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“The Dowayne has summoned you,” the child says to Clint. She’s young, still an acolyte; her coloring is well within the canon of the House, and her smile is broad. “Bet you’d like to know about what.”
Clint allows the little flirt; this is how the acolytes learn, and determine eventually whether they desire to serve Naamah or not. “And what can you tell me?” He asks, cheeky, grinning back.
“Nothing!” Her laughter sings to the rafters: joy expressed in the service of Naamah is, in fact, the true meaning of Orchis. “You’ll have to catch me first!”
Clint leaps up from where he’s been re-reading the Trois Milles Joies to chase her. It’s important in Orchis; their canon here is Joy in Laughter and he’s absolutely dedicated to revealing the way Naamah works through happiness. The acolyte gives him a merry chase, but Clint had also been bid on by Eglantine, the house of creativity and acrobatics and tricks, and he manages to execute a lovely swing and dive through the air to tumble her to the floor.
She smiles up at him and he grins, ruffling her hair. “Better tell me now,” he says.
She shakes her head to put her hair back in place and lifts her chin. “I’m not telling you everything,” she says, but then gives in to the joy of a secret shared. “It’s an assignation,” she whispers.
Clint helps her up with a handshake that turns into a tumble; the young acolyte shrieks with joy, hugs him, and then runs off. He composes himself - slightly - and starts towards the Dowayne’s office. He knows he’s well within Orchis canon: tall, neutral coloring, easy smile, broad shoulders and arms he’s received offers of marriage over — but any Servant of Naamah knows the nerves that whisk through one when an assignation is presented by a Dowayne. That means he’s been chosen to represent his House, and that’s an honor enough to sober Clint somewhat, even though his naturally upbeat heart is beating with excitement..
His Dowayne is Mernier nó Orchis, an older man whose laugh lines have solidified in his face into the texture of a life well-lived and a goddess well-served. Mernier’s Second is Attica nó Orchis, the adept who’d taken Clint under her wing when he’d fled to the mercy of Naamah’s Servants rather than follow his brother Barney into a life of crime. He knows them both, well, and they him.
“Do sit,” Mernier says, and Clint sinks happily into the chair across from his Dowayne. It’s excessively comfortable, because everything Orchis does is designed to produce happiness, and Clint’s well used to it at this point. He settles into the chair and grins at Mernier, giving Attica a saucy wink that makes her giggle.
“We would like to offer you an assignation.” Mernier is old, grey hair kept neat and a bit long, his eyes still that bold bright green-blue-grey mix Clint knows is similar to his own. “We have been approached to perform a very important Showing, as part of an entourage, and after reviewing the contract, Attica and I think you are the best fit.”
Clint finds himself blushing at the praise. “I do but worship Naamah,” he murmurs, because it’s true. After losing his parents and being utterly betrayed by his brother, it was Naamah who took him in: Naamah, the D’Angeline goddess of love and lust alike, whose Servants sing a million notes in praise of her. It was in Naamah that Clint managed to put aside his anger and hurt, and learnt to find joy, and then learnt to give joy, the best of Naamah’s gifts.
“Clint,” Attica said, leaning forward. “Clinton Francis nó Orchis de Barton. You have served Naamah with the best of us, always delighting in the happiness her service brings to you and your patrons. Please, do not disparage the work you have done for your House, nor the blessing she has given you.”
Clint ducks his head further. No matter how many times his fellow adepts and patrons praise him, it always lands in this strange space inside him, the place in his soul where he offers things to Naamah and awaits her words. “Tell me about it,” he says, instead.
“I cannot share all the details,” says Mernier, “but I can tell you this. This particular Showing is for a very important coming-of-age, and the young member of the Families wishes to understand the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, the Thirteen Houses.” Clint nods; that is what they are called, now, this collection of Naamah’s servants who serve her in the oldest way, who strive to bring the Houses to their greatest glory. “The Dowaynes have met, and have partnered Houses together in ways we feel will be pleasing to the individual hosting the Showing.”
“All of her faces are pleasing to me,” Clint says. It isn’t a lie; he can feel Naamah’s blessing within him, that golden tide that gives his baser instincts a holy purpose.
“A male from Orchis is to be paired with a male from Jasmine House,” Attica says, with a broad smile. “We feel that you are the best adept we have to show the joys of Orchis and how they can burn brightly against - well, with - Jasmine.”
Clint blinks. Jasmine. Jasmine House is dedicated entirely to the sensuality of the art, that heady and overwhelming feeling of love and lust that infuses every Servant of Naamah. Where Orchis works to find the joy in the act, Jasmine’s canon is For Pleasure’s Sake, and Naamah knows those adepts drip with her grace, dark hair and eyes and a sensuality of movement that can’t be learnt or taught, is only given. The adepts of Jasmine walk in Naamah’s pleasure in a way that sways their hips, tastes their lips, flows through their hair.
“I accept,” Clint says, and he hopes his voice isn’t shaking with anticipation and desire like the rest of him is.
“Good,” Attica croons, and Mernier laughs in utter joy.
———
Clint learns precious few facts about this assignation: that they’ve requested a Showing featuring all of the Houses - including Valerian and Mandrake, where the darker pleasures lie - and that specific pairings have been decided upon by the Dowaynes in concert, a master plan for some sort of educational experience. Clint knows enough to know that this must be for some member of the royal family, or some other scion of importance coming of age; it’s just, other Showings don’t have this level of drama, or import, attached.
There are to be no guidelines. A Showing usually follows some sort of script: a man and woman displaying the oral act of the languisement before engaging in intercourse is traditional, for example, but this Showing will have none. The adepts are not to meet beforehand, and there are no requests or guidelines beyond the simple sharing of Naamah’s grace.
Clint was meant for Orchis House because once he learnt its real meaning, the act of sex has always filled him with a joy he can’t name: the happiness in pleasuring his partner; the absolute worship of another human being; the stumbling, laughing way two people can come together that adds the realism and tenderness of the real world into such a sacred act. He feels a little odd, as if there’s a weight on him that might stifle his laugh, or interrupt the enjoyment he bestows on his patrons. He decides to visit Naamah’s Temple.
He does not buy a dove; it isn’t a reinitiation he feels he needs. He’s as dedicated to Naamah as he always has been, her grace and love healing wounds he hadn’t recognized. It was through Naamah’s service that Clint had realized the sacred tenet of Blessed Elua - Love as thou wilt - also had a darker side: that he didn’t have to love the people who had betrayed him, and that he could choose whether or not he loved Barney, for leaving him. It was that point, where Clint realized love as thou wilt also included as thou wilt, giving him a choice, that he had affirmed his decision to enter Naamah’s service.
Instead Clint buys garlands: marigolds, and lilies, and a garland woven of ivy and jasmine that he hopes is a good sign. He brings them all into Naamah’s temple, lays them at the feet of her statue with reverence, and bows his head to send a wordless prayer.
———
The day of the assignation comes, and Clint is busy from the moment the sun rises. He’s taken to a bath by acolytes, who delight in splashing him with water and massaging his skull with their fingers; Clint laughs, and throws water back at them, and does somersaults underwater because he can. Once he has been scrubbed within an inch of his life, he’s dressed in robes. They’re violet - his signature color; Orchis’ signature - and trimmed with gold and silver embroidery such that even an adept his rank has never seen. The robes leave the top of his marque visible, the bit of the twining orchids and arrows that make their way up his spine to the knob at the base of his skull, and Clint shivers; any time his marque is exposed he can feel it, people’s gaze on it, like the erotic trail of fingertips up his spine. Naamah is, in fact, close to him today; he can feel her, sending him comfort, and he thinks he’s been half-hard for hours.
The acolytes can do little with his hair; Clint keeps it short, his only insistence, because if his brother ever comes back he wants Barney to recognize him, recognize how well Clint has done on his own, with the worship and power of a goddess behind him. Otherwise, they press powder into his face to smooth the lines and hide sweat; they give him a crown of orchids, vibrant purples, and he laughs to receive it from their hands and kisses them all for the sheer joy of it.
He is then led to the room where the Showing will take place; the veils are down and he can hear the music of a flautist, and the sounds of a man and woman who are engaging in Naamah’s worship. Clint feels it then: the golden rush of Naamah’s blessing, filling him, and he wants to laugh: it’s ecstatic, it’s joyful, and it’s all around him: the gift of laughter his to give.
Clint waits, his hands nervously working at each other but the rest of him calm, so calm, filled with fizzing happiness like a glass of champagne.
———
Clint is meant to enter first, he finds, and he moves from the shadows out to the round stage for the Showing with a wide smile on his face, utterly happy to be able to serve Naamah in this light. The round stage consists of a single bed, prepared with fresh sheets, and a series of transparent veils that drape round the stage. In the corner there’s an adept with a harp in her lap; she flicks her eyes up at Clint, and he pulls a face at her to make her laugh. Everything here will fall under the aegis of his joy.
Clint sits down on the bed, prepared to wait calmly for his partner, but then the veils part to reveal the other man and his mouth opens in absolute shock.
The man from Jasmine is absolutely the most beautiful thing Clint has ever seen. Sharp cheekbones, an even sharper jawline; his eyes are light, a stone blue that’s teasing the edges of Jasmine canon, but Clint can see why: the man’s lips are swollen, made for sensuality; his gaze is focused in an intense way that makes Clint shiver. He looks like a statue, like someone’s representation of desire, and Clint feels Naamah’s gift rushing through him all at once. He’s suddenly desperately turned on and all he wants is to walk forward and seize the other man’s lower lip with his mouth.
The Jasmine adept walks forward, slowly, and even the way he walks is laced with sex: it’s almost a stalk, brutal, except for the way his hips swing with every step, accentuating a slim waist under broad shoulders. His robe reveals pale skin at his throat and wrists, and Clint suddenly realizes that this is his role; he is the one who gets to unwrap this unlikely gift.
The real peak, however, is the man’s hair: it falls in dark waves down to his shoulderblades, thick and rich and shining, and Clint suddenly is filled with a million beautiful fantasies of that hair trailing across his own skin. He can feel Naamah’s gift blossoming within him, rich and golden, the fuzz of champagne along his skin, pooling in his belly.
He stands up off the bed.
They meet in the middle, and the other man cranes his head upwards to give Clint the kiss of greeting. Clint chuckles, pleased, and bends to bestow it; that, and more besides, because Clint’s buoyantly happy and laughing against the other man’s lips, as he chases them with just the smallest hint of tongue. The Jasmine adept parts his lips, willingly, and the trace of his tongue along Clint’s lower lip - just the very tip, deliberately sensual - has Clint shivering where he stands.
“I’m Clint,” he murmurs, against the other man’s lips.
Those pale eyes - so unusual in Jasmine House, with his dark coloring otherwise - meet his, and Clint feels a shock travel down his spine and settle deep in his loins. “Call me James,” the Jasmine adept says, and both of his hands come up to frame Clint’s face, resting easily along his jaw. “Aren’t you lovely.”
Clint feels himself blushing, cheeks heating up under James’ fingertips. “I was thinking the same about you,” he admits, his voice pitched low. He isn’t exactly sure what sort of show they’re supposed to put on, with no direction, but he’s following his instincts and Naamah’s pull. It’s actually odd for two adepts at a Showing to have never met before, but — Clint can suddenly see the appeal. “You’re certainly a favorite of Naamah’s, aren’t you?”
James laughs; it’s music to Clint’s ears, hearing him laugh so easily, and his own broad bright smile appears before he can stop it. Would he? He’s a true Servant of Naamah, twice-pledged to Orchis, and laughter is sacred to Naamah in these things.
He brings his own hands up to run them through James’ hair: lifting it away from his head, fingers tangled deep within the strands, then letting it cascade away like dark water. “I feel like Naamah’s favorite tonight,” Clint says, teasing, “as she seems to have gifted me with something very much to my liking.”
To his surprise, James blushes; adepts of Jasmine are usually so confident in their own sensuality, and Clint finds it incredibly endearing and charming. “I was thinking something similar,” he murmurs, and he’s now pulling Clint down again. “We may be well-matched.”
Clint descends on James’ mouth. This is a Showing, meant to demonstrate to those coming of age how many different ways there are to worship Blessed Naamah: and Clint intends to show. James’ lips are in fact lovely - soft, sweet, swollen and kissable - and James allows Clint to tilt his head back slightly, using the few inches of height he has to devour James’ mouth. James’ hands slide from Clint’s neck down his torso, so slowly it’s almost agonizing, ending at his waist with a caress that has Clint groaning aloud.
Clint pulls himself away and finds he’s smiling: Naamah has in fact blessed him tonight, blessed them both, and he’s overflowing with grateful joy. In a fit of happiness he presses kisses against James’ face - forehead, nose, sheets - until James gives him that throaty laugh again. They’re both smiling. Joy in Laughter, Clint thinks, as he moves in to nuzzle at James’ neck.
James makes a throaty noise that Clint instantly wants to hear again, and he sets his attention to the lines of James’ neck: licking up the line of this throat, sucking at the angle of the tendon underneath; setting his teeth into the meat where neck meets shoulder, at first gently but then - after that noise gets repeated, louder - with more force, overjoyed at this reaction, nibbling and then licking over the spot to soothe. James’ noises are things of beauty; there is no note of shame, no reluctance, only the voice of someone eagerly turning their arousal over into Naamah’s hands.
And Clint’s hands: he’s pulled James against him, now, and James has a fist in Clint’s hair and a hand on his hip; they’re both hard, pressed against each other from chest to cock, and James is maneuvering his thigh between Clint’s as Clint’s mouth returns to his, hot and hard and full of joy. His hips nudge up and Clint slots them together, feeling James’ breath hitch against him.
“I’ve never been with an adept from Orchis,” James murmurs into his ear before bending to suck beneath it; Clint shudders with the pleasure of it, the light sting of James’s teeth. “I find I’m looking forward to it.” It’s low, seductive, and it does its job; Clint feels himself harden, a sound catching in his throat.
“I’ll be happy to show you,” says Clint. “I mean, literally.” Shit, he’s an idiot. James just laughs charmingly and pulls away for a second, looking Clint up and down.
“May I?” James’s eyes are as dark as his voice and Clint feels incredible at the center of that gaze; he isn’t sure he’s ever felt this sexy in any other patron’s eyes. Jasmine, indeed. Clint smiles, then, overwhelmed with it, and nods.
They wear robes for the Showing: ornate, silky things, embroidered and cared for by the young adepts, meant to feel pleasurable against one’s skin — and be easy to remove. James sets about unwrapping Clint like he’s a gift, slowly and deliberately dragging the edges of the robe over every inch of Clint’s skin, pausing only to press his lips to the skin he uncovers: Clint’s neck, his biceps, even his arm. James licks between his fingers and Clint shudders again, alight and eager. Then James undoes the sash at the waist, letting it pool round Clint’s feet, and drops to his knees as the robs itself slides to the floor.
The sight of James looking up at him, glorious dark hair tumbling over his shoulders, looking not at all delicate even wrapped up in Jasmine’s white and gold: it has Clint panting, desperately, his cock already curving up to his stomach and his skin alight with arousal.
———
Clint doesn’t remember much of that night, except the pain in his jaw and his ribs, the rain, and the frantic notion to run, to flee. He’d tumbled through alleys and paths and found himself on the road of the temples, and had thought frantically: Sanctuary, Blessed Elua, give me sanctuary!
But it hadn’t been Blessed Elua who had answered his call — at least, not directly, The door to the building beside the shrine to Naamah had opened, and a much-younger Attica had looked at him, and Clint had felt —
—he’d felt, for a moment, the spark of something golden and warm inside him, the scent of roses, and the feeling that he did, perhaps, deserve love. Or he could, in fact, earn it.
He’d taken sanctuary in the house of Naamah that night, one of Eisheth’s healers working tenderly over his wounds; he’d poured out the story into the Dowayne’s lap, thick with tears, and had received nothing but love from everyone there: each Priestess of Naamah, from the eldest down to the little ones. Clint had barely known what to do with himself.
The next day he had ventured into the temple to give thanks to Naamah, who had loved him even when his family did not. As young Clint knelt before her statue, that golden spark inside him grew into a warmth that suffused his body, like the kind of hug he had never received until last night, and all he wanted to do in that moment was follow the golden lady anywhere she would deem to take him.
———
James is looking up at him as if Clint’s the thing he’s been looking for all his life, and Clint can feel the gift of Naamah spreading through him, as golden and bright as it was that first day, and he laughs with it, too happy to contain the rush of affection and lust.
He leans down to cup James’ face in his hands, and says quite honestly, “You’re beautiful.” It comes out a breath. Most Showings don’t require conversation, but this particular moment is something different, and Clint doesn’t mind besides. James flushes, and it looks incredibly lovely against his dusky skin. Clint, on his part, is thrilled to see an adept of Jasmine - the house of pleasure itself - blush at his words. “You are,” he breathes, because James deserves to hear it.
James, for his part, leans forward and moves his head to let the long richness of his hair trail along Clint’s phallus. It’s a move from the Trois Milles Joies, yes, and Clint’s felt it before, but for some reason the soft caress of it against his cock is like burning. James tips his head to wrap his long hair round Clint’s cock and then drag it off, slowly, and Clint’s hauling in breath now, deep gasps he’s sure aren’t becoming to a Servant of Naamah, except that everything is acceptable in her presence.
James rocks back on his heels and tips his head back up to meet Clint’s eyes. The arousal is so clearly written across his face and some tiny back corner of Clint’s mind has to admit that the Dowaynes have, in fact, chosen this pairing wisely. He doesn’t remember anyone else he’s ever wanted so much. James’ hands are resting on Clint’s hips, steady and hot, and James murmurs up at him, again: “May I?”
Clint reels to be asked that. Not only just because James is there, absolutely luscious lips and sultry eyes for the taking, but also because he’s just - never - Clint nods, nearly desperately, and James’ eyes flutter shut as he begins the languisement, licking slowly at the head of Clint’s cock, those licks lengthening as James moves down its length. Each movement is deliberate, all angled for arousal perfectly as spelled out in the Trois Milles Joies, and James opens his eyes to look up at Clint as he finally closes his mouth over the tip and sucks. James’ eyes are nearly black, honest in their arousal, and Clint thinks again, desperately, that he’s never been this turned on in his entire life.
James takes him deeper, the suction deepening, his tongue laving against the spot right beneath the head that always makes Clint cry out; this is no different, perhaps worse, the sight of those plush lips wrapped around his length and James’ surprisingly light eyes looking up at him. Clint wants to busy his hands in James’ long hair, not to guide so much as to feel, tangling his fingers into those locks as James bobs his head: he makes an aborted gesture and James smiles up at him, pulls himself off to nod, and Clint’s fingers wind their way into James’ dark hair. It’s absolutely as soft as Clint imagined - what else, for a Servant of Naamah? - and the texture of it is delicious. Clint wonders whether James would like it pulled, but that’s hardly suitable for such a Showing, and some small far-off part of him wonders whether there can be a next time.
Then James is back, swollen mouth swallowing Clint’s cock, cheeks and tongue and throat all working in tandem. Again, Clint has perhaps felt these gestures before, but James somehow escalates them — perhaps by lowering them, bypassing all of the many reasons Naamah laid with others and simply focusing in on the pleasure, the absolute sensuality of it, the raw feelings Jasmine House so specializes in. Clint can already feel the heat building from his bollocks, that white-hot urge to let go, and he knows he needs to stop James at least momentarily. His hands tug at that hair, just in the opposite direction — and James lets out a guttural moan so thick Clint has to physically stop himself from tugging the other man’s mouth back onto his cock.
James leans back, his eyes dragging up Clint’s torso slowly, and when his gaze meets Clint’s it feels like a shock: deep, electrifying, a note striking off of that golden place Clint keeps within himself, and he wildly wonders whether there was more than the Dowaynes’ wills bringing them together tonight. It tastes of Blessed Naamah’s gift in his mouth. Gently, he pulls at James to stand, and then sets himself at plundering the gift of James’ lips. He can taste traces of his own pre-spend, and chases at them, finally tugging at James’ hair to tilt the man’s head backwards so that Clint has the utter advantage.
James lets him, to a point; but then Clint feels the air change around them, a crackle against his skin that’s pure desire, and desire is: James sucking at his bottom lip, then licking at it; James’ tongue tracing behind Clint’s teeth; James nipping gently at his upper lip such that it comes away swollen in the best way. Clint has been trained like all of the best adepts, and he knows his knees will not crumble — but he nearly wants them to, to let James’ heady presence overcome everything.
They part, learning their foreheads together, panting into each others’ mouth.
Clint knows that a Showing with two men paired is expected to display the act of love with the mouth as well as the body. At this point he’d happily play either part, but he doesn’t know whether James has a preference, and - somewhat surprisingly - he finds himself wanting to adjust to James, to serve James as best he can, as only one adept can serve another.
“What do you want?” James murmurs into his mouth, and Clint’s caught in it now: the heady rush of Jasmine’s adept, promising nothing but pleasure, all pleasure, deep and bone-aching and rich. “How would you like?”
“Anything,” Clint gasps, feeling Naamah’s gift building inside him as if James’ words are striking a bell, ringing and shimmering along his nerves. He laughs at it, high and stuttery; his hands are tracing the edges of James’ robe, fingertips dipping just underneath to trace his skin. “How would you have me?”
James exhales sharply and his eyes go even darker. “I would have you every way I could,” he whispers against Clint’s lips, then delicately licks his tongue along the seam of Clint’s mouth. “I would take you to climax, then find my own.” The words aren’t any more vulgar than those in the sacred texts, and yet Clint finds himself shuddering as James speaks these quiet phrases. “I find myself desperate to ride you.”
The image makes Clint’s knees actually buckle, and James gives him a wicked smile. “Yes,” Clint stammers, “yes.” The golden wave bursts inside him, effervescent like bubbles, and a smile breaks out over his face as he’s filled with joy. “Let me see you.”
“Please,” says James, bowing his head.
Clint reaches suddenly shaky hands out to untie James’ robe. He makes no show of it, too eager to get to the skin beneath; the robe puddles on the floor and Clint makes no pretense he isn’t staring. James is broad, muscular through the thighs and chest, touched with dark hair trailing down to his phallus, thick and eager, stained red with want. Clint wants to taste it. Clint wants to taste all of James, spend the entire Showing worshipping that body with lips and tongue. But they are, technically, limited for time, so Clint expresses his appreciation with his eyes, tracing the lines of James’ body.
“To the bed?” James is looking at him as if he’s never wanted anything more and Clint simply nods, taking James’ hands and leading them both to the bed.
———
Servants of Naamah train until they are sixteen, at which point they dedicate themselves to the goddess with a dove.
Clint doesn’t remember how old he was when he came under Naamah’s sanctuary; he does remember that he wanted to serve since the day he was old enough to realize what that service was. She’d saved his poor, beaten body and given warmth to his poor, beaten heart; how could he not want to use both in praise of her as thanks?
He’d initially been surprised that Orchis - the House of joy - had adopted his marque; the only joy in his life at that time had been eating full meals and being able to sleep without fearing Barney’s fists. But the more he’d grown the more he’d realized this was another gift she’d given him.
He knew what it was like to be unloved and unhappy, and he wants the chance to rid all of those dark things from a patron’s mind, even if only for the length of an assignation. He wants to bring joy because no one did for him, until he arrived at Naamah’s door. They’d explained to him time and again that Naamah’s charity was for all loved things, and there was no necessity or expectation for him to pledge himself to her service; they’d told him, but Clint had known that this was the path he was meant to have: turning his once-clumsy hands to the task of bringing forward the smile in desire.
Clint had stood at sixteen with the dove trembling in his cupped hands, staring at the opening at the top of the temple, and feeling nothing but unbridled laughter waiting to burst out as he set the quivering bird free, watching it wing its way to the oculus with a lightness in his chest he’d neve rfelt before..
———
They come together again, pressing themselves together eagerly; Clint can’t help the noise he makes when James presses him down into the soft mattress, kissing him passionately, their cocks sliding against each other in short, abrupt motions that feel amazing despite the clumsiness. Clint lets his hands trace up James’ sides, feeling out the muscle beneath that dusky skin, then runs them down James’ spine to cup his ass in both hands. James makes a noise at this, into Clint’s collarbone, and Clint suddenly and desperately needs to be inside James. Naamah’s spark inside him flares, bright and warm, and he can feel the echo in James’ chest.
“Yes,” James murmurs, and moves off of Clint enough to reach into the stand next to the bed. There are plenty of aide d’amour inside, Clint knows, but he wants this solid, organic feeling of James touching him right now, rather than the heady rush of toys. A small jar of l’onguent is pressed into his hand as James hisses into his ear, “Prepare me. I want to feel you.”
Clint’s just trying not to come against James’ hip, and the words don’t help; he groans, but opens up the small pot, running his fingers through the delicious slick. James settles back into Clint’s lap, then rises up on his knees; it’s like they’re on the same page, Clint thinks desperately, as he tucks his hand between James’ thighs to gently circle a fingertip round his hole.
“You’re already stretched,” Clint gasps, and James chuckles low and sultry as Clint slowly presses a finger inside: oh, Elua, it’s warm, and slick, and tight around his digit, tensing in little shudders; Clint pushes slowly until his finger is all the way inside, knuckles pressed against the skin.
“Of course,” James murmurs in his ear, “but this is a Showing. So show them.”
Clint pulls his finger out, makes a show of spreading the l’onguent around, then gently presses two fingers in. He stops at the first knuckle, reveling in the feel of James’ nether orifice tightening, the rim clutching at his fingers desperately. “Oh,” Clint gasps, finding this delightful. “You are needy, aren’t you.”
Clint slips in slowly, his fingertips dragging along James’ inner walls, chuckling when he finds the texture of the lieu de plaisir and James moans desperately into his mouth, his hips bucking wildly. “Yes,” James says, unable to keep his voice quiet. “More.”
Clint happily obeys, bunching three fingers together and gently rocking them into James: solid, steady movements, and the sounds that punch their way from James’ mouth are beautiful, joyous, a song to Naamah indeed. Clint could stay like this for hours, listening to James just breathe and whine deeply in the back of his throat; for all that he’s been a Servant of Naamah for years, Clint isn’t sure he’s ever experienced this kind of arousal, rushing between two cadets, a fire shared. He wants, the golden-sweet syrup of Naamah’s desire trickling through his every vein; he pauses to crook his fingers into James’ prostate again and gets the loveliest groan he’s ever heard.
He slides his fingers out slowly, then pumps his own cock a few times to ensure it’s slick with l’onguent and ready. “Your turn,” he tells James, like a tease. “Show them.”
The sight of James arching back, dark waves tumbling down his spine, bracing behind himself with a hand on Clint’s thigh as he grasps at Clint’s phallus and lowers himself, slowly and relentlessly, until Clint’s fully sheathed and James is panting, flushed, his face pink and absolutely debauched: it has Clint reeling. Clint can’t breathe; everything is warm and slick, and James is clenching around his cock, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment against the absolute raw desire running in his veins to avoid climaxing.
Eventually, his breathing evens; Clint opens his eyes to find James looking down at him, eyes wide with wonder and dark with arousal, mouth open.
“Elua, you feel…” James trails off, shakes his head, moves his hips a fraction of an inch — a fraction that sends Clint spiraling, heat pooling everywhere, scorched with want. He doesn’t think James is playing at any of an adept’s niceties when he manages to say, “You feel incredible.”
Clint reaches out to grasp at James’ solid hips; they move, together, an instinct deeper than thought, a slow, luscious, dirty rocking motion as Clint thrusts up and James grinds down; it’s deep, continuous, and Clint never slides out more than halfway before James comes down to take him all the way in again, and it’s — it’s dizzying, the way there’s no real stop and start, just the ongoing and neverending roll of hips together as if they were of a single mind in this. Clint can barely breathe, and he’s aware James is a few inches above him panting unevenly, and he can feel every time James clenches around him involuntarily like a burst of golden sparks through his body. Clint feels alive in a way he’s rarely felt before, as if Naamah is speaking her language through the two of them.
James bends down, and his dark waves frame them into a little pocket of privacy where they can catch their breath, looking at each other with eyes wide and pupils blown, a long moment just breathing into each others’ mouths.
“I didn’t,” Clint starts, because no, he didn’t expect anything like this; and James breathes back at him, sounding entirely wrecked already, “Neither did I.”
Clint cranes his neck up to kiss James then, here in the privacy of his shining long hair; a kiss that isn’t for the Showing or for Naamah, but for James alone. James makes a noise in the back of his throat and his hands come up to grab the back of Clint’s head, tilting his face and absolutely drowning him in a wave of molten desire as his lips move with Clint’s as relentlessly as their hips do.
“I’m close,” Clint pants once they separate, because he’s hanging on to everything by a thread.
James smiles, all free and feral in his desire; he truly walks in it like no one Clint has ever met: pleasure seeps from his power into Clint’s skin and he feels gold-touched, tattooed, tainted, as if tomorrow he’ll look in the mirror to find his marque limned with golden scrolling. “That’s the idea,” James tells him, pushing himself upwards to gain control again, his hair tumbling back over his shoulders as he tosses his head.
Truly, Clint has been close to climax since James had first taken him into his mouth, and it seems only breaths later that he’s spending inside James: hands clenching at hips, unable to stop himself from shuddering as it breaks over him, golden and hot and white. It’s the look on James’ face as he watches Clint - eyes wide, his mouth bruised and reddened and open, as if he can’t quite believe it - that has Clint shaking, his heart pounding, every muscle tensed then relaxing into a molten puddle.
“Elua,” James murmurs, bringing his fingers up to carefully trace Clint’s eyebrows, his cheek, his bottom lip; Clint leans into his palm, nuzzling at it, catching his breath. His entire body feels pliant, decadent, humming with the exquisite note of climax along every nerve.
“What would you have?” Clint suddenly needs to see James come apart, desperately; his hands, still weak and lazy, run their way up James’ arms and into that glorious hair, brushing it away from his face, tangling his fingers in the waves. And there’s the rush of joy, bubbling up through him from the base of his spine; Clint feels his face break out in a beaming smile. “Anything. Tell me.”
James slowly shifts his hips so that Clint’s softened cock slips out of him. James’ own member is straining, wet at the tip, so red it must hurt: but James just looks down at Clint as if he isn’t ready to burst, returning the smile somewhat bemusedly. “I would have you,” he murmurs, his face somehow tender and wanton at the same time. “If I may.”
And Elua, the idea of James taking him with that hard and desperate cock, Clint still soft and glowing from orgasm… it’s somehow the most brilliant thing Clint’s ever heard, and he’s read the entire Journey of Naamah. “Yes,” he says, laughter bubbling out of him, bright and fond. His hands cup James’ face - so new, and yet so familiar already - and Clint brings him down to press kisses along his brow. “Yes.”
James looks somewhat surprised, but Jasmine House has had its turn in this bed, and Orchis will be heard. “How do you want me?” Clint asks, smiling up at James, full of the happiness he only feels when he knows he’s going to serve someone, going to make them feel as good as he possibly can. He cranes his neck to murmur “I’m yours” in James’ ear before delicately tracing his tongue round the lobe.
James hums in the back of his throat at that, and one hand comes up to tug in Clint’s hair, gently. “I’d thought of showing them all the poses of the stag,” he murmurs to Clint, in reference to that famous portion of the Trois Milles Joies, “but I find I want to see your face. Like this?”
It makes Clint blush - he’s a trained adept, not some acolyte novice - but then, desire rides James’ words, hot and wanting, and all he can say is, “Yes.”
James shifts somewhat, to find the jar of l’onguent; Clint murmurs, “I was prepared,” because they always do for a Showing, and James just murmurs back, “I know,” as he slicks up his own cock until it’s dripping, looking down at Clint while he moves his hand as if he’s hungry and Clint’s here for James to devour. It’s Clint’s favorite thing, knowing he’ll be the one to bring pleasure to someone; he feels a bit like James has been doing all the work, but James doesn’t look like a man who is interested in further discussion at this point. In fact, his face is ravenous as he leans in, pressing Clint’s thighs outwards to line up the head of his member against Clint’s opening.
“Don’t worry,” James murmurs to Clint as he slowly - slowly - so slowly, Elua, it’s like chapters are being written as Clint’s carefully, inevitably, irrevocably breached; “I’m going to take my time with you.”
“Elua, don’t,” Clint gasps, all of his nerves on fire — still glowing from his climax before, embers being hastily fanned into flame, and the moment he feels the head of James’ cock slide through he clenches, trying to draw James even deeper. The stretch of it, the sting as James inexorably presses in: Clint wants all of it. He plays neither Valerian nor Mandrake, but he’s well aware of how the burn of pain can add spice to the pleasure, and besides, he’s truly ready to watch James fall apart.
“I have to,” James tells him quite honestly, and Clint reaches up to gather the darkfall of James’ hair and pull it over one shoulder for him. “Or I’m not going to last.”
That makes Clint shudder again, and he reaches for James and pulls him in to kiss, lusciously, tugging at his swollen bottom lip and licking across his tongue; James makes this noise like he can’t even help himself and their hips move nearly in tandem and suddenly James is seated fully inside Clint, hot and hard and solid, and James is breathing hard into Clint’s neck as Clint wraps his legs around James’ waist.
“You don’t,” James starts, but Clint grins at him, careening from joy to lust so quickly they’re one and the same, and that’s Naamah’s gift to him, to let him ply so, to pluck those notes on the glorious harp that is a small part of being her Servant.
“I’m flexible,” Clint tells James, further adjusting until his ankles are hooked; James moves with him, involuntarily bottoming out again and making that same noise again, looking down at Clint with his eyes wide. And Clint can feel it, the heady notes of James’ gift rising, twining with his own, ropes and veils tugging and tying them together — and James moves, so slowly, nearly incredulous as he slides back and then in again, so deep, so inside.
Everything’s limned in gold, then, as James lifts his head and bows to gather Clint’s mouth, his hips moving in gentle but unstoppable pistons, his hands braced on either side of Clint’s head; Clint’s hands trace James’ neck, bury themselves in that hair, and pull James to him as if they’re drowning and must share air. He feels gloriously, deliciously full, as if he’s shining, shimmering with this edge that’s almost overstimulation — would be, except that James is relentlessly slow and careful, filling him again and again and even Clint can taste the desperate edge of his arousal but James makes no move to rush any of it.
They’re kissing just as passionately as they had at first; that in itself is a heady feeling, Clint happily taking from James’ lips as they move against his own. It’s irregular, though, as James is breathing hard, and Clint breaks away occasionally to lick at James’ jawbone, to suck at the spot below his ear, just so he can hear James slowly losing all of that composure.
The thought sticks, and Clint tucks his ankles in along James’ spine even more tightly as he murmurs, “Let go, James, we have you.” The we includes both Clint and Naamah, whose presence has never been more obvious and audible, the faint sound in their ears of doves’ wings and the scent of roses; James makes a desperate noise into Clint’s collarbone, and then — he does.
Clint holds on tighter, his hands on James’ shoulderblades, as James starts to uncontrollably thrust, this time with force behind it, his hands clenching into the bedsheets for traction as his hips move again and again and again, filling Clint over and over, a relentless rhythm brushing the edges of his lieu de plaisir just enough to make him whine out a low keening noise. “Yes,” he whispers to James, “this,” and he can’t hold on to James tight enough as the other man moans openly into his neck, sucking at the skin there, then moving to almost clumsily capture Clint’s lips, his thick cock filling Clint again, and again, and—
—James’ pleasure is spiraling, and Clint can feel it, Naamah’s gift in them both rising like waves on the shores of the Three Sisters, and Clint gives over his own pleasure - still wracked with his climax from earlier, balancing the edges of too much, and yet the perfect harmony with James’ own desire as it rises—
—and then James is shouting something into his neck, and coming inside Clint, a hot stuttering wave of ecstasy washing over both of them, weighing them down, settling on their skin like fireflies, like a netting knit of gold, like a soft soothing rain.
Clint can hear the acolyte start to play at the harp again, can feel the gauze curtains falling once again around their bed, can even sense the platform as it spins round to present the other side’s fresh bed for the next stage of the Showing, but James is in his arms - solid, sated, splendid - and Clint shuts his eyes and simply breathes.
——-
Clint remembers his first assignation: he’d had no auction for his virgin-price, having lost that too-young with the company his father kept, but his Dowayne had made it known that he was a dear boy, new to the art if not the act, and had arranged for an assignation with a young lady, a noblewoman looking to explore all of the Houses, as somewhat of a bet. She didn’t mean ill; she’d wanted to experience the full sway of each House on its own merits, and Clint had fallen over himself to give her the laughter and happiness his own House exclaimed. As a first assignation it was little more than eagerness and devotion that won her over, and yet Clint himself had felt something his second time between her thighs, the spiraling of joyful desire he’d always wanted to feel and wanted to give.
There’s naught that has ever come close to the feeling of that first time, clumsy and overflowing with love, and yet this assignation has struck Clint open nearly as hard as that very first one.
——
Clint is very vaguely aware of the acolytes who lead them off of the bed, wrapping them in plush robes and guiding them to recline on long couches, tucking blankets around them and offering water and wine. It isn’t any surprise that he and James end up pressed against each other, after that, and the acolytes glance at each other and titter, but they bring blankets to wrap round the two of them; Clint puts an arm around James and feels James shiver, curling into him. He presses a kiss to James’ brow, an echo of all the kisses they’d shared, and an acolyte approaches them and kneels abeyante with a glass of herbed water they’re expected to drink. Clint does, and then nudges at James until he does as well.
“Would you bathe?” This adept is smiling down at them, noting the contact and the blankets. Naamah’s Servants are always offered a bath after the Showing, and have the option of taking it together or separately. Clint glances down at James, who is looking up at him, and the same smile graces both of their lips as James says, “Yes, we would.”
The bathing chamber here is absolutely grand: the pool requires steps, the water waist-deep, and warm a few degrees beyond a normal tub. Clint wades in, laughing, for the entire surface is covered in bubbles that smell of orchids and jasmine, and he submerges himself entirely; as he stands up, out of the water, he’s treated to the sight of James shedding his robe and walking in himself. Nude, he’s nearly like a statue: chest carved from dusky stone, his softened cock resting in dark curls, thighs thick like marble as he wades in.
James approaches him almost cautiously, but Clint reaches out, and then they’re kissing again: fully nude, pressing against each other so hard it could bruise, their mouths moving against each other; Clint licks into James’ lips and James retaliates by sucking on Clint’s bottom lip until he groans and nips at James’ tongue. Clint’s shaken, deep down, some part of him that’s easily hidden beneath Naamah’s faithful Servant: so this wasn’t, this isn’t just the assignation, the Showing. This is real, this is something, this is a thing Clint’s felt hinted at for years and years but hasn’t ever truly experienced, the joy of Naamah’s gift in someone else resonating and echoing on the same notes as his own.
When he comes back into himself James has both of his hands cupping Clint’s face and he’s looking at Clint as if Elua himself has come back to Terre D’Ange; “You,” James murmurs, and kisses him again — long and draining and passionate and real, the realest thing Clint’s ever felt in his life. “What are you? What is this?”
I love you without knowing you, Clint wants to say, but instead he presses a line of kisses along James’ jaw and says, his voice low, “I don’t know. I don’t care. Let me wash you?”
James grins at him, crooked and beautiful, and ducks his head beneath the water. He comes up dripping, dark tendrils plastered to his chest and his back as he turns to gather soap and sponge. He’s nearly the most beautiful thing Clint has ever seen, and he can’t stop his hands from reaching out to gather the bathing implements from James’ hands, lathering up the folds of the sponge and running suds down James’ chest as he presses the sponge to his pec.
They need no words, really, as Clint trails the sponge across James’ skin, bidding him to turn and stand and duck under the water as needed; and when he hands the sponge over James does the same, the slow intentional movements telling Clint all he needs to know about the worship in James’ palms, the care he takes with all of Clint’s body.
As they stumble from the bath, giggling like acolytes newly from Orchis, Clint wraps James up in a towel and presses a kiss to the center of his forehead, suddenly aching with something similar to want but much more golden. James steps in and Clint kisses him, gladly, as glad as their first kiss of the Showing: possibly more glad.
The acolyte who comes forth is glancing between them, shy but bursting with curiosity, and Clint says on a whim: “Is there a room where we could rest?”
The acolyte ducks her pretty head, but leads them down a hallway of what must be guest rooms and opens the door to one on the end. “My lords,” she whispers, her gaze still averted.
James laughs, and lifts her face with a finger to press a gentle kiss to her brow. “Thank you, my lady.”
Inside the room they find a simple enough bed, a couch and a lounge chair, and a small room off the left corner that must function as the facilities.
“I’m sorry,” Clint says, suddenly embarrassed, “I assumed and didn’t ask—”
James reaches up to hold Clint’s cheek in his palm. “It’s alright,” he says, and then adds, “Clint,” as if Clint ever has a chance of forgetting the way James is saying his name at this moment. “I would sleep, if you would hold me.”
”I would hold you,” Clint whispers, because it feels like the only thing he’s been able to think about in days, and smiles as James takes his hands and leads him to the bed, throwing back the covers.
As they settle themselves - Clint curled round James’ stockier but smaller frame, fingers and legs entwined - James murmurs: “What about the rest?”
The gift that Naamah seems to have presented to them; a door of awakenings, if they choose to open it. Clint has never had an assignation like this, and doubts he ever will again, knowing the feeling of James relaxed against him in his arms. There has been more to this than the Showing, he knows now.
“We face the rest tomorrow,” he murmurs into James’ dark waves. “Together, unless you wake thinking otherwise.”
James somehow shifts his body so that they’re even closer than before and says dreamily, “No, together is okay.”
Clint drifts off to the smell of jasmine, and fresh cotton, and the golden feeling running through his veins and round his glowing, beating heart.