bakerstreet | sexts from whenever

Your body is beautiful.

But to sway one's faith would take kindness and understanding, perhaps... A display of human emotion, just as beautiful as your slender legs, or your tight stomach.

[ ah... hmm... ]

Okay, I understand.

Let's change the scenario, then. I think this 'wife' character is too licentious for what you're looking for.

Um, how about this...

In an ancient time of war and conquest, a warlord's vassals have conquered a village and brought him its most beautiful warrior as tribute. By the customs of their clan, it is expected that the warlord will take this tribute to warm his bed.

Would you like to play the warlord, or the captive warrior?

I imagine I am more suited to play the warlord, in which case, you should have that role.

Very well. So, your village has been razed, your family has been taken prisoner, and here you kneel before me, arms bound behind your back.

All eyes are on me, at this point. It is expected that I will make you mine, in body and spirit, and when your people see how I have subjugated you, they too will fall into line.

"Take him to my tent," I say, and dismiss my generals.

In the privacy of my quarters, however, I seem like a different person. Wary, perhaps, and no less dangerous. But I offer to remove your bindings, and the gag about your lips. Once I have done so as promised, I look at you closely, and study your features.

"What is your name?" I ask.

You are a good deal taller and stronger than me, and you did not see me upon the battlefield in which your village was seized. What do you do?

There is likely a great deal to learn about you simply from your surroundings, so for a moment, I do not answer. It is a common tactic to keep one in the dark for what they want to know, and in any case, without my bindings you have very little hold over me.

Perhaps if I were to bolt and run, you would manifest a weapon from somewhere, thrust it forward and pin my bleeding body to the wall of your quarters. I am not so foolish as to underestimate your ability. However, I doubt you'll do such a thing simply for avoiding to answer a question.

A warrior has pride. I am likely not pleased at the spectacle I was forced to endure. But your private quarters give me little hint about who you are as a person, other than your seemingly wary kindness.

"You do not need a name to have me," I say, and leave it at that.

I may have to warm your bed, beautiful warlord, but I do not have to give more than that. Names have a great power, as you know.

The implication makes me frown a little — makes me turn my face away from your handsome features. "I would not have you in such barbaric fashion as that..." I say, and then trail off.

The tent says very little about me, or what kind of man I am. It has been erected in such fashion as to suggest that my clan has no intention of leaving the area anytime soon, though we could lead more nomadic lifestyles, if so desired. It is simply but tastefully furnished; there is wooden furniture, like a chair and a writing-desk. The bedroll is more of a proper bed. It is possible that I am no fighter but a scholar instead. It is possible that this is a lie meant to lower your defenses.

I take a seat upon the bed. Gesture to the space beside me.

"Will you sit?" I ask, and it seems earnest. "I only wish to speak with you."

That is the sort of lie that can be easily seen through by action, or lack thereof.

But there is little other option, and for now, I acquiesce.

The bed is rather comfortable for something that may or may not have been decided upon in haste, or carried for a great while; I sit, but it's obvious there is still space between us.

You seem quite shy. Too shy to make a first move without explicit permission?

Shy isn't quite the right word.

I briefly look at the space between us, but I choose not to address it. After all, you are rightfully allowed your distance, after all that has happened. I let the silence stretch on, for a time. Then I offer you this:

"Your eyes shine like gold. It makes me wish we could have met under different circumstances."

I lean forward. Much less refined. "...My father, the previous khan, was poisoned. He wished to end our practice of enslaving other clans, and his advisors did not agree with that ambition. I have reason to believe that the council plots to remove me as well, but at the moment, they have chosen to tolerate me so long as I do not challenge their status quo."

"Which is to say that I am not your enemy. But you would be entitled to disagree."

A curious turn of events, isn't it?

Perhaps I would be more suspicious, should I be of another position, but a warrior...there is still pride, of course, and a trick of the mind would damage that pride, but it is harder to surmise your lies from your truth. The story is plausible, but it's hard to know for certain.

I am entitled to disagree, even without your permission, and yet, the first thought that comes to mind is not one that is particularly peaceful.

"Then we slaughter your council," I suggest. Gold can be hard just as it can be molten; what you see in my gaze is up to you. "We challenge their status quo."

Despite my outwardly soft demeanor, the sense of soft bookishness about me, I am still a warlord's son in the end. Your remark makes me laugh and nod — openly gleeful, perhaps, at the thought if seeing my enemies slain.

"Eventually," I tell you, gently. "That is the plan. I do not rush headlong into slaughter as others are taught to. I have been building a faction of warriors loyal to me, who will strike on my signal... enough force to counteract those who may side with the council, motivated as they are by wealth and bloodshed. But the vast majority in the clan prefer our old traditions, and respect the seat of the khan. I expect that some have even begun to tire of war, despite the spoils such war brings to us."

I lean ever so slightly upon my arm. To look at you more closely. To close the distance between our bodies, just the barest bit.

"Will you join me, when the time comes?" I ask. "Will you take up arms against those who have wronged us both? I promise you that when they are slain, you and your people are free to go wherever you will. I crave only revenge."

Edited 2022-08-22 03:14 (UTC)

It is not an unreasonable request, despite how suddenly it is delivered. There are too many facets of it that are dependent on a trust that we do not yet have--after all, there is nothing to say that you will stick to your promises. Many have been tempted to trust an easy route--and many have been slain once stepping foot upon it.

The shift of your weight is not surprising; you wish to start to close the distance between us, physically and mentally, and I am used to being stared at. I do not move, though there is a pleasantness to your demeanor that is hard to escape. A smell to you that I enjoy. Your skin looks like it might be softer than mine.

"Prove to me you are true to your word," I suggest, calmly. I will not offer any methods--to me, that is your responsibility. "Only then will I join you."

"How would you like me to prove it?" I ask, but the question is rhetorical. Your tone makes it clear that you have issued me a challenge. I close my eyes; I calmly regard the fine, yet common objects around me. I already know from that molten gaze of yours that there is nothing in my tent that would interest you. I cannot promise you a fine blade, or an army, or the return of your slain loved ones. I can give you only cold revenge.

But. There are things in this world beyond vengeance. There are more ways to lose trust than to make it. I know these things, and so do you. My fingers curl in the sheets between us. My body longs to touch yours.

"Long ago," I say, "this ritual had nothing to do with conquest. It was not meant to conscript or humiliate new soldiers. It was a privilege. A consummation of an oath. The khan would take his most favored warrior to bed, and all would know that valor earns you your king's love."

My hands — they reach up, caress your face. My body presses against yours at last, not to violate, but to promise. Perhaps I am soft, both in skin and in spirit, but for you, I will be unyielding. I mean to show you that I will be a man of my word.

I do not seek your forgiveness, but I do seek your consent.

"Let me prove to you that I will treat you as well as I have promised to."

Edited 2022-08-30 02:52 (UTC)

A king's love? A peculiar thing to be spoken to one that does not have a king.

Love is something incredibly foreign to a warrior like me. Loyalty and trust are ideas that I can place some weight onto, can feel them bend or even break with the effort...Promises. Contracts.

( Ah, I slipped out of character... Forgive me. )

I do not lean away from your touch. After all, I have issued you a challenge, and you are taking to it remarkably well. Your fingers are soft, the sort that have not been hardened by too much work, and it has been a long time since someone has touched me for pleasure.

So I will allow it.

"Show me."

A contract between the two of us, then.

You don't have to apologize.

My hands slide from your face down to your chest. Feeling you — every inch, every curve. Through your clothes at first, but then, when I have learned the shape of your body, without them, discarding them to the floor. Your body is beautiful, sculpted as it is for war. I would worship it gladly, in another time, another place.

But tonight is not about worship. It is for the making of a promise, the binding of our pact. My fingers, dancing indulgently over your skin — that will not be enough. The way I touch my mouth against yours, kissing softly — that will not be enough, either. I move lower. Extract you from your pants. Perhaps you are still soft, but I like it that way. Easier to fit you into my mouth. Wet you with my tongue. Feel you grow harder, bit by slow bit, with every stroke, every attentive suck. Nothing in it is clumsy. Perhaps I have done this before. Perhaps this is only the depth of my devotion to you. Your taste. Your musk in my mouth. A deep breath, a sigh, a swallow. I want you; that much cannot be feigned.

Do you feel me, Zhongli? The warmth of my hands on your body, the wet between your legs?

[ it's intentional, perhaps — the blurring between character and reality. ]

Is it not the purpose of our play, for me to touch myself to the thought of your storied ministrations? It is only such a clear picture because it is a picture wearing your face and your body.

I want you, but that has not changed, my traveler.

( lines fully blurred, now. )

Then touch yourself.

Think of me.

Show me.

I would prefer you to be present, to show you.

Where can I find you?

Where would you prefer to find me? I'll go there.

Come to my adeptal realm, then.

We won't be disturbed there, and we can take all the time we need.

Easy enough. I'll be there.

sexts from whenever

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