Chapter Seven
Apparently, serial novels were a popular pastime in Waterdeep. Ashenivir, exploring the market whilst Rizeth was off running more mysterious errands, had found a whole stall of them and, for a few coppers each, bought entirely too many. He’d made the mistake of starting Hard in Hightown on the way back to the apartment and the next thing he knew he’d devoured six of them, the last one ended on a cliffhanger, and it was dark outside.
“You can’t leave it like that!” He turned the book over, as if he’d find the rest of the story hidden in the back cover.
“What are you reading?”
Ashenivir nearly threw the book across the room. He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t heard Rizeth come in.
“A serial—Tethras ended it in an irresponsibly irritating place, and…” he glanced at the dark window, “…and it’s too late now to go back to the market to find the next part. What are those?”
On the table, Rizeth had laid out two packages. One Ashenivir had seen before—it was the one that had vanished into the bag of holding the previous day—but the other was new. Rizeth carefully folded back the paper, revealing a glint of metal—another toy, maybe? Hopefully better made than the gag had been.
“Come here,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir left his book on the couch, piled with the other five, and went curiously over. He caught a brief glimpse of cloth, silver-grey and midnight blue, before he was ordered to strip.
He was out of his clothes in a heartbeat, grateful for the heating runes Rizeth had, as promised, put up that morning that allowed him to do so without a second thought for the freezing weather outside. Excitement buzzed in his chest. It had to be a new toy, and his Master must be finished with his errands for the day, and though it was dark, it wasn’t all that late, there was time yet before dinner. Ashenivir started to kneel, but Rizeth caught his arm.
“If you do not like this,” he said, more seriously than the situation seemed to call for, “you do not have to wear it.”
Ashenivir held still as Rizeth fastened a collection of leather straps, metal rings, and delicate chains about his body. The leather was new but soft, and fit perfectly over his shoulders and around his ribs and waist. The chains fell in cold, draped runs across his stomach and back, and—to his growing delight—four of them attached from the upper part of the harness to his collar.
“Where did you find something like this?” He held out his arms so Rizeth could fasten a set of straps around his biceps, more chains connecting them over his shoulders like pauldrons.
“Neverwinter.”
“You’ve had it since then? Why didn’t you—?”
“It was missing a few parts.”
Rizeth lifted the cloth Ashenivir had seen. It was a robe, or half of one; silver-grey sleeves and a gauzy cloak that attached to the back of the harness in some manner he didn’t quite understand. Bands of leather, treated somehow to make them glitter like frost, were fastened at his wrists to hold the sleeves in place—they left the tops of his arms bare, and his skin prickled where Rizeth’s fingers skimmed over it. The midnight blue turned out to be a set of slim breeches, threaded with silver up the sides, over which fitted a long skirt of sheer, smoky material, scattered with tiny white beads like stars.
There was no mirror, but with the way Rizeth looked at him, Ashenivir didn’t need one. He swept an arm out experimentally, enjoying the flow of the material, the cool shift of chains over his skin. Rizeth folded his arms, watching him silently, one finger rapidly tapping his bicep.
“It’s wonderful,” Ashenivir said, his smile as much for how Rizeth relaxed as his appreciation of the clothes. “I’ve never worn anything like it before.”
“It would surprise me if you had. Turn.”
Ashenivir obeyed. He’d been right, this was a toy—no, better, this made him a toy, something beautiful for his Master to—
The skirt swirled around his legs, a light brush of fabric, delicate in a way robes never were. It weighed less than nothing, yet suddenly it felt as if he had adamantine attached to his hips. He stumbled, and Rizeth caught him before he could fall against the table.
“I…I need to take that part off.” His heart thudded too hard, too fast. He had to clench his hands to painful fists to keep from running them over his waist, his chest, to check, make sure nothing had…that nothing was…
Rizeth unfastened the skirt without a word, then made to start removing the rest. Ashenivir stopped him.
“No, I like it. I wasn’t lying, I just don’t want to trip.”
He waited for the back of his neck to prickle with magic, but Rizeth only looked at him, searching his face. Ashenivir wanted him to ask, then. To force the issue, give him an excuse to get it over with.
“If you are certain,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir nodded. “Very well. Come along, then—we are going to visit some friends of mine.”
Friends?
“Dressed like this?”
“Put your cloak on first,” Rizeth said, a brief twitch of amusement crooking his mouth. “I’ll not have you freezing to death.”
Curiosity burned away the churn of anxiety as they headed out into the night. Just what did his Master have planned for him now?
The villa on Feather Street was unremarkable compared to its peers; two storeys of demure grey stone, surrounded by a plain white wall devoid of the decorations that marked most of the other Sea Ward residences. The gardens that flanked the paved path leading to the entrance were well-tended, but even it being winter couldn’t account for the lack of any interesting features whatsoever.
Ashenivir followed Rizeth up the pale stone steps and kept his questions to himself. His Master would only tell him to wait and see.
“Good evening, sirs—might I take your names?” A dark-haired half-elf with greying temples approached them, a short scroll in her hands. Both she and the humans who silently took their cloaks wore plain black doublets bearing no symbols or colours or markings of any kind to give away what they might be, other than servants of the house.
“Rizeth Velkon’yss,” Rizeth said. “And guest.”
“Ah, Master Velkon’yss!” The half-elf made a mark on her scroll, smiling widely. “Lord Stillgleam said you’d be joining us tonight. It’s good to have you back.”
“Wonderful to know you recall names, if not faces, Ms Thorne.”
She laughed. “It’s been a few decades. You’ll forgive me if I’ve had other faces to recall in the interim.”
Rizeth knew her, that much was clear, and she him. Was this one of the friends he’d referenced? Ashenivir hugged his arms to his chest—he felt much more exposed here in this warmly lit entrance hall than he had back at the apartment. Ms Thorne motioned to a dark wooden arch across from the front doors.
“The gathering is already well underway,” she said. “Lord Stillgleam is somewhere within—I’m certain he’ll find you in short order. Enjoy your evening.”
Rizeth touched his shoulder, and together they made their way down the corridor. The interior was far more lavish than the outside had suggested—gilded sconces lit the hall, which stretched off either side as well as ahead, its dark-panelled walls hung with paintings in heavy chiaroscuro. It took Ashenivir a second to register what they depicted, and he tried not to double-take too obviously.
Twists of rope and coils of chain. Wrists held up and together, bound in painted light. The suggestion of a back, marked with shadowed bruises. A leather collar on a black pillow.
“Master,” Ashenivir asked, as they approached the double doors at the end of the corridor, “what is this place?”
Rizeth paused with a hand on the door, and said simply, “Lord Stillgleam’s House.”
A large ballroom opened up before them. Black marble gleamed beneath golden chandeliers, a magnificent staircase sweeping up either side of the room to a wide balcony above. Guests filled the room; drinking, talking, laughing, plucking glasses from the silver trays of servants dressed as Ms Thorne and the attendants had been. They clustered at long tables of fine food, applauded the expert strings of the quartet playing beneath the balcony—all the things one might expect guests to do at a party.
At least half of them wore collars. Some like his, some heavier, chains with padlocks holding them shut; others like the one in the painting, leather of all kinds, embossed and studded and fitted with rings. Many were dressed—or undressed—as he was, in leather and metal and silk and velvet, in so many unfamiliar combinations and configurations he could scarcely take it all in.
A half-elven woman knelt at the feet of a willowy tiefling in a translucent white gown. A halfling in a shiny leather dress so tight she hardly had a waist left had her orcish companion on all fours, serving as her chair whilst she sipped dark wine and chatted with a cluster of friends. Four dwarves in head-to-toe leather stood gathered by a pillar beneath the balcony—a curvaceous human woman strolled past with rope imprints on her bare arms, and they cheered at her, then louder at the elven woman who followed her.
“My warmest welcomes, Master Velkon’yss,” said a smooth voice. “My apologies for not catching you when you dropped by earlier—you know how much planning these things take.”
Ashenivir tore his eyes from the impossible scene before him. An impeccably tailored elf had joined them, his smile bright against his bronze skin. He stood an inch or so shorter than Rizeth, his features finely carved, his posture an elegant blend of elven poise and noble training.
“Lord Stillgleam.” Rizeth inclined his head. “It is good to see you again.”
“And you, my friend, and you.”
Lord Stillgleam turned his piercing green eyes on Ashenivir, who felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to drop to his knees.
“This must be that guest you had listed.” He took Ashenivir’s hand and kissed it. “If Master Velkon’yss begins to bore you, do come and find me. I like to ensure all my guests are properly entertained, especially on their first night.”
Beside him, Rizeth’s shoulders stiffened. Ashenivir lifted his chin.
“I’ve found Master Velkon’yss to be many things, but boring has never been one of them.”
Lord Stillgleam laughed, and tucked a curl of golden hair back into place behind his ear. “Then you know him almost as well as I do. Now, you’ll forgive me if I steal your Master away a moment—it’s been entirely too long since we last spoke.”
He took Rizeth’s arm, clearly having no intention of letting him refuse whatever catching up he wanted to do. Rizeth gave Ashenivir a reassuring nod.
“I will not be long.”
And so he was left alone on the ballroom floor. He felt, dimly, a surge of insecurity and fear building like a crescendo, but for the moment it was all suppressed by the fact that Lord Stillgleam had called Rizeth his Master. He knew. He held a party like this and he knew, without asking, exactly what they were.
Ashenivir twisted his fingers into his collar and wondered if he could get him to say it again.
“So that’s your new pet.” Kelran pressed a drink into Rizeth’s hand as they threaded their way through the crowd. “He’s pretty. Are you going to tell me his name, or are you going to make me guess?”
“Ashenivir,” Rizeth said.
“I take it his being here means you won’t be needing me to find someone for you to play with?”
“No.”
“Shame. There’s a few attending tonight you’d enjoy.” Kelran paused to greet someone, easily charming in a way Rizeth had always envied. “He looks very extravagant, by the way. Playing dress-up?”
“I did not want him to feel out of place.”
And he’d wanted to show him off, much as he tried to pretend that wasn’t what he was doing. Ashenivir was his, and he was beautiful, and the House was the one place Rizeth could lay claim to him without causing difficulties for either of them.
Kelran led him up onto the balcony, leaning on the balustrade to gaze out over his domain. The string quartet below shifted into something deeper, the cello soaring in dulcet tones—not enough for dancing, that was rarely the case here, but the kind of music that sent a shiver down the spine. The kind of music that inspired desire.
“It’s been a long time,” Kelran said. “And he’s collared.”
“Observant as always.”
“Charming as always,” Kelran countered. “Is it a toy for tonight, or something a little more permanent?”
He’d forgotten how much of an interrogator Kelran could be. How observant he was, especially when it came to him. Given their history, Rizeth didn’t exactly blame him, but it did not make the trait any less irritating.
“A permanent toy,” he said at last. He scanned the ballroom and saw Ashenivir working his way through the party. Too far away to see his face properly, to tell if he was enjoying himself or not; high enough to see the heads that turned in his direction as he passed, note the whispers that followed him like a ripple. Rizeth’s grip on his glass tightened.
“Relax,” Kelran said. “Your permanent toy will keep any wandering hands to themselves. Besides, none of my guests would ever make moves on little lost submissives without permission.”
“They had better not.”
Kelran chuckled. “Such a protective Master you are.” He nudged Rizeth’s shoulder with his own. “It really is good to see you. After the second decade, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back. You could at least have sent a note to let me know you were still alive.”
“Mythen Thaelas is not that dangerous.”
“No, but the Underdark is. You’re my friend, you miserable bastard, and you know how I worry, especially after—”
“You need not concern yourself with my welfare.”
Kelran rolled his eyes. “Oh, drag your boy to a playroom and sand your edges off.”
“Not tonight.” He’d lost sight of Ashenivir—somewhere below the balcony, probably. He didn’t like how much his chest tightened at that, how he had to clamp down the instinct to connect to the mark, see where he was.
“You’re staying in the city, then?”
“Until midsummer, at least.”
“Quite the little holiday for you. And for him, I imagine.”
“This is his first time on the surface.”
“Is that so?” Kelran sounded entirely too thoughtful, and Rizeth didn’t care for it. “Well, I hope to see more of you, then. Some wonderful new cafés have opened since last you were here—there’s one over in the Sea Ward with connections to Maztica, and the coffee is beyond belief.”
“In price, or taste?”
“Both.” Kelran clapped him on the back with a grin. “Go find your boy before you burst a blood vessel. I have guests to charm.”
He left Rizeth on the balcony with his wine and his thoughts, and Rizeth made himself stay there. He’d brought Ashenivir here to meet others, to give him the chance to learn from more than just him and a handful of books—he wouldn’t experience anything properly if Rizeth spent the entire evening looming over his shoulder.
A handful of other guests approached him, venturing enquiries about availability that ranged from shyly subtle to brazenly obnoxious. Rizeth rebuffed them all with cordiality built from long years of navigating such advances, until eventually he descended back into the ballroom proper to get a bit of peace and quiet. Ashenivir was indeed beneath the balcony, over by one of the long tables of food. There was a tiefling talking to him, and a short human woman.
Rizeth swapped his empty wineglass for a full one from a passing tray. He had no need to worry about women—Ashenivir wasn’t interested.
What, you’re not going to let him talk to any other men? Selfish and paranoid, Rizeth, what an attractive combination.
He took a deep swallow of wine and pushed the insidious little voice away. Kelran was right, no-one would touch him. Not if they wanted to remain a member in good standing of Lord Stillgleam’s House, anyway.
The leather-clad dwarves by one of the pillars caught his eye. To his surprise, he found he recognised one—Emmyr Lightfist, a leatherworker and enchanter he’d made much use of on previous visits. Skilled, with decades of experience. A perfect teacher.
Rizeth started towards them. If Kelran couldn’t get his act together to send someone to help Alys, he’d just take care of it himself. Otherwise she’d end up with someone far worse than him with complaints about inadequate construction. Kilroy’s daughter deserved better than that.
He managed to stay involved in the conversation for a decent while, until he realised that a shirtless human boy and an older human man had joined Ashenivir and the women by the table, and had been there for who knew how long, and then all the insidious little voices in the world couldn’t keep him from excusing himself to get to him.
It felt as though every eye in the ballroom was on him. Ashenivir tried not to cross his arms, to look as out of place as he felt—he looked good, he knew he did, but this was more skin than he’d ever contemplated having on display in such a public place, and apart from Rizeth he saw no other drow. He didn’t dare make eye-contact with anyone. What if they wanted to talk to him? His Common was alright now, but he knew nerves would have him tripping over his own tongue, and he had no idea of the social rules for this kind of gathering.
He barely knew what this kind of gathering even was. None of Keszriin’s parties had prepared him for this.
He drifted, making an effort not to gawk, and wished Rizeth would come back. Surely Lord Stillgleam couldn’t have that much to talk to him about? But time dragged on without any sign of him, so at last Ashenivir gave up and made for the only island of familiarity he could find. He was deep in pretended perusal of the food table when a chirpy voice made him jump.
“Hey, hi, you’re new!”
A tiny, strawberry blonde half-elf beamed up at him. She plucked a shrimp from one of the trays and popped it into her mouth.
“I’m not,” she said, hiding her chewing behind a delicate hand but talking anyway. “New, that is—I love your harness, it’s so cute! Are you enjoying the party? Kelran’s so good about them in winter, he never skimps on the heating spells, so I get to dress like this even when it’s snowing! Do you like it?”
She spun in place, flaring out her astonishingly short, ruffled skirt and pushing up her already prominent breasts to show them off to best effect above the rose-patterned bodice that hugged her plump form. She had extraordinarily pale skin, made more so by the deep burgundy of her dress.
“I…you look very nice,” Ashenivir said. She clapped her hands, delighted.
“You really think so? I love your accent, it’s so adorable. I’ve never heard it before—is it because you’re from the Underdark?”
“Down, girl, you’re terrifying the poor boy.” Another woman, a tall, athletic tiefling all in black, took Mara firmly by the shoulders and moved her aside. She held out a bejewelled, crimson hand to Ashenivir. “Verin, and the intolerable chatterbox is Mara.”
“Ashenivir,” he managed, trying to be mindful of her claws as they shook.
“He likes my dress!” Mara pushed back in front of Verin, who sighed, took a handful of her hair, and pulled.
“Behave, princess, ’less you want more handprints on that ass.”
Ashenivir choked on the shrimp he’d foolishly dared to eat. Verin grinned, showing sharp teeth behind her dark lipstick.
“He’s new, Miss Vee,” said Mara, apparently unbothered by the hair-pulling.
“I can see that. Who’d you come with, and do they play well with others?”
Still no sign of either Rizeth or Lord Stillgleam. Where in the world were they? “Master Velkon’yss brought me,” he said. “I…we…I only…I’m only with him.”
“Shame.” Verin released Mara, and the shorter woman immediately clung to her arm, pressing up against her side. The feral grin didn’t fade. “I love new blood.”
“Do you know Master Velkon’yss?” Rizeth had said he had friends here, and Ms Thorne and Lord Stillgleam surely couldn’t be the only ones. Verin shrugged.
“Never heard of him. But I only float through here every few months, so I don’t know everyone.”
“I know Kelran was excited he was coming,” Mara piped up. “I heard him talking about it with Cain earlier. Oh, there’s River, we can ask him! River!”
She waved, flinging her arm back and force with such enthusiasm she almost clocked both Ashenivir and Verin in the face. Verin caught her wrist and she squealed, but it was too late—she’d attracted the attention she wanted. A young human joined them a moment later, fair skinned, with dark hair. He was shirtless, as Ashenivir was, though he wore no harness, just a black collar set with small rings, and his feet were as bare as his chest.
“Mara, Verin—nice to see you behaving like adults, as usual.” He took Ashenivir in with a sweeping gaze that was at once lazy and scouring. Ashenivir ate another shrimp and tried to be less conspicuous.
“River! This is Ashenivir, he’s with Master Velkon’yss and Kelran was talking about him with Cain earlier, and he sounded really excited, so I thought maybe Cain already knew him, ’cause he knows so many people, and—”
Did she ever breathe? As Mara chattered on, working her way around to, presumably, actually asking a question, Ashenivir found his gaze drawn to River’s chest. Not from any attraction, though the human was certainly handsome, but by the scars—two slightly jagged lines, running beneath his pectorals. He only realised he was staring when River crossed his arms.
“You have a problem with them?”
“I…no, why would I?”
“Some people are rude like that,” River said. “Not here, usually.”
He’d mis-stepped. He didn’t know how, but he had.
“I’m sorry if I upset you. Like Mara says, I haven’t been here before. I haven’t been to the surface before, actually.”
River relaxed, frown fading to a vaguely amused smile, and Ashenivir’s stomach fluttered. He really was quite an attractive human.
“River,” Mara whined. “You’re ignoring my questions! Do you know Master Velkon’yss?”
“No—and stop calling Lord Stillgleam and my Sir by their names, you know better than that. And don’t go bothering my Sir about Master Velkon’yss either—if he’s Ashenivir’s Master, he’ll come and get him at some point and you can bother him directly.” Mara pouted, and River squished her cheeks with both hands. “Don’t make that face, princess, it’s too cute.”
“But I want to know!” she mumbled out between squashed lips. River smacked a kiss to her forehead.
“Verin, she’s way too whiny.”
“Tell me about it,” Verin grumbled. She was leaning on the table by a plate of tiny tomatoes, tossing them into her mouth one at a time. “You have no idea how much energy it takes to keep her in check. Hey, new boy—think fast.”
She tossed a tomato at Ashenivir, who fumbled to catch it. He chewed slowly, trying to parse these strangers. They seemed entirely comfortable around him, despite hardly knowing more than his name, and their openness with topics he’d never dared to speak of with anyone but Rizeth was as intimidating as it was intriguing.
The crowd nearby parted, and for a moment his heart leapt, but it wasn’t his Master. The human making a beeline for their little group was broad-shouldered and tall, with silver cuffs on his thick wrists. He carried a leash in one hand, and when he reached them, he clipped it onto River’s collar without preamble.
“With me, puppy. The playroom you like is free now.”
River lowered his head, his voice softening in a way Ashenivir realised he recognised from himself. “Yes, Sir.”
The human—Cain, presumably, if there’d been any truth to Mara’s high-speed ramblings—spared the rest of them the briefest glance, then tugged the leash and drew River away. Heat flickered in Ashenivir’s stomach. He thought of Rizeth coming to find him here, taking him away in such a manner in front of everyone, and wished his breeches weren’t quite so tight.
“Miss Vee, take me to a playroom.” Mara was whining again, pouting up at Verin and tugging at her skirt. Verin, now working on a tray of sliced meats, batted her away.
“No, you had your go-round with me already. I’m tired. Be patient or find another Mistress to bother.”
“Playroom?” Ashenivir asked. Verin gave another toothsome grin.
“You really haven’t been to a party before, have you?”
“Not like this.”
“Oh, you have to come again!” Mara said. “You have to tell me about the Underdark, and your Master, and your trip, and what you like best about Waterdeep, but if you don’t know yet it’s totally okay, I know all the best places for literally everything, and—”
Verin put a hand over her mouth. This did not deter her, and she kept talking, muffled and incoherent. Verin held her in place, foraging for fruit on the table with her free hand, until Mara suddenly made a startled squeak and wriggled against her.
“What now, princess? I’m eating.”
“Enjoying yourself, Ra’soltha?”
Ashenivir turned to Rizeth, dizzy with delight at hearing him use that title in front of someone.
“Yes, Master,” he said, in a completely normal tone of voice. A faint smile curved the corner of Rizeth’s mouth.
“Good. Come along.”
Ashenivir managed a stuttered farewell to Mara and Verin—Mara waved enthusiastically, held in place by Verin’s firm arm around her waist. “Bye, Ashenivir! See you later!”
“You have made some friends, I see,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir kept as close to his side as he could without pressing against him as they crossed the ballroom.
“They made me, I think,” he said. “Oh, we’re leaving already?”
Rizeth held the door open for him. “I am taking you back to the apartment to fuck you,” he said, so plainly that Ashenivir went hot all over and wished even harder that his breeches weren’t so tight. “Unless you would rather stay here?”
“No, Master, not at all,” Ashenivir said in a rush.
They retrieved their cloaks from the attendants, and as he fastened his around his shoulders, Ashenivir’s hand lingered at his collar. He glanced back towards the ballroom and bit his lip. That leash…
Outside, it was snowing again. He tugged his hood up, and hurried along at Rizeth’s side, cold even with the winter cloak, and no wonder, given how little he was wearing.
“Will we go again, Master?” he asked.
“We will,” Rizeth said. “It is part of why we came here, rather than remaining in Neverwinter.”
“It is?”
“That, and the Font of Knowledge.”
“The what?”
“The largest library north of Candlekeep.” Rizeth glanced at him, amusement in the moonlit shadows of his face. “You did not think you would escape all study whilst you were on the surface, did you, apprentice?”
A library, a soundproofed apartment, parties full of people just like him?
Ashenivir liked Waterdeep already.
The chains on the back of the harness dug into Rizeth’s palm. He pressed Ashenivir harder into the bed, snapping his hips short, sharp, the angle such to produce that sweet, staccato sound he so enjoyed.
“Yes-yes-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!”
He yanked Ashenivir’s head up, fist tight in his hair. “Manners, Ra’soltha.”
“Thank you, Master!”
Rizeth let him go. He’d intended to go slow after the party. Draw things out. Keep his distance.
All pretence of restraint had fallen apart about five seconds after he’d gotten Ashenivir back to the apartment. Flushed from the cold, temptation made flesh in the harness; even more so when Rizeth ordered him to strip and he struggled, fumbling with the unfamiliar buckles. It had taken all his self-control not to rip the fiddly, diaphanous cloak off, and he hadn’t had the patience to unfasten everything else—he’d simply kissed Ashenivir too hard to be sensible and dragged him to the bedroom.
His skin glistened with sweat beneath the tangle of silver chains, and Rizeth’s hand slid to his neck, pressing firmly over the mark as he thrust deep into tightness and heat. He wished he hadn’t shown him off so publicly. He wanted this all for himself; hated the stupid jealousy that scrabbled at him as much as he’d hated the too-many eyes coveting Ashenivir all throughout the ballroom.
Ashenivir surged against his hold, a sudden full-body struggle, and Rizeth realised he hadn’t been paying nearly enough attention—gods, could he even breathe? He dipped his mind into the mark as he eased his grip, sliding his hands to Ashenivir’s waist. The magic whispered that everything was fine, and Ashenivir’s whine confirmed it.
“Harder, Master, don’t stop, please.”
More hesitant than he liked—though Ashenivir would feel it only as deliberation—he returned his hands to their former positions. He pressed on Ashenivir’s neck, forcing his face into the bed, and Ashenivir hissed out a harsh sound of pleasure as he struggled again, pressing up to make Rizeth press down, whining for more and more and more.
He wanted it. Wanted hardness and hurt, to be pushed to balance right on the edge of too much; trusting, always, that his Master wouldn’t send him careening past his limits. That trust was too much sometimes, especially tonight, when he couldn’t keep the selfish jealousy from guiding the force of his hands, no matter how hard he tried.
Ashenivir’s skin was near-feverish, the desperate pant of his breath like a symphony. His hips twitched against the sheets, dragging his cock through what little friction he could manage, and Rizeth shifted to lie the full weight of his body along Ashenivir’s back, stilling deep inside him. He whimpered as Rizeth’s teeth grazed his ear.
“Don’t stop your writhing on my account, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth said. “You appeared to be enjoying yourself.” He licked up the edge of Ashenivir’s ear, drawing a strangled half-moan from him. “Keep going. You are staying right here until you come.”
Beneath him, Ashenivir rocked his hips; slow and jerky at first, uncertain, then faster as he allowed the pleasure to take him over. Rizeth nipped the tip of his ear, then settled his mouth to Ashenivir’s pulse, sucking a bitemark into the sweat-slick skin. He followed it with another, then another and another, a line of them all down his neck that made him keen long and high and sweet. Still he ground against the bed, far past the point of words now.
“Good boy.”
Rizeth began to move again, slow, almost gentle, feeling Ashenivir tensing around him; twitching, shuddering, close. He let his weight fall harder, a rush of satisfaction at the struggling below him, dropping into the mark to let it carry him over Ashenivir’s edge with him. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the mark as they came, seconds apart, plunging into the magic to feel no hurt, no pain, no harm at all, and he didn’t need magic to feel the satisfaction in the wordless, wonderful boy beneath him.
He allowed himself to kiss the mark once more before extricating himself. Ashenivir struggled up after him, clumsy limbs and hazy eyes, and all at once he found himself with a lapful of Ra’soltha, languid arms twined around his neck.
“Bath,” he said, wanting Ashenivir closer, needing him to leave before he was tempted into words he couldn’t take back.
“Tired,” Ashenivir countered, and leaned his head on Rizeth’s shoulder. Rizeth motioned a prestidigitation, and he flapped at it, making displeased noises, and when he brought the salve to take care of the bitemarks, Ashenivir shied away.
“Please don’t.”
Rizeth sighed. “How many times will we have this discussion, Ra’soltha? You keep what I allow you to keep.”
“But you haven’t let me keep anything!”
True want writ clear on his face, those pleading eyes, the simple nearness of him—Goddess, do you have any idea how hard it is to say no to you? Rizeth touched his fingertips to the dark marks of his mouth on Ashenivir’s neck, traced the line of bruises until Ashenivir put a hand over his, stilling it.
“Please.”
“Not on your neck,” Rizeth said. “Your arms and your legs.”
“My chest?”
Bruises beneath the harness. Bitemarks framed in leather and chain, walking him through Kelran’s ballroom with scratches streaking his back…
“And your back. But if I say you are not keeping something, you are not keeping it—am I understood?”
Ashenivir’s smile lit up the room. “Yes, Master. May I keep the ones on my neck, though, just for tonight? I’ll heal them myself in the morning, I promise.”
“First thing in the morning.”
Ashenivir nodded, then yawned. Rizeth helped him free of the harness, then left him to his rest. Too much restless energy swirled within him to seek his own bed yet, so he dressed and went out onto the balcony. It was still snowing, though not as heavily as the night before. White blanketed roofs gleamed in the chill moonlight, a thick layer of muffled silence hanging over the city.
It had been good to be back at the House. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed being there, in a place where he didn’t have to hide that part of himself. Mythen Thaelas was progressive, as drow cities went, but there was nothing like Kelran’s House there. Often he’d wished he had the means—and the guts—to try to establish something like it himself, if only to have someone to talk to.
He sighed and leaned on the balcony railing. The House would be good for Ashenivir. It had been good for him, and he’d not exactly been as friendly a drow as Ashenivir was. His breath turned to mist in the cold air, flurrying snowflakes around his face. Already his hands were going numb. He curled his fingers into his palms.
The House would be good for both of them. Ashenivir would make friends, he would have a space to pretend for a few hours that Ashenivir was his, and in a year’s time they’d be safely back in Mythen Thaelas, with nothing changed between them.
Rizeth turned his face to the freezing sky, where the moon was lost to clouded darkness. At such point, Ashenivir would be lost to him, but for now…
For now, he would simply enjoy his sabbatical.