Rebel Academy: Crave

Chapter Sixteen BASK

I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the suede sofa in the Rebel Café. The rest of the Immortals and Princes sprawled in a circle, eying each other warily. You could bring rival bad boys (and girls) to water, but you couldn’t make us magic it into cocktails and drink. If Ezekiel had wanted tonight to be a team bonding session, I didn’t think that he’d imagined it to go like this.

Snowflake patterns swirled across the walls, until I was dizzy. I tossed my blazer and tie to the side; my skin itched and crawled with need. I was burning up. My hair was limp, and my arse was barely pettable.

Shoot me now.

I perked up when Serenity dropped from the ceiling an even more deliciously snuggly pile of pillows than my West Wing stash. I narrowed my eyes at Fox, who gazed at the pillows with as much longing as me.

“Sorry,” Magenta pulled Fox against her, stroking a curl behind his ear, “but they’re for my crow familiars to nest in. They’re ghosts, you know, but they need pampering too.”

“Finally, someone who understands about my importance in the healing that is relaxation,” Serenity gushed like she was about to come from being appreciated alone. “Familiars suffer stress too.”

“Why the snowflakes?” Magenta gestured at the walls. “Wouldn’t a tropical island be a rather pleasant break for us?”

“Scientists have proved that repeated patterns like snowflakes reduce distress. Aren’t you soothed already? Come on, what’s with the tension in here? How about a group wank?”

“A group…what?” Magenta demanded.

“Laugh,” Serenity answered with pretend innocence. “It’s perfect therapy. How about I start…? Hahahaha…”

I winced as Serenity’s shrill laugh echoed throughout the café.

“Wow, I’m all relaxed now,” Fox gritted out, before twisting in Magenta’s arms. “Okay, that’s a lie, I’m sitting in this freaky circle with the Princes and the female version of Hal. Do you know what’d help…?”

He glanced significantly at the fluffy pillows.

I drew in my breath. Fox was trying to steal my snuggle patch. Yep, I was claiming it.

Magenta cocked her head like she was listening. “Flair says: How about his beak biting into your cock like a worm? You’re never getting our nest, you foxy fuck.”

Rude.

When Fox paled, I snickered. Although, what would the invisible crow do to my dick…? I covered my crotch. Rule 11 of the Incubi Night Code stated: Guard your dick and balls like they’re truly as precious as the royal jewels.

Magenta even managed to resist the power of Fox’s puppy dog eyes. She had some talent. I’d have at least shared…one…of my pillows by now. Away with you, I could be generous.

I glanced across the circle at Sleipnir who sprawled in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves; his cotton candy pink hair fell in gentle spikes. He wore his tie around his neck like a bandanna again. Note to self: when not dying for lack of touch, take more clothing risks. Sea serpent tattoos coiled up and down his arms like they were dancing to his gentle strumming, as he played Depeche Mode’s “Master and Servant”. Serenity even supplied the whip and chain sound effects for the song.

I grinned, but Lysander grimaced, flinching at each whip effect. Sleipnir had a wicked sense of humor. Watching Lysander next to me was almost amusing enough to forget the buzzing wrongness that edged through me, the fear of the Duchess’ return, and the weirdness of sharing a night out with the Princes.

A double weirdness because when Midnight had ordered Lysander to kneel with surprising firmness (payback was a bitch), and told Serenity that Lysander was there to serve for the evening, she’d magicked him into a French maid’s frilly black uniform.

I’d told Sleipnir that my role play list was anything but a waste of time: Willoughby in a maid’s outfit had been fantasy role-play Number 49, but Lysander in one had been Number 48.

There were few things that I treasured: Nile, holding my brothers after their births, and Magenta’s first kiss. Now added to those was Lysander’s yelp and expression of mortified horror when he’d realized that he’d been dressed in nothing but a maid’s outfit, which had barely covered his arse.

Sweet (scorching hot) memories…

To be fair, Lysander had pouted but hadn’t moaned as much as I’d been expecting. Perhaps, he secretly enjoyed a taste of taking orders for once, rather than giving them. Midnight was kind with his power, like I’d known that he would be, and it was only in play. The thing of it was, that it wasn’t play for Midnight…he was a true slave to the Princes.

I smiled softly, as I studied Fox who was cuddled in Magenta’s arms, kissing down her neck. It didn’t matter that I was his Patron; he’d never be my slave.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t owed a twinge of envy that it wasn’t me kissing Magenta’s long neck.

Lysander spooned chocolate dessert on a golden spoon into Midnight’s mouth, as Midnight lay on his back with a blissed-out expression. I sighed. Why couldn’t I just snatch Midnight and make him my whipping boy as well?

Yep, it’d be kidnap. Why was that wrong again?

I shivered, as a wave of pain swept through me. I clawed my nails into my palms to stop myself scratching my shoulders. I’d even take Lysander’s touch right now. Buzzing jangled my nerves. My eyes screwed shut.

Too much, too much, too much…

Cool hands gripped my hips, sliding me onto a narrow lap that was all hard muscle. My eyes snapped open. When soft hair swept my cheek, and the scent of herbal green tea, like a wintry breeze across wild grasses, shivered through me, I knew that it was Willoughby’s lap.

I squirmed but even as I tried to pull away because my sexy wee self was sitting on an elf’s lap in front of everybody (at least there was no hard dick poking against me as there would’ve been, if I’d wiggled around like this on top of Sleipnir), I pressed more firmly against Willoughby and moaned. Could I help it if my cute body knew what it needed more than my brain, and if Willoughby found me pettable, even at my least pettable level for years?

Witness the mesmerizing power of an incubus’ arse.

Willoughby only tightened his arms in silence, calmly running his fingers up and down my arms, before turning my hands over and tracing patterns across my gloved palm. I ached to go skin to skin with him. His touch was nothing like the rough massage that I’d been dreading from the Princes. I arched, panting at the excruciating but perfect touch. I could’ve kissed him that he hadn’t made me ask for this. The Duchess had loved how I’d begged. How had Willoughby known that to speak would’ve been too much for me?

Willoughby’s lips brushed my ear, as if he’d sensed my darkening thoughts. Then he hummed like a tinkling waterfall…promising to show me Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.”

I had the sudden image of Lysander playing Disney songs to the regal elf, as they cuddled.

Away with you, it could happen.

I giggled, and Willoughby danced his fingers down my chest. Everywhere he touched hummed in joy along with him, rather than pain. When I caught Willoughby’s hand between mine, tracing his palm back in turn (because never let it be said that an incubus of the Night lineage was selfish with pleasure), he broke off his humming, smothering a groan.

I preened. This incubus still had it.

Serenity’s voice crooned, “That’s a fine sight. Massage his earlobes. It’s a pressure point. Science can’t be wrong, hmm? Perhaps, the witch can massage your earlobes next, godling…”

Sleipnir stopped playing with a twang of wrong notes. “No one’s getting near my ears. Just call me the God of Relaxation.” He sprawled on his side, pillowing his head on Magenta’s lap, as Fox carded his fingers through his hair. “See?”

In the silence, I was certain that Serenity was pouting.

Willoughby’s low chuckle tickled my ear, and his fingers massaged my earlobes. Wow, he’d discovered a secret line straight to my dick that tented my pants like an eager puppy.

Yep, that was the massaging goodness. Come to the stressed-out incubus…

“If you desire to keep massaging them…” I sighed.

Willoughby chuckled again.

Lysander slammed down the bowl, and the spoon clattered with a spray of chocolate dessert onto the floor. I frowned. Ma always taught me to lick every trace of pudding clean, which hadn’t appeared sinister at the time. Now I’d discovered more about my role as a bonded, licking didn’t feel so innocent.

“Are you satisfied, master?” Lysander arched his brow.

Midnight stretched out his wings with a smile. “You always satisfy me, my prince.” His voice had a soft Welsh lilt; it was gentle, teasing, and didn’t tremor with its usual fear.

I wished that us Immortals had been able to reward Midnight with more than one night of freedom.

Lysander blinked like he’d expected a slap, rather than the tender response. But then, Midnight’s gorgeous ass wasn’t the same as his bastard one. “Well, be that as it may, my noble personage most certainly am not.”

Lysander smoothed down the front of his apron to ensure his modesty. I smirked; I’d bet my slinky cuteness that he was hard under there. His pale thighs already peeked out of the silky fabric. It’d be a fine thing if the apron rode a wee bit higher… Objectification was allowed if it was of a fae prince who made his own whipping boy crawl around naked. That had to be in the rule book. Probably in small writing. Seriously, look it up.

Magenta studied Lysander. “If it’s any consolation, you make as fair a maid as a man.”

Lysander reddened, starting to rise, but Midnight laid his hand lightly on his knee.

“Don’t start and make trouble.” Wow, who’d known that Midnight could sound so commanding?

Willoughby paused in his massaging. I squirmed around to encourage him to start again, but he’d frozen, watching the role reversal between the whipping boy and prince.

Lysander stared at Midnight and then he swallowed. “One cares not about the insult. What shall not stand is that we drew in the Rebel Cup today, which means that only three days remains to settle who wins overall. We all know how high the stakes are.” His gaze flicked to Fox, whose hold had tightened around Magenta, before settling once more on Midnight. Then he stroked his fingers, just once, along Midnight’s wingtip. “I would’ve thought you more than most, master.”

“By my fangs, I never asked you to call me master,” Midnight murmured. Lysander flushed. “Look you, the Rebel Cup is rigged by the House of Crows. You can battle all you like, but one side has to lose.”

“I shan’t let it be us,” Lysander hissed.

“And I shan’t allow the Immortals to lose either.” Magenta clasped her arms around Fox; her eyes flashed.

“Then we’re at an impasse.” Lysander knelt straighter, as something malevolent glimmered in his eyes. “So, let’s act like the royalty and immortals that we are and take back the control. Every Friday, one Wing of the academy has to complete a mission. It’s why we train, after all. Why don’t we settle who that is between us now like gentlemen…and women, of course?”

Not another mission.

I growled, wrenching away from Willoughby and wrapping my arms around myself.

Missions: I hated them. Simply because each of our supernatural societies had decided to imprison us, we’d become expendable. Damelza sent either the Princes or the Immortals on missions that the patrons of the school paid for (and they weren’t to bring presents to kids in orphanages).

Last term, I’d refused to go on my first mission because I’d said that it was against my code to be an assassin. Damelza had hung Hector from Hecate’s statue, and threatened that if I didn’t fight in her army, then she’d kill him.

I’d chosen Hector over my code. But then, I’d already been a broken incubus. Did it matter if I broke myself?

“Of course,” Magenta replied, coolly. “What do you suggest?”

Lysander’s wings beat eagerly. “A game: the losing side goes on the mission.”

Sleipnir sat up. “How can we trust you to play it honestly?”

Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “How can I trust you?”

Fox untangled himself from Magenta, thrumming with sudden energy. “Just call me Grandmaster Wizard of Games. It’s my secret title, handed down for generations to those who have the magic touch at Pictionary, Cluedo, and Scrabble. Okay, which of you bitches wants to test a Grandmaster Wizard’s skills?”

Lysander pulled at a thread on the carpet, unraveling it. “One believes that strip poker would be more appropriate.”

Instantly, Midnight sat up, wrapping his wing around Lysander as if he was protecting his slave’s modesty. Interesting.

An incubus, however, doesn’t have any modesty. Come on now, just look at my sexy self. How could I be so cruel as to deprive others of this view?

“Fine with me,” I smirked.

Magenta raised her eyebrow. “Echo says that these contests are modern duels. Although, he’s also excitedly chattering about adding to his Wank Count, so I find myself fascinated to witness how a duel can end in…self pleasure.”

I flushed, as Magenta’s tongue darted across her lips. She never broke her gaze from mine, as her black mists spread across the circle, surrounding me. I was drowning in her, and yet she hadn’t even touched me. Did she know? Her eyes sparked with love, and I smiled, willing her to understand how much I longed for her.

The Duchess had made me hurt for her, but I’d die for Magenta.

Fox edged closer to the center of the circle (don’t think you’re sneaking a pillow, foxy), before casually offering, “Okay, I’ve never played strip poker before, but I’m sure that I’ll get the hang of it. The loser has to take off a piece of clothing, right? Wow, it’ll be fun to find out if Serenity magicked you silk panties.”

Lysander’s expression darkened, as he shifted uncomfortably on his knees (he was enjoying the sensation of silk on his dick for definite). “Hmm, am I temped to play poker with the mage whose magical talent can tell if I’m bluffing…?” He cocked his head as if in thought. “Shockingly, I’ll pass.”

“Godling,” Serenity cooed, “as your stress adviser, I suggest that it’d be a fine way for you to relax if you took off all your clothes, so that I could take a closer look at your muscles… I mean, if you played strip poker.”

Sleipnir crossed his arms. “Like an Unseelie wouldn’t cheat at cards.”

Lysander pressed his hand to his chest in mock outrage; I smothered my grin. “Like a prince would ever be caught cheating.”

Sometimes, I thought Lysander was as much an incubus as me.

Magenta glanced between us. “As Prefect, I insist that the game should be fair and mustn’t risk any of my Rebels.”

“Are you pulling Prefect rank already?” Lysander sneered. “The same responsibility rests on my shoulders. Then how about magical Russian roulette?”

“Bullets have a tendency to risk death,” Magenta commented with a deadly coolness. Sparks lit the dim room, and Lysander quailed. “I died once, and I’m not quite ready to repeat the experience.”

“Magical,” Lysander repeated, clasping his hands tightly on his knees. “One is excellent at potions, remember? Each Wing chooses a challenger who takes two attempts to drink. So, four turns in total. Three shall be harmless and the fourth…”

“Please say: Turns you into a parrot, which can only be taught to squawk “Help! I’ve been turned into a parrot!”” Fox bounced up and down with excitement but stopped when we all looked at him. He shrugged, awkwardly. “What? That’s been a lifelong dream of mine.”

“It wouldn’t be fun if you knew what the potion did now, would it? But I swear that it shan’t cause death or any lasting harm.” Lysander’s smile grew.

Willoughby shuffled backward. “I don’t want to play. None of us should.”

“Honor dictates that we’re all part of this.” Lysander gripped Willoughby by the ankle, dragging him to the circle. “For your refusal, I think we have the volunteer from the Princes.”

I gasped, and my gaze shot to Willoughby’s frightened expression, although he masked it hurriedly with his usual haughtiness. But he knew Lysander better than us, and I’d learned at the Duchess’ hands that there was a brutal amount you could still do to someone that didn’t leave lasting harm.

What if the potion made me less pettable…?

Magenta’s expression hardened. “If you had any honor, fae, as Prefect you’d be playing yourself. I’d be delighted to try this game.”

I froze, horrified. There was not a chance that I’d let Magenta play against the Princes. I hadn’t saved Hector, and I might not be able to save Fox. If the Duchess took me away, then I wouldn’t be able to protect any of the Immortals like I’d sworn that I would. But I could now, even if it was only playing magical Russian roulette.

I wondered if this was how the ancient incubi had thought their warrior descendants would turn out? I’d say not…at a wild guess.

When I grasped Willoughby’s hand, his confused gaze met mine. “If it pleases you, let me fight for the Immortals’ honor.”

At the chorus of noes, I bristled.

“I’m not weak.” I shuffled, until my knees touched Willoughby’s, and we faced each other: opponents but not rivals. “I can’t touch you,” I glanced at Magenta, and she bit her lip, “but let me show you that I love you.”

Sleipnir shook his head.

I tilted up my chin. “I’m doing this. Let me feel something.”

Willoughby’s smile softened from his usual icy-cold. “You’re a worthy and brave adversary.”

Then I spluttered, as Lysander thrust his wing thwapping across my face.

“Let’s play this the traditional fae way,” Lysander said. “Serenity, infuse my feathers with Potion One.”

I blinked. I was meant to lick the first bullet from his feathers…? Yuck. I didn’t know where he’d been.

I wrinkled my nose, as my pulse pounded. Was this the harmless potion or the one that’d magically kick me in the balls and lose me the game? I took a deep breath, before licking.

Lysander wasn’t able to hide his shiver at the touch because a fae’s wings were as sensitive as an angel’s. He’d use any excuse to get my tongue on his privates.

Then I choked on the intense taste of sweet cherry blossoms. Somehow, I’d expected Lysander to taste sour.

The Immortals crowded closer in alarm, but I held my hand up to keep them back. After a long moment, I did a thumbs up.

Lysander thrust his wing to Willoughby’s lips. “Potion Two.”

Willoughby clenched his jaw, before licking. When he also nibbled, hard enough for Lysander to yelp, I grinned. Except, my heart beat too rapidly in my chest, as I watched Willoughby’s shuttered expression desperately for signs of pain, transformation, or…something.

Was I hoping that he took the bullet or that I did? I had to win or my lovers would be forced on the mission at the end of the week. But I didn’t want Willoughby to be hurt either. I’d barely thought about the elf before, but being massaged and touched by someone held importance to an incubus. He’d treated me like I was precious, and no son of Night could ignore the debt owed. It was this whole thing.

After a moment, the tension in Willoughby’s shoulders relaxed, but he gripped my hand tighter.

Lysander’s wing raised to my lips again. “Potion Three.”

I couldn’t look up at the other Immortals. The silence was poisoning. My pulse pounded, and I couldn’t swallow. There were fifty: fifty odds of this being the dangerous potion. I’d had experience of deliberately harming myself before for my love; the uncertainty was always worse than the pain.

I didn’t hesitate. I licked Lysander’s wingtip, but this time, a bitter taste like cabbage with just a hint of ginger, invaded my mouth. I gagged, sitting back on my heels. Instantly, I knew that I’d been shot with the bullet.

Helplessly, I curled around my aching guts. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I’d lost…forced us to go on the mission… I’d failed to protect my lovers…

I’d have cried if it wouldn’t only have made me weaker and uglier.

The itching ballooned out, until I was nothing but a buzzing ball of needy incubus. My mind was hazy, as I fell on my side.

Where was I? What did I…? Was the Duchess punishing me again?

There were voices, but I didn’t recognize them. They were lost in the pulsing need, need, need, which was centered on the hard-on pulsing between my legs.

May I come, please, please, please…?

I didn’t even know if I was begging out loud. Wow, I hoped not.

“What did you do?” Magenta howled, floating in a black cloud towards me. “You swore that you’d not harm him.”

“He’s not harmed,” Lysander insisted. “It’s just a lust potion: Love Me Quick.”

“Witless fae.” Magenta curled her magic around Lysander. “Have you no idea how dangerous it is to give an aphrodisiac to an incubus who’s already…”

“Suffering from touch deprivation,” Sleipnir gritted out. “You know that I’m going to kick your ass, right?”

“Don’t you think that there’s enough danger in this academy without the rivalries, which are fostered by the coven to divide us? Why must you make it worse?” Magenta demanded.

“Says the witch from the House of Crows.” Lysander struggled in her magic’s hold.

I rolled onto my back, scrabbling at my clothes. The fabrics grated my sensitive skin. I needed them off, off, off… I tore and ripped, hauling off my shirt, before shoving down my pants and kicking them away with a sigh of relief. Then I wrapped my hand around my throbbing dick, which hurt so much. But it wasn’t enough.

Why wasn’t anybody helping me?

“Please,” I whimpered.

Magenta leaned over me. Her hand hovered over my dick.

Just a wee bit closer…

“Don’t touch him,” Fox warned. “Unless you want a shock that could fry his dick as well.”

Magenta snatched away her hand, backing up.

No, no, no…come back, witchy…

I arched, moaning. My own hand wasn’t enough, as I stroked and tugged. I needed…touch. I was aflame again, back with the Duchess. She was burning me, and I was begging for it.

“It was just an experiment,” Lysander said, shakily. “Stop your fussing; it’ll wear off. What’s an hour’s humiliation for him, when you wished a night’s humiliation on me?”

Midnight rose up, towering over Lysander. Midnight’s charcoal eyes darkened to black. “When did I take advantage of that power over you, my prince? How long will you allow your guardian’s twisted hate to rule your life?”

Willoughby leaned closer, stroking the back of his hand down my cheek. The touch settled me, clearing my mind for a moment, but it still wasn’t enough. I squirmed, trying to encourage his hand lower, but he shook his head.

“You’re drugged and can’t tell me to stop. I shan’t touch you like this. I’m sorry.” When his sky-blue hair froze to ice, I shuddered at the sudden danger. The room became as chilly as the grounds. There was fleeting fear in Lysander’s eyes now. “Was your revenge worth causing such pain?”

Lysander’s lips curled. “Who are you, killer, to act pious over causing pain?”

Killer?

Even through the haze of need, I paled, pulling away from Willoughby. I knew why all the Immortals had been sent to the academy, but not the Princes. Their crimes had to be greater for an entire kingdom to depose and abandon them. But killer…?

Willoughby paled, and his eyes flashed with raw pain at the way that I’d recoiled from him. Then his expression became blank again, and he looked down, avoiding everyone’s intent stares.

I closed my eyes, sensually tracing my fingers over my aching nubs, twisting and pulling. Why wouldn’t someone suck on them? Just one? I’d take even a foot rub…

All of a sudden, Sleipnir gave a small smile, “You knew that we wouldn’t be able to touch Bask to help him. But what your loser ass doesn’t realize is that Serenity knows a fae who’d love to help him through this.” He couldn’t mean…? “Andro, get your ass out here.”

I tried to sit up, covering my dick with my hands…anything to stop what was about to happen. I whined, as unshed tears burned my eyes. I was desperate for Andro to touch me, but devastated for Lysander to see his clone.

Don’t let Andro appear, please…

I’d agreed to the bet. I’d known that if I lost, it’d suck. I didn’t blame Lysander because by incubi standards, he’d only schemed and won. I respected that. But I didn’t want him to witness the version of him that I both used and loved. Even if I knew that Willoughby had a clone of me that he spanked. I was sexy, after all. Who could blame him?

I didn’t think that Lysander, however, would be flattered in the same way.

Andro appeared in all his beautiful, naked, and submissive glory, kneeling fluidly at my side. His hair veiled his face, but he gasped at my distress, leaning to feather kisses across my eyelids, as I screwed shut my eyes like that could save me from Lysander. I’d never known that such a simple gesture could make me feel cherished.

Instantly, the buzzing settled, and I sighed with pleasure.

When I peeked at Willoughby and Midnight, they appeared shocked and mesmerized. Midnight was checking out Andro’s arse; it was a fine sight.

When I dared to look at Lysander, however, my stomach twisted even worse than it was with the potion. He was close to tears. His eyes were wide, as he studied the way that Andro rubbed my shoulder with tender love.

“Tricks don’t always play out the way that we intend,” Sleipnir said, quietly, “I should know.”

Andro’s soft gaze met mine; and I nodded my permission. Unlike with Willoughby, there was no question of consent because weird as it might be, Andro was my lover, and he knew how to meet my needs, as much as I’d ever been molded to suit the Duchess’. Except, I’d failed with the Duchess, whereas Andro never had with me because he’d been created for me.

I wished that I could free him too.

Then Andro kissed down my neck, and I lost all coherent thought, apart from make me feel…

Kisses, sucking, touching. I was ablaze, but this time with pleasure. Andro licked across my nipples, and I moaned, before he trailed a path with his fingers and tongue to my dick. I gritted my teeth because I was beyond the point of teasing. When Andro lowered his lips over my dick, sucking on the head, I lifted my gaze to lock it with Lysander’s.

“But I won,” Lysander’s whisper was tear-tinged.

Magenta’s voice vibrated with power, “I’ll lead my Rebels on the mission, and I’ll be damned if they won’t all survive. But do you truly believe that you won?”

When Andro sucked harder, I howled, consumed by pleasure that was agonizing even in its release. How many times would the potion force me through it? I panted and clenched my fists, coming for a second time.

Yet I’d always been a slave to pleasure, whether it was forced on me or taken from my body. Pleasure was dangerous, and the mission could be deadly.