please do not be inconsistent i find it infuriating // keep calm, work hard and STOP MIMIMI !!!
Предупреждение: SLASH!!!
Purely Ornamental by falcata
“Fuck me,” Zaknafein said pensively and sloshed the remnants of wine around the bottle before he raised it to his lips. There was nothing but silence. A single magelight hovered above, its muted glow dappling over the really staggering amount of empty bottles strewn about on the floor. Zaknafein shrugged and polished off the wine. One more, he decided, and attempted to rise. The room lurched wildly and his legs went out from under him. He frowned in soused bewilderment, then flopped over sideways, caught sight of a shiny leather boot and remembered. “Did you not hear me?” he demanded, stretching out on his back and waving the empty bottle in the general direction of the boot. His own voice seemed distant and faraway and the room had began spinning, so he let his eyes drift shut.
“Oh, I heard you,” came the disembodied response.
“Are you going to answer, then?”
“It was not really a question, was it?”
Wasted or not, he knew an evasion when he heard one. A little offended but mostly puzzled, Zaknafein tried to force his wits into focus. “You do not want me,” he reasoned uncertainly.
There was a chuckle from the depths of Jarlaxle’s armchair, warm and genuinely amused. “Oh, Zaknafein. You know very well anyone would want you.”
He had to think that over, held immobile for a moment between gratification and a sudden flash of something like embarrassment. He wasn’t actually sure why he should feel embarrassed but it was there, so he protested with tipsy defensiveness, “I know no such thing!”
“Well then, by all means go on thinking I find you unattractive. It should do you no end of good.”
There was an insult there somewhere, Zaknafein was sure of it. “I could kill you,” he said idly.
“You probably could. But if you did how would you get fucked?”
“You are not fucking. You are talking. You are talking far too much and you are making me sober with your talking.”
“The gods forbid.” That sounded surprisingly close and Zaknafein opened his eyes a crack. Jarlaxle was looking down at him, as if from a great height, and there was a soft, almost imperceptible touch against his hair, unexpectedly gentle and soothing.
He didn’t want soothing. He wanted a quick rough fuck, something impersonal but real, to blot out the memory of Malice’s smug smile and the musk of her that still clung to him despite the long bath and the change of clothes. He closed his eyes again, reached up to grab the hand petting him and brought it to his mouth, then licked along one finger and slowly sucked it in. There was a sharp inhalation from above and the hand was wordlessly yanked away. He heard a sound of retreating footfalls, heels clacking noisily despite the rugs overlaying the floor.
“You do want me,” he said, vindicated.
“I believe I said that already.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“Have you noticed that sex tends to put a strain on relationships?” Jarlaxle signed. He didn’t seem to have gone far. “I happen to like ours the way it is.”
“Gods, you are so full of iblith.”
He really didn’t understand this reserve but if Jarlaxle was going to be so vithen contrary about the whole thing… Once again Zaknafein fought against the gravity and wine-induced haze that conspired to keep him down. This time he actually succeeded as far as making it to his feet before he staggered, stepped on an empty bottle that just had to roll underfoot, and would have taken another tumble were it not for the steadying arms that went around his waist.
He inhaled the other elf’s scent, immediately distracted from his earlier task - whatever it had been - and leaned in, letting his head fall on Jarlaxle’s shoulder and tasting the warm smoothness of his throat with expectant lips. The arms wrapped around him went absolutely rigid and for a moment he thought he was going to be shoved away but instead a hand stroked his hair again, that same delicate, almost-tender caress.
“That bad?”
The voice lacked its usual sarcasm and held far more understanding than he cared to hear, and the note of sympathy in it was worse. Zaknafein jerked back but Jarlaxle was apparently stronger than he looked and it was taking some serious flailing to try and break his hold. “Let go of me!” he growled finally, realizing he was losing the struggle and livid with it. “I am going.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“Fuck if I know. Some-where. Any-where.” He took great care to enunciate with clarity, despite the concerted efforts of the alcohol and anger to addle to his speech. “Any-fucking-where I can find a cock that isn’t… purely ornamental.”
He smirked in triumph when one of the arms entrapping him dropped away. But before he could begin to exploit this chance at freedom a sharp tug on his hair tilted his head back and Jarlaxle’s mouth was on his, a hot sinuous tongue prying his lips apart and forcing its way inside. For a long attenuated moment he was kissed with a focused, proprietary determination that went straight to his cock and left him breathless. Then Jarlaxle broke off abruptly and bit his lower lip, hard, the sudden sting of it taunting him with all kinds of possibilities.
He wanted more so he tried to reinitiate the kiss but Jarlaxle deftly avoided his grasp. His wrists were caught and his arms pinned to his sides, the strength of the grip keeping him immobile with such insulting ease still something of a shock. Aroused and doubly furious, he clenched his fists and snarled, “You cocksucking cocktease!”
“Really, my friend. That is atrociously vulgar even for you, not to mention hardly makes any sense. If one is sucking cock then one cannot be a cocktease, yes?”
Zaknafein frowned in thought, then decided he didn’t much care what defined a cocktease and whether cock-sucking precluded the condition. He was still hard and his lips were tingling from the kiss. “Changed your mind, did you?” he sneered, now fully back on track.
Jarlaxle shrugged, his unreal calm as maddening as ever. “It is not as if you leave me a choice. You’re too stubborn to let go of the idea and in no shape to go traipsing about. You’ll get yourself killed.”
Zaknafein opened his mouth to retort but Jarlaxle’s hands released his wrists, came up and cupped his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “Get in the bed, Zaknafein.”
He didn’t trust this sudden acquiescence, even if he felt somewhat mollified, but the tone, full of indulgent amusement, spurred him into motion. Jarlaxle’s hand on the small of his back guided him on the treacherous journey across the room.
“Your fas… fascination with the Surface is unhealthy,” he noted vindictively, surveying the bed dressed in satin and some bizarre, dense-looking pelts in hues of silvery-gray.
Behind him Jarlaxle shrugged. “You might want to undress,” he advised with mock solemnity.
Despite the strange trappings the bed did look more inviting than remaining upright, so Zaknafein unbuckled his belt and let the weapons clatter to the floor in a tangle of leather and metal. The chain mail presented more of a challenge but he succeeded after a bit of fumbling, then plopped down on the edge of the bed to contemplate the boots. Fortunately Jarlaxle bent down and solved the problem for him. Stymied with the next move, he eventually managed to unlace and shed his leathers without getting up. His undershirt wouldn’t come off, though, partly stuck to the still-raw lash marks on his back, and he had to give it a good yank. Some of the gashes reopened and began to smart vengefully but he dismissed it with ease of long practice and finally fell, face-down, on the bed.
The strange pelts were surprisingly pleasant to the touch, the supple softness of the fur like a caress against his skin. Zaknafein couldn’t help wriggling a little in pure sensual delight and his cock approved, so then he had to squirm some more to get comfortable.
“Unhealthy, is it?” The soft laughter, interspersed with the rustle of clothing, stilled abruptly on an indrawn breath. “The bitch,” Jarlaxle said, quietly but with so much intensity Zaknafein remembered why he hadn’t wanted to undress for this in the first place. He’d almost managed to forget about the whole mess and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it. But Jarlaxle said nothing else, for a mercy, only stared at his back for some time, then left him, by the sounds of it to rummage through something made of glass.
Between the liquor and the obscenely comfortable bed Zaknafein had almost faded out by the time Jarlaxle returned. Glass clinked again, the sound accompanied by a waft of scent, unfamiliar and sharp but not entirely unpleasant. He shifted groggily when nudged, giving Jarlaxle room to sit besides him on the bed, feeling vaguely curious but disinclined to investigate… until Jarlaxle’s hands blazed sudden shocking trails over his back. “What are you doing?” he wailed, gritting his teeth against the sensation.
“Mending your ungrateful hide, that’s what.”
“Vith’ir, shebali. It makes no matter to me.”
“I am not doing it for you. It offends me to look at.”
“Then why be grateful?”
Insistent fingers tangled in his hair, turning his head to the side, and his mouth was licked open. He panted into a kiss that never came - soft lips only touched his briefly, gone before he could capture them, and he opened his eyes to see them curve in a smile. He started to swear but Jarlaxle’s tongue traced a delicate line over his neck, then skimmed along the edge of his ear, following its curve to the point and back. “Shut up, Zaknafein.” The words came in a low whisper and the breath they were carried on ghosted over his skin, making him shiver, making anticipation coil within.
He gave in to the hands guiding him and let his head be pushed down again, lulled further into compliance by an absolute cessation of pain. It hadn’t been difficult to ignore – pain, like cold or heat or bright light, became no more than an irritant once you’d trained yourself to it – but now that it was gone he realized how really wearing its constant presence had been and couldn’t help a soft contented sigh.
The fingers still playing with his hair paused momentarily, then resumed. “Better?”
“Yes,” he admitted, muffled.
“I thought she liked to heal you clean.”
Zaknafein jerked his head away from the petting hand. “Not this time.” He breathed in deep, staving off hatred and anger and something darker, harder to name that threatened to wake and start clawing at his soul. “Will you get on with it?”
“Zaknafein – ”
“I do not want to talk.”
In the long silence that followed he could feel Jarlaxle’s eyes on him, watching him, but did nothing to acknowledge it. Finally Jarlaxle leaned forward and over him and Zaknafein thought he was going to be kissed, or at least taunted with the promise of it again. “Asanque,” Jarlaxle said lightly and, without touching him, rose to his feet.
It sounded like he started to sort through some vials again, bent over a small carved table flanking the bed. Annoyed, Zaknafein lifted his head and got a spectacular view of a backside limned by magelight. For one of his self-indulgent nature, Jarlaxle was actually in far better shape than he would ever have guessed. His muscles weren’t sculpted – he was too lean for that, almost whip-cord thin – but there was a wiry strength to them and the overall impression was not at all of softness or fragility. Naked, he looked fit and… pared down to the essentials, like a weapon crafted with no frills.
For a moment Zaknafein struggled with this shift of perception, then gave up on it. It didn’t much matter. Jarlaxle was entitled to whatever disguises suited him… as long as he stopped mucking about.
Sitting up seemed like entirely too much effort, so instead he sidled toward the edge of the bed, groping through the jumble of clothing, armor and weapons on the floor until he found a sword-hilt. He managed to pull the sword out of its sheath without moving, and for immediate gratification the length of it was just enough to poke one of Jarlaxle’s bare buttocks with the point.
Jarlaxle glared at him over his shoulder. “Ow. Could you kindly find a diversion that does not involve sharp pointy objects and my ass?”
“I offered you mine but you seem far more interested in - ”
“On the contrary. Here.”
Something was tossed in the direction of the bed, gleaming with reflected light before Zaknafein instinctively caught it in one hand as he covered his eyes with the other. “Will you put out that vithen light?”
“No. If you insist we do this, I want to see.”
“You can see perfectly well in the dark.”
“It is not the same.”
Really this was getting weird and weirder by the moment. No longer drunk senseless, Zaknafein was beginning to feel uneasy about… whatever it was that he’d set in motion. He’d wanted a distraction and his wine-sodden wits had come up with the memory of those few times he’d allowed another male to take him. The charge he’d gotten out of it was one of swapped roles, outrageous and therefore exciting. He hadn’t expected some drawn-out, elaborate seduction, although he probably should have known better than to hope Jarlaxle would do anything the normal way. But his mouth had spoken and he got trapped in it by his own don't-back-off-don't-back-down obstinacy, and of course he couldn’t back down now any more than he could then.
So he might as well try and enjoy the ride, he concluded philosophically, and for starters rolled onto his side to examine the vial Jarlaxle had thrown at him - cut-glass, in an unfamiliar, probably Surface pattern. The liquid within was clear, its texture seemingly thick. “What is it?” he asked as he gingerly pulled out the stopper. Another alien scent, complex but more subtle than the astringent stuff used to heal his back.
“Sandalwood oil, with a bit of dreamgrass I think. Maybe clover also.” Jarlaxle took the vial from him, looking smug and insightful, the world’s foremost perfumer. Zaknafein resisted the urge to scream and drum his heels but just barely, and settled for his original prone position so he could hide his face in a display of weary defeat. “What are you asking, then? It’s not as if you could possibly wonder what it’s for.”
“Oh.” He should have know, he supposed, but fancy oils just hadn’t been on his list of priorities. He’d been fine making due with spit or whatever bodily fluids had been at hand. He grinned briefly at the unintended pun before he rose up on his elbows. “Why bother?”
“Because it would hurt too much otherwise.”
“I do not care.”
“I do.”
“It is my ass.”
“Fancy that.” Jarlaxle’s hand smoothed over the curve of the body part in question. “What do you know, it is. And it is far too exquisite to mistreat.”
This was seriously getting out of control. There was, in Jarlaxle’s seemingly normal banter, some undercurrent, well-masked and barely perceptible but there – something Zaknafein’s still-mostly-hazy mind detected but couldn’t quite quality, or perhaps refused to. He’d been arguing out of habit but also, in part, because he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and falling back on the commonplace was… reassuring. “You have absolutely, undeniably lost your vithen wits,” he said, reaching for that reassurance.
Sharp teeth found his shoulder and bit down, abrupt and unexpected. “Shut up, Zaknafein.”
He did, mostly because Jarlaxle’s lips covered his, hot and rough, clever tongue slipping along his own. Arousal spiked in mockery of all his apprehension. The kiss was hard and almost painful with a liberal application of teeth, and by the time it softened into something more like lust and less like a struggle for dominance Zaknafein couldn’t think beyond skin on skin.
Strong hands pressed him down against the bed and he let Jarlaxle spread his thighs and kneel between them, coiling over him, a warm solid presence at his back. Delicate touches trailed over his skin, hands and lips and tongue moving in leisurely circles along his spine, a slow, luxuriant caress that was completely unlike any other in his experience. It made him gasp and shiver as pleasure welled, sweet and liquid, rippling across his senses, and he bucked helplessly, the silky tickle of the furs beneath him an added goad.
The licking and kissing became sucking and biting, a hand wedged itself between him and the bed to grasp his cock, and he heard a soft choking sound and realized he'd made it himself. The strokes were firm but slow, too slow, not giving him the rhythm his body wanted, and Zaknafein had to gnaw on his own fist, needing something, anything, to throttle the small desperate noises escaping his throat.
Once everything stopped all of his nerves shrieked with the loss and he could only writhe for a moment, caught in a tight mesh of anticipation and unfulfilled need. Jarlaxle apparently found his urgency amusing, or at least highly enjoyable because he laughed low against Zaknafein’s back and murmured, “Be patient, Zaknafein,” nothing in his voice except the usual wry humor.
“I will kill you,” Zaknafein promised, his breath harsh and quick in his throat. “Just… not now. Afterwards.”
“Ah. Well, that is a relief, because - ” Jarlaxle broke off to bow over him, a hot rigid length pressing briefly into Zaknafein’s side, “I intend to fuck you senseless.” The whisper slid straight through him like liquor, sending small frissons down his spine.
He was still shivering when a hand, hot and insistent on his hip, urged him upward. He tucked his knees under him and there were fingertips at the slit of his cock as his balls rode in the palm. An oil-slicked finger began to tease at the ring of muscle closing his body. The oil was warm and silken against his flesh. He let his forehead sink against his arms. Tension leapt into his muscles but it didn’t stop the slow, deliberate penetration until the finger found a place inside him that made everything dissolve in an burst of mindless pleasure. And then he was arching his back and rocking shamelessly in time with the finger working in his ass, sliding in and out, and moaning for all he was worth and didn’t care who knew.
Arousal drew taut like a garrote’s wire, and before he completely lost control and came ignominiously just from this, Zaknafein gathered the few shreds of sanity remaining to him and forced his lust-addled mind to form words. “Enough… I cannot… ” His throat was too tight and it sounded like a sob but it must have been heard because the finger inside him stopped moving.
“It’ll still hurt,” Jarlaxle said quietly.
“I want it to hurt!” His body blazed with dizzy understanding of impending gratification that would not be denied and he could think of nothing else to hold it off.
As it was he almost came when the finger pulled out of him. Legs thrust between his own, forcing him to open wider, and a cock-head, hot and hard and slicked with oil, pressed up against his hole. He dug his fingers into the furs, grabbing fistfuls to keep from twisting away when the blunt unyielding heat breached him, stretching him almost unbearably. But the sharp exquisite pain of the penetration went too soon and the oil gentled the friction. The cock slid all the way inside him in one long, continuous, agonizingly smooth stroke, balls brushing delicately against his own, and Zaknafein whimpered in shocked protest as the muscles in his ass clenched and he spilled, untouched, all over the furs and his own taut stomach.
When the shudders at last subsided he sighed, spent and replete, the heady rush of afterglow washing over him. His muscles fluttered with one last sweet residual shock, and in that moment he realized there was a cock in his ass, still hard and buried deep inside. On reflex he tried to pull away, seeking surcease, but his hips were gripped with bruising force and there was a strangled noise, then a warm weight dropped onto his back. “Vith! Do not move.”
Zaknafein stilled, feeling his cheeks flush hot, acute discomfiture drawing a tight band around his chest. “Your precious pelts are ruined,” he muttered, fastening on the mundane.
Teeth nipped at the nape of his neck. “They will get worse.” Jarlaxle’s voice, although a little strained, lost none of its fond amusement. “I am not done with you.” Arms wrapped around him, lifting him until he was upright, then his spread legs were carefully positioned over sinewy thighs. Zaknafein let his head loll against Jarlaxle's shoulder, gasping when Jarlaxle flexed and the length richly throbbing inside him sunk in deeper.
Jarlaxle exhaled a slow breath, licked the sweat from Zaknafein’s throat and, pushing away the strands of hair plastered to his face, kissed him with hot salty lips. “Gods. You are so… fucking… tight.” With a sound not unlike a chuckle and not unlike a moan Jarlaxle withdrew, shifted and rose again, filling him but at a different angle, stroking that sweet place inside. “Hot and tight and… ahh… so… fucking perfect.”
There was more, a sultry litany of obscenities whispered against his sweat-drenched skin between licks and kisses and nips, and all the while warm hands caressed his flanks and Jarlaxle fucked him with slow steady thrusts, each one at that same perfect angle, each one sending a surge of excruciating pleasure through his nerves. He’d long since grown hard again and his cock was begging for a touch but when he would have taken himself in hand Jarlaxle’s fingers curled around his and guided his hand, gently but inexorably, to rest on his thigh. Seduced by the erotic lassitude of willing surrender Zaknafein obeyed and didn’t try to take control anymore.
A curious enervation overtook him as he yielded totally to the cock and mouth and hands that possessed him, both astonished and dismayed by the shattering intensity of his body's response. It knew how to handle pain but the utter intoxication of this much pleasure was entirely unfamiliar and so awfully compelling, he’d been driven past whatever limits he thought he had and could find no room in himself for regret or shame.
Jarlaxle kept him on this knife-edge of ecstasy for a long time, never hurrying, until Zaknafein was at the point of frenzy and shaking with it, and each slow unstoppable invasion forced a ragged cry from him. He missed when Jarlaxle reached the point of no return and knew only that the steady rocking of Jarlaxle’s hips faltered and he was pushed face-down on the bed again. Jarlaxle bent over him and covered him as the rhythm of his thrusts went wild, grunting into Zaknafein’s ear with each one, and then a wave of molten heat spread inside him and Jarlaxle’s body collapsed on top of him with a feverish “Vith!”
His arms gave out under him and he slid down, cheek resting on the wet sticky furs. Eventually the weight heaped atop of him stirred and the spent cock slipped out of him. Hot seed trailed after it, smearing his ass and inner thighs, and the feel of it was almost enough to push him over the edge. Desperate now, Zaknafein squirmed restlessly, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. A hot lithe tongue began to trace its path, licking along his spine, easing slowly downward, into the cleft between his buttocks, lower and deeper and… “Vith! Oh vith…”
It was too much, he couldn’t take it, this liquid heat stabbing into him, once, twice, then a hand closed around his straining cock, stroking rough and sure, in concert with the wicked tongue, and pleasure throbbed through every nerve so hard his stunned, exhausted body couldn’t possibly contain it. His eyes stung and tears ran down his cheeks, hot and ashamed and helplessly excited, and Zaknafein thrust into that flawless grip, gave a lost, wailing cry and came, pouring himself out in long, endless, delirious pulses.
***
It was the smell that woke him. He couldn’t recall slumming in Braeryn, so it was surprising and a little disconcerting how he’d ended up in a back-alley whorehouse. A sour odor of stale drink overlaid with a fragrance of scented oils, and the distinct sharp tang of male sex. He knew a sleazy brothel when he saw one. Or smelt one, as it were. Satin bedclothes, and his body was still languid and heavy, sated in a bone-deep way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Definitely a whorehouse. Definitely a passing good whore. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t all that surprising, what with the amount of liquor he’d poured down his throat. And that was only while he’d been still lucid enough to remember, when Jarlaxle had talked him into drinking in his apartments rather than out.
Ah well, it would come to him eventually, Zaknafein decided, and rolled off the bed. He discovered, as he dressed methodically, wrinkling his nose at the dry blood on his undershirt and his own unambiguous aroma, that he ached all over. Not unpleasantly, although in some places he was not used to…
He remembered it all at once - the long, slow, mind-blowing fucking, the loss of control and the annihilating pleasure, and in the end… Not many memories in Zaknafein’s life could make him blush but there was one.
Well. He’d better stop, he thought wryly, before his cock got really interested. Then again, there was a simple cure for that. All he had to do was imagine returning to the Do’Urden compound, looking like he had not a care in the world and reeking of sex. Malice was sure to appreciate it.
And where in the Abyss was Jarlaxle anyway? He’d have to stop in some bath house, Zaknafein supposed, seeing as how he couldn’t be bothered to blunder through the maze that was the Bregan D’aerthe building looking for a bath. It was exceedingly annoying that Jarlaxle had disappeared like a hopeful lover contemplating a night of passion. Gods, that sounded so absurd, even for a jest. It was probably time to stop reading those ridiculous Surface books, they were playing Hells with his imagery.
But really, there was something off with the rogue lately. Jarlaxle made exasperation into an art form and his fashion sense was a criminal offense but he did have his uses. And besides Zaknafein generally liked having him around, which was more than he could say for just about anyone else.
He’d deal with it sooner rather than later, he resolved. He wouldn’t see Jarlaxle for a while, since Drizzt was due back from his Surface raid soon and that little problem was far more immediate than Jarlaxle’s weird moods. But one of these days he’d catch up with Jarlaxle and sort it all out.
-----------------
Iblith (Drow) - shit
Vith'ir (Drow) - fuck off
Shebali (Drow) - rogue
Asanque (Drow) - as you wish
Vith (Drow) - fuck
Purely Ornamental by falcata
“Fuck me,” Zaknafein said pensively and sloshed the remnants of wine around the bottle before he raised it to his lips. There was nothing but silence. A single magelight hovered above, its muted glow dappling over the really staggering amount of empty bottles strewn about on the floor. Zaknafein shrugged and polished off the wine. One more, he decided, and attempted to rise. The room lurched wildly and his legs went out from under him. He frowned in soused bewilderment, then flopped over sideways, caught sight of a shiny leather boot and remembered. “Did you not hear me?” he demanded, stretching out on his back and waving the empty bottle in the general direction of the boot. His own voice seemed distant and faraway and the room had began spinning, so he let his eyes drift shut.
“Oh, I heard you,” came the disembodied response.
“Are you going to answer, then?”
“It was not really a question, was it?”
Wasted or not, he knew an evasion when he heard one. A little offended but mostly puzzled, Zaknafein tried to force his wits into focus. “You do not want me,” he reasoned uncertainly.
There was a chuckle from the depths of Jarlaxle’s armchair, warm and genuinely amused. “Oh, Zaknafein. You know very well anyone would want you.”
He had to think that over, held immobile for a moment between gratification and a sudden flash of something like embarrassment. He wasn’t actually sure why he should feel embarrassed but it was there, so he protested with tipsy defensiveness, “I know no such thing!”
“Well then, by all means go on thinking I find you unattractive. It should do you no end of good.”
There was an insult there somewhere, Zaknafein was sure of it. “I could kill you,” he said idly.
“You probably could. But if you did how would you get fucked?”
“You are not fucking. You are talking. You are talking far too much and you are making me sober with your talking.”
“The gods forbid.” That sounded surprisingly close and Zaknafein opened his eyes a crack. Jarlaxle was looking down at him, as if from a great height, and there was a soft, almost imperceptible touch against his hair, unexpectedly gentle and soothing.
He didn’t want soothing. He wanted a quick rough fuck, something impersonal but real, to blot out the memory of Malice’s smug smile and the musk of her that still clung to him despite the long bath and the change of clothes. He closed his eyes again, reached up to grab the hand petting him and brought it to his mouth, then licked along one finger and slowly sucked it in. There was a sharp inhalation from above and the hand was wordlessly yanked away. He heard a sound of retreating footfalls, heels clacking noisily despite the rugs overlaying the floor.
“You do want me,” he said, vindicated.
“I believe I said that already.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“Have you noticed that sex tends to put a strain on relationships?” Jarlaxle signed. He didn’t seem to have gone far. “I happen to like ours the way it is.”
“Gods, you are so full of iblith.”
He really didn’t understand this reserve but if Jarlaxle was going to be so vithen contrary about the whole thing… Once again Zaknafein fought against the gravity and wine-induced haze that conspired to keep him down. This time he actually succeeded as far as making it to his feet before he staggered, stepped on an empty bottle that just had to roll underfoot, and would have taken another tumble were it not for the steadying arms that went around his waist.
He inhaled the other elf’s scent, immediately distracted from his earlier task - whatever it had been - and leaned in, letting his head fall on Jarlaxle’s shoulder and tasting the warm smoothness of his throat with expectant lips. The arms wrapped around him went absolutely rigid and for a moment he thought he was going to be shoved away but instead a hand stroked his hair again, that same delicate, almost-tender caress.
“That bad?”
The voice lacked its usual sarcasm and held far more understanding than he cared to hear, and the note of sympathy in it was worse. Zaknafein jerked back but Jarlaxle was apparently stronger than he looked and it was taking some serious flailing to try and break his hold. “Let go of me!” he growled finally, realizing he was losing the struggle and livid with it. “I am going.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“Fuck if I know. Some-where. Any-where.” He took great care to enunciate with clarity, despite the concerted efforts of the alcohol and anger to addle to his speech. “Any-fucking-where I can find a cock that isn’t… purely ornamental.”
He smirked in triumph when one of the arms entrapping him dropped away. But before he could begin to exploit this chance at freedom a sharp tug on his hair tilted his head back and Jarlaxle’s mouth was on his, a hot sinuous tongue prying his lips apart and forcing its way inside. For a long attenuated moment he was kissed with a focused, proprietary determination that went straight to his cock and left him breathless. Then Jarlaxle broke off abruptly and bit his lower lip, hard, the sudden sting of it taunting him with all kinds of possibilities.
He wanted more so he tried to reinitiate the kiss but Jarlaxle deftly avoided his grasp. His wrists were caught and his arms pinned to his sides, the strength of the grip keeping him immobile with such insulting ease still something of a shock. Aroused and doubly furious, he clenched his fists and snarled, “You cocksucking cocktease!”
“Really, my friend. That is atrociously vulgar even for you, not to mention hardly makes any sense. If one is sucking cock then one cannot be a cocktease, yes?”
Zaknafein frowned in thought, then decided he didn’t much care what defined a cocktease and whether cock-sucking precluded the condition. He was still hard and his lips were tingling from the kiss. “Changed your mind, did you?” he sneered, now fully back on track.
Jarlaxle shrugged, his unreal calm as maddening as ever. “It is not as if you leave me a choice. You’re too stubborn to let go of the idea and in no shape to go traipsing about. You’ll get yourself killed.”
Zaknafein opened his mouth to retort but Jarlaxle’s hands released his wrists, came up and cupped his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “Get in the bed, Zaknafein.”
He didn’t trust this sudden acquiescence, even if he felt somewhat mollified, but the tone, full of indulgent amusement, spurred him into motion. Jarlaxle’s hand on the small of his back guided him on the treacherous journey across the room.
“Your fas… fascination with the Surface is unhealthy,” he noted vindictively, surveying the bed dressed in satin and some bizarre, dense-looking pelts in hues of silvery-gray.
Behind him Jarlaxle shrugged. “You might want to undress,” he advised with mock solemnity.
Despite the strange trappings the bed did look more inviting than remaining upright, so Zaknafein unbuckled his belt and let the weapons clatter to the floor in a tangle of leather and metal. The chain mail presented more of a challenge but he succeeded after a bit of fumbling, then plopped down on the edge of the bed to contemplate the boots. Fortunately Jarlaxle bent down and solved the problem for him. Stymied with the next move, he eventually managed to unlace and shed his leathers without getting up. His undershirt wouldn’t come off, though, partly stuck to the still-raw lash marks on his back, and he had to give it a good yank. Some of the gashes reopened and began to smart vengefully but he dismissed it with ease of long practice and finally fell, face-down, on the bed.
The strange pelts were surprisingly pleasant to the touch, the supple softness of the fur like a caress against his skin. Zaknafein couldn’t help wriggling a little in pure sensual delight and his cock approved, so then he had to squirm some more to get comfortable.
“Unhealthy, is it?” The soft laughter, interspersed with the rustle of clothing, stilled abruptly on an indrawn breath. “The bitch,” Jarlaxle said, quietly but with so much intensity Zaknafein remembered why he hadn’t wanted to undress for this in the first place. He’d almost managed to forget about the whole mess and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it. But Jarlaxle said nothing else, for a mercy, only stared at his back for some time, then left him, by the sounds of it to rummage through something made of glass.
Between the liquor and the obscenely comfortable bed Zaknafein had almost faded out by the time Jarlaxle returned. Glass clinked again, the sound accompanied by a waft of scent, unfamiliar and sharp but not entirely unpleasant. He shifted groggily when nudged, giving Jarlaxle room to sit besides him on the bed, feeling vaguely curious but disinclined to investigate… until Jarlaxle’s hands blazed sudden shocking trails over his back. “What are you doing?” he wailed, gritting his teeth against the sensation.
“Mending your ungrateful hide, that’s what.”
“Vith’ir, shebali. It makes no matter to me.”
“I am not doing it for you. It offends me to look at.”
“Then why be grateful?”
Insistent fingers tangled in his hair, turning his head to the side, and his mouth was licked open. He panted into a kiss that never came - soft lips only touched his briefly, gone before he could capture them, and he opened his eyes to see them curve in a smile. He started to swear but Jarlaxle’s tongue traced a delicate line over his neck, then skimmed along the edge of his ear, following its curve to the point and back. “Shut up, Zaknafein.” The words came in a low whisper and the breath they were carried on ghosted over his skin, making him shiver, making anticipation coil within.
He gave in to the hands guiding him and let his head be pushed down again, lulled further into compliance by an absolute cessation of pain. It hadn’t been difficult to ignore – pain, like cold or heat or bright light, became no more than an irritant once you’d trained yourself to it – but now that it was gone he realized how really wearing its constant presence had been and couldn’t help a soft contented sigh.
The fingers still playing with his hair paused momentarily, then resumed. “Better?”
“Yes,” he admitted, muffled.
“I thought she liked to heal you clean.”
Zaknafein jerked his head away from the petting hand. “Not this time.” He breathed in deep, staving off hatred and anger and something darker, harder to name that threatened to wake and start clawing at his soul. “Will you get on with it?”
“Zaknafein – ”
“I do not want to talk.”
In the long silence that followed he could feel Jarlaxle’s eyes on him, watching him, but did nothing to acknowledge it. Finally Jarlaxle leaned forward and over him and Zaknafein thought he was going to be kissed, or at least taunted with the promise of it again. “Asanque,” Jarlaxle said lightly and, without touching him, rose to his feet.
It sounded like he started to sort through some vials again, bent over a small carved table flanking the bed. Annoyed, Zaknafein lifted his head and got a spectacular view of a backside limned by magelight. For one of his self-indulgent nature, Jarlaxle was actually in far better shape than he would ever have guessed. His muscles weren’t sculpted – he was too lean for that, almost whip-cord thin – but there was a wiry strength to them and the overall impression was not at all of softness or fragility. Naked, he looked fit and… pared down to the essentials, like a weapon crafted with no frills.
For a moment Zaknafein struggled with this shift of perception, then gave up on it. It didn’t much matter. Jarlaxle was entitled to whatever disguises suited him… as long as he stopped mucking about.
Sitting up seemed like entirely too much effort, so instead he sidled toward the edge of the bed, groping through the jumble of clothing, armor and weapons on the floor until he found a sword-hilt. He managed to pull the sword out of its sheath without moving, and for immediate gratification the length of it was just enough to poke one of Jarlaxle’s bare buttocks with the point.
Jarlaxle glared at him over his shoulder. “Ow. Could you kindly find a diversion that does not involve sharp pointy objects and my ass?”
“I offered you mine but you seem far more interested in - ”
“On the contrary. Here.”
Something was tossed in the direction of the bed, gleaming with reflected light before Zaknafein instinctively caught it in one hand as he covered his eyes with the other. “Will you put out that vithen light?”
“No. If you insist we do this, I want to see.”
“You can see perfectly well in the dark.”
“It is not the same.”
Really this was getting weird and weirder by the moment. No longer drunk senseless, Zaknafein was beginning to feel uneasy about… whatever it was that he’d set in motion. He’d wanted a distraction and his wine-sodden wits had come up with the memory of those few times he’d allowed another male to take him. The charge he’d gotten out of it was one of swapped roles, outrageous and therefore exciting. He hadn’t expected some drawn-out, elaborate seduction, although he probably should have known better than to hope Jarlaxle would do anything the normal way. But his mouth had spoken and he got trapped in it by his own don't-back-off-don't-back-down obstinacy, and of course he couldn’t back down now any more than he could then.
So he might as well try and enjoy the ride, he concluded philosophically, and for starters rolled onto his side to examine the vial Jarlaxle had thrown at him - cut-glass, in an unfamiliar, probably Surface pattern. The liquid within was clear, its texture seemingly thick. “What is it?” he asked as he gingerly pulled out the stopper. Another alien scent, complex but more subtle than the astringent stuff used to heal his back.
“Sandalwood oil, with a bit of dreamgrass I think. Maybe clover also.” Jarlaxle took the vial from him, looking smug and insightful, the world’s foremost perfumer. Zaknafein resisted the urge to scream and drum his heels but just barely, and settled for his original prone position so he could hide his face in a display of weary defeat. “What are you asking, then? It’s not as if you could possibly wonder what it’s for.”
“Oh.” He should have know, he supposed, but fancy oils just hadn’t been on his list of priorities. He’d been fine making due with spit or whatever bodily fluids had been at hand. He grinned briefly at the unintended pun before he rose up on his elbows. “Why bother?”
“Because it would hurt too much otherwise.”
“I do not care.”
“I do.”
“It is my ass.”
“Fancy that.” Jarlaxle’s hand smoothed over the curve of the body part in question. “What do you know, it is. And it is far too exquisite to mistreat.”
This was seriously getting out of control. There was, in Jarlaxle’s seemingly normal banter, some undercurrent, well-masked and barely perceptible but there – something Zaknafein’s still-mostly-hazy mind detected but couldn’t quite quality, or perhaps refused to. He’d been arguing out of habit but also, in part, because he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and falling back on the commonplace was… reassuring. “You have absolutely, undeniably lost your vithen wits,” he said, reaching for that reassurance.
Sharp teeth found his shoulder and bit down, abrupt and unexpected. “Shut up, Zaknafein.”
He did, mostly because Jarlaxle’s lips covered his, hot and rough, clever tongue slipping along his own. Arousal spiked in mockery of all his apprehension. The kiss was hard and almost painful with a liberal application of teeth, and by the time it softened into something more like lust and less like a struggle for dominance Zaknafein couldn’t think beyond skin on skin.
Strong hands pressed him down against the bed and he let Jarlaxle spread his thighs and kneel between them, coiling over him, a warm solid presence at his back. Delicate touches trailed over his skin, hands and lips and tongue moving in leisurely circles along his spine, a slow, luxuriant caress that was completely unlike any other in his experience. It made him gasp and shiver as pleasure welled, sweet and liquid, rippling across his senses, and he bucked helplessly, the silky tickle of the furs beneath him an added goad.
The licking and kissing became sucking and biting, a hand wedged itself between him and the bed to grasp his cock, and he heard a soft choking sound and realized he'd made it himself. The strokes were firm but slow, too slow, not giving him the rhythm his body wanted, and Zaknafein had to gnaw on his own fist, needing something, anything, to throttle the small desperate noises escaping his throat.
Once everything stopped all of his nerves shrieked with the loss and he could only writhe for a moment, caught in a tight mesh of anticipation and unfulfilled need. Jarlaxle apparently found his urgency amusing, or at least highly enjoyable because he laughed low against Zaknafein’s back and murmured, “Be patient, Zaknafein,” nothing in his voice except the usual wry humor.
“I will kill you,” Zaknafein promised, his breath harsh and quick in his throat. “Just… not now. Afterwards.”
“Ah. Well, that is a relief, because - ” Jarlaxle broke off to bow over him, a hot rigid length pressing briefly into Zaknafein’s side, “I intend to fuck you senseless.” The whisper slid straight through him like liquor, sending small frissons down his spine.
He was still shivering when a hand, hot and insistent on his hip, urged him upward. He tucked his knees under him and there were fingertips at the slit of his cock as his balls rode in the palm. An oil-slicked finger began to tease at the ring of muscle closing his body. The oil was warm and silken against his flesh. He let his forehead sink against his arms. Tension leapt into his muscles but it didn’t stop the slow, deliberate penetration until the finger found a place inside him that made everything dissolve in an burst of mindless pleasure. And then he was arching his back and rocking shamelessly in time with the finger working in his ass, sliding in and out, and moaning for all he was worth and didn’t care who knew.
Arousal drew taut like a garrote’s wire, and before he completely lost control and came ignominiously just from this, Zaknafein gathered the few shreds of sanity remaining to him and forced his lust-addled mind to form words. “Enough… I cannot… ” His throat was too tight and it sounded like a sob but it must have been heard because the finger inside him stopped moving.
“It’ll still hurt,” Jarlaxle said quietly.
“I want it to hurt!” His body blazed with dizzy understanding of impending gratification that would not be denied and he could think of nothing else to hold it off.
As it was he almost came when the finger pulled out of him. Legs thrust between his own, forcing him to open wider, and a cock-head, hot and hard and slicked with oil, pressed up against his hole. He dug his fingers into the furs, grabbing fistfuls to keep from twisting away when the blunt unyielding heat breached him, stretching him almost unbearably. But the sharp exquisite pain of the penetration went too soon and the oil gentled the friction. The cock slid all the way inside him in one long, continuous, agonizingly smooth stroke, balls brushing delicately against his own, and Zaknafein whimpered in shocked protest as the muscles in his ass clenched and he spilled, untouched, all over the furs and his own taut stomach.
When the shudders at last subsided he sighed, spent and replete, the heady rush of afterglow washing over him. His muscles fluttered with one last sweet residual shock, and in that moment he realized there was a cock in his ass, still hard and buried deep inside. On reflex he tried to pull away, seeking surcease, but his hips were gripped with bruising force and there was a strangled noise, then a warm weight dropped onto his back. “Vith! Do not move.”
Zaknafein stilled, feeling his cheeks flush hot, acute discomfiture drawing a tight band around his chest. “Your precious pelts are ruined,” he muttered, fastening on the mundane.
Teeth nipped at the nape of his neck. “They will get worse.” Jarlaxle’s voice, although a little strained, lost none of its fond amusement. “I am not done with you.” Arms wrapped around him, lifting him until he was upright, then his spread legs were carefully positioned over sinewy thighs. Zaknafein let his head loll against Jarlaxle's shoulder, gasping when Jarlaxle flexed and the length richly throbbing inside him sunk in deeper.
Jarlaxle exhaled a slow breath, licked the sweat from Zaknafein’s throat and, pushing away the strands of hair plastered to his face, kissed him with hot salty lips. “Gods. You are so… fucking… tight.” With a sound not unlike a chuckle and not unlike a moan Jarlaxle withdrew, shifted and rose again, filling him but at a different angle, stroking that sweet place inside. “Hot and tight and… ahh… so… fucking perfect.”
There was more, a sultry litany of obscenities whispered against his sweat-drenched skin between licks and kisses and nips, and all the while warm hands caressed his flanks and Jarlaxle fucked him with slow steady thrusts, each one at that same perfect angle, each one sending a surge of excruciating pleasure through his nerves. He’d long since grown hard again and his cock was begging for a touch but when he would have taken himself in hand Jarlaxle’s fingers curled around his and guided his hand, gently but inexorably, to rest on his thigh. Seduced by the erotic lassitude of willing surrender Zaknafein obeyed and didn’t try to take control anymore.
A curious enervation overtook him as he yielded totally to the cock and mouth and hands that possessed him, both astonished and dismayed by the shattering intensity of his body's response. It knew how to handle pain but the utter intoxication of this much pleasure was entirely unfamiliar and so awfully compelling, he’d been driven past whatever limits he thought he had and could find no room in himself for regret or shame.
Jarlaxle kept him on this knife-edge of ecstasy for a long time, never hurrying, until Zaknafein was at the point of frenzy and shaking with it, and each slow unstoppable invasion forced a ragged cry from him. He missed when Jarlaxle reached the point of no return and knew only that the steady rocking of Jarlaxle’s hips faltered and he was pushed face-down on the bed again. Jarlaxle bent over him and covered him as the rhythm of his thrusts went wild, grunting into Zaknafein’s ear with each one, and then a wave of molten heat spread inside him and Jarlaxle’s body collapsed on top of him with a feverish “Vith!”
His arms gave out under him and he slid down, cheek resting on the wet sticky furs. Eventually the weight heaped atop of him stirred and the spent cock slipped out of him. Hot seed trailed after it, smearing his ass and inner thighs, and the feel of it was almost enough to push him over the edge. Desperate now, Zaknafein squirmed restlessly, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. A hot lithe tongue began to trace its path, licking along his spine, easing slowly downward, into the cleft between his buttocks, lower and deeper and… “Vith! Oh vith…”
It was too much, he couldn’t take it, this liquid heat stabbing into him, once, twice, then a hand closed around his straining cock, stroking rough and sure, in concert with the wicked tongue, and pleasure throbbed through every nerve so hard his stunned, exhausted body couldn’t possibly contain it. His eyes stung and tears ran down his cheeks, hot and ashamed and helplessly excited, and Zaknafein thrust into that flawless grip, gave a lost, wailing cry and came, pouring himself out in long, endless, delirious pulses.
***
It was the smell that woke him. He couldn’t recall slumming in Braeryn, so it was surprising and a little disconcerting how he’d ended up in a back-alley whorehouse. A sour odor of stale drink overlaid with a fragrance of scented oils, and the distinct sharp tang of male sex. He knew a sleazy brothel when he saw one. Or smelt one, as it were. Satin bedclothes, and his body was still languid and heavy, sated in a bone-deep way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Definitely a whorehouse. Definitely a passing good whore. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t all that surprising, what with the amount of liquor he’d poured down his throat. And that was only while he’d been still lucid enough to remember, when Jarlaxle had talked him into drinking in his apartments rather than out.
Ah well, it would come to him eventually, Zaknafein decided, and rolled off the bed. He discovered, as he dressed methodically, wrinkling his nose at the dry blood on his undershirt and his own unambiguous aroma, that he ached all over. Not unpleasantly, although in some places he was not used to…
He remembered it all at once - the long, slow, mind-blowing fucking, the loss of control and the annihilating pleasure, and in the end… Not many memories in Zaknafein’s life could make him blush but there was one.
Well. He’d better stop, he thought wryly, before his cock got really interested. Then again, there was a simple cure for that. All he had to do was imagine returning to the Do’Urden compound, looking like he had not a care in the world and reeking of sex. Malice was sure to appreciate it.
And where in the Abyss was Jarlaxle anyway? He’d have to stop in some bath house, Zaknafein supposed, seeing as how he couldn’t be bothered to blunder through the maze that was the Bregan D’aerthe building looking for a bath. It was exceedingly annoying that Jarlaxle had disappeared like a hopeful lover contemplating a night of passion. Gods, that sounded so absurd, even for a jest. It was probably time to stop reading those ridiculous Surface books, they were playing Hells with his imagery.
But really, there was something off with the rogue lately. Jarlaxle made exasperation into an art form and his fashion sense was a criminal offense but he did have his uses. And besides Zaknafein generally liked having him around, which was more than he could say for just about anyone else.
He’d deal with it sooner rather than later, he resolved. He wouldn’t see Jarlaxle for a while, since Drizzt was due back from his Surface raid soon and that little problem was far more immediate than Jarlaxle’s weird moods. But one of these days he’d catch up with Jarlaxle and sort it all out.
-----------------
Iblith (Drow) - shit
Vith'ir (Drow) - fuck off
Shebali (Drow) - rogue
Asanque (Drow) - as you wish
Vith (Drow) - fuck