Lee chapter 25

[maculategiraffe]

Long chapter is loooooooooong.








Holden should have known that things were going much too smoothly to last. It started when Robin turned up at the door the next afternoon, sans Denys, which was always bad news. She didn't have her camera either, but she was clutching a thick binder. Holden blocked the doorway with his body, peering at her.

"I got the prints back for some of my photographs," she said without greeting or preamble, "and I wanted to show you. Can I come in?"

Holden felt badly in need of moral support. What was the use of living with your wife, three lovers, and the mother of your child if none of them were ever around to protect you when you were cornered by wild-eyed young abolitionists who were fucking your daughter?

"Sure," he said. "Let's go to the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" Robin asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why not the filing room?"

Because nobody's going to be in the filing room, and Bran might be in the kitchen.

"Because the table's bigger."

"Why not the dining--"

"Please stop arguing," said Holden, and his tone was tense enough to his own ears that he wasn't surprised when Robin, meekly for her, agreed.

And Bran and Lee were in the kitchen; Lee was sitting at the table with a teacup in front of him, while Bran stirred something at the counter. Lee went to his knees at the sight of Holden; Bran set down his bowl and fork, and when Holden held out a hand to him, came eagerly to press up against him and nuzzle his neck as Holden's arm went around him and hugged him close. He touched his lips to Bran's and said in his ear, "I love you so much."

"Why does he do that?" Robin asked Holden, jerking her head at Lee on his knees, as Bran beamed gorgeously. "When the other ones don't."

"His previous master must have required it," said Holden, before he realized that Robin had actually asked a question instead of issuing a condemnation, and that therefore Ragnarok was clearly at hand. "And I haven't made an issue of it because he's been in a very fragile state, and following the rules you already understand can be a comfort when you're disoriented. If he needs a way to reinforce, to me or himself, that I'm his master, I'm not going to scold him for that. Come here, Lee."

Lee rose a little unsteadily and came forward, eyes fixed on Holden's face. Bran stepped away slightly and let Holden take the smaller boy in his arms and hug him close, kissing him on the top of the head.

"It's like you're a psychologist or something," said Robin, in a tone he couldn't read: contempt? Curiosity? Could it possibly be admiration? "Except you're not supposed to fuck your patients."

"As a matter of fact," said Holden, guiding Lee gently back to the table and helping him sit back down, "I'm not fucking Lee. I've delegated that responsibility. What do you have here, sweetheart?"

"It's herbal tea," Bran answered for Lee. "He wanted some-- with lemon."

"That's fine," said Holden to Lee, who had put his hands in his lap as if eager to repudiate the cup. "You're becoming quite the little epicure, aren't you? Anyway, Robin, if my-- patients'-- lives and happiness didn't center around having successful sex, maybe I wouldn't consider it my responsibility to have sex with them."

"Mona said her master didn't have sex with her," said Robin.

"That's true. Masters and slaves negotiate their own sets of rules. My job is to make sure the slave knows he can negotiate-- in bed and out. Of course," he added, "I did a little too well teaching Bran that; he turned back around and negotiated me into keeping him."

Bran, who had returned to his stirring, blushed and said, shyly, smiling, "You always said I'd be one of your great success stories, master."

Holden grinned back at him. "Well, I was right, wasn't I? What are you doing over there?"

"Fixing the marinade for tonight's dinner, master."

"And what do we pay Fox for again?"

"To turn the knobs on the oven," said Bran, "since you won't let me touch it."

"Yes, which is completely unreasonable. It's not like you still have a scar on your hand from the last time you tried."

Robin was fanning her prints out on the table. Even from here Holden could see they were good. He leaned over the sheaf, paging through the black-and-white photographs. The Lee of two weeks ago was a study in shadow and pallor: the fall of his inky hair, the faint lines of darkness cast by his protuberant ribs, the dark lacerations on his back, and eyes that looked like holes burned in the white parchment of his face.

Bran's curls showed the same shade as his skin on the film, except where the light caught them; his expression as he looked at the camera was thoughtful, appraising, his clear eyes slightly narrowed. There were shots of him in his tunic, front and back and profile, and naked, ditto; shots of his room, his meager possessions, the stacks of identical tunics in his drawer.

There were also the first three pictures Robin had taken, before she'd had permission to start clicking the camera: Lee lying face down, looking up over his injured shoulder with startled terror in his large eyes; Lee in the same position, but with his face turned towards Bran, who bent over him, stroking his hair, his own curls obscuring his face; Lee with his head lowered to the pillow, Bran looking up at the camera, one hand resting lightly on Lee's neck, his lip slightly drawn back from his teeth, his eyes alight with protective fury.

There was a clatter, and a rivulet of liquid ran over the prints; Holden looked up bemusedly as Robin shouted, "Fuck! You clumsy little--!" and snatched them up, shaking them hard. Lee had leaned too close and knocked over his cup of tea onto the table. By the time Holden took this in, Lee was on the floor under the table.

Holden didn't bother to deck Robin before he shoved his chair back and went down, almost without thinking, to the floor, under the table with Lee. The boy's forehead was pressed to the floor, and Holden reached out and touched his hair. "Look at me, Lee."

Lee didn't move. When Holden pulled him up gently, his face was as paper-white as it had been in the photographs, with the same undertone of gray, his eyes blank and unfocused. Holden wanted to kill someone.

"Those prints are expensive!" Robin yelled, right on cue, from above the table that roofed their heads. No jury on earth would convict him.

He pulled Lee into his lap and cuddled the boy close, stroking him, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, his hair, his cheeks, and the tip of his nose, and murmuring random words of comfort-- shhh, it's okay, you're okay, everything's okay, nothing to hurt you, safe-- and slowly, very slowly, Lee's rigid body began to relax against his.

Robin decided now would be a really great time to join them under the table. She sat on the floor, staring at Lee. Holden ignored her.

"Hey, kiddo," he said softly. "Remember me? Your handsome and reasonable master? The one who likes to cuddle? The one who tends not to hit you? Does this ring a bell at all?"

After a moment he felt the tiny motion of Lee's head against him: a nod.

"Then you must know you're safe," Holden coaxed. "Regardless of what Miss Robin might say. Right? You don't think she could get past me to hurt you, do you? She looks scrappy, but I think I could take her in a fight."

Lee burrowed harder against Holden.

"Master," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"That's right, sweetheart. I'm your master, and you're my boy. Just relax. I've got you."

"How could I hurt him?" Robin asked irritably.

"Lee, sweetheart," said Holden, "I'm about to curse a little-- but not at you. I'm not mad at you. Robin," he added, in the soft, cajoling tone he was afraid to roughen for Lee's sake, "shut the fuck up before I knock you into the wall."

Coincidentally or not, Robin did shut up, and Holden cradled Lee and crooned nonsense to him until the boy finally lifted his head, his face as white as ever, but his eyes wide and fixed with terrifying intensity on Holden.

"Master--" he said again.

Holden smiled reassuringly at him and shifted from under the table to help him to his feet. He steered the shivering body carefully towards Bran, who was standing, pale and still, by the counter.

"Let me get rid of Robin," Holden said as Bran held out his arms to draw Lee in, "and I'll be right back."

Bran nodded silently, clasping the smaller boy close.



"You're not going to be around Lee again until I say so," said Holden to Robin on the way to the front door, "which may well be never." He opened the front door and pushed her out. "Call before you come over again, or you don't get inside. Nice photographs."

"I can't afford to have more prints made," she said.

"We'll reimburse you. Not now. Go away."

"Okay," said Robin. "Um, I know who Val's father is."

Holden, on the point of closing the door, stopped. "I beg your pardon."

"She didn't tell me what you do with the kids you can't fix, but she did get really pissed off and tell me I had no idea what I was talking about once, when I was on a tear about how her parents were murderers-- um, no offense," she added vaguely, "and I'm guessing that has something to do with the fact that you found Bran so easily after he ran away, and the fact that Bran said he had a choice, whether to belong to you."

"Your brilliant deductions leave me in awe," said Holden, in what he felt was an admirably steady voice, considering. "And none of this is any of your goddamn business, and if I hear one more word about it, not only will I call off the story, but I'll make it as clear as I possibly can to Valor exactly how little her lover cares about endangering the lives and livelihoods of the people she holds dear, and the slaves for whom said lover claims to be so deeply concerned. Please go away before I do something I regret."

"And have you beat Yves up instead?" Robin asked, and when Holden stared at her in disbelief, "No, wait-- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-- antagonize you again."

"It is a little late for that," said Holden evenly. "You are swiftly rising in the ranks from antagonist to actual nemesis. I knew I should have made my daughter marry David Kareyev while the marrying was good."

"But that would have meant marrying the daughter of one ex-master to the son of another," Robin pointed out, with-- was that a smile? "That would have been kind of weird even for you."

"Are you trying to engage in light banter with me, young woman?" Holden demanded incredulously. "Did Valor happen to mention, while she was running her mouth, that her adoptive father has a violent temper?"

"You're not going to hit me," said Robin, whose stance on the doorstep was starting to take on the proportions of permanence. "If you were going to hit me you would have done it over Lee. I saw the way you looked at me. You wanted to kill me."

"I still want to kill you."

"I know, but you won't. I'm guessing that has something to do with what we were talking about yesterday, with them making you control yourself and all. And you liked my photographs, I could tell. I am good at that. I'm just no good at-- treating them--different. If Denys spilled something on my prints I'd give him holy hell, and Lee's a kid just like Denys."

"No he isn't," said Holden. "That's like saying you'd slap anyone else on the back to congratulate them so why shouldn't you do it to a kid whose back is a bloody infected whip-scarred mess?"

"I know," said Robin again, almost plaintively. "I just-- I'm not-- good at this, like you are. But I'm not going to say anything to anybody," she added, while Holden tried to digest the fact that Robin had just given him what sounded like a compliment. "About Lord Argounov, and whatever illegal stuff you're up to. I just wanted to tell you-- Denys has been asking me to help him figure some of it out. I told him I didn't think there was anything to it and we should stick with what you'd authorized, we had enough to do."

"Why are you telling me this?" Holden asked suspiciously. "Are you blackmailing me?"

"No!" said Robin. "I just thought you should know. I'm on your side, Mr. Larssen."

Holden wanted to deny this vehemently, but he had to admit to himself that having Robin on your side was probably better than having Robin around but not on your side. Not that he would have jumped at either option, given the choice-- but he'd made his choice. And the photographs had been pretty damn good.

"Go away," he said again.

"I am," said Robin, with that smile again, like a saber-toothed tiger trying to look kittenish. "I'll call you. And-- um-- could you tell Lee I'm sorry?"




Lee was shivering in Bran's arms, and Bran looked up, his brow furrowed, when Holden came back into the kitchen.

"Is he okay?" Holden asked, and Lee looked up wildly at the sound of his voice. "Lee?"

Lee pulled away from Bran and went to his knees at Holden's feet again, his forehead pressing against Holden's boots. Holden looked up helplessly at Bran.

"Master," said Bran quietly, "I think you should fuck him."

Holden stared. "Now?"

"He needs to please you," Bran said. "If you fuck him, he can just hold still and let you, and he will have done well."

"Bran, I don't think--"

"Please, master," Lee cried out, almost hysterically. "Please use me. Please."

"Hell." Holden knelt down on the floor and gathered Lee up in his arms. "Bran, will you--come--?"

"Of course, master," said Bran without hesitation.




In his own bedroom, Holden set Lee down on the bed next to Bran, who helped Lee undress-- the boy lifted his arms above his head like a child being readied for bed-- and lie down on his face, while Holden undressed himself. Lee spread his legs swiftly, and Holden looked down at the marked back, ass, and thighs, then over at Bran. "Hand me the lube."

Bran, who had shucked off his own tunic as casually as if he joined his master in the fucking of trainee slaves every day of the week, reached over and retrieved the little bottle, sloshing the oil into his own hand before Holden took the bottle from him and slicked his fingers with it. Bran's hand closed around Holden's soft cock as his other arm went unexpectedly around his master's body, pressing close against him and kissing his neck.

"Remember the first time you fucked me?" he said as he stroked, massaging the oil over Holden's sensitive skin. "Remember how I was nervous, and you stroked me and held me, and you called me beautiful-- and I came before you did, I'd never come before while someone was fucking me-- and you said you loved the way I felt--"

"Gods, sweetheart--" Holden gasped, his cock hardening obscenely at the touch and at the memories stirred by Bran's words. "Don't--"

"Don't--?"

"Not if you want me to fuck Lee," Holden managed, and Bran pulled away; Holden nearly grabbed him back, wanting to crush him close and then flip him over, but he made himself reach out and touch Lee instead, resting one hand on the shivering back, before the other well-oiled hand probed between Lee's cheeks. Bran lay down beside Lee, clasping his hand and smiling into his eyes; Lee smiled back faintly as Holden slid a careful finger to Lee's tight pucker, then inside. Lee's lips parted silently, and Bran reached out to stroke his hair.

"Does it hurt?" Holden heard him ask Lee softly, and Lee shook his head as Holden probed deeper, feeling for signs of damage, and then for Lee's prostate. Lee's mouth opened wider when he found it.

"Did he find the spot?" Bran asked, and Lee looked as if he wanted to laugh as he nodded. "Does it feel good?"

Holden waited for Lee's "Yes," barely more than a breath, before he added another finger. Lee breathed in, then out.

"Bran," he whispered, and Bran moved closer, pressing his lips to Lee's; Lee kissed him back hungrily, almost desperately. Holden's cock ached at the sight as he slid his fingers in and out of Lee. He was afraid to fuck Lee, afraid of hurting him, of scaring him, but Bran was there, Bran would take care of Lee, while Holden--

--added a third finger, and Lee moaned into Bran's mouth, then pulled away; Holden could feel him trembling.

"Shhh," said Bran. "Don't be scared, Lee. You know master wouldn't hurt you. Master will take good care of his boy."

Master, like a name. Bran never talked like that. Master in direct address, of course, but in third person always my master, or the master. Holden didn't talk like that either-- talking about himself in third person wasn't really his style. What was this? The words sounded intimate, like a boy's inner monologue, and the two boys in the bed beneath him almost seemed to merge into one, a shivering body slowly relaxing to pliability under him, a quiet, dreamy voice speaking words of tenderness and trust.

Lee's asshole was gleaming and dribbling oil now, stretched wide and inviting, and Holden's cock was rigid at attention. Lee was kissing Bran passionately, he needed this, hell, Holden needed this, and he touched the head of his cock against Lee, slick flesh on flesh, easing in.

"Oh master," Lee whispered-- or had it been Bran? Holden hadn't been looking at their faces, concentrating on sliding himself in slowly, opening up the tight little channel, and their faces now, both solemnly intent, gave no clue. It took ages for Holden to inch himself in, and in, and all the way in, and he paused when he was completely buried inside Lee, seeing with a jolt that though there had been no resistance, no tensing of the fragile frame beneath him, tears were pouring down Lee's face, and Bran was kissing them away.

"It's okay," Bran whispered. "Master doesn't mind if you cry. Does it hurt, sweetheart?"

His own word of endearment on Bran's lips, Bran who infused everyone's given name or title with such respect or affection or-- in a couple of cases-- contempt that he never seemed to need to call them anything else, filled Holden with such confused desire that he had to pull back a little, bite back a moan as Lee whimpered, "No, master, doesn't hurt" (or was it Master doesn't hurt?). "Feels-- feels--"

"Good," Bran breathed as Holden slid himself deeper in again and Lee sobbed softly, fresh tears spilling down. "Master's gentle with his boy." Bran turned his head and met Holden's eyes. "Wants to fill you up, all the way in, stroke inside his boy till he spills."

"Bran," Lee moaned as Holden fucked him, starting with nearly unbearable slowness, the sweet hot lubricated friction of Lee yielding to him, and he wanted to take-- his animal instincts roaring to the fore-- to slam in, staking his claim, pound the tender little ass into the mattress and wrench harsher cries from the slender throat. But there were Bran's eyes on his, and it wasn't an option. Master's gentle with his boy-- of course he was.

And it didn't take too much longer, as it was, before he gasped, feeling the quivering of his cock, the tip melting like a lighted candle inside Lee and Bran's eyes on him and he shouted out, hoarsely, wordlessly, as he came.

Lee was sobbing hard as Holden eased his soft cock out of the sweet little opening, but Bran didn't seem concerned; he just stroked Lee's hair, smiling.

"Please-- master," Lee managed, "please, did I, did I please my master?"

"You were perfect," said Holden hoarsely, and cleared his throat as Lee rolled against him, burying his face against Holden's chest and sobbing harder than ever, but with an abandoned note of relief and release. He looked up at Bran, who was smiling at him.

"Thank you, master," he said. "You were perfect."