[night court au] laurent de toluard

[stillnotrachel]

Laurent de Toluard is taller than Rachelle expected. Broader, too, through the chest and shoulders, with a trim waist that speaks to a great deal of physical activity. He would look magnificent in her ropes.

But that is a discussion for a later time.

The conversation starts light and easy, nothing about what has really brought them here. Rachelle pours the tea. They might be in any drawing room in the city.

Eventually, their words trail off and Rachelle waits.

Laurent glances down, then up. “I hadn’t expected there to be this much conversation.” The flush on his cheeks trails down his throat. Rachelle follows it with her eyes. “I thought it would all be much more...whips and debauchery.”

She laughs. “I am better with a flogger than a whip--” And oh, how his eyes get wide and dark at that. “--and debauchery can certainly be had within this House, but I do not think that is what you really want.”

“And what do I want?”

Rachelle leans back against the cushions, studying him as clinically as she can. “That, I am still trying to determine. Do you want to be hurt?”

He fidgets, hands clasped tight in his lap. “I think...yes. Somewhat. I’m not sure what...or…how. I haven’t really any experience--”

“It’s alright. We don’t have to figure everything out now.” She sips her tea. “Do you want to be punished?”

Laurent blanches, shaking his head. “No.”

“Then you won’t be.” Laurent seems startled, as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy. She keeps smiling. “Do you want to be obedient?”

His voice is low enough that Rachelle has to lean closer to hear him say, “I would like to try.”

“I believe you could be very good for me,” she murmurs, smiling at the way his shoulders relax. “I will write a few ideas down for you. You can think on them as long as you like, and then tell me what pleases you and what doesn’t, or if you have any questions.”

He fidgets again, looking more disappointed than ashamed. “But...we won’t be doing anything today?”

“I prefer not to, at first meetings,” Rachelle explains. “It puts too much pressure on us both.” She refuses to rush into things, to surrender her power and be swayed by a pair of fine eyes. “But...I think there might be something we could try. To give us a better sense of how to proceed.”

She stands up from the couch, crossing over to the bookcase and pulling down a volume of Caerdicci poetry. (A modern translation of ancient verse, a gift from one of her patrons. He likes for her to use him as a footrest while she reads. She has more mild plans for today.)

She sets the book on the seat of one of the chairs and drags it further into the center of the room. “I’d like to read a little. And while I read, I want you to sit beside my chair, however you like. You may move if you are uncomfortable and you may ask for anything you want, but otherwise I would like you to be as still and quiet as you can. Is that agreeable?”

His tongue flickers against his lips. “Will I not be bound?”

This boy is a wonder. “Not this time, my dear. There will need to be a very great deal more talking before that. However,” she adds, before his face can fall, “I have a substitute in mind.”

There are ribbons in a box upon her dressing table, carefully smoothed and rolled by Jehanne. Rachelle picks a pale blue the color of Laurent’s eyes. When she reenters the sitting room, he is already on the floor beside the chair, in a very passable abeyante.

“Marvelous. Now, hands behind or before?”

He doesn’t answer with words, just shifts his hands behind his back, wrists pressed together. Rachelle loops the ribbon loosely around them, without bothering to tie it; the slightest tug would cause it to fall away. She presses the ends into Laurent’s hands and takes her seat.

She flips open the book to where she left off. Laurent makes a soft sound.

“Yes, my dear?”

He doesn’t say anything, just glances at her thigh and then back up to her face.

“Of course.”

He lays his head down and Rachelle thinks she can feel the heat of his cheek through her skirt. She rests her hand on his hair, and after a moment begins dragging her fingers slowly through it, letting her nails scratch occasionally against his scalp. She glances back at her book and begins to read aloud.

It’s obvious immediately that the boy speaks no Caerdicci, since the poems are deliciously filthy and he does not so much as bat an eyelash. Their rhythmic cadence is independent of language, however, and lulls him along with her touch.

Rachelle carries on for nearly half an hour before she sets the book aside. “How are we, hm?” She lifts his chin with her fingertips; he smiles up at her with a slightly sleepy expression.

“Are we done?” he murmurs.

“Not quite, darling.” She helps him to his feet, slipping the ribbon from around his wrists, and leads him back into the bedroom.

They sit on her bed, ensconced with pillows, while Laurent sips a cup of water and toys with the ribbon.

“You did so well, my dear,” Rachelle murmurs. “So well. You kept so still, just as I asked. One of Valerian’s own could not have done better.”

Laurent rests his head on her shoulder and whispers “Thank you” into her neck. She takes his hand, the ribbon locked between their fingers, and they sit in gentle silence for a while longer.

When he is ready to depart, Rachelle walks him to the door of her chambers. Laurent reaches for the handle, then pauses.

“May I ask for one last thing before I go?”

“Always.”

“May I kiss you?”

Rachelle smiles. “You may.”

She’s tall for a woman, but not quite as tall as Laurent. She keeps her feet flat on the floor, lets him bow his head and lean down to bring their lips together. He kisses lightly, sweetly, with his hands resting on her shoulders. She lets him take his time before drawing away slowly, her teeth scraping over his lower lip.

“We’ll talk again soon. Be well, my dear.”

His patron gift comes by messenger the next day: a silver bracelet, studded with sapphire as pale as the ribbon.