Chapter Text
Vaolu’s least favorite part of entertaining is always the waiting, whether he is standing behind a curtain or strapped to a table.
He isn’t technically strapped in, not yet. He hasn’t activated the cuffs yet, and so for now they are just a pleasant pressure around his wrists and ankles. And the restraints are mostly for show, of course; Mr. Tayos says the clients tend to come with certain expectations, and that business does better if their standards are met. Gless says they are all rich, kinky bastards who like seeing people tied up. Vaolu doesn’t care much which is more true. Rich, kinky bastards with expectations pay well .
The Message Stone embedded in one end of the inspection table crackles to life, and Lyseria’s voice comes through. “Are you ready, Vaolu? Mr. Tayos’s next appointment just arrived. They’re hanging up their coats now.” She pauses for a moment. “You read the briefing, right?
“Thanks, just give me a sec”—he takes a moment to say the activation word for the cuffs and his limbs snap into place on the metal surface of the table, held by the magnet—“and there we go. Ready, Lys. And of course I read the briefing. I’m a professional.”
The briefing had been—unusually short. Vaolu was used to a brief blurb for his normal contracts but those didn’t last more than a month, at the upper end. This couple wanted a year, or more. All he knows about them is—
A few people walk into the next room over, audible through the slits in his door.
“Right this way, Misters Widogast,” says Mr. Tayos in his familiar voice.
“You may address me as Shadowhand,” a different voice corrects, “and my husband as Arcanist.”
“Of course,” says Mr. Tayos. “My apologies, Shadowhand, Arcanist.” He shuffles some papers. “Please, would you like to sit?”
As the Shadowhand and the Arcanist sit, Mr. Tayos begins his spiel.
“I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few individuals that may be of particular interest, but I’d like to speak with you first before the showing. To make sure that I know what you are looking for, and that you won’t mistreat my workers. You understand, of course.”
“Indeed,” says the Shadowhand. “And before we proceed, I would like to see your qualifications.” There is a pause, and then he adds, “You understand, of course.”
“Of course, of course! Please, sit. Would either of you like tea?”
“If you would be so kind,” says the Shadowhand. “Caleb?”
“Nein, no, thank you.”
Arcanist Widogast has a rough voice, thick and heavily accented in a way Vaolu does not recognize, and there is some faint rustling as Mr. Tayos starts the tea going and shows them his certifications.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask you some questions and go over the answers that you sent me. Firstly, of course, what brings you to me?”
The couch in the front room creaks before the Shadowhand speaks. “My husband is a rather hungry man, Mr. Tayos, and though we love each other dearly, our… appetites do not always align.”
“Naturally, naturally.”
“We would like a way for him to sate his desires when I am uninterested or unavailable, and after much discussion, we decided that this was the most satisfactory solution.”
“Most commendable,” says Mr. Tayos with his smooth voice. “And I hope to provide someone to meet your needs.”
“Indeed,” said the Shadowhand. “You should have a list of what we are looking for from that questionnaire of yours, do you not?”
If Mr. Tayos is perturbed by the Shadowhand taking control of the conversation, he does not show it in his voice. He is used to his powerful clientele, after all. “I do, Shadowhand. No preference for gender or heritage, looking for an adult of a similar age to your husband who is equally eager to penetrate or be penetrated, long-term position. I am assuming that you possess or can acquire tools to facilitate penetration if they themselves do not naturally possess the equipment?”
“Of course,” says the Shadowhand. “And we would prefer someone with some degree of brains.”
“Ah, but of course. The two of you are intelligent men; it makes sense that you would look for the same in a companion.”
“Please understand, this companion is not for me,” says the Shadowhand, and though Vaolu knows it is pointless to judge on voice alone, he finds himself vaguely disappointed. He has not heard enough from the husband to judge, and aside from some sort of magical competency, he has no idea what the title ‘Arcanist’ signifies.
“I understand,” he says placatingly. Vaolu hears the sound of pen on paper—Mr. Tayos making a note.
There is tea, then, and a little more business talk—the details of the Arcanist’s preferences, of which Vaolu takes careful note, a more thorough vetting by Mr. Tayos, an explanation of how Mr. Tayos shows his wares to clients and the rules. The Shadowhand speaks for most of it, with an occasional interjection from the Arcanist.
Then Mr. Tayos says, “I believe that’s the last of that. Should we start with the viewing, gentlemen?”
“Yes. Let’s.”
Vaolu hears the sound of the door to his viewing room swinging all the way open.
“As I said, I selected a few of those I think are most likely to fit your needs, but if so needed I can always fetch others.”
“Danke, Herr Tayos,” says the Arcanist, and then the two of them step into view for the first time.
The two of them are stunningly beautiful. Though he knows that physical appearance is by no means an indication of character, it does make his job easier, regardless of which is the Shadowhand and which is his husband.
He can guess, though. It’s a game he plays with himself, whenever more than one person comes through. The Shadowhand is the lithe purple elf, dripping in dangerously elegant black cloth and dazzling silver and diamond jewelry, one gloved hand resting on the small of his husband’s back, the other reaching across to rest lightly in his husband’s hand.
The other man—the Arcanist?—is taller, a brilliant red-haired human who is only slightly broader than his husband, and he carries himself like a prince. His eyes are cool and curious, but not cruel, and his clothes are oddly plain next to the finery of the Shadowhand. Well-made and beautiful—Vaolu would guess that the shirt alone costs more than his contract would—but simple.
The Arcanist shrugs out of his black scarf and hands it off to the elf, who folds it over one arm as if he would loathe for anyone else to touch it. The wild red of his braid pops against his turquoise shirt. His forearms are thin and wiry, covered with thick, curling black tattooed lines that both hide and highlight his steel cable tendons.
The human man takes a moment to caress his partner’s cheek, like a child petting a panther, then removes the ring on his own fourth finger with his teeth. The Shadowhand flicks one finger and the ring vanishes, and then the man turns to Vaolu.
He snaps on the thin black gloves Mr. Tayos requires all of his clients to wear when touching them, but he makes them handsome. His fingers are long and square, and with the tattoos on his arms it almost looks like the gloves are a part of him.
“Well,” says the Arcanist. “What is your name?”
“This is Vaolu,” begins Mr. Tayos, but the Arcanist interrupts before he can get into his sales pitch.
“I asked him.”
Vaolu shivers under the weight of the Arcanist’s attention raking up and down his naked body. “Yes, my name is Vaolu.”
“Hm.” He steps up to the end of the table where Vaolu’s head is, and the Shadowhand mirrors him on the other side.
“Good to meet you, Vaolu,” says the Shadowhand as the Arcanist places a warm hand on Vaolu’s cheek, twisting his head from side to side. “I am Shadowhand Essek Thelyss Widogast, and this is my husband, Arcanist Caleb Widogast.” He was right, then; Vaolu loves it when he's right. The Arcanist runs one finger along Vaolu’s face, hooks it in the corner of his mouth and presses the inside of his cheek, impersonal and inquisitive. “I assume you heard most, if not all, of our conversation with Mr. Tayos?” he continues, uninterrupted by his husband’s movements.
“Kood to ‘eet you too,” he says around the finger in his mouth. “Yes, I did.” With his other hand, the Arcanist presses Vaolu’s jaw open, runs his finger along his teeth, prodding in a few places. He withdraws, and Vaolu almost closes his mouth again, but then the Arcanist slides two fingers up his tongue, all the way to the back of his mouth. Vaolu breathes steadily around them.
“Thank you for your honesty.”
The fingers pull away, rubbing most of the spit off against the lower ridge of Vaolu’s teeth, and he swallows.
The Shadowhand continues speaking as his husband prods at Vaolu. “You may call me by my title or by sir; my husband may be addressed by name, or title if you must. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. First or last name, sir?”
The hand rubs his cheek approvingly with the back of a knuckle, trails around the pointed, half-elven tip of one ear, and skims across the three studs in his lobe. Then the Arcanist moves to the top of the table. Two hands—one still damp with Vaolu’s spit—begin gently pressing up and down Vaolu’s neck, rocking his head back and forth experimentally.
“Either is fine.”
It has been a long time since Vaolu took on his contract with Mr. Tayos, and even longer since he began this line of work. His cock stirring under the impersonal treatment is no longer embarrassing, and he can simply enjoy the process. The two of them are methodical in a way Vaolu rarely sees in potential clients, neither leering nor disinterested; they are simply taking him apart slowly, curiously. Inspecting.
“Tell me, Vaolu, where do you hail from?”
The Arcanist—Caleb—runs the two fingers that were in Vaolu’s mouth along the sides of one collar bone, then the other, almost like he is trying to spread Vaolu’s skin apart. His hands are warm, even through the gloves that cling to Vaolu’s skin.
“My mother comes from Syngorn, Shadowhand, and I never much knew my father.” His legs are tingling. "I've been in Emon since I was, oh, twelve or so."
“Hm,” says the Shadowhand. “I believe I keep correspondence with an acquaintance in Syngorn, actually. Do you remember me telling you about Emuvren Ithaen, Caleb?”
Caleb moves on to Vaolu’s chest, taking a few steps down along the table. He runs his fingers down Vaolu’s smooth chest, short fingernails leaving faint, tingling trails down his solar plexus even through the gloves. “Ja, I do,” he says, the first time he had spoken since asking Vaolu’s name and telling Mr. Tayos off. “She was the one working with the generation of Narsian Cyphers?” His voice is not as smooth as the Shadowhand’s, but it is beautiful in a different way. He lays the back of the fingers of one hand across Vaolu’s throat and continues his ministrations with the other.
“Yes, her. Do you study magic, Vaolu?”
The Arcanist tweaks one nipple, suddenly, and Vaolu stifles a gasp of surprise.
“Arcanist, please,” says Mr. Tayos from the sidelines, and Caleb chuckles.
“My apologies.”
He keeps one hand on Vaolu’s throat, not pressing, barely letting any of the weight rest on his neck. Almost as though he is checking Vaolu’s temperature, and gives Vaolu’s chest a small, apologetic pat with the other.
“I’m afraid I never had the opportunity to formally study any magic, sir, but I’ve—I’ve always been interested.” He squirms, his unpinched nipple whispering for the touch of warm fingers.
He imagines Caleb can feel the vibrations of his voice. When he finishes speaking, Caleb lifts the hand away, leaving his skin a little chilled.
“Is there a problem?” the Shadowhand asks with one raised eyebrow and a small smile on his lips.
“My other nipple, sir,” he says. “Can he…?”
The Shadowhand’s other eyebrow raises, and the smile grows slightly. Out of his line of sight, the Arcanist laughs a moment later, and says something that Vaolu does not understand. Eekab een gehn, or something like it.
The Shadowhand rests one gloved finger just below his lower lip, still smiling. “I thought you would.” He ghosts his hand over Vaolu’s cheek, not quite touching, an echo of Caleb’s warm hands just moments previously. “No, he can’t, barushk.” His hand chucks under Vaolu’s chin, and then returns to rest below his perpetual smile.
The touch of the velvet burns on his skin.
“Any informal study, then?”
Caleb’s hands slide down Vaolu’s shoulders, between him and the table. Vaolu arches his back as much as he can to facilitate it, but there is only so much he can do with his wrists secured to the table and no leverage. Caleb turns to Mr. Tayos, who flicks a wand and his wrists aren’t stuck to the table anymore.
“There’s a lot of sitting and waiting in this line of work." Arcanist removes his hand from under his shoulders and starts manipulating one of his arms with deft fingers, twisting and lifting it. “I spend some of my free time reading.”
“Anything interesting?”
The Arcanist presses one hand against Vaolu’s, comparing the size. Even while keeping his eyes on the Shadowhand, he can feel that, though Vaolu’s fingers are broader, Caleb’s are longer, long enough that he can bend the tips of his fingers over the top of Vaolu’s.
“Right now, I am reading Third Dance of the Moon by— hmm —Elizanete Goltona, and I recently finished Children of the Future by Sovetihr.”
Caleb makes a delighted noise, and lays Vaolu’s arm down gently. "'The night before Ouret Syline died, she dreamed of drowning,' ja. Did you figure out the killer?”
He and the Shadowhand swap places elegantly and without words, like it is part of a dance, and Caleb lifts Vaolu’s other arm, turning it slowly in its socket.
“Almost,” he says, and one hand skims down Vaolu’s arm. It pauses and wraps all the way around his wrist until the thumb and the tip of one finger touch, and squeezes.
Vaolu pauses, trying to catch his thoughts as they run around inside the circle of the Arcanist’s fingers, and the Shadowhand taps the table next to his face twice, startling him.
“Aren’t you going to answer him properly?”
He exhales shakily, feeling like his heart is going to shake out of his skin. He is doing his best to ignore his dick, which has hardened considerably throughout the interview. “I—ah—I had it narrowed down to either Zee or—or the gardener’s daughter by the end. Um, Marise.”
“Mmm, ja, that was tricky.” He pulls away until only the tip of his middle finger remains touching Vaolu’s skin, and then trails it down Vaolu’s arm and up to his shoulder, slow and methodical and maddening.
The Shadowhand chuckles. “Don’t be modest, darling. How many pages did it take you to figure it out?”
Caleb grins and drags a finger along Vaolu’s rib cage, letting his finger press down in between each bump. “Fifty-six,” he says.
The book had taken him almost two weeks to finish, reading aloud with Gless in their shared room.
The Arcanist spreads his entire hand across Vaolu’s stomach, careful to place it above the head of his cock. The black glove is vivid against the fawn-leg glow of Vaolu’s skin. He presses down a few times, experimentally, watching the way Vaolu’s skin flexes and moves, how his cock bounces gently against his stomach, and makes a pleased noise, then steps away.
Gods.
The Shadowhand walks down the table, trailing a finger along the edge. He examines the tip of his finger and rubs it against his thumb, as if to remove dust or dirt, though Vaolu knows that the wheeled table carts are kept meticulously clean. He cleans his tables himself, before and after every viewing.
The Shadowhand moves his hands in elegant, precise movements, like a conductor directing a symphony, and Vaolu’s hips suddenly lurch into the air and towards the edge of the cart.
He moves before the cuffs do, and so they catch his arms at an odd angle as he is pulled towards the Shadowhand and Caleb. For a moment, they push uncomfortably on his joints until the magic jumps to attention, and they skitter down the length of the table. Mr. Tayos takes a step forward—as if he would do anything—but the Shadowhand merely waves him off.
“Do not worry,” he says. “We remember the rules.”
Damn the rules. Vaolu is fully hard now, his hips propped up by nothing at the perfect angle for the Arcanist to look down, and he wants something— anything— that they will give him. A hand, a mouth —oh, a mouth, Caleb’s mouth—anything more than what he gets, which is Caleb’s gloved thumbs pressing into the top of his hip bones, his gloved fingers methodically kneading at his ass.
“He’s big,” says the Shadowhand, so quiet that Vaolu can hardly hear him. His hands rest on Caleb’s elbows, his chin on Caleb’s shoulder. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The Arcanist’s breath catches, and Vaolu bites down on his lips to keep himself from moaning.
“Yes, I thought so. And you. Would you like that, jivvin’bol?” Essek taps Vaolu’s knee.
He can feel every part of his body in acute detail, from the hairs on his chin to the backs of his knees to the rough, stuttering slide of the gloves from his hips down along the outside of his thighs before dropping away entirely.
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
There is a small pot of lube installed at the bottom corner of each table, and Vaolu can hear the sound of the Arcanist dipping his fingers in.
In the time it takes his fingers to start circling Vaolu’s ass, the Arcanist seems to have regained some composure, but what he regained Vaolu more than makes up for in desperation. He tries to wiggle down onto Caleb’s finger but only succeeds in making it pull away, his hips held firmly in place. He cups Vaolu’s ass in the other hand and gives it a warning squeeze.
He can feel Mr. Tayos’s attentive stare, watching out for his safety, but Vaolu couldn’t care less. His hands curl into fists involuntarily and he clenches down, trying to entice the Arcanist to give him something.
“Do you need anything, sweet?”
An unexpected wave of resistance wells up within him at the thought of admitting to anything. His body he cannot control, but his mind, he still has some handle on. “No, I’m fine,” he says.
Caleb and the Shadowhand both laugh. “Very well,” says the Shadowhand, and Vaolu can hear the smile in his voice. “We’ll just have to move on to the next candidate, then.” Both of Caleb’s hands pull away entirely.
“No,” he gasps, more urgently. “Please, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please—put your finger in me, let him put his finger in me, please, sir.”
“Mmm, what do you think?” The Shadowhand gently smoothes a loose strand of Caleb’s hair back into his braid, twirling it between his fingers. “Would you like to see how well he could take you?” He places his hand on the Arcanist’s chest, running one finger gently across the collar of his turquoise shirt. “I will admit, I am curious.” He turns his face down to make eye contact with Vaolu, one eyebrow raised conspiratorially.
“Me too,” says Caleb, and he kisses the Shadowhand’s cheek, dark eyes surveying Vaolu’s body like a prize. His eyeliner is smudged slightly.
The combination of their eyes on him and Caleb’s finger running lightly along the rim of Vaolu’s asshole is too much, and his eyes flutter closed as he groans.
The Arcanist flicks one of his balls, the one on the same side as his pinched nipple. “Eyes open, bunny. Look at us.”
When he opens his eyes, the Arcanist’s finger slips inside him, probing and gentle and slick and warm.
Vaolu squirms on Caleb’s finger, doing his best to stay still and failing. Not much longer, another finger joins the first, scissoring his already opened hole inquisitively. Vaolu feels his hips cant even further up as the Shadowhand manipulates him easily so that he and his husband can peer inside of him.
“What do you think?” he hears the Shadowhand murmur. “Could he take you?”
“I think so,” responds the Arcanist. “I think a little further testing is required.”
He slides another finger inside Vaolu, feeling around, investigating and exploring, and Vaolu sighs with satisfaction.
Then one of the fingers nudges his prostate and Vaolu jumps and yells, his hips bucking uselessly against the Shadowhand’s magic.
“Oops,” chuckles the Arcanist. “My apologies, Herr Tayos.”
He swirls his fingers a few more times inside of him, then presses down on his prostate again. This time Vaolu is somewhat prepared, and he merely pants and whines. “Please, Arcan —hah!— Arcanist, Caleb, please, please.”
“Can you come like this?” the Shadowhand asks curiously, tracing patterns onto the top of Vaolu’s foot with his velvet glove. He sounds wholly unaffected, and somewhere, his memory records a note to try and get him worked up, before remembering that he is to be Caleb’s toy and that it isn’t even a done deal. There are at least two others for them to inspect, unless they decide that none of the ones Mr. Tayos selected are up to their standards.
“I hhh have, before, but not—not often, sir.”
“Hm.” The Shadowhand sounds pleased, as though he is also making a mental note. “Well. Then out of respect for Mr. Tayos’s precious rules, we should perhaps continue with the interview.” Caleb’s fingers press down once more, teasingly, before pulling out of Vaolu’s ass with a wet sound.
He almost doesn’t catch the Shadowhand’s next question, lost in the waves of desire and need.
“Come again, Shadowhand?”
He chuckles. “No, not even once.”
“It’s against our dear Herr Tayos’s rules,” says the Arcanist as he massages Vaolu’s thighs.
“Quite right,” says Mr. Tayos from his sidelines. The two of them ignore him.
“I said, do you have any particular limits? Anything you don’t—or do—enjoy?”
He exhales slowly, trying to convince his breath to steady, his heartbeat to slow, and his dick to soften. “Um. No blood, shit, piss, that sort of—of thing.” He blinks a few times, trying to settle his thoughts. “No knives, bone breaking, serious injuries, you know.”
Caleb’s hands alternated between drumming softly on the bottom of his thighs, tracing patterns in his skin, and gently kneading his skin.
“And company policy forbids body modifications without my approval,” adds Mr. Tayos.
“We read the agreement,” the Shadowhand says mildly, but his voice has a sting to it, quiet and discreet. “Now, beautiful, keep going.”
“Don’t leave me alone too long,” he says, starting to relax into the touch. It’s not un erotic, exactly, but the combination of the topic and the slow, soft touches is slowly bringing him down from the edge.
“Don’t call me ugly or stupid, or degrade my appearance.”
“We would never,” murmurs the Shadowhand.
He traces something just above the surface of Vaolu’s skin, and his hips gently sink down to the table. It feels like something is softly gripping his entire upper body and tugging so his legs can straighten.
Vaolu hums in contentment. His heart is still racing, but the desperation and need are bleeding away to reveal a warm, comfortable desire coiling in his gut and where Caleb’s gloves are touching his skin, rubbing up and down the ridge of his shins.
“I usually have at least a day a week to myself, to rest and recuperate.”
“That sounds reasonable,” the Shadowhand says softly. “One day to keep your toy in top working order. What do you think, d’anthe?”
“I suppose I can satisfy myself one day,” says Caleb, and Vaolu can hear a smile in his voice.
“And don’t forget, you’ll have me,” says the Shadowhand.
“Of course, love.” It’s quiet, and not meant for Vaolu’s ears, but he can still see and hear them kiss sweetly afterward. It is not the passionate, reckless kiss of new lovers, nor the reluctant peck of begrudging spouses, but the comfortable embrace of devoted, attentive partners.
The Shadowhand brushes Caleb’s cheek and then turns back to Vaolu. “Is there a day you are used to being left alone?”
“It’s usually been Conthsen, but I’m open to negotiation.”
“Of course.”
Caleb turns again towards Mr. Tayos, and Vaolu feels the cuffs around his ankles disengage. “Anything you do like?” the Shadowhand asks.
Caleb rotates one foot slowly, then pushes, bending his knee.
“I want to be good for you,” he says. “A good pet, or toy, or slut, or whatever you need—I like making you feel good. Giving, receiving. I usually like men, but I don’t mind if you weren’t born with a cock. I like getting marked. I love being tied up and edged.” His leg, which Caleb had been pushing the entire time, bumps up against his chest, and Vaolu’s breath leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale. His cock had softened, but it stiffens when his leg brushes it, like a dog waking when it hears its name. “I— hhh— I love cockwarming.”
“Hm,” purrs the Shadowhand. “What do you think, ‘chev? Can you imagine him, under your desk and between your legs?”
Caleb is standing close enough now to reach down Vaolu’s body and brush a strand of hair out of his face, close enough for Vaolu to see his glittering eyes. “Oh, Essek, I can imagine it very well.” He presses Vaolu’s leg down just harder and holds it there for a second, then slowly walks the leg back to the end of the table.
“Such a good pet,” the Shadowhand purrs. “Knowing exactly what he wants.”
“Sir,” he says. Gasps, really.
“I bet a good little slut like you does this all the time, hmm? Tell everyone who spreads your legs how to get you off?”
“Yes, yes!” Vaolu’s eyes fall shut and he bares his neck, twisting as much as he can as the Arcanist gently works his other ankle.
“Keep your pretty little head just long enough to beg? A talented whore? You show off so prettily.”
“Yy yes, yes, I’m your talented whore!”
“You mostly do short flings, for parties and vacations, yes?” A warm, velvet-covered hand is suddenly pressed against his cheek, and Vaolu goes rigid, almost smashing the Arcanist’s hand between his heel and the table. He hears the Arcanist chuckle. “Look at me, barushk.”
The Shadowhand’s voice is soft and thrilling, and Vaolu can do nothing but follow that voice wherever it may go.
“Could you give it up? Could you learn to hunger only after our Caleb?” His voice is sweet and haughty, his eyes imperious and amused.
“Please!”
Mr. Tayos clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I understand your desire to have fun, but I really must ask that you stop overhandling him.”
“Ach, Herr Tayos, we are but testing the merchandise.” The material of the Arcanist’s gloves skips and skids across the surface of Vaolu’s ankle as he traces delicate, arching patterns with the square tip of his middle finger. He can just feel the tip of Caleb’s nails through the glove.
“He has been thoroughly tested,” he says sourly. “What say you fine gentlemen to one more minute with Vaolu here, and then we move on to the next?”
No, no, no, surges through Vaolu’s mind, like the beat of a whirling reel, begging him to dance along. He wants their cock in his mouth, their fingers in his ass, their eyes lingering so sweetly on his body—
The Shadowhand sighs and flicks the hoop in Vaolu’s right ear. “Very well, I suppose.”
“And remember, gentlemen, the rules—”
“Ja, ja, the rules.” The Arcanist lowers his voice, sotto voce. “None of the three of us are allowed to come,” he stage whispers, and wraps his two hands around Vaolu’s ankle. “Yet, at least,” and then he slides his hands all the way up Vaolu’s leg until the loop of his fingers breaks around his thigh.
The Shadowhand gently, so gently, snags the tip of his smallest finger on Vaolu’s earring and leans in close enough that Vaolu can smell the tea on his breath, light and minty, puffing gently across his cheek. An educated guess on the taste of his lips, his tongue pressing down on Vaolu’s. “You heard him, Vaolu. One minute. Do you think you could persuade us to ignore the rules for you in one minute?”
The Shadowhand pulls away, resting his hand lightly just below the junction of neck and chest.
“Forty-three seconds left, beautiful.” The Arcanist skims his fingers down Vaolu’s leg before catching them around Vaolu’s ankle again.
“Better not waste any time.”
He lifts his hand just barely, letting it rest above his skin.
For a moment, Vaolu feels like he cannot breathe.
“Please, sir, touch me, let him finger me, gods, let him play with my tits, let me suck you off, I can be good for you.” He arches his back until the hand is touching his chest again, and the Shadowhand presses down tantalizingly, like an honor.
“Keep going.” And he lifts his hand again.
“I can be so, so good for you. I’ll fuck him while you watch, I’ll be your beautiful little pet, so obedient, Shadowhand, sir. Let me be whatever you want, please, please, I’ll— fuck— I’ll be your whore, just for you, Caleb, please, ple aaa se—” His eyes are darting wildly between them, first the Shadowhand, then the Arcanist.
Again, the glove against his chest, the approving rub, the electric charge absence. “Again.”
“Fuck, Sir, fuck, let me—please, fuck me, Sir, Sir, touch m e, ah!” His thigh is touching his stomach now, held in place by warm hands, and he slips against the smooth, warm metal table, losing his leverage and getting further and further from the Shadowhand’s touch.
“Good gods,” says Mr. Tayos, distantly. “Pull yourself together.” He sounds scandalized, and somewhere Vaolu wonders at the power of the two beautiful strangers, and then the Shadowhand speaks again.
“You can do better than that, my pet.”
“Fuck me, touch me, plea—! Ah! Take me, Sir, please, fuck, I’m yours, please, please, make me yours, Caleb, Caleb, Sir, ple ase!” His begging devolves into a primal wail, infused with the shadows of Caleb, of please, of Sir. He begs with every inch of his body, now.
“It’s been a minute.”
“Only fifty-four seconds,” says Caleb, and the Shadowhand presses down on his chest with just the tips of his fingers.
“Six seconds,” he murmurs.
There is nothing Vaolu could say in six seconds that he hasn’t said already. There is nothing he can do but writhe on the table. Nothing but keen wordlessly. Nothing but make the cart shudder beneath him. Nothing but sob brokenly, so close to rapture, with Caleb’s hand pressing his leg into his chest.
“Caleb!” he cries, just as the pressure on his leg releases.
“Time,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetling.”
Vaolu sobs once, a mangled sound from deep within him, and bites down on the next sound almost hard enough to bleed.
He feels like an aborted spell, shaking with energy and desire, he wants those hands to close the loop and execute the magic. He needs the tremor in his chest, the inferno burning in his stomach to be released. He is shaking with lust, spasming like a fish on the smooth surface of the display table, but he cannot stop.
Vaolu feels the presence of the Shadowhand’s hand ghosting over his cheek like distant lightning. “Please, please,” he says, staring into the Shadowhand’s eyes like it might save him.
There is nothing else he can say.
“Oh, my darling pet,” the Shadowhand whispers. “I am truly sorry.”
He brushes his own lip with one dark-gloved hand, and then the voice continues, though his mouth does not move.
So brilliant. Do what you must, barushk, and I will speak to you in one hour. Do you think you can come for me then?
He shudders, tries to settle his jerking hips, and nods slightly, shapes his lips around the word yes.
The Shadowhand smiles down at him, indulgent, like a gardener at a prize flower, and glides toward his husband.
The Arcanist strips off his gloves efficiently, tucking one neatly inside the other, and tucks them away.
They turn to look down at him, radiant, magnetic. The Arcanist swipes his bare thumb along the arch of his foot, pressing just hard enough that the touch seems to burn, and then they are gone, sweeping away towards an irate Mr. Tayos.
The Shadowhand turns just slightly as they move into the next room, so that Vaolu can see him mouth, “soon,” and then the lights flicker into a comfortable dimness, and he is alone.