Fic: To Put Your Hand in the Flame (Imriel/Mavros, NC-17)
Title: To Put Your Hand in the Flame
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mavros/Imriel
Summary: Mavros does a favor for Imriel, and finds it unexpectedly easy to slip into his role.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Roleplay, flogging, light bondage
Word Count: ~3950
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 "roleplay", and inspired by the quote that launched a thousand fics: "'Ooh, forceful.' His voice was muffled and his twilight-blue eyes gleamed above my smothering hand. 'Do you want me to play Valerian to your Mandrake, cousin?'"
To be honest, I had been expecting this for a long while before Imriel got up the nerve to ask me directly. I knew him well; better, I think, than anyone, save his foster-parents and Sidonie. So when he finally made the proposition, the look on his face caught somewhere between self-consciousness and resolve, I was prepared with an answer. But I couldn't resist ribbing him a little. It's what I do best, and Imriel could make an embarrassingly easy target at times.
"So now you truly do want me to play Valerian to your Mandrake," I said, regarding him from the settee upon which I had arranged myself, in a private corner of the Salon where no one could eavesdrop. He was sat in a chair opposite me, hands on his knees, the very picture of steely determination. "Why, cousin, I had no idea you desired me so."
"It's not that," he said, flushing faintly. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he amended, "Not just that. Do I really need to appeal to your vanity to get you to agree?"
"No," I said, gesturing for him to continue. "But I do enjoy it. Why me, when there are countless others dying to get a taste of the pleasure you could inflict upon them?"
My curiosity was not an act; I had my suspicions, but I could not honestly say I knew why he asked me before all others. Certainly we were close, and certainly I was a better choice than, say, Julien, but I would've thought he could have been well served in this by the delicate male adepts of Valerian House.
Imriel looked at me for a moment, and said simply, "I trust you."
I was touched. I knew it was difficult for him to desire a man without it being tainted by the horrors of his childhood, and to be the one to guide him into accepting this particular part of Naamah's gift was an honor.
(And of course, there was that niggling part of me that would have done anything, absolutely anything, for Imriel. Whether it be conspiring to give him a few minutes with his illicit lady love, offering him the solace and protection of family, or this: his hands on me, rough or gentle, kind or bruising; his lips on mine - his lips elsewhere, wandering, tasting; my submission. Imriel asked it of me; willingly I would give it, for love of him. Elua, but I can be sentimental at times!)
"Well," I said finally, and shrugged. "Why not? It could be fun."
Imriel's eyebrows shot to the ceiling.
"Fun," he said, slightly disbelieving. "That's not the word I expected you to use. You do realize what I'm asking, don't you? It's what I - " He fumbled over his words for a moment, then managed to spit it out, awkward as he had not been for a long time. "It's the only way I can do this."
"I know, Imri," I said, my voice softer than before. "Besides - " and here I brightened, shooting him the grin that melts barmaids' hearts and makes stable lads blush. Imriel just looked amused. "I think I can sacrifice my dignity just this once."
"If you won't enjoy it - "
"I'm a versatile man," I cut him off, and he eyed me thoughtfully.
"This versatile?" he asked curiously. I wasn't, not usually, but - this was Imriel. As I said, he was somewhat of a weak spot.
"Yes," I answered anyway, and smiled at him again, a somewhat different smile than the one before it. Seductive, yes, but darker, more sultry; it was Roshana's signature look, but I too could wield it like a lure to draw in my prey. Unfortunately, it had little to no effect on Imriel, which in retrospect was not too surprising, so I resorted to flippancy, going to far as to flutter my eyelashes. "Anyway, I'd do anything for family."
That startled a grin from him, and he laughed and sank into his chair.
"So kind of you," he said, still grinning. "House Shahrizai supports me yet again."
"Hopefully not all of us," I said. "I don't think we'd all fit in the pleasure-chamber, and that's just our cousins in the City. Tell me, will the Dauphine be joining us?"
"Not this time," he said, with a quirk of his eyebrow, and that was when the rest of our group poured into the Salon of Eisheth's Harp, congregating immediately in our corner, and left me pondering the distracting implications of his last sentence. Visions of Sidonie and Imriel bound for my pleasure danced through my mind - admittedly, were the fantasy to become reality, mine and Imriel's positions would be quite reversed; but a man can dream, and dream I did. Still, I was a spectacular actor; I would play the part Imriel had scripted for me, contrary to my nature as it was, and I had no doubt I would enjoy it well enough.
(Though I couldn't help but wonder - ah, well. A man can dream.)
. . .
I lounged against the wall of the pleasure-chamber in my father's townhouse and did my best to look comfortable. We had, for some unfathomable reason, chosen to wait to discuss limits and signales until we were actually in the pleasure-chamber; not usually a source of anxiety for me, but then again, I was never the one who needed the signale. The air was charged, as if waiting for somewhat to happen, dark rain-clouds crackling before the first strike of lightning. Imriel shut the door behind him, and turned to look at me.
Thirty seconds in, and already we were both uneasy. He cleared his throat, and spoke at the same time I did.
"Have you thought of a signale - "
"Mayhap we should stop staring at each other and - "
We both broke off, and I nodded at him. "You first."
"Have you thought of a signale yet?" he asked.
I toyed with the idea of giving him Sidonie's signale; I had picked it up through idle gossip, her chambermaid telling the guard she'd taken as her lover, who told the servant he'd taken as his lover, who then told me, but decided against it. There were times to mock him, and this was not one of them.
"Priestess," I told him, a spur-of-the-moment decision.
"Amarante?" he asked, a smirk curling his lips.
"I really miss that girl," I said mournfully.
He suppressed a snorting laugh, and repeated the word: "Priestess."
I watched his face, and had a sudden flashback to the first time I took him to Valerian House.
"Same for you, then?" I questioned. He blinked at me, and I clarified, "The signale. I thought mayhap you needed one."
He exhaled, and said, "Yes, that's a good idea." He shot me a somewhat strained smile. "At least we'll both remember it, eh?"
"Imriel." I moved from the wall and placed a hand on his shoulder. His were broader than mine, though I was slightly taller. "We don't need to go through with this."
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
"No," he said firmly. There was a touch of steel in his voice; I'd heard it before, but never quite like that. "I want to do this."
"Very well," I said, and dropped my hand. I considered trailing my fingers along his spine, but no; I sensed he required a few moments more to gather himself before I could seduce him properly - or rather, let myself be seduced, as a proper Valerian adept would not attempt to wrest control from their lover, and nor would I. Yet.
"Any other limits?" he asked, his back to me. He had opened the flagellary and was perusing its contents.
"No cutting, branding, kicking, punching, or beating beyond what you could do with a tawse or a paddle," I recited, all in one breath. "I don't mind marks, but I would rather they not stay overlong. Mustn't ruin my reputation."
"All right," he said, ignoring my jest. He ran his hand over the oiled leather of the coiled single-tail whips, brushing his fingers through the braids of the flogger. He curled his hand around the handle of that one; I narrowed my eyes and watched his every move. Making a soft noise in his throat, he tilted his head, considering, then turned around and looked at me.
Ah, Elua! Imriel burned as brightly as any of our kin, but there was somewhat different about him, a slant to his movements, a charge to his gaze that was both predatory and wary. His hair was loose, not in braids like mine, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap it around my fingers and pull as hard as I could. There is nothing like the pleasure of breaking a will as strong as your own, and he was beautiful, so beautiful.
But - I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have taken the steps forward to grab him, to force his mouth against mine like I so badly desired. The emotions he stirred in me were too strong and too ambiguous to put a name to. Not the need to obey, nor to serve; not the lust for pain, nor the ache to submit, not even respect for the boundaries he'd set, though of course I would honor them. To please, mayhap, for I did love him, my infuriating, melodramatic cousin, in a way very nearly separate from the idle, lustful fantasies he often took center stage in; I wanted him to be happy, as he so rarely was through the years I'd known him, as he rarely was without Sidonie by his side.
I would never have compared to her, of course, nor would I have wanted to; that level of devotion both intrigued and repulsed me. I didn't know if I could give that to anyone. But to see him as she did, yes; that I wanted.
When he took a step toward me, his eyes dark and gleaming, I stood paralyzed for a moment, then thought, A Valerian adept would kneel.
So that is what I did.
I dropped to my knees before Imriel, and peered at him from under my lashes. I saw him swallow, felt my heart beating in my chest. Then - Kushiel have mercy - Imriel took my head by the braids and tugged it back until the long line of my neck was bare to him.
"You're supposed to take your clothes off before this part, you know," he said mildly, but there was the whisper of a snarl in the back of his throat.
I shut my eyes briefly, cursing myself for having forgotten. How many times had I taken someone in here and asked them to do the exact same thing? Too many to count; and yet I had fumbled my lines while barely in the first act.
"My apologies, your highness," I said, more than a trifle snippy, and began to shrug out of my shirt. He exhaled in a hiss of annoyance, and I had the distinct feeling that I would be paying for my insolence in the near future.
I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that.
Clothes off and tossed in a corner, I knelt, feeling very naked under Imriel's eyes. Ridiculous; he had seen me nude a dozen times. Is this what the adepts feel? I wondered. Is this how they all feel, when they come to me?
Bare, is how I felt; bare and vulnerable and slightly intimidated. It heated my blood, quite unexpectedly, nearly as much as wielding the whip did; nearly as much as seeing a sweet, untested thing tremble and wrap his lips around my shaft did.
Imriel paced; though he had undoubtedly played out similar scenes with women, he was uncertain of what to do with me, of where to go next. I saw his eyes flick down to my half-hard phallus, and stayed very still. Unthreatening, that was the goal.
"Mavros," he said after a few minutes. My eyes flicked up to his face; I had been rather focused on his legs and buttocks. They were very fine.
"Yes?" I said politely.
"Tell me," he said, still pacing, but this time in a circle around me, like I was a prize stallion at a Tsingani horse fair. "What do you want me to do to you?"
"That's a very broad question," I said, and he stopped and slapped me. It was not a hard blow, but entirely unexpected; and for him, too. His eyes went wide and he stepped back immediately, but his breath came hard and his limbs were tense with the effort of controlling his desire. I knew that feeling well.
I shook my head to rid myself of the sting from the slap, braids falling around my face, and glanced up at him. What do you want him to do to you, Mavros? I asked myself. The answers swirling in my head were still far too vague, so I grasped at a memory - Arsène, a lovely boy from Camlach who took a secret delight in being dominated - and haltingly took inspiration from his panted words.
"I want you to fuck me," I said. Fantastically specific, well done. That plea should have waited until I was too desperate to keep it in any longer. But it worked; Imriel twitched slightly, and I wondered suddenly if he, too, had thought about this, about the two of us alone in a pleasure-chamber. I thought about what I would have wanted to do to him, if he were on his knees before me.
"I want you to fuck me," I repeated. "I want you to kiss me. I want you to do absolutely anything you like to me. Tie me up, flog me, hurt me, make me kiss your boots - well, you'll have to force me to do that one, but I think mayhap you could - Imri, anything."
Not exactly poetic, true, but the words were nearly verbatim from my fantasies, though in those he spoke them, not I. And yet, they were true. I grasped desperately for the part of me that stood apart from the Valerian adept I was mimicking, and it slipped through my fingers.
Imriel stood motionless for a handful of seconds so long they seemed endless, and then he said, in a voice tight and controlled, "Stand up."
I did. I wasn't trembling, either with fear or desire, but I felt unsteady on my feet nonetheless. Imriel took my face in his hands and kissed me.
Blessed Elua, but it was sweet. His tongue darting in between my lips, my teeth nipping at his. He was the one with the flogger and I the one in the nude, but I would not submit. I pulled him close to me, one hand on his waist, the other cradling his neck; my height gave me an advantage here, however slight, and I did not hesitate to bend him back and kiss him like our bodies were a battleground. And mayhap they were, for he slammed me against the wall, his hand wrapped around my throat, and my advantage was gone. Instead, I gasped for breath and drowned in his kiss.
And then he was gone, and I clutched the wall to keep my balance. He was standing in front of me, a mere two or three steps away, and staring at me like somewhat new and unusual had unveiled itself within me.
"Have I sprouted a second head?" I inquired, my voice slightly shakier than I had anticipated.
Imriel snorted, and said, "I think I would have noticed that earlier." He contemplated me, an odd look in his eyes. "You truly enjoy this, don't you?"
"Versatile," I said, a one-word explanation. Then, more seriously, "Yes, I do. More so than I expected."
He studied me for a moment, then glanced down and grinned. "A lot more than you expected, apparently."
I was hard and throbbing, almost painfully so.
"Well," I said, "I blame you entirely."
His gaze went downward again, and his smile turned absolutely wicked. I loved it.
"Come here," he said with a jerk of his head, and crossed the room to the wooden wheel on the far wall, menacing and manacled. I went.
It was on that wheel that I allowed myself to fully submerge in the role I had created. I had expected Imriel to be gentle, somehow, but he was not. He was merciless. It had been years since I had had my taste of the lash, as all Shahrizai do to fully understand what it is to submit, and each swing of the leather flogger bit into my skin as cruelly as flechettes. I counted the blows, like I often told adepts to do, but the blaze of pain only grew hotter and I lost track, becoming instead desperately aware of every sensation: the sweat gathered in the hair at my temples, damp on my chest and back. The smooth wood of the wheel beneath me, the tantalizing tremor that ran through me every time my phallus rubbed against it. Imriel's voice, alternately soothing and snarling, speaking to me as I had spoken to many a virginal adept, serving as both a guide and a focus. And the pain, of course. Fire on my back, a sharp ache in my wrists and ankles as I struggled against the steel bonds. I was whimpering, desperately, arching my back to escape, failing to do so; I thought I was crying, mayhap, and the undercurrent of shame there, the anger that I had fallen to pieces under the pain, only added to the shivering fury of my pleasure.
It was glorious.
When he stopped, I sagged in the manacles, and thought dazedly, I deliver pain like balm, and so do I receive it. For there was somewhat cleansing in it, a purging of thought and distraction and petty worries, and though the journey was different, I recognized the place where my mind had settled. Whether behind the whips and tawses or under them, the result is the same: purity. Transcendence. A gift from Kushiel.
I had this revelation later, saving my thoughts for a more coherent hour; at the time, there was nothing but Imriel and I. He had dropped the flogger, and in two quick strides was pressed against my back. I moaned at his touch. The bulge of his arousal pressed against my back; I could feel the laces of his breeches against my spine, and he ground against me as he dragged his nails down the welts covering my skin.
I made a choked noise that might have been a shout, writhed in my bonds, and smacked my head hard against the wall. Stars didn't dance before my eyes, but the room itself seemed to dance a swinging gavotte.
"Mavros!" Imriel said, alarmed now that the blow was unintentional. "Are you all right?"
I chuckled, and laid my head against the cool wood, blinking the tears from my eyes. My, he sounded concerned.
"You've been beating me for the better part of an hour and you're worried about a little concussion?"
There was a brief pause, and then we both began to laugh. The welts and bruises decorating my skin were flaring brighter, veering close to the edge between the sharpest pleasure and simple pain. I needed - oh, I needed.
"Imri," I said, my tone caught somewhere between a warning and a plea. I was still achingly aroused, and had no patience for delays. Today I wanted to spend my seed over Imriel's hand; we would save the games for next time - if there was a next time. (Oh, I hoped there was.)
His deft fingers caressed my back, gentle where they had been harsh, and wrapped around to my chest, drifting lower. The bloody tease, I thought with violent feeling.
He touched my phallus. I could feel, intimately, each little scar on his hands, the callouses that come only from years of training with sword and daggers. Then his mouth on my shoulder, and he said into my ear, "Say please."
"Please, you bastard," I spat, and he wrapped his hands around me and stroked to the rhythm of his hips grinding against me. I came too quickly; I wanted to luxuriate in the sensation, in the press of him against my back and his voice panting in my ear, but I was drawn taut as a freshly-strung lyre and so painfully close there was no resisting it. I couldn't even speak when I climaxed; I shut my eyes so tightly the darkness glimmered, my mouth open, my hips jerking; my body shuddered, and I did what I had wanted to do, spilling myself in his palm. Scarcely a minute later, he followed me, groaning and spending himself on my back.
He let me down from the wheel then; I nearly collapsed, my legs trembling from the exertion, but he braced me until I found my footing. Outside the pleasure-chamber, a dutiful servant waited with water and wine, as one always did in my household; Imriel opened the door and took the tray while I found a chair and fell into it. It was set directly across from the mirror, and I twisted around to examine the damage.
The flogger had been tough leather, my time on the wheel long, and my flesh was not used to such treatment; I was bleeding here and there where the braids had cut deeply. The criss-crossed welts sketched an attractive, harsh pattern on my skin. I'll be wincing every time I move for at least a week, I thought with mild annoyance - but it was very mild.
Somewhere in between the cessation of the flogging and my climax, I had faded from inexperienced Valerian adept back to myself, Mavros Shahrizai, scion of Kushiel. My back still stung nicely, but the sense of urgency, the need to please, was gone. And Imriel was smiling, relaxed, leaning against the pommel horse as he offered me water.
"My thanks," I said, gulping it down; submission was thirsty work. Lacking a table, I set the glass on the ground, then leaned back, steepled my fingers, and gave Imriel a mock-critical look.
"You did better than I expected," I informed him. "A little lacking in variety, but truly a work of passion - "
"Shut up," he said, and he was laughing again. I couldn't help but compare this Imriel to the one who had fainted in Valerian House those years ago, and was vaguely proud that I had helped him on the path to embracing his true nature.
"Was I everything you had wished for?" I asked teasingly. To my surprise, Imriel looked pensive for a moment, eyes downcast, then met my gaze.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you were."
I had no idea what to say, so I let his words melt into the air. Drowsiness was overtaking me, oddly enough; I had seen many need food and rest after an assignation, but I hadn't thought myself to be one of them. I hadn't thought myself to ever be in this position at all, for that matter.
"Mavros," Imriel said eventually.
"Hm?"
"Thank you for laughing - for all of it."
I turned my head and looked at him, my beautiful, irritating, hopelessly romantic cousin, whom I loved with the quiet intensity reserved for the closest and most trusted of friends and lovers. Anything, I had said, and I still meant it.
"Anything for family," I said lightly, and Imriel smiled at me.
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Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mavros/Imriel
Summary: Mavros does a favor for Imriel, and finds it unexpectedly easy to slip into his role.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Roleplay, flogging, light bondage
Word Count: ~3950
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 "roleplay", and inspired by the quote that launched a thousand fics: "'Ooh, forceful.' His voice was muffled and his twilight-blue eyes gleamed above my smothering hand. 'Do you want me to play Valerian to your Mandrake, cousin?'"
To be honest, I had been expecting this for a long while before Imriel got up the nerve to ask me directly. I knew him well; better, I think, than anyone, save his foster-parents and Sidonie. So when he finally made the proposition, the look on his face caught somewhere between self-consciousness and resolve, I was prepared with an answer. But I couldn't resist ribbing him a little. It's what I do best, and Imriel could make an embarrassingly easy target at times.
"So now you truly do want me to play Valerian to your Mandrake," I said, regarding him from the settee upon which I had arranged myself, in a private corner of the Salon where no one could eavesdrop. He was sat in a chair opposite me, hands on his knees, the very picture of steely determination. "Why, cousin, I had no idea you desired me so."
"It's not that," he said, flushing faintly. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he amended, "Not just that. Do I really need to appeal to your vanity to get you to agree?"
"No," I said, gesturing for him to continue. "But I do enjoy it. Why me, when there are countless others dying to get a taste of the pleasure you could inflict upon them?"
My curiosity was not an act; I had my suspicions, but I could not honestly say I knew why he asked me before all others. Certainly we were close, and certainly I was a better choice than, say, Julien, but I would've thought he could have been well served in this by the delicate male adepts of Valerian House.
Imriel looked at me for a moment, and said simply, "I trust you."
I was touched. I knew it was difficult for him to desire a man without it being tainted by the horrors of his childhood, and to be the one to guide him into accepting this particular part of Naamah's gift was an honor.
(And of course, there was that niggling part of me that would have done anything, absolutely anything, for Imriel. Whether it be conspiring to give him a few minutes with his illicit lady love, offering him the solace and protection of family, or this: his hands on me, rough or gentle, kind or bruising; his lips on mine - his lips elsewhere, wandering, tasting; my submission. Imriel asked it of me; willingly I would give it, for love of him. Elua, but I can be sentimental at times!)
"Well," I said finally, and shrugged. "Why not? It could be fun."
Imriel's eyebrows shot to the ceiling.
"Fun," he said, slightly disbelieving. "That's not the word I expected you to use. You do realize what I'm asking, don't you? It's what I - " He fumbled over his words for a moment, then managed to spit it out, awkward as he had not been for a long time. "It's the only way I can do this."
"I know, Imri," I said, my voice softer than before. "Besides - " and here I brightened, shooting him the grin that melts barmaids' hearts and makes stable lads blush. Imriel just looked amused. "I think I can sacrifice my dignity just this once."
"If you won't enjoy it - "
"I'm a versatile man," I cut him off, and he eyed me thoughtfully.
"This versatile?" he asked curiously. I wasn't, not usually, but - this was Imriel. As I said, he was somewhat of a weak spot.
"Yes," I answered anyway, and smiled at him again, a somewhat different smile than the one before it. Seductive, yes, but darker, more sultry; it was Roshana's signature look, but I too could wield it like a lure to draw in my prey. Unfortunately, it had little to no effect on Imriel, which in retrospect was not too surprising, so I resorted to flippancy, going to far as to flutter my eyelashes. "Anyway, I'd do anything for family."
That startled a grin from him, and he laughed and sank into his chair.
"So kind of you," he said, still grinning. "House Shahrizai supports me yet again."
"Hopefully not all of us," I said. "I don't think we'd all fit in the pleasure-chamber, and that's just our cousins in the City. Tell me, will the Dauphine be joining us?"
"Not this time," he said, with a quirk of his eyebrow, and that was when the rest of our group poured into the Salon of Eisheth's Harp, congregating immediately in our corner, and left me pondering the distracting implications of his last sentence. Visions of Sidonie and Imriel bound for my pleasure danced through my mind - admittedly, were the fantasy to become reality, mine and Imriel's positions would be quite reversed; but a man can dream, and dream I did. Still, I was a spectacular actor; I would play the part Imriel had scripted for me, contrary to my nature as it was, and I had no doubt I would enjoy it well enough.
(Though I couldn't help but wonder - ah, well. A man can dream.)
. . .
I lounged against the wall of the pleasure-chamber in my father's townhouse and did my best to look comfortable. We had, for some unfathomable reason, chosen to wait to discuss limits and signales until we were actually in the pleasure-chamber; not usually a source of anxiety for me, but then again, I was never the one who needed the signale. The air was charged, as if waiting for somewhat to happen, dark rain-clouds crackling before the first strike of lightning. Imriel shut the door behind him, and turned to look at me.
Thirty seconds in, and already we were both uneasy. He cleared his throat, and spoke at the same time I did.
"Have you thought of a signale - "
"Mayhap we should stop staring at each other and - "
We both broke off, and I nodded at him. "You first."
"Have you thought of a signale yet?" he asked.
I toyed with the idea of giving him Sidonie's signale; I had picked it up through idle gossip, her chambermaid telling the guard she'd taken as her lover, who told the servant he'd taken as his lover, who then told me, but decided against it. There were times to mock him, and this was not one of them.
"Priestess," I told him, a spur-of-the-moment decision.
"Amarante?" he asked, a smirk curling his lips.
"I really miss that girl," I said mournfully.
He suppressed a snorting laugh, and repeated the word: "Priestess."
I watched his face, and had a sudden flashback to the first time I took him to Valerian House.
"Same for you, then?" I questioned. He blinked at me, and I clarified, "The signale. I thought mayhap you needed one."
He exhaled, and said, "Yes, that's a good idea." He shot me a somewhat strained smile. "At least we'll both remember it, eh?"
"Imriel." I moved from the wall and placed a hand on his shoulder. His were broader than mine, though I was slightly taller. "We don't need to go through with this."
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
"No," he said firmly. There was a touch of steel in his voice; I'd heard it before, but never quite like that. "I want to do this."
"Very well," I said, and dropped my hand. I considered trailing my fingers along his spine, but no; I sensed he required a few moments more to gather himself before I could seduce him properly - or rather, let myself be seduced, as a proper Valerian adept would not attempt to wrest control from their lover, and nor would I. Yet.
"Any other limits?" he asked, his back to me. He had opened the flagellary and was perusing its contents.
"No cutting, branding, kicking, punching, or beating beyond what you could do with a tawse or a paddle," I recited, all in one breath. "I don't mind marks, but I would rather they not stay overlong. Mustn't ruin my reputation."
"All right," he said, ignoring my jest. He ran his hand over the oiled leather of the coiled single-tail whips, brushing his fingers through the braids of the flogger. He curled his hand around the handle of that one; I narrowed my eyes and watched his every move. Making a soft noise in his throat, he tilted his head, considering, then turned around and looked at me.
Ah, Elua! Imriel burned as brightly as any of our kin, but there was somewhat different about him, a slant to his movements, a charge to his gaze that was both predatory and wary. His hair was loose, not in braids like mine, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap it around my fingers and pull as hard as I could. There is nothing like the pleasure of breaking a will as strong as your own, and he was beautiful, so beautiful.
But - I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have taken the steps forward to grab him, to force his mouth against mine like I so badly desired. The emotions he stirred in me were too strong and too ambiguous to put a name to. Not the need to obey, nor to serve; not the lust for pain, nor the ache to submit, not even respect for the boundaries he'd set, though of course I would honor them. To please, mayhap, for I did love him, my infuriating, melodramatic cousin, in a way very nearly separate from the idle, lustful fantasies he often took center stage in; I wanted him to be happy, as he so rarely was through the years I'd known him, as he rarely was without Sidonie by his side.
I would never have compared to her, of course, nor would I have wanted to; that level of devotion both intrigued and repulsed me. I didn't know if I could give that to anyone. But to see him as she did, yes; that I wanted.
When he took a step toward me, his eyes dark and gleaming, I stood paralyzed for a moment, then thought, A Valerian adept would kneel.
So that is what I did.
I dropped to my knees before Imriel, and peered at him from under my lashes. I saw him swallow, felt my heart beating in my chest. Then - Kushiel have mercy - Imriel took my head by the braids and tugged it back until the long line of my neck was bare to him.
"You're supposed to take your clothes off before this part, you know," he said mildly, but there was the whisper of a snarl in the back of his throat.
I shut my eyes briefly, cursing myself for having forgotten. How many times had I taken someone in here and asked them to do the exact same thing? Too many to count; and yet I had fumbled my lines while barely in the first act.
"My apologies, your highness," I said, more than a trifle snippy, and began to shrug out of my shirt. He exhaled in a hiss of annoyance, and I had the distinct feeling that I would be paying for my insolence in the near future.
I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that.
Clothes off and tossed in a corner, I knelt, feeling very naked under Imriel's eyes. Ridiculous; he had seen me nude a dozen times. Is this what the adepts feel? I wondered. Is this how they all feel, when they come to me?
Bare, is how I felt; bare and vulnerable and slightly intimidated. It heated my blood, quite unexpectedly, nearly as much as wielding the whip did; nearly as much as seeing a sweet, untested thing tremble and wrap his lips around my shaft did.
Imriel paced; though he had undoubtedly played out similar scenes with women, he was uncertain of what to do with me, of where to go next. I saw his eyes flick down to my half-hard phallus, and stayed very still. Unthreatening, that was the goal.
"Mavros," he said after a few minutes. My eyes flicked up to his face; I had been rather focused on his legs and buttocks. They were very fine.
"Yes?" I said politely.
"Tell me," he said, still pacing, but this time in a circle around me, like I was a prize stallion at a Tsingani horse fair. "What do you want me to do to you?"
"That's a very broad question," I said, and he stopped and slapped me. It was not a hard blow, but entirely unexpected; and for him, too. His eyes went wide and he stepped back immediately, but his breath came hard and his limbs were tense with the effort of controlling his desire. I knew that feeling well.
I shook my head to rid myself of the sting from the slap, braids falling around my face, and glanced up at him. What do you want him to do to you, Mavros? I asked myself. The answers swirling in my head were still far too vague, so I grasped at a memory - Arsène, a lovely boy from Camlach who took a secret delight in being dominated - and haltingly took inspiration from his panted words.
"I want you to fuck me," I said. Fantastically specific, well done. That plea should have waited until I was too desperate to keep it in any longer. But it worked; Imriel twitched slightly, and I wondered suddenly if he, too, had thought about this, about the two of us alone in a pleasure-chamber. I thought about what I would have wanted to do to him, if he were on his knees before me.
"I want you to fuck me," I repeated. "I want you to kiss me. I want you to do absolutely anything you like to me. Tie me up, flog me, hurt me, make me kiss your boots - well, you'll have to force me to do that one, but I think mayhap you could - Imri, anything."
Not exactly poetic, true, but the words were nearly verbatim from my fantasies, though in those he spoke them, not I. And yet, they were true. I grasped desperately for the part of me that stood apart from the Valerian adept I was mimicking, and it slipped through my fingers.
Imriel stood motionless for a handful of seconds so long they seemed endless, and then he said, in a voice tight and controlled, "Stand up."
I did. I wasn't trembling, either with fear or desire, but I felt unsteady on my feet nonetheless. Imriel took my face in his hands and kissed me.
Blessed Elua, but it was sweet. His tongue darting in between my lips, my teeth nipping at his. He was the one with the flogger and I the one in the nude, but I would not submit. I pulled him close to me, one hand on his waist, the other cradling his neck; my height gave me an advantage here, however slight, and I did not hesitate to bend him back and kiss him like our bodies were a battleground. And mayhap they were, for he slammed me against the wall, his hand wrapped around my throat, and my advantage was gone. Instead, I gasped for breath and drowned in his kiss.
And then he was gone, and I clutched the wall to keep my balance. He was standing in front of me, a mere two or three steps away, and staring at me like somewhat new and unusual had unveiled itself within me.
"Have I sprouted a second head?" I inquired, my voice slightly shakier than I had anticipated.
Imriel snorted, and said, "I think I would have noticed that earlier." He contemplated me, an odd look in his eyes. "You truly enjoy this, don't you?"
"Versatile," I said, a one-word explanation. Then, more seriously, "Yes, I do. More so than I expected."
He studied me for a moment, then glanced down and grinned. "A lot more than you expected, apparently."
I was hard and throbbing, almost painfully so.
"Well," I said, "I blame you entirely."
His gaze went downward again, and his smile turned absolutely wicked. I loved it.
"Come here," he said with a jerk of his head, and crossed the room to the wooden wheel on the far wall, menacing and manacled. I went.
It was on that wheel that I allowed myself to fully submerge in the role I had created. I had expected Imriel to be gentle, somehow, but he was not. He was merciless. It had been years since I had had my taste of the lash, as all Shahrizai do to fully understand what it is to submit, and each swing of the leather flogger bit into my skin as cruelly as flechettes. I counted the blows, like I often told adepts to do, but the blaze of pain only grew hotter and I lost track, becoming instead desperately aware of every sensation: the sweat gathered in the hair at my temples, damp on my chest and back. The smooth wood of the wheel beneath me, the tantalizing tremor that ran through me every time my phallus rubbed against it. Imriel's voice, alternately soothing and snarling, speaking to me as I had spoken to many a virginal adept, serving as both a guide and a focus. And the pain, of course. Fire on my back, a sharp ache in my wrists and ankles as I struggled against the steel bonds. I was whimpering, desperately, arching my back to escape, failing to do so; I thought I was crying, mayhap, and the undercurrent of shame there, the anger that I had fallen to pieces under the pain, only added to the shivering fury of my pleasure.
It was glorious.
When he stopped, I sagged in the manacles, and thought dazedly, I deliver pain like balm, and so do I receive it. For there was somewhat cleansing in it, a purging of thought and distraction and petty worries, and though the journey was different, I recognized the place where my mind had settled. Whether behind the whips and tawses or under them, the result is the same: purity. Transcendence. A gift from Kushiel.
I had this revelation later, saving my thoughts for a more coherent hour; at the time, there was nothing but Imriel and I. He had dropped the flogger, and in two quick strides was pressed against my back. I moaned at his touch. The bulge of his arousal pressed against my back; I could feel the laces of his breeches against my spine, and he ground against me as he dragged his nails down the welts covering my skin.
I made a choked noise that might have been a shout, writhed in my bonds, and smacked my head hard against the wall. Stars didn't dance before my eyes, but the room itself seemed to dance a swinging gavotte.
"Mavros!" Imriel said, alarmed now that the blow was unintentional. "Are you all right?"
I chuckled, and laid my head against the cool wood, blinking the tears from my eyes. My, he sounded concerned.
"You've been beating me for the better part of an hour and you're worried about a little concussion?"
There was a brief pause, and then we both began to laugh. The welts and bruises decorating my skin were flaring brighter, veering close to the edge between the sharpest pleasure and simple pain. I needed - oh, I needed.
"Imri," I said, my tone caught somewhere between a warning and a plea. I was still achingly aroused, and had no patience for delays. Today I wanted to spend my seed over Imriel's hand; we would save the games for next time - if there was a next time. (Oh, I hoped there was.)
His deft fingers caressed my back, gentle where they had been harsh, and wrapped around to my chest, drifting lower. The bloody tease, I thought with violent feeling.
He touched my phallus. I could feel, intimately, each little scar on his hands, the callouses that come only from years of training with sword and daggers. Then his mouth on my shoulder, and he said into my ear, "Say please."
"Please, you bastard," I spat, and he wrapped his hands around me and stroked to the rhythm of his hips grinding against me. I came too quickly; I wanted to luxuriate in the sensation, in the press of him against my back and his voice panting in my ear, but I was drawn taut as a freshly-strung lyre and so painfully close there was no resisting it. I couldn't even speak when I climaxed; I shut my eyes so tightly the darkness glimmered, my mouth open, my hips jerking; my body shuddered, and I did what I had wanted to do, spilling myself in his palm. Scarcely a minute later, he followed me, groaning and spending himself on my back.
He let me down from the wheel then; I nearly collapsed, my legs trembling from the exertion, but he braced me until I found my footing. Outside the pleasure-chamber, a dutiful servant waited with water and wine, as one always did in my household; Imriel opened the door and took the tray while I found a chair and fell into it. It was set directly across from the mirror, and I twisted around to examine the damage.
The flogger had been tough leather, my time on the wheel long, and my flesh was not used to such treatment; I was bleeding here and there where the braids had cut deeply. The criss-crossed welts sketched an attractive, harsh pattern on my skin. I'll be wincing every time I move for at least a week, I thought with mild annoyance - but it was very mild.
Somewhere in between the cessation of the flogging and my climax, I had faded from inexperienced Valerian adept back to myself, Mavros Shahrizai, scion of Kushiel. My back still stung nicely, but the sense of urgency, the need to please, was gone. And Imriel was smiling, relaxed, leaning against the pommel horse as he offered me water.
"My thanks," I said, gulping it down; submission was thirsty work. Lacking a table, I set the glass on the ground, then leaned back, steepled my fingers, and gave Imriel a mock-critical look.
"You did better than I expected," I informed him. "A little lacking in variety, but truly a work of passion - "
"Shut up," he said, and he was laughing again. I couldn't help but compare this Imriel to the one who had fainted in Valerian House those years ago, and was vaguely proud that I had helped him on the path to embracing his true nature.
"Was I everything you had wished for?" I asked teasingly. To my surprise, Imriel looked pensive for a moment, eyes downcast, then met my gaze.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you were."
I had no idea what to say, so I let his words melt into the air. Drowsiness was overtaking me, oddly enough; I had seen many need food and rest after an assignation, but I hadn't thought myself to be one of them. I hadn't thought myself to ever be in this position at all, for that matter.
"Mavros," Imriel said eventually.
"Hm?"
"Thank you for laughing - for all of it."
I turned my head and looked at him, my beautiful, irritating, hopelessly romantic cousin, whom I loved with the quiet intensity reserved for the closest and most trusted of friends and lovers. Anything, I had said, and I still meant it.
"Anything for family," I said lightly, and Imriel smiled at me.
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