What lips my lips have kissed, and why by AdmirableMonster

---

Swallow

---

Heaviness.  Weight.  A giant, dense hand presses Nimruzimir into the soft, silken sheets of the bed.

“Look at me,” murmurs Tar-Mairon.  “It will be easier.”

He is lovely, Nimruzimir supposes.  They are both lovely.  The slaves (the other slaves) have seen to that.  The queen has seen to that.  Is it not an honor, to be tended to by the queen?  To be attended to by the king?

(There is no place for women among the king’s natural philosophers.)

(Throw her out.)

(But she is beautiful.)

(It would be easier if they had said it, instead.  The tone would have been no different.)  

“Don’t look at him,” Tar-Mairon hisses, one hand catching Nimruzimir’s chin; he has automatically tried to turn his face to the side.  “Look at me.”

The king has arrived—that much, Nimruzimir saw in his one quick sideways glance.  He is quick to observe; his mind is quick to catalogue. He would not have made a very good natural philosopher if that were not the case.  Ar-Pharazôn the Golden is a short, broad-shouldered man with a curly, close-cropped beard and a weathered face, resplendent in his purple-and-golden robes.  Not particularly interesting.  Many men look so.  Tar-Mairon is different, with skin as pale as porcelain, eyes as yellow as a salt flame and rimmed with black kohl like ash.  Nimruzimir supposes they have painted his own face with kohl, as well.  The girl who made him up took a long time with his face, as if it were a painting.

Tar-Mairon’s hand caresses his cheek.  He is gentle, and that is surprising.  Nimruzimir has heard—everyone has heard—the stories of the ugliness hidden by the walls of the Black Temple, the screams and blood soaked up by those silent stones.  Of course, those are sacrifices, but is Nimruzimir himself not simply another type of sacrifice?  (A king is a man with mighty appetites, they say, philosophers laughing crudely amongst themselves.  Nimruzimir has laughed with them—it is what you do, after all, a kind of safety.  Or so he thought.)

Lips slide across his cheek; there is hot breath on his ear.  “Whatever you do, don’t flinch,” murmurs Tar-Mairon in a tone of voice that Nimruzimir is almost sure a lover might use.  “He will not like it.  I have no desire to hurt you.”

Don’t flinch.  Nimruzimir is quite good at following unpleasant instructions.  He tells himself this is just the same as sitting through a dull dinner party with his father, playing the part of the dutiful daughter.  Why, then, does the touch of those silken fingers on his flesh alternately burn and ache?  Don’t flinch, he tells himself, and changes the scenario: a dangerous experiment.  Too much motion, even in response to an accidental exposure, and significant injury may result.

That’s easier.  His body is well-accustomed to such restrictions and lies patiently quiescent as Tar-Mairon’s slim fingers trace across him.  “Is she not beautiful, my lord?” Tar-Mairon asks, in a smooth, soft voice.

“Lovely,” agrees the voice of the king, distantly.

They are not discussing Nimruzimir, he tells himself carefully, but Pharazîndil, the name a loving mother gave her loyal daughter.

It’s convenient to think of it that way.  Tar-Mairon’s hands push open Pharazîndil’s thighs; he inserts a finger into her, which she seems to find slightly uncomfortable, though she does not flinch.

“Not very responsive, is she?” asks the king.

“Well, my lord, I am told she is inexperienced.  And you are overawed, are you not, my dear, to be in the presence of Ar-Pharazôn himself?”

Nimruzimir finds the length of time it takes for Pharâzindil to respond with a murmured affirmative rather irritating.

“A virgin?” Not for the first time, Nimruzimir wishes he were better at understanding the vocal mannerisms of other human beings.  There is intensity in the king’s voice; it is low, gravelly, and rapid.  But he cannot parse that apart the way he can sort through the possible different reagents to provoke a particular effect.  He cannot experiment, either—one has control when one is performing an experiment, somewhat out of necessity.  

One of Tar-Mairon’s hands clenches hard against Nimruzimir’s waist.  He does not flinch, but it is a near thing.  “I do not know,” he says, in a light, smooth voice.  He is not what Nimruzimir has imagined of the High Priest of the Black Temple.  None of this is anything he had imagined.

“Are you a virgin, girl?” Pharazôn asks.

He is speaking to Pharâzindil, but it is Nimruzimir who flushes, hot and fierce, an involuntary bodily reaction that has made him the target of too many of the other philosophers’ pranks and barbs.  

“Y-Y-Yes.”

Tar-Mairon is near enough that Nimruzimir can hear his breathing speed up, but he detects no other sign of unease.  Heavy footsteps on the soft carpet of this light-filled room.  (It was the queen’s, they say.  It faces the sea.  Nimruzimir thinks of walking beside the sea as an adolescent, collecting and cataloguing seashells.  He thinks of the lines and lines of glowing jellyfish floating in the swaying tide.)

With another soft breath, Tar-Mairon breaks away and stands, loosening his delicate robe.  “Have you never been with a virgin, my king?”

A laugh.  “What are you getting at, priest?”

Tar-Mairon’s voice is low and smooth.  Nimruzimir suspects it would be considered seductive.  Clearly, this is not an area in which he has any experience.  “That I know you enjoy a good performance, sire.”

This seems a curious thing for the high priest to do.  There is an undercurrent here that Nimruzimir does not understand.  A queer tension sparks in the air of the room.  Nimruzimir’s heart skips a beat—but no, he did take his tonic this morning, which will ward off his accustomed fevers.  (Foresight, a voice will whisper far away.)  He has nothing to fear on that front.  He looks up at the ceiling, at the play of sunlight across the arched white ceiling, testing himself with the question of what it is that casts each varied shadow.

“Well, no one shall say I’m not indulgent of my favorites.  Let me see your performance, then, precious.”

“As my king commands.”  Once again, he bends over Nimruzimir, mouth to ear.  “Let me help you, and it won’t hurt.”

A convulsive shudder travels through Nimruzimir’s body.  He does not know how to indicate assent.  His assent will not matter.  It seems his only choice is whether Pharâzindil will lie with Ar-Pharazôn or with Tar-Mairon.  Based on the available evidence, Tar-Mairon seems to be the safer option, so Nimruzimir tells Pharâzindil that she must be quiet and gentle and not complain.  Tar-Mairon waits for a brief second more and then there are hands moving across the naked feminine form on the bed.  Lips press into lips—as Nimruzimir has no experience with this kind of act, he does not know what to tell Pharâzindil to do.

“Move your mouth, lovely one,” purrs Tar-Mairon, and laughs.  This is a comparatively useful instruction, and Nimruzimir does his best to convey it.  The result is very wet, but does not last long: Tar-Mairon’s tongue dips into Pharâzindil’s mouth and then retreats—Tar-Mairon continues to kiss down her form, her throat, then breasts—which is, Nimruzimir notes, quite arousing—her stomach, thighs, and then tips his head back and laughs again.  A performance, Nimruzimir recalls.  What a shame that he has no performative ability at all.

A hand squeezes his reassuringly, and a sudden tight pain gathers beneath his chest.  He can count on one hand the number of people who have ever done that—Sakalkhôr often, Belzâgar perhaps once.  Philosophers do not touch one another, and even when they do, Nimruzimir has held himself apart.  It seems there was no point in this self-denial, but given the information he had at the time, it was the most rational action.  He can find no mistakes that he has made (but he turned his face away from the sacrifices in the Black Temple.  He turned his face away.  Perhaps this is only justice.)

You do not turn down such an offering, though.  Nimruzimir squeezes back.

A mouth between Pharâzindil’s thighs feels—

(heat.  moisture. intrusion.)

—no.  Think.  Don’t feel.  Observe the event.  An experiment.  The high priest holds her legs open, and he is practiced.  Perhaps his work at the temple has made him an expert in restraining a sacrifice, though surely it would be more efficient to tie someone down?  Perhaps it is more a case of knowledge of musculature. 

Perhaps that is also how Tar-Mairon knows how to stimulate a female form.  A knowledge of nerves and muscles.  The subject is displaying signs of arousal as he traces her clitoral mound with the gentle flutter of his tongue—peaked nipples, increased heart-rate and blood flow, rapid breathing.  It is interesting to note that the symptoms are similar to those of fear, but Nimruzimir is more of an alchemist than an anatomist—the Royal Physician, Lilóteo, would presumably be better positioned to explain the connection.

He hopes that Pharâzindil’s response is sufficient.  He has no way to know, and neither does she.  He does not want to imagine what the king’s response may be if it is not.

“You’re lovely like that,” says Pharazôn lazily.  “I could watch you forever.”

Ah, he must be speaking to Tar-Mairon.  There is some comfort in feeling a kind of invisibility, Nimruzimir supposes.  He is finding it more difficult to think, more difficult to observe, as Pharâzindil’s physical sensations squeeze at his own belly, his own—as he—

There is sensation running up and down his spine—Tar-Mairon’s red-gold head moving—this awful, impossible, incongruous sense of embarrassment, the shame he feels when he missteps in public—it catches him in the base of his belly and clenches with an awful raw white heat that he cannot escape no matter how he writhes.  When he cries out, it is with pain—

(it is with pain, it is Pharâzindil, it is an experiment, it is—)

He is here, sweat-soaked sheets at his back, breasts a heavy weight against his chest.  He is flensed open beneath a hungry, eager gaze.

He does not flinch.

* * *

This is not mercy, Mairon notes, even though there is no one listening.  It is pride.  Gently, but firmly, he urges the young philosopher up into his lap.  Better this way—Pharazôn will enjoy the display, but he will have no easy way to decide to involve himself, the way he might if there were a mouth at a height more readily accessible for him to slot himself into.  The philosopher follows his lead—quick-witted and pliant in a way that implies impressive self-control.  He has an iron will.  Mairon admires that.  (He—oh yes, Mairon is no fool, he knows who this boy is, in outline if not in specifics.)  

If this were mercy, Mairon would have taken his knife to the boy’s throat.  Instead, he is gentle but steady, smiling for Pharazôn as his hands guide Nimruzimir into position, spreading the body open for its eager audience.  (Pharazôn never comes to the Black Temple; he trusts his High Priest to do what needs to be done.  If he did, he would recognize the similarity: to thrust inside a sacrifice, to open them up to the eyes of the gods.  There need not be blood in the temple either, not if care is taken.)

No, this is pride.  Mairon is proud of his ability to perform; he is proud of his ability to defeat his enemies; and he is proud of the little philosopher with his wrought-iron, indomitable soul.  He is no performer; that much is clear.  This is sheer stubbornness and the sense to let his body pilot when it needs to.  Pharazôn is the enemy of both of them, of course, and Mairon cannot yet defeat him in full, but he can defeat him here, can stymy his desire to pillage and plunder, can carve out one small choice for the philosopher (who does not deserve this).

Choice is an illusion.  It has always been an illusion.  The universe does not allow a choice: the gods do not allow choices.  Mairon is bound to one, so he would know.  To make even a small space to choose is a hard-won victory, and a victory is a reason for pride. (Mercy is useless and choice is an illusion—the one who tried to teach him about both is long gone, having learned these lessons too late.) 

(What would you think of me now?)

(No, no.  Don’t answer, dearest.  Don’t answer.)

“I hope you’re enjoying your reward, Mairon.”

A hand slips; sharp nails rake across the philosopher’s side.  An error.  Nimruzimir makes a low sound—lost, they are lost, that sound, the blood beneath his nails—but does not flinch.  A stumble, but the rhythm is not lost.  Mairon’s smile is intact.  He caresses the spot his nails scratched, a poor apology.  “You’re doing well,” he murmurs quietly.  “Admirably.”

His hands move across the philosopher’s chest, teasing at his breasts.  Pharazôn’s breathing is rough—he is pleasuring himself, of course—Mairon has the philosopher spread-eagled across his lap, pinned in place and penetrated, and for one stripped thin instant, he thinks he will be sick.  He has learned to be raped—a uniquely mortal ugliness, of course—but he has had no lessons in the perpetration of it.  Uncharted territory, for him as well as for the little philosopher.

The first orgasm was in part an attempt to open the philosopher up, make things a little easier for him by avoiding the potential pain of a first penetration.  Unfortunately, it has left the vaginal muscles not only loose but fluttering, and the sensation against Mairon’s intruding fána is repulsive.  His stomach tightens; bile builds at the base of his throat.  For pride, and not for mercy, he has become a rapist.  Was any of it worth it?

No, he tells himself.  You will not do anything to ruin the philosopher’s performance.  He does not deserve that.  This is only one more challenge.  He is the most admirable of Aulë’s, the mightiest of Melkor’s, and the cleverest of—

(no no STOP STOP STOP)

He can do what he needs to do.  He looks into his fána and removes the connection between nausea and vomiting.  He will reconnect it later. Simple.

He does not throw up.  He smiles and purrs at his kingly lover and fucks the philosopher—he has a name—he smiles and purrs and rapes Nimruzimir.  His fána is fortunately well-constructed and the heat and slick is pleasurable.  It is enough; the fána spills inside the philosopher.  Mairon notes that he will also need to take care of any risk of pregnancy later on.

It occurs to him too late that he did not ask permission of Pharazôn.  He almost finds that he cannot raise his eyes to look up at him, smiling shamefacedly—a little mistake, almost silly, surely Pharazôn will agree?

Pharazôn laughs, harsh and strident.  “Decadent of you, despoiling her like that, my flame.  Now what shall I do?  You have left me in some frustration.”

Mairon bites his lip and lowers his eyelashes.  He takes the space of a single breath to help the philosopher off him; Nimruzimir is dazed but uncomplaining and slips to the side of the bed.  Thank the gods, he does not try to flee.  Mairon looks back up, sultry and inviting.  “Well, my lord, I had hoped that you would see fit to grace me with your seed.  I am a little jealous, you know.”

“I can be generous,” Pharazôn says darkly, a promise in his eyes (a threat, a threat, a threat).  “I think I would like you on your knees.”

* * *

Nimruzimir curls his knees into his chest. His body is itching, sweaty, and leaking fluids.  Some of them may be a cause for concern, but he cannot address that now.  He wishes he could sleep, but there is too much noise from beside him.  Ar-Pharazôn is grunting, and Tar-Mairon is moaning loudly.  In addition, the slaps and squelches of their coupling are loud and unpleasant.

There is a sharp hiss—Tar-Mairon’s voice—and Ar-Pharazôn says, low and threatening, even to Nimruzimir’s poor ability to map tone to emotion, “I thought you wished me inside you?”

“I do, I do,” gasps Tar-Mairon.  “Please, my king—”

The sound of a blow, followed by a cry of pain.

“Was that all to have her for yourself?”

“No, my lord—please—” Another blow, another cry.

Nimruzimir’s body is trembling, and he presses a hand across his mouth to silence his breathing.  He does not want to be observed.

“I should have you whipped.”

“If that is your will, I will bear it, but please—please do not think me false—” 

A slap and an ugly, keening noise of pain.  Nimruzimir wonders if there was more than just the slap—a twisted arm or wrist seems likely.  No snap, though, so presumably no bones broken.  Tar-Mairon sobs, a child-like sound.  

Whatever you do, don’t flinch.

Gods.  Nimruzimir presses even harder across mouth and nose, breathing as quietly as a mouse.

“You do beg prettily.  I suppose I can forgive you this once.”

“No—no—if you desire to have me whipped—”

“And mar that beautiful flesh?  No, I think your obeisance is sufficient.”

“Thank you, my lord,” murmurs Tar-Mairon.  “I do not deserve your magnanimity.”