, and her signale is immortality. She hasn't removed her mask, still hasn't said her name, but Roshana doesn't care to know; the less information she has, the better for her game.
The fabric of the girl's dress tears easily under Roshana's teeth, but it's strong enough to bind her wrists and hold despite her struggles. And oh, she struggles, bent over the balustrade and arching her back as if to escape, craning her head to track Roshana's movements; her dark eyes are wide and wanting beneath her silk mask, and her breath comes in shudders. It's beautiful, truly beautiful, an exquisite creature like this moaning at her first taste of the sharper pleasures. Roshana slides her hand under the girl's pale dress, runs her nails up the creamy skin of her thigh, leaving red trails in their wake. Her girl shivers, and her next exhale is a groan of anticipation. Roshana laughs.
"Already so eager, and we've barely started," she croons, and hikes up the girl's skirt to bare her legs and softly rounded hips. Her flesh is too tempting to resist; Roshana slaps it, hard enough to leave a mark, and the girl cries out and and wiggles in ineffectual escape. Now she drags her nails across the reddened flash, sensing the girl's desire, and receives the same reaction as before, a shudder and a moan and a thrust of her hips. There is a time to be gentle, but this isn't it; Roshana's game is discerning unknown lusts, hidden within unknown people, and this pretty girl wants to be taken hard. Roshana kicks her legs apart and parts her thighs, finding her pearl and rubbing it, no teasing, no warning. It's too much too quickly for the girl, and she whines and jerks her hips. When Roshana thrusts her fingers inside her -
(the noise she makes is indescribable, a cry strangled in her throat, she's wet and wanton, craving, needing)
- and grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks it back, the girl tries to twist away, but she is panting, echoing Roshana's sighs of pleasure. Her hips move with the rhythm of Roshana's hand, three fingers deep inside her. Behind them a cluster of people passes, their laughing voices caught on the wind, and the girls gasps and shudders and presses her forehead against the balustrade. Roshana doesn't need to see her face to know the signs, and oh! her peach not only wants to be used but to be seen; Roshana would wager on it. She twists her fingers viciously and thrusts them hard, drawing another cry from the girl.
"Shall I invite my cousins to join us?" Roshana asks sweetly, rubbing the girl's back kindly, then her voice drops low and she purrs, "Would you like to be passed around the Shahrizai like a nameless whore?" She speeds her thrusts, curls her fingers, and the girl goes rigid, thighs trembling, a sob caught in her throat - midway through climax and in tears already, so perfect. Roshana spurs her along, slapping her thighs and buttocks, again and again, harder and harder until the girl is nearly screaming.
"I won't tell you my name," Roshana muses, tone conversational as if she's unaware of the woman bearing her bruises shuddering beneath her. "Nor my cousins'. I rather think that adds spice to the game. You'll never know who tore you to pieces with pleasure. Every time you see one of us, you'll wonder." She pinches the girl's sore red flesh, and presses a kiss against her spine that rapidly turns harsh, Roshana's teeth scraping along her skin. There is only one correct answer to her next question. "Do you want to tell me who you are?"
A pause the length of two quick heartbeats, and the girl whispers, "No."
So she will play the game, and has seen the face of her own keen desires; good, and better when she bites her lip and tries her best to look at Roshana, slipping in the process and blushing for it. The heat low in Roshana's stomach turns tight and pulsing, yet she must wait. In the pleasure-chamber the girl's mouth will be put to use, but Roshana has no taste for exhibitionism; she is not willing to cede her self-control to onlookers. This girl, though - she wants it badly, and Roshana is happy to accommodate her.
"What should I call you, my lady?" she asks, her voice taut with anticipation.
Roshana laughs, an impromptu chime, and says, "Address me with respect, my peach, and we will both be pleased."
Giving her one last slap, Roshana walks by her side, lightly stroking tickling fingers along her ribs to see her writhe, and unties the knots. The girl nearly collapses, but Roshana grabs her by her hair and upper arm; her mask sits askew, her dark eyes peering up at Roshana. They're wanton and glazed with pleasure, her cheeks wet with tears.
"My lady," she says reverently - Kushiel has truly sent Roshana a gift tonight - "my lady, yes."
Then Mavros' voice, amused and sensual. "What have we here, cousin? She's not so shy after all, I see."
"We're off to the pleasure-chamber," Roshana says pleasantly, giving the girl's hair a sharp tug, and she rises, standing with her head bowed. "Would you care to join us?"
An hint of menace threads his laughter, and the girl moans and raises her face to the two of them, her mouth forming a silent plea.
"Naturally I would," Mavros drawls. He strokes the girl's face along the edge of her mask, then suddenly drops his hand and pinches her nipples hard through her dress. The girl shuts her eyes, tears leaking out of the corners, and quivers with desire.
Roshana can't imagine how she'll be sobbing by morning, but she can't wait to find out.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.