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The Sleepover by Celeborn's Concubine
Dinin Do'Urden, Elderboy of House Do'Urden, guided his lizard mount slowly through the streets of the least reputable area in all of Menzoberranzan. The heat rising slowly up Narbondel's pillar still had a long way to go- not that Dinin could actually see the city's timepiece, there were houses and whatnot in the way- indicating that it was just after two o'clock in the morning, as a surface dweller would have it.
Dinin had purposefully waited until this late hour before setting forth. Even Menzoberranzan had to sleep sometime, and so it was doing now. The occasional goblin or bugbear slave was still ambling through the streets, it was true, but had it been the middle of the drow day these streets would have been absolutely packed. Dinin did not want to be out in a crowd.
He had chosen an older lizard this evening, one normally reserved for a drow only just learning to ride. Groggy and nauseous the drow had enough troubles staying astride without having to deal with the antics of a spirited, younger mount. He clung miserably to the saddle, hunched down in the welcome ambiguity of his cowl.
Dinin was a noble, the highest ranked son of House Do'Urden, eighth house of Menzoberranzan. Normally he would have chosen his attire to make sure anybody viewing him knew this, and reveled in the respect that it brought him, but this night he had taken great care to appear as inconspicuous as possible. True, few commoners would be riding a lizard, but in the state he was in Dinin doubted he could have even got this far on foot.
Swaying in the saddle as his lizard plodded dreamily along the drow feared he might not make his destination at all. A shiver chased down his spine at the thought of what might happen if he fell, if he were found by some lesser house. What they might discover, what they might do to him.
What still might happen if all this proved in vain. He had no guarantee the mercenary would be where he had been before- all he could do was hope.
To a drow, to have nothing left but hope, no cards up the sleeve, no trump, was the most unsettling feeling in the world.
Dinin turned his lizard down an alley, dark and dingy even by the dark and dingy standards of this particular part of the city, and knew he had found them. Even in his groggy state he could feel the little cross-bow darts aimed at him, sense the drow warriors watching him. He wasn't sure whether to offer a grateful prayer to Lolth or to break down and cry.
"I believe I've warned you before about wandering uninvited into my house?" came a melodic elven voice from the darkness. Dinin turned to the side and could just make out the heated form of Jarlaxle, mercenary leader of Bregan D'aerthe, a band of made up entirely of male rogues. Normally, when Jarlaxle had visited House Do'Urden on business, he was all smiles and grins, sweeping bows and amused chuckles. Non-threatening, by any drow's standards. But here, in his domain, with no Matron Mother to demand respect and no need to play the fool, Jarlaxle was very different indeed. His tone was hard, and Dinin was properly aware of him physically in a way the noble had never been before.
How had he never noticed how very tall Jarlaxle was? How very well muscled- spider's ass, he even flashed off his rippling stomach for all to see, but Dinin had never really stopped and thought about the mercenary's physique before.
Damn, if he was doing it now it meant he had less time than he'd hoped!
"Well," came the expected snap, the mercenary stepping closer, arms crossed before him and one foot tapping impatiently. Dinin once more fought down the urge to cry and fumbled at his belt. He held out a fat purse to Jarlaxle with a shaking hand.
"P-p-please," he stuttered. "I n-need somewhere to stay for a f-few days. S-somewhere s-s-safe."
"Why?" the mercenary asked, his tone softer now that he weighed Dinin's offering in his hand. It was a heavy purse. The mercenary undid the draw-string and peeked inside, smiling at the green glitter of emeralds. "Very nice," the rogue chuckled, then looked up suddenly, serious and forbidding once more. "What have you done?"
The opportunistic Jarlaxle- despite sometimes appearing to be so to people unable to understand the complex game he played- was not a risk taker. Cheeky, yes, but cautious. He had plucked promising males from falling houses, from the hands of angry mobs, and from under the gaze of vengeful Matron Mothers, but never before had one come to him. It prevented Jarlaxle from having the upper hand, and that he did not like.
"N-nothing," Dinin protested. Then, to the surprise of all the drow watching he finally gave in and let the tears flow down his cheeks. "P-please! Just a f-few d-days! Jarla-axle, I feel s-so b-b-bad!"
"Shh, shh," the mercenary soothed quickly, patting Dinin's knee. It was never wise to make a spectacle in the streets of Menzoberranzan. "Hush."
The drow mercenary signaled to the watching members of his band as he swung himself up behind Dinin. Wrapping an arm about the younger drow's waist he took the reigns in his free hand and nudged the lizard into action as best he could. "Quiet now," he cooed in the quaking noble's ear. "I'll keep you safe, never fear, for such a handsome price, but you've got to be quiet, ok?" Dinin, hiccupping, nodded. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he leant back against the mercenary's chest. Oh, that felt better!
Jarlaxle chuckled softly, his breath tickling Dinin's ear.
They made their way swiftly through the streets to the Clawrift, the great, gaping chasm wherein Bregan D'aerthe was housed. Jarlaxle's guards running- though never in a direct line of sight- a perimeter all around them. The mercenary leader guided the lizard down the cliff wall, and Dinin, already feeling nauseous, hid his face against Jarlaxle's warm chest. Normally such a drop- one couldn't see very far down anyway, in the darkness- wouldn't have bothered him but today it made him feel terribly dizzy. Jarlaxle squeezed his waist reassuringly.
The drow rode the lizard into a dark crack in the cliff face, which widened to reveal the mercenary band's stables. Lizard's hissed and shifted in the darkness and silent grooms came to take the reigns as Jarlaxle slid easily to the ground. The mercenary leader helped Dinin from the saddle, holding him tight when the noble rocked on his feet. Carefully, Jarlaxle guided the tottering younger male to his private office, ignoring the guard's curious looks. Inside he settled the noble into a comfortable chair and bustled about fetching drinks. Having pressed a cup into Dinin's trembling hands the mercenary sat jauntily on the edge of his desk, taking an appreciative sip of his own brandy.
"So," he began, looking the wretchedly shivering Elderboy up and down. "What's all this about? You're not well- I could feel the fever in your flesh as we rode, and the heat of it shines plainly in your face. Why are you not tucked up safe in bed, hmmm? Does your mother know you're gallivanting about the streets in such a condition, and at this late hour?"
"Matron Malice is busy," mumbled Dinin. "Zin-carla."
Jarlaxle leant back, crossing his arms and glowering. "What sickness is this you bring to my home?"
"Not sick," Dinin mumbled, shaking his head a little. "Cursed."
When Jarlaxle made no answer, just continued with his unnerving stare, Dinin found the tears starting again. He wiped at them angrily, trying to bring his body back under control. Really, this was all getting to be too much! And to top it all off, he could feel the beginnings of a really nasty headache in his temples.
"You know of my great-great-grandmatron?" he asked the mercenary. "Innara Do'Urden? You know of what she did?"
The mercenary started to nod, clearly unsure where this was going, but then realisation dawned. "Oh Dinin!" he laughed. "Really?"
"S'not funny," the noble sulked, curling up in the chair. It was evidently the wrong move to make, for his stomach protested, giving a great heave. Dropping his glass and spilling brandy all over himself Dinin pressed both hands over his mouth. But then Jarlaxle was there with- Lolth be praised!- a bucket, which the younger male took, retching up his guts. He was vaguely aware of Jarlaxle mopping brandy off his breeches with a cloth, and when his stomach finally stopped heaving the mercenary offered him sips of cool water, wiping damp tendrils of hair from his sweaty brow with a gentle hand.
"Thank you," Dinin whispered, leaning into that touch. "It seems you're very well prepared for any contingency."
"Always," the mercenary replied cheerfully. "So, who's the father?"
"Not pregnant," the young noble sighed. "Coming into heat."
"Ah."
Dinin didn't miss the speculative gleam in the mercenary leader's eye. He shifted uncomfortably as Jarlaxle sat on the arm of the chair, leaning with one arm draped across the top, so that Dinin felt framed by him.
"And why does this bring you to me?"
Dinin quivered at the older drow's unmistakably husky tone, and the way he was now playing with a loose lock of the noble's hair.
"I-I needed somewhere safe to hide. If Matron Malice knew she'd insist I have a baby…she- she…I don't want to have a baby!"
"Shh," Jarlaxle crooned. He could certainly sympathise. Dinin was still quite young, only into his second century of life, and showing the potential to rise as high as any warrior male might in their female-dominated society. How much might he lose by dropping out of the competitive drow world for a year? How might his body be affected?
But he also knew that matters weren't as simple as what Dinin did or didn't want.
"Heh heh, I remember- this was before your time, of course- an uncle of yours went into heat at the academy- you wouldn't have believed the scandal! The best fighters in all the city tearing each other to bits over him! It was Uthegental Del'Armgo who eventually laid claim to him I believe." The mercenary leader chuckled helplessly.
"Jarlaxle, I really don't want to hear this."
The mercenary stroked a hand down the trembling noble's back. "Have you really thought this through, my young friend? In a day or so you're going to be drawing males to you like scurry rats to a rotting carcass. And there are a lot of males in Bregan D'aerthe- perhaps you should let me take you home?"
Dinin shook his head hurriedly. "No! P-please! Don't send me back Jarlaxle…if Mother found out…"
The mercenary crooned soothingly again, stroking the young noble until he was calm once more. His ever-opportunistic mind had already come up with a brilliant scheme- at least, he thought so- but Dinin might need a little convincing.
"Well, then, if you really want to stay-" Jarlaxle began, hopping up from his perch and sauntering across the room, boot heels clicking even on the plush carpet. "- the bedroom is in here." He pushed open a door, revealing a room which would make even the most hedonistic pasha in Calimport green with envy. "There's drinks and a few nibblies in there too. You'll break fast with me tomorrow, I trust?"
Dinin just stared dumbly.
The mercenary leader chuckled at him. "There's a human saying, 'no rest for the wicked.' And it's true. I have work to attend to- but I think you need some sleep. Go on. The bed doesn't bite."
The noble rose with a little less than his usual grace. "That's your bed," he said slowly.
"I know." The mercenary flashed him a grin and a lewd wink. "But fear not, I'll leave you to your rest this night."
He gave Dinin a quick pat on the rump as he crossed the room, leaving the stunned warrior alone in his office. "There'll be plenty of time tomorrow to give you a good service!"
Dinin had eventually wandered into the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him. He leant back against it, head thrown back, for many long minutes, staring bleakly at the ceiling. He had come here in the hopes of escaping having a child sired upon him- but it looked as though Jarlaxle had other ideas. The young noble thumped the door, sniffling back more tears- honestly, you'd think they'd have all been used up by now!- before giving a defeated sigh and beginning to undress for bed.
He was exhausted and ill, and despite his trepidations fell into a deep reverie almost as soon as his head touched amazingly comfortable pillow.
Jarlaxle was in a good mood. First Dinin had turned up with his fat little purse full of lovely emeralds- a stone Jarlaxle had always been fond of- and then the mercenary leader had just entered into a very profitable business deal with a Matron from a minor house- a little spying work, a possible, easy assassination in the future…Gods! He was good at this!
And now he had a lovely young drow warrior in his bed to look forward too.
He collected a tray full of Underdark delicacies for their breakfast before heading back to his room. Jarlaxle was a master of seduction, and planned to enjoy every minute of lustful willingness the Elderboy of House Do'Urden's magical affliction would bring.
It wouldn't surprise those who knew Jarlaxle well to know that his habit of collecting rogue males had once started as an infatuation with a particularly beautiful young male…now that had been a most enjoyable endeavour!
Jarlaxle slipped silently into his bedroom, smiling at the sight of Dinin curled up, sleeping, in his satin sheets. He put the tray down on a side table, taking care not to make any noise and began to unburden himself of his many magical trinkets, watching Dinin appreciatively all the while.
The younger drow lay on his back, head turned to one side, sleeping peacefully. He was certainly naked from the waist up, and Jarlaxle suspected from the waist down too (the concept of pyjamas had never reached balmy Menzoberranzan) but the blood red satin sheets were pulled up to his navel. Dinin was a fine specimen: closer in height to six feet than five, broad shouldered and well muscled, but with a pleasing overall litheness that Jarlaxle found very alluring. He wore his hair long- as did all of House Do'Urden's males, by Matron Malice's decree- tumbling elegantly about his shoulders and across his chest.
"Exquisite," Jarlaxle breathed, having divested himself of all unnecessary ornaments. In just his breeches and his high-cut vest (with one exception) he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, gently feeling Dinin's forehead with the back of his hand.
The fever had broken.
Dinin awoke with a shy, sleepy smile. He blinked a few times, stretching- and that incredibly graceful, sexy movement made Jarlaxle's breeches suddenly feel much tighter- then yawned.
"Sleep well?" the mercenary asked jovially.
"Mmm hmm."
The mercenary collected his tray and returned to the bed. Dinin sat up, showing more skin even though he kept the sheets pulled prudishly across his lap, much to Jarlaxle's disappointment. They ate in silence for several long minutes, Dinin- who was normally rather extraverted for a drow (though no where near as much as Jarlaxle) – unusually quiet and demure.
"Do you ask for extra payment then?" he asked softly, catching the mercenary by surprise. Jarlaxle could see the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks.
"You are the one naked in my bed," the older elf answered primly. "I had rather thought it a blatant attempt to seduce me."
Dinin stared at him for a long moment, lip trembling slightly. "I see," he finally said heavily. "I must have mistaken your words last night."
Jarlaxle reached out to touch his arm gently as the younger elf made to pull the sheets up over his chest, head dipping in distress. "Don't hide your beauty, my young friend. I rather appreciate it. You've no reason to fear me- I have no desire for an unwilling partner, and will never force you to so something that you don't want to do- though I may try to change your mind, and I'm told I can be very persuasive." The mercenary grinned at the younger elf's deepening blush.
"I know you must be very frightened and confused at the moment, but consider this: from what I know of your condition it can't be long before you start throwing yourself at any male you encounter- and that won't help you avoid falling pregnant."
He raised a hand as Dinin's mouth opened in protest.
"I have in my possession an item- a fertility charm of sorts, you might say. An anti fertility charm."
Jarlaxle paused to slip the last remaining trinket, the charm he was talking about, from where it rested on its long chain under his vest. He showed it, small and unremarkable looking, to the drow noble.
"It's magic is very specific- it prevents a male from," the mercenary waved his hands vaguely in the air, looking for the right words to explain the difficult concept. "- from having the potency in his seed to sire a child. While he wears it no female- or male- that he lies with will conceive a child."
"You mean to lie with me," stated Dinin flatly.
"Yes," replied Jarlaxle with equal frankness. "I can offer you diversion and satisfaction while you're on heat, and I can guarantee that you won't fall pregnant. Do we have a deal?"
Dinin regarded the offered hand, and Jarlaxle's smirk. "Do I have a choice?" he griped.
"Of course- stay here and spend a very pleasant few days with me, or I will return you to House Do'Urden, where you can take your chances with whichever sex-crazed fellow first encounters you."
The noble sighed, running fingers anxiously through his hair. "Alright," he finally declared, shaking Jarlaxle's hand. "I agree."
The mercenary beamed.
When the meal was finished, the tray cleared away and Jarlaxle rummaging for something in a chest at the foot of the bed, Dinin lay back on the wonderfully comfortable mattress, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
He had had male lovers before- though he hadn't taken the passive role since his days at the academy. A treacherous heat was building in his lower body. Jarlaxle – damn him!- was right- it wouldn't be long before Dinin would know nothing but the need to throw himself at anything in pants. He needed the mercenary- needed his body.
"You're very cute when you pout." Jarlaxle had found whatever he was looking for, and now moved to straddle Dinin's stomach. The young noble shifted uncomfortably- Jarlaxle was heavy!- as the older elf leant down to nuzzle his neck.
"It's alright," Jarlaxle crooned as Dinin shifted again. "Don't be frightened. You're in the very best of hands."
The noble managed a shaky smile as the other dark elf started to lick and nibble the pointed tip of his ear. "I'm not frightened," he murmured, tilting his head in a silent plea for more. "But it's been decades since I was the one on the bottom."
Jarlaxle chuckled, stroking his thumb over Dinin's full lower lip. "Don't worry about that," he husked, showing the younger elf the vial in his hand. "I told you, I'm always prepared."
Slowly, taking his time and enjoying every moment of it, Jarlaxle licked and nuzzled his way down the other elf's torso, pinching and nipping at pebbled nipples before soothing them with his tongue, dipping into a tempting a navel for a quick taste. He could feel Dinin moving beneath him, his growing interest in proceedings pressing up against Jarlaxle's stomach, and the mercenary chuckled against the now wet, taut skin of the other's belly.
That damnable sheet was still in the way, and Jarlaxle gloried in pulling it away and casting it far aside. Dinin was indeed naked under there, and Jarlaxle spent a long minute admiring his soon-to-be lover. Oh yes, this one was a real beauty.
Dinin blushed as Jarlaxle's heated gaze swept over him, then moaned as the mercenary leant forward to nuzzle his crotch. The older elf was as skilled with his lips and his tongue as he was with his hands, and Dinin was soon moaning and pleading indecipherably, thrashing his head back and forth, fists clenching at his sides.
Jarlaxle hummed a laugh with Dinin in his throat, hearing the younger elf sob out his name, and gently pressed an oiled finger into the heat of Dinin's body. Soon he added a second, and then a third, reveling in the pressure on his fingers.
Dinin let out a long, low keen of discomfit when Jarlaxle pressed inside him, muscles kept tight from decades of intense combat training and patrols resistant to part for the intrusion. Jarlaxle dropped a kiss between his eyes, which made him feel better, and then his body had adjusted enough, or maybe it was that the building desire in him had reached such a point that when the mercenary leader began to move he knew only pleasure, not pain.
"Gods…" Jarlaxle growled in his ear. "You're tight."
Dinin had never felt more complimented.
They lay entwined afterwards, sweaty, sticky, and (in Dinin's case) more than a little sore. The younger elf sighed, snuggling in close, earning a chuckle and a kiss on the cheek from his lover.
"Give me a minute," the older elf panted, "and I'll really make you scream."
Dinin's only reply was a deep, throaty purr.