R. Cooper's Blog, page 23
June 7, 2011
sort of working anyway
Expanded "My Man Godric" to about 16,000 words. I'm not really sure why, I just had to do something and it needed a bit of tweaking. I'll let it sit before reposting it though.
Now, onto the cheese of space pirates!
Now, onto the cheese of space pirates!
June 3, 2011
*Things*, darling, gorgeous things.
A week of much self doubt that I have been trying to conquer with OK Go videos, because I love them, and also because if they can carve out a quirky little niche for their quirky little selves, then maybe I can too. Also they just seem cool. Cool nerds.
I'll oxymoron your face, shut up. :P
Anyway, I found a review site for m/m romance that seems new. Hopefully, someday when I have money I can read reviews from this place and then actually *buy* the books. Book torrenters are not my friends right now. Maybe someday when I can pay my rent that will change and I can afford to be generous, but right now I can't afford anything. I believe in free promotion and I understand being broke. Share with your friends if you want, but posting the whole thing for *everyone* on the entire internet to read for free strikes me as you making friends and getting to look awesome from all of *my* hard work, so y'all can go to hell.
The address of the review site is here, Top2Bottom Reviews.
I also found this: a fanvid for Some Kind of Magic that I am sure is awesome but which, for whatever reason, I am kind of freaking out about and can only watch seconds of at a time. But omg! A fan! Who devoted their time to make a video. Aaaaaaawwwwww! Sweetness!
This is really nice. Especially because today my head is all over the place. I've got a "finished" thing that needs so much work that I can't look at it now. I've got a short-ish story idea that needs expanding but I don't know where to go with it. I've got a prequel/sequel notion for Let There Be Light that's loosely outlined but which I'm not quite ready to start. And all day yesterday I was plotting out a silly short for one of Dreamspinner's upcoming anthologies and then I decided it was too silly and had nothing to do with anything. Seriously, I feel guilty when I don't work on something, but I can't figure out which one to do.
ARGH.
I'll oxymoron your face, shut up. :P
Anyway, I found a review site for m/m romance that seems new. Hopefully, someday when I have money I can read reviews from this place and then actually *buy* the books. Book torrenters are not my friends right now. Maybe someday when I can pay my rent that will change and I can afford to be generous, but right now I can't afford anything. I believe in free promotion and I understand being broke. Share with your friends if you want, but posting the whole thing for *everyone* on the entire internet to read for free strikes me as you making friends and getting to look awesome from all of *my* hard work, so y'all can go to hell.
The address of the review site is here, Top2Bottom Reviews.
I also found this: a fanvid for Some Kind of Magic that I am sure is awesome but which, for whatever reason, I am kind of freaking out about and can only watch seconds of at a time. But omg! A fan! Who devoted their time to make a video. Aaaaaaawwwwww! Sweetness!
This is really nice. Especially because today my head is all over the place. I've got a "finished" thing that needs so much work that I can't look at it now. I've got a short-ish story idea that needs expanding but I don't know where to go with it. I've got a prequel/sequel notion for Let There Be Light that's loosely outlined but which I'm not quite ready to start. And all day yesterday I was plotting out a silly short for one of Dreamspinner's upcoming anthologies and then I decided it was too silly and had nothing to do with anything. Seriously, I feel guilty when I don't work on something, but I can't figure out which one to do.
ARGH.
May 31, 2011
Excerpt: Winner Takes All
Because I'm too lazy to do more, and because the full short will go on sale in June at Dreamspinner in their Daily Dose Anthology First Time For Everything, here is a bit from my contribution. I went Old West on that bitch, just because. What you need to know, there's a lonely town marshal and a cheeky monkey gambler and they want want want what you want want want. (Okay, too much Rihanna for me today. And coffee.) I mean to say, there is much wanting and denial of wanting going on.
In truth, there wasn't much difference between his room here and his room there; both were small and sparsely furnished, decorated only by his other pair of boots and his considerable gun collection. A married man might have needed more room, but Mary Ellen, bless her wise heart, had run off years before he'd ever come to this border town and he had no inclination to remarry, for reasons he never thought about anymore.
At least, not much. Not unless he couldn't help it. Like when the nights were long and when he was tired from days of worry and waiting to pass off a prisoner to the Federal Marshal, and whenever a certain inveterate tinhorn poker player rode into town—or rode in on the stage as though he'd finally lost his horse over some cards.
The very fact that that tinhorn was currently boarding at the Glory, as he always seemed to when he rode into town on the black mare he claimed to love, covered in dust and a shadow of a beard, meant Morgan was eying his little jail as his new home, and would be as long as that two-bit gambler and probable cheat was in town. He'd never get a wink of sleep otherwise, and he needed that.
Of course, if he went to sleep, he wouldn't have to hear the laughter trickling down the street from the hotel's tables, where Matt Dixon would be cleaning out billfolds and telling those damn tall tales and stories about his father to make people laugh while he took their money.
Those stories had a touch of magic in them for all that they were lies. Or were probably lies, or lies with a grain or two of truth in them, but so fanciful and well-told that anyone could fall for them. Dixon's tales could take you someplace else, to made up towns, to meet people who likely didn't exist, and in them, always, always, Dixon himself as a long-lost prince, or the savior of an entire island during a storm, or as the only winner in six hands of stud against Hickok himself.
That one might be true, even if the kid sometimes hardly seemed old enough with his flashy suits and coppery hair. Other times Dixon seemed exactly old enough, or older, his gaze entirely too jaded for the heartbeat before he'd recall himself and smile and begin to spin another yarn about San Francisco's Emperor or how he'd once served a glass of whiskey to a Russian princess who'd swallowed it without flinching and asked for more.
It was no wonder the man was so loved, even if he was a card player. It was possibly one reason the man hadn't been killed yet. Dixon sat down to play with people who couldn't read, who had scars from the whips of overzealous bosses, or who had never been to towns much bigger than this one, and maybe that was how the man seemed like a gift to them, an actor and magician combined, one hand always over your heart as the other reached for your billfold.
It was hardly a surprise that some didn't even notice that he was taking their hard-earned wages as he spoke; they only smiled and waited until he offered up another story.
Morgan clenched his jaw, hard, and moved, but only to flip the lock on the door to keep out any unwanted visitors. He knew exactly how difficult the life of those cowhands was, what it took to survive it, or get away, and yet somehow, like them he wanted the tales anyway.
Not for the first time he wondered if Dixon knew that too, if he also had first-hand knowledge of all those moments from his youth both great and sickening, if he'd slept under the stars with his best friends, and done things to be ashamed of when he'd had no other choice. If he did and he smiled and stared so warmly and sweetly and took those boys' money anyway, he was no good at heart and Morgan was right in driving him from town whenever he rode in. Someone had to look out for those who couldn't protect themselves, even from cheating, reckless gamblers.
Though there were always those who didn't laugh at Dixon's stories, the ones who did charge him with cheating, not that Morgan or anyone else had ever made a charge stick. The man played stud like he was one of the creatures from the Old Country Morgan's mother had warned him about, and if anyone on this earth was charmed, it would be Dixon, with his green eyes and his looks that had saloon girls and church ladies falling over themselves, and his never-ending streak of luck with cards.
"Gamblers..." Morgan snorted to himself as he lowered the blinds on the small window, shutting himself in with the flickering low light of one oil lamp. He was talking to himself, going as crazy as Miss Lettie one quiet night at a time, but he didn't stop himself. Out there it wouldn't do to admit weakness, one wrong step, one careless move could lead to tragedy, but in here he was alone at last, almost close to free.
There was no light coming in from the street with the blind down, though he could still hear murmurs from the hotel.
"One step above criminals." He tried to say it with force, but the sound of laughter seemed to linger, like imaginary bathhouse scents that still tickled his nose.
"Now, Marshal," someone declared in an unabashedly intimate tone that made heat rise up in Morgan's belly, "a man could take that real personal."
In truth, there wasn't much difference between his room here and his room there; both were small and sparsely furnished, decorated only by his other pair of boots and his considerable gun collection. A married man might have needed more room, but Mary Ellen, bless her wise heart, had run off years before he'd ever come to this border town and he had no inclination to remarry, for reasons he never thought about anymore.
At least, not much. Not unless he couldn't help it. Like when the nights were long and when he was tired from days of worry and waiting to pass off a prisoner to the Federal Marshal, and whenever a certain inveterate tinhorn poker player rode into town—or rode in on the stage as though he'd finally lost his horse over some cards.
The very fact that that tinhorn was currently boarding at the Glory, as he always seemed to when he rode into town on the black mare he claimed to love, covered in dust and a shadow of a beard, meant Morgan was eying his little jail as his new home, and would be as long as that two-bit gambler and probable cheat was in town. He'd never get a wink of sleep otherwise, and he needed that.
Of course, if he went to sleep, he wouldn't have to hear the laughter trickling down the street from the hotel's tables, where Matt Dixon would be cleaning out billfolds and telling those damn tall tales and stories about his father to make people laugh while he took their money.
Those stories had a touch of magic in them for all that they were lies. Or were probably lies, or lies with a grain or two of truth in them, but so fanciful and well-told that anyone could fall for them. Dixon's tales could take you someplace else, to made up towns, to meet people who likely didn't exist, and in them, always, always, Dixon himself as a long-lost prince, or the savior of an entire island during a storm, or as the only winner in six hands of stud against Hickok himself.
That one might be true, even if the kid sometimes hardly seemed old enough with his flashy suits and coppery hair. Other times Dixon seemed exactly old enough, or older, his gaze entirely too jaded for the heartbeat before he'd recall himself and smile and begin to spin another yarn about San Francisco's Emperor or how he'd once served a glass of whiskey to a Russian princess who'd swallowed it without flinching and asked for more.
It was no wonder the man was so loved, even if he was a card player. It was possibly one reason the man hadn't been killed yet. Dixon sat down to play with people who couldn't read, who had scars from the whips of overzealous bosses, or who had never been to towns much bigger than this one, and maybe that was how the man seemed like a gift to them, an actor and magician combined, one hand always over your heart as the other reached for your billfold.
It was hardly a surprise that some didn't even notice that he was taking their hard-earned wages as he spoke; they only smiled and waited until he offered up another story.
Morgan clenched his jaw, hard, and moved, but only to flip the lock on the door to keep out any unwanted visitors. He knew exactly how difficult the life of those cowhands was, what it took to survive it, or get away, and yet somehow, like them he wanted the tales anyway.
Not for the first time he wondered if Dixon knew that too, if he also had first-hand knowledge of all those moments from his youth both great and sickening, if he'd slept under the stars with his best friends, and done things to be ashamed of when he'd had no other choice. If he did and he smiled and stared so warmly and sweetly and took those boys' money anyway, he was no good at heart and Morgan was right in driving him from town whenever he rode in. Someone had to look out for those who couldn't protect themselves, even from cheating, reckless gamblers.
Though there were always those who didn't laugh at Dixon's stories, the ones who did charge him with cheating, not that Morgan or anyone else had ever made a charge stick. The man played stud like he was one of the creatures from the Old Country Morgan's mother had warned him about, and if anyone on this earth was charmed, it would be Dixon, with his green eyes and his looks that had saloon girls and church ladies falling over themselves, and his never-ending streak of luck with cards.
"Gamblers..." Morgan snorted to himself as he lowered the blinds on the small window, shutting himself in with the flickering low light of one oil lamp. He was talking to himself, going as crazy as Miss Lettie one quiet night at a time, but he didn't stop himself. Out there it wouldn't do to admit weakness, one wrong step, one careless move could lead to tragedy, but in here he was alone at last, almost close to free.
There was no light coming in from the street with the blind down, though he could still hear murmurs from the hotel.
"One step above criminals." He tried to say it with force, but the sound of laughter seemed to linger, like imaginary bathhouse scents that still tickled his nose.
"Now, Marshal," someone declared in an unabashedly intimate tone that made heat rise up in Morgan's belly, "a man could take that real personal."
May 27, 2011
Somebody gave Ideas of Sin five stars. *aw*
Somebody gave Ideas of Sin five stars. *aw*
May 22, 2011
another repost
A Piece of Pink Ribbon
(A bit of...something…started long ago)
Maybe canon—maybe not
There was no evidence of the sun in the dark sky outside, only the increasing glow of the sinking moon offered any hint of just how close the dawn was. In the city itself he might not have noticed, but here on the outskirts of civilization, his mind bored with the revelries behind him, Etienne had let the distant moon capture his attention.
Clouds surrounded the incomplete circle, never quite overtaking it, and the silver light was creating a strange halo that mariners would have seen as a sign of bad fortune. But it had been some time since Etienne had needed to concern himself with the thoughts of sailors, and he took a sip of wine from his glass, letting it play on his tongue.
The drink was cold, though why the Marquis had bothered to spend his gold on ice when he served such a lowly choice of wines was a question that Etienne briefly considered asking the man, ruin his plans though it may. Already, the sweetness of it stuck to his teeth, and he allowed himself a grimace, catching sight of himself in the glass of the window. New, large-paneled glass windows, to impress whom, Etienne and likely all of Paris could guess, and briefly Etienne's slight frown flickered to something easier.
His reflection bore out the change in his moods, and he considered it, licking the wine from his lips and tasting instead bitter oils. Vexing, to have to replace his paint yet again for a sip of insipid wine, and he refocused his gaze on the shifting images in the glass, reflections of the dancers behind him. Some ladies attempting to mimic the movements of the ballet, he assumed, though they stumbled into a card table with shrieking laughter that pained his ears.
An insipid affair from every possible consideration, and with difficulty Etienne kept himself from yawning. He was too pale in the moon's light like this, his face and neck dusted with a shimmering mix of powder and crushed minerals, and he would remember to not wear this affectation for an evening party again. The only advantage to be gained from the look would be how weak it made him appear, and that Etienne considered, leaning his head back to study the line of his throat, the stained pink of his lips, knowing well how they looked next to something fierce and dark at his back.
The Marquis was returning, his smile no mask to his ringed, anxious eyes. With that face the man sought an elevated position. With that face he longed to orbit the sun itself and would never leave Paris, no matter that he emptied his pockets for countless parties. There were other ways to prove loyalty and honour, and his was money better spent elsewhere.
It had been stupid of him to stay here so long. His presence should have been enough to convince a greedy and foolish lord that he offered friendship and yet here he still stood, staring at the moon. The man would think he longed for more, to linger in the company people such as these, and though this too may have made his plans easier, Etienne found himself in no mood to feign interest.
It would have been easier to coax a Spanish noblewoman to suck his cock than to find something to entertain him here. 10,000 livres would be a neat sum to add to his own fortunes, but even that was not worth the headache of watching as one more dull party was ended by the sun's rising, and drunken fools fell to their carriages, to sleep until darkness came again, and another night of this. It was a wonder that they had ever managed to stand against the King when their fortunes were so easy to take now.
His faint smile fixed in place as he saw the Marquis approaching him, the man's cheeks flushed a shade that had more to do with nature than a palette. Etienne took another sip of his wine and let his mouth twist with displeasure before he set the glass down and pushed it from him, his fingers only just visible under the falling lace of his cuffs. Pink cheeks were now white and worried, and Etienne let out a sigh, a long, weary breath.
"Not to your liking, monsieur?" The man had the manner of a servant, and Etienne could not help the small frown that furrowed his brow, and turned his face away before it could be seen. The Marquis had not been so accommodating before, and Etienne wondered which rumours had met the fool's ears in the past hours, and how. He was going to have to do something both stupid and public soon, if he wished fools like this to remain ignorant of his ways and habits. Perhaps a duel; it should not be too difficult to get blood spilled in his name.
His view now was nearly the entire room, an ivory partition keeping him from seeing more of the card tables, though that mattered little. Anyone still playing now was too desperate to interest him, their monies already gone. But the ladies had paused in their dancing, indiscreet words flying loudly through the air as they turned to eye the stranger passing among them, the form and figure distinctly foreign and made only more so by the ridiculous clothing he wore.
Etienne licked his lips once more, uncaring of the paint, and pulled his hand away from the wine glass to lay it flat on the wooden ledge under the window. Silver light bounced oddly away from the red stones of his ring, leaving them dull, but he left the moon to its madness and returned his eyes to what was slowly coming nearer.
"You have a new guest," he remarked to see the startled jerk of shoulders, the frown of confusion as the Marquis studied the newcomer's lean and tanned form. That more than the carefully graceful, rolling walk should have told the Marquis he faced a man who knew the sea. But doubtless the man had no knowledge of anything beyond his home, and would see only the many hues of light-coloured hair and the eyes that tended to green. They spoke of England, those eyes, and Etienne lifted his chin as they rose to find his, even in the glass.
It was not the first time, and Etienne did not bother to answer the challenge, regarding the man without even a smile, not turning to face him.
"You let anyone attend your parties, I see." He spoke to the side, watching annoyance flicker across the man's face before it was hidden away. Only then he did let his lips curve into something colder than a smile. He ignored the Marquis, as did the newcomer, but unlike the Englishman, he could guess at the Marquis' reaction to his smoothly-voiced criticism. The man had, after all, allowed an unknown peasant to enter his home.
"It is time I was leaving," Etienne added with a sideways glance, watching the Marquis' chin wobble as he fought to control his tongue. It was very likely his servants would be beaten in the morning for their carelessness, feeling all of the Marquis' dismay at such a false step in front of so infamous a guest. If Etienne had mentioned that it was probable that the peasant before them had not in fact, entered through the front entrance—or any legitimate entrance at all—it would not have made any difference.
Nonetheless, he pulled delicately at the lace on his cuffs one last time before turning to face the intruder, raising his nose as though the air around them were rancid. The heavy perfume the Marquis had chosen nearly made it true.
His gaze he kept down for the moment, noting the shining new leather boots and clean, if dull, stockings fitted tight over muscled legs. Both of which put Etienne in mind of an early musketeer or cavalier more than a sailor, or a pirate, or a thief, whichever the Marquis' unexpected guest had decided to be this evening. Overdressed spy seemed most appropriate, as there was no feathered hat or leather doublet to complete the strange ensemble and no weapon hung at the slim waist. The man's only adornment would be a bit of faded pink ribbon tied at the wrist, usually hidden by gloves, though Etienne did not search for it.
The boy had somehow managed to seem as though he had either ridden for miles with an urgent message or just come ashore after months at sea and had new clothing made to visit an old friend. Either description would mark him as out of the ordinary here and Etienne raised his eyes at last from the shoulders that somehow always surprised him with their breadth and the cloak that covered them.
The face was as brown as the clear eyes drawing up and down his form could be, and Etienne lifted his chin in a show of faint annoyance at the boy's presumption but did not look away or otherwise move to acknowledge the bold inspection. If it amused the intruder to treat him like a street whore then it was more then fair that Etienne would treat him like a piece of street filth. They both knew the truth, and perhaps that is why he permitted the trespass.
If he had worn even a scrap of any kind of green, then the peasant's eyes before him would have shown an elusive glitter of the same shade, something Etienne had noticed long ago. Far too long ago, he admitted with a twist to his lips, and flicked a glance away from the dark lashes and curving, smug lips that had doubtless helped the boy with many of his assorted ventures.
The long breath that Etienne felt burning in his chest escaped his mouth as the Marquis turned a hideous, florid face away, obviously searching for servants large enough to toss the stranger into the street and then administer a good thrashing. The twist to Etienne's lips widened into a pleased smile, and he cocked one eyebrow, waiting.
With a snort that could have come from a horse, the man opened his mouth only to shut it abruptly. Narrowed eyes studied Etienne for a moment longer before sliding over to make a show of observing their host. It was a pretense of interest at best, perhaps a remnant of manners taught to the upstart long ago by someone deserving of sainthood for making the attempt. He did not bow or bend his head the slightest degree, only sighing and turning back to Etienne, his eyes rolling in what was truly an exaggerated manner, his gaze expressing open disbelief that Etienne was even standing next to this man.
His sisters had possessed more decorum as children when faced with an unending series of horrid nannies, running to him with complaint after complaint. Etienne considered the memory of his pretty young sisters' disgraceful attempts to wheedle help from him—a trick Suzette had perfected over the years—unsurprised that the boy before him had attempted a similarly childish act, looking to him with sparkling eyes that dared him to answer.
He did not so much as twitch an eyebrow in response, merely continuing to wait as the music from far across the room plucked and teased at the edges of his mouth, reminding himself that he was not the one with a small space of time left to him.
As though realizing that, the boy swore, loudly, in possibly the worst Parisian ever spoken by an Englishman, and Etienne had the same person to thank for that as had attempted to teach this peasant manners.
An unsuccessful attempt, if one considered that the boy knew them well enough but only seemed to bother when the mood struck him, or when he found they could be useful. Which meant of course that his little display now was intentional, as Etienne had suspected it was even if the Marquis was a man to naturally object to, all of this a ploy, possibly to hurry along Etienne's departure.
Despite the urgency that this would imply, Etienne stood where he was, pushing out a long, slow breath to let the Marquis know just how unacceptable he found the situation. If the Marquis had been a different sort of man, he might have directed a quick—yet barely hidden—expression of longing at him as well, speaking silently of a need to be alone. It would doubtless have been answered with great haste.
But all of Paris knew of the man's devotion to his mistress, so Etienne did not, sending his gaze carefully back to the peasant and blinking rapidly to find eyes that no longer sparkled staring steadily at him. The frown that marred the smooth forehead seemed nearly as childish as a pout, but a darting glance to the lips revealed them to be in an unamused line, full even when pressed together.
It was no wonder he had been so sought after by wicked men, with a mouth like that.
His chin lifted, and the boy's followed.
"A word?" The short words were left without a title of respect attached, and Etienne allowed himself a smile, hearing the murmur of voices above even the music now, the strings echoing through his blood, heating it as wine had never done, making his voice too loud.
"If I were you, I would take precautions against such a man sneaking into my home again." Etienne perhaps angled his head in the direction of the flustered nobleman, but his eyes he left where they were. The warning was near to a slap in the face, as though the boy before him were going to ravage this man's wife and pale daughters—something they would undoubtedly enjoy. And his insult was rewarded with a small frown on the handsome face, a brief tightening at the full at mouth before an irritated glance to the side, which said clearly that the Marquis' guest had already beheld the women of the house.
The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming, and Etienne directed his gaze elsewhere to enjoy the pleasure of the small victory, swinging his eyes back up at the sudden easy flow of Parisian, as clearly spoken as if Louise or Suzette themselves had been before him.
"And before I got a chance to introduce myself…." The false regret had not been learned in any schoolroom, and if Etienne had made himself hide his enjoyment of this, then the boy would not have dared, making a show of his straight, even teeth, the strong column of his throat as he threw his head back and laughed softly.
If he thought to tease with that then his efforts were wasted when Etienne moved his gaze. His amusement was that of a child, and they were wasting time with this display.
The Marquis had stepped away, leaning to speak into a footman's ear, and Etienne turned back to the man at last, putting out a hand, palm up, a habit useless now, when the Marquis had been given hints of the truth. This must end, and soon, if he was to excuse himself without any questions. A note would have more discreet, but the boy had chosen this way, revealing the child he still was.
It was not curiosity that had brought him here, and the least that could be said for him was that he did not pretend that it was. Beyond that, the boy was as foolish as those who claimed him.
Etienne was in no need of rescue.
A blur of colour startled him into almost taking a step back, a hand going to his side though he wouldn't have been able to use even a small blade in this place. His head went up at the quick movement, eyes wide at the strong brown hand reaching for him, the hand that dared to touch his own, warm fingers trailing across his palm as the hand was just as quickly withdrawn. Once gone, there was only the faint itch where a length of cheap pink ribbon had been drawn across his skin, and Etienne raised his eyes, not daring to look down to that hand or that wrist with its lover's token.
There was a skill in the delicate touch that the nimblest thief would envy, that should have been surprising in the blunt, calloused fingers, leaving only the impression of pressure and warmth in his empty hand. If not for the ribbon, he might have thought it a creation of his mind, but he had no need of such dreams any more than he desired a savior.
His mouth remained closed, his tongue hiding behind his teeth like a frightened woman behind a door. He was left to hope that his expression remained as frozen, his mask of irritation good enough to show to the Marquis; the man's round horrified eyes growing rounder with the realization of what this insult given in his house, to this guest, could cost him, never knowing that the cost would have been the same.
It would mean death of course, for the peasant foolish enough to render such an offense as laying hands on a noble, perhaps a crippling beating at the very least. Under that penalty, it was a wonder that anyone should have done it—or not done more. That, combined with the man's foolishly daring act of walking into this home should have also warned a smart man that this visitor was either mad or a man above the ordinary. Mercy or sense were required, and the Marquis possessed neither, something that Etienne could have learned without ever having to attend his dull party.
He closed his eyes as the Marquis began yelling, indecorously shouting across the room for more footmen, straining to be heard when the musicians did not cease their playing.
It was not his lips that curved upward in sharp amusement, could not be even with the Marquis' lack of dignity. This act was not his work, and no favours had been done him with this display.
Etienne opened his eyes and turned them away from the grin of triumph, not knowing or caring about what victory the boy thought he could claim from this. The Marquis' destruction was hastened, and a spectacle had been made of him in such a way that others would connect the event in their mind to the public offense given to Etienne Saint-Cyr, and there were already too many whispers.
That grin remained fixed in his mind's eye, as though Etienne's thoughts now were exactly what gave the boy so much pleasure.
Whatever had they seen in the whelp, to save him from the gutter when so many others could have been better trained?
Etienne's hand, still outstretched, fell to rest at his hip, one foot angling out carelessly to show his heavy, gold-lined slipper. Then he licked his lips, parting them as though he considered speaking. His painted whore's mouth drew the eye, even the cunt-loving gaze of the Marquis, and for that Etienne did smile, feeling how they each pulled in breath, how they stared.
But the boy knew the trick, and better than most. If Etienne were to mention where he had learned it, most would never believe him. It was not a skill of a man, especially a man of his blood. Perhaps that was why he had learned it so well.
The Marquis turned and Etienne pulled in a long breath of his own, closing his mouth and twisting his lips before glancing pointedly to the empty place in front of him, allowing himself a cruel smile when the Marquis visibly jumped to see the boy gone.
There were a few unconcealed giggles from the ladies dancing, making no secret of their interest in the strange scene, and if the Marquis had forgotten them, Etienne had not. An audience was always present, lurking in the shadows of the mind, ready to pounce on the first missed step, the line spoken out of turn, hungry for the taste of humiliation, the sweetest meat seasoned with hidden tears.
The man was making apologies now, choking on words that in his youth he would never have needed to say, begging forgiveness on rumor alone from the scion of a fallen house, unable to even chase a criminal from his home. He would never catch the boy, and the footmen had no heart for the chase. He was an ugly fat fool with too much money and too little dignity.
He was about to be relieved of both, begging or no. But his life was still his, and his daughters, and there were families who had risen back to glory with less. It was a struggle worth the price, even if others with their sparkling green eyes did not agree.
There was a sudden pounding at his temples, a sickness behind his eyes and Etienne tried to shake away the ache, the weight dragging at his bones that reminded him of the hour, urging him to bed. Soon he would be an old man, bent double while young nursemaids helped him to rest.
The image was amusing enough to add some strength to the smile he tossed in the worried fool's direction, and then Etienne was moving, gliding easily through clumsy, drunken dancers without interrupting a single step. The Marquis' eyes were on him as well as any number of others, sharp and considering, but he kept his stride slow, pausing at the doorway, catching another glimpse of himself as the footman swung open the wide, mirrored doors.
It was perhaps only the late hour that made him think so of his age. Not yet thirty and younger-seeming in the smoky room full of guttering candles. Perhaps it was time to think of his nursery, something possibly worth mentioning, he decided, quickening his step.
The twist to his lips was his alone, and if he shared it through the mirrors with the Marquis, the man could think what he would. Not even the king himself could begrudge him this smile, and with it he escaped into cool, quiet halls.
He allowed himself a soft breath as well, sighing as the music faded away, leaving only the click of his slippers on the floor and the hushed swing of doors being opened for him.
The Marquis was easily prodded into foolish behavior, which would simplify taking his fortune from him. But he had been left with a badly-drawn portrait of Etienne Saint-Cyr, and that would have to be remedied. Etienne Bertrand Michel Moreau du Saint-Cyr was a wastrel son of a murdered man, a fool and a cocksucker, a drunken fop. That is all the man needed to know of him, and with enough evidence, other stories of him would fade to nothing. He must never wonder why the King would tolerate such a man, must never get the chance, not if he wished to live.
A note perhaps, praising the Marquis' choice of music which had in fact been tolerable, or an invitation to his home, either here or in the country. The country would require a longer visit, and Etienne fought the urge to grimace as he left the house and stood out in the night air.
The man must not find him too distant, not a man like that. He sought to elevate his position and was most eager to buy his way into the king's graces. He thought the Saint-Cyr name a good stepping-stone, pretending for now not to know of the unsavory rumors. Or perhaps he was truly ignorant. It was not likely to matter much, in the end. Etienne would allow the man to orbit him, would smile just enough to offer hope of teaching the man how to ascend higher, and offer guidance on the best manner to spend that vast fortune his ancestors had been smart enough to accrue.
It was not altogether a lie. Louis would be most appreciative of the Marquis' monies. He might even honour the family for their generous gifts someday, if he remembered. If not, Paris was full of old vines withering under the new sun's glare.
Jacques was jumping down from his carriage before the horses had fully stopped, landing without a sound at the door as though anticipating precisely where he would be needed. A trace of a limp today, which meant rain tomorrow, if Jacques was to be believed. A simple warning—even one about the weather—was not to be taken lightly, and so when Jacques raised his head and met his gaze for a moment, Etienne nodded and did not scold as some might have.
It was dark inside the carriage of course; it must have served the boy well. Etienne did not attempt to search the shadows as he stepped inside and slid to the opposite side. He settled onto the thickly-padded cushion as Jacques closed the door behind him, adjusting the lines of his coat without raising his gaze.
"A note would have been better. In the future, you will remember that." He spoke quietly, dropping one hand down to the small ledge under the cushions, passing his fingertips over the sheathed dagger though not enough to draw attention to it. The boy knew enough secrets.
"Sent to suck this one dry too?" The body slid forward with an ease that spoke of too much time spent hiding in dark places, the moon coming through the windows to fall on the slender figure lounging insolently with one booted foot on the dark, pricey satin, his back against the padded wall.
One arm was resting across the bent knee, the pose too deliberate to be chance, and Etienne used the darkness to study the strong, spread legs, and the space between them.
The boy had spoken with triumph in his voice, as though he had spent his time out here searching for wit and thought his choice of words very clever. It did not disguise the way he stared, even in the dark of the carriage.
Etienne moved with no warning, pressing forward until his fingers were at the boy's throat and squeezing hard. The boy's head came up, his eyes wide and bottomless in the lack of light, and then the rosy lips parted. Etienne leaned in until that last free breath was his, the heat nearly enough to melt the paint at his mouth.
There was no liquor at those lips, no glossy paints. They should have appeared innocent, but the curse that slipped past them was low-born and common, the kind of thing he would have learned from his bastard care-giver.
He did not bring up his hands, perhaps knew he did not need to, or only did not want to. He had not worn gloves, and his hands, though quick and slender, were strong, rough with various labors. They would be warm and so calloused Etienne would feel it against his skin as they tracked through white rice-powder and forced his away.
If he were to raise them. But the boy breathed hard, let Etienne taste his breath, and did not move. The interior of the carriage was too dark, even with their bodies and faces so close, for Etienne to see into the man's eyes, but he knew they watched him.
He had learned the courage and defiance elsewhere. It was often easy, with a strength of a man, to forget having ever been helpless, though he did not think the boy had. That Etienne had not seen a weapon did not mean there was not one, just as the way the man held himself motionless now did not mean he could not fight.
His hand was also bare; Etienne could feel the quick pulse pounding hard under his thumb, it did not not flutter with fear as it should have. The blood was hot even through skin, thrilling next to the faint rasp of stubble that he had not expected.
He should have and his own carelessness mocked him.
He allowed himself a small inward breath, flicked his eyes from the mouth to the shadowed throat. The smooth curves of his fingernails would leave marks in the flesh if he pushed harder, and for a moment, Etienne imagined it, thin white moons along the veins, pushing out when the man swallowed. The clouds outside could never touch them.
He exhaled, narrowing his eyes and making certain his gaze stayed even with the green eyes so carefully watching him. He felt his leg, his thigh pressed along the heat of another, strong and muscled. A man's, though the boy did not act it with his foolish displays, his actor's gestures that he thought were clever.
Etienne had no use for the past, and no future worth thinking of. He inhaled the air they did not share, then squeezed harder.
"Never touch me without my permission." It was more a hiss than a whisper and he clenched his teeth to keep back more. He did not...with others he had no say, but with this boy he did, and he would ram that truth between those lips.
He was a spoiled youth, too stubborn and willful, trained too well in using his beauty to get what he wished. If those stupid enough to claim him would not put him in his place, then Etienne would.
That others had tried, that when the boy finally did lift his hands to circle Etienne's thin wrists a length of ribbon tickled him, was meaningless. It was Etienne's nails marking him, and the boy's skin dark like the night itself capturing his hands.
Etienne tightened his grip for another moment, waiting for the noise of pain that never came, and then he relaxed his hold enough to allow breath, feeling the shuddering sigh across his cheeks, on his eyelids when he blinked.
The boy was frowning slightly, the brows drawn in thought and Etienne could have pressed his forehead to his to smooth the lines there if he wished. "Ben…" he whispered the name and felt the shaking force held back in the hand that came up to rest over his, held him still for too long of a moment with no effort at all.
The frown disappeared until eyes that far too often were as clever as the boy imagined simply watched him, would turn any colour Etienne wished to make them in the changing light. He was being studied.
Etienne pulled back at the realization, hiding his scowl though it was perhaps already too late, Ben's smile was also deliberate for all that it was real. Etienne had no doubt that the pleasure could have been hidden if the boy had wished to hide it. It would have been as easily done as vanishing before the Marquis' eyes. The boy was smart, but he still knew nothing.
Etienne looked down to readjust his cuffs, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he considered the effect his show of ill-humour had had on his clothing. It would be an odd request to make of a tailor, sleeves that did not rise and wrinkle should he strangle another man. Not that it was the man's place to question him.
He had a slight smile of his own as he raised his head once more; fixing his eyes for a moment on the pale crescents he had left in the brown skin.
He would speak to the tailors in the morning.
James would not be pleased to see marks on his boy, and that amusing thought nearly made him laugh. He allowed his lips to crack until his smile revealed teeth, arching one brow at the brat that had been sent for him and looking up as he did.
His own breath was strangled from him, trapped and burning in his chest to catch sight of the fires that raged for him. They did not slink from the shadows, they swallowed the darkness whole, light and heat where there had been nothing before. Brighter than the light outside, the sun finally arriving to vanquish the moon and let it rest.
And the smile. That smile. The meaning made his gaze slide away, his cheeks stinging with an unfamiliar flush. The forgotten feeling of having made a mistake sent a jolt to his heart, made it hammer for a moment against his ribs.
He had given the boy something he had wanted.
Etienne licked his mouth, tossing his head as his memory whispered back his words to him, what he had said in his moment of careless temper.
It meant nothing. He knew the names of his servants too, as Suzette had named her gaggle of lapdogs. Did he think Etienne had never heard the incessant whining of James Fitzroy after his adopted street filth?
Nonetheless he felt his mouth tighten—the late hour making him tired and his mind slow.
He sat against the cushions and thought he would change them to new colors, something brighter in the dark. He had never cared to be left to the shadows, even with his hands free and a weapon close.
As though they had no fear of the dark, childish or otherwise, the green eyes stayed on him, perhaps content to wait, perhaps confused. But the man did not move for now, and it was nearly enough of a victory to make Etienne forget the momentary triumph that had sparked in Ben's eyes, were Etienne to ever forget any trespass against him.
He had not given his permission, and would not, unless the boy had something real to offer, something of value for Etienne to take, and destroy. That was his work, and his sole talent, if he did not count fucking.
He adjusted his cuffs for a moment longer and then directed his gaze out the window, at the vague stirrings of dawn and gathering thunderclouds. He let the silence linger, did not bother to waste time with questions of direction or what was so urgent to have taken him from his work.
Jacques would know their destination—no doubt some low-class inn where the boy would be comfortable—and the boy could suffer in quiet for his rudeness. Etienne would know their business soon enough.
But his eyes left the window, and the fading piece of silver in the sky, and went to the man once again leaning indolently against the cushions on the bench in Etienne's carriage. There was always an audience, ready to see him fail, eager to see him step wrongly. Those sharp, ever-changing eyes on him were no different.
The words and glares for his actions were meaningless, as they always were, for it was no angel, no sainted Fitzroy staring back at him, and breath so hot did not offer redemption. Etienne Saint-Cyr sought no redemption in any case, and had no need of gentle tokens.
He would not slip again. The cost was too high, and to echo that thought the last of the moonlight passed over the ragged bit of pink knotted at the brown wrist. The moon battled off the oncoming storm in vain, glowing brighter as it was taken at last. Without the dawn for rescue the world grew dark, and Etienne let out a breath and turned away, longed to close his eyes.
He started when there was motion, blinked with heavy eyes and looked, reaching out before even fully awake, before even knowing that he had slept. The carriage was stopping, and Ben was at the window, and Etienne undisturbed, until Ben turned back to him, his grin bright and too knowing.
(A bit of...something…started long ago)
Maybe canon—maybe not
There was no evidence of the sun in the dark sky outside, only the increasing glow of the sinking moon offered any hint of just how close the dawn was. In the city itself he might not have noticed, but here on the outskirts of civilization, his mind bored with the revelries behind him, Etienne had let the distant moon capture his attention.
Clouds surrounded the incomplete circle, never quite overtaking it, and the silver light was creating a strange halo that mariners would have seen as a sign of bad fortune. But it had been some time since Etienne had needed to concern himself with the thoughts of sailors, and he took a sip of wine from his glass, letting it play on his tongue.
The drink was cold, though why the Marquis had bothered to spend his gold on ice when he served such a lowly choice of wines was a question that Etienne briefly considered asking the man, ruin his plans though it may. Already, the sweetness of it stuck to his teeth, and he allowed himself a grimace, catching sight of himself in the glass of the window. New, large-paneled glass windows, to impress whom, Etienne and likely all of Paris could guess, and briefly Etienne's slight frown flickered to something easier.
His reflection bore out the change in his moods, and he considered it, licking the wine from his lips and tasting instead bitter oils. Vexing, to have to replace his paint yet again for a sip of insipid wine, and he refocused his gaze on the shifting images in the glass, reflections of the dancers behind him. Some ladies attempting to mimic the movements of the ballet, he assumed, though they stumbled into a card table with shrieking laughter that pained his ears.
An insipid affair from every possible consideration, and with difficulty Etienne kept himself from yawning. He was too pale in the moon's light like this, his face and neck dusted with a shimmering mix of powder and crushed minerals, and he would remember to not wear this affectation for an evening party again. The only advantage to be gained from the look would be how weak it made him appear, and that Etienne considered, leaning his head back to study the line of his throat, the stained pink of his lips, knowing well how they looked next to something fierce and dark at his back.
The Marquis was returning, his smile no mask to his ringed, anxious eyes. With that face the man sought an elevated position. With that face he longed to orbit the sun itself and would never leave Paris, no matter that he emptied his pockets for countless parties. There were other ways to prove loyalty and honour, and his was money better spent elsewhere.
It had been stupid of him to stay here so long. His presence should have been enough to convince a greedy and foolish lord that he offered friendship and yet here he still stood, staring at the moon. The man would think he longed for more, to linger in the company people such as these, and though this too may have made his plans easier, Etienne found himself in no mood to feign interest.
It would have been easier to coax a Spanish noblewoman to suck his cock than to find something to entertain him here. 10,000 livres would be a neat sum to add to his own fortunes, but even that was not worth the headache of watching as one more dull party was ended by the sun's rising, and drunken fools fell to their carriages, to sleep until darkness came again, and another night of this. It was a wonder that they had ever managed to stand against the King when their fortunes were so easy to take now.
His faint smile fixed in place as he saw the Marquis approaching him, the man's cheeks flushed a shade that had more to do with nature than a palette. Etienne took another sip of his wine and let his mouth twist with displeasure before he set the glass down and pushed it from him, his fingers only just visible under the falling lace of his cuffs. Pink cheeks were now white and worried, and Etienne let out a sigh, a long, weary breath.
"Not to your liking, monsieur?" The man had the manner of a servant, and Etienne could not help the small frown that furrowed his brow, and turned his face away before it could be seen. The Marquis had not been so accommodating before, and Etienne wondered which rumours had met the fool's ears in the past hours, and how. He was going to have to do something both stupid and public soon, if he wished fools like this to remain ignorant of his ways and habits. Perhaps a duel; it should not be too difficult to get blood spilled in his name.
His view now was nearly the entire room, an ivory partition keeping him from seeing more of the card tables, though that mattered little. Anyone still playing now was too desperate to interest him, their monies already gone. But the ladies had paused in their dancing, indiscreet words flying loudly through the air as they turned to eye the stranger passing among them, the form and figure distinctly foreign and made only more so by the ridiculous clothing he wore.
Etienne licked his lips once more, uncaring of the paint, and pulled his hand away from the wine glass to lay it flat on the wooden ledge under the window. Silver light bounced oddly away from the red stones of his ring, leaving them dull, but he left the moon to its madness and returned his eyes to what was slowly coming nearer.
"You have a new guest," he remarked to see the startled jerk of shoulders, the frown of confusion as the Marquis studied the newcomer's lean and tanned form. That more than the carefully graceful, rolling walk should have told the Marquis he faced a man who knew the sea. But doubtless the man had no knowledge of anything beyond his home, and would see only the many hues of light-coloured hair and the eyes that tended to green. They spoke of England, those eyes, and Etienne lifted his chin as they rose to find his, even in the glass.
It was not the first time, and Etienne did not bother to answer the challenge, regarding the man without even a smile, not turning to face him.
"You let anyone attend your parties, I see." He spoke to the side, watching annoyance flicker across the man's face before it was hidden away. Only then he did let his lips curve into something colder than a smile. He ignored the Marquis, as did the newcomer, but unlike the Englishman, he could guess at the Marquis' reaction to his smoothly-voiced criticism. The man had, after all, allowed an unknown peasant to enter his home.
"It is time I was leaving," Etienne added with a sideways glance, watching the Marquis' chin wobble as he fought to control his tongue. It was very likely his servants would be beaten in the morning for their carelessness, feeling all of the Marquis' dismay at such a false step in front of so infamous a guest. If Etienne had mentioned that it was probable that the peasant before them had not in fact, entered through the front entrance—or any legitimate entrance at all—it would not have made any difference.
Nonetheless, he pulled delicately at the lace on his cuffs one last time before turning to face the intruder, raising his nose as though the air around them were rancid. The heavy perfume the Marquis had chosen nearly made it true.
His gaze he kept down for the moment, noting the shining new leather boots and clean, if dull, stockings fitted tight over muscled legs. Both of which put Etienne in mind of an early musketeer or cavalier more than a sailor, or a pirate, or a thief, whichever the Marquis' unexpected guest had decided to be this evening. Overdressed spy seemed most appropriate, as there was no feathered hat or leather doublet to complete the strange ensemble and no weapon hung at the slim waist. The man's only adornment would be a bit of faded pink ribbon tied at the wrist, usually hidden by gloves, though Etienne did not search for it.
The boy had somehow managed to seem as though he had either ridden for miles with an urgent message or just come ashore after months at sea and had new clothing made to visit an old friend. Either description would mark him as out of the ordinary here and Etienne raised his eyes at last from the shoulders that somehow always surprised him with their breadth and the cloak that covered them.
The face was as brown as the clear eyes drawing up and down his form could be, and Etienne lifted his chin in a show of faint annoyance at the boy's presumption but did not look away or otherwise move to acknowledge the bold inspection. If it amused the intruder to treat him like a street whore then it was more then fair that Etienne would treat him like a piece of street filth. They both knew the truth, and perhaps that is why he permitted the trespass.
If he had worn even a scrap of any kind of green, then the peasant's eyes before him would have shown an elusive glitter of the same shade, something Etienne had noticed long ago. Far too long ago, he admitted with a twist to his lips, and flicked a glance away from the dark lashes and curving, smug lips that had doubtless helped the boy with many of his assorted ventures.
The long breath that Etienne felt burning in his chest escaped his mouth as the Marquis turned a hideous, florid face away, obviously searching for servants large enough to toss the stranger into the street and then administer a good thrashing. The twist to Etienne's lips widened into a pleased smile, and he cocked one eyebrow, waiting.
With a snort that could have come from a horse, the man opened his mouth only to shut it abruptly. Narrowed eyes studied Etienne for a moment longer before sliding over to make a show of observing their host. It was a pretense of interest at best, perhaps a remnant of manners taught to the upstart long ago by someone deserving of sainthood for making the attempt. He did not bow or bend his head the slightest degree, only sighing and turning back to Etienne, his eyes rolling in what was truly an exaggerated manner, his gaze expressing open disbelief that Etienne was even standing next to this man.
His sisters had possessed more decorum as children when faced with an unending series of horrid nannies, running to him with complaint after complaint. Etienne considered the memory of his pretty young sisters' disgraceful attempts to wheedle help from him—a trick Suzette had perfected over the years—unsurprised that the boy before him had attempted a similarly childish act, looking to him with sparkling eyes that dared him to answer.
He did not so much as twitch an eyebrow in response, merely continuing to wait as the music from far across the room plucked and teased at the edges of his mouth, reminding himself that he was not the one with a small space of time left to him.
As though realizing that, the boy swore, loudly, in possibly the worst Parisian ever spoken by an Englishman, and Etienne had the same person to thank for that as had attempted to teach this peasant manners.
An unsuccessful attempt, if one considered that the boy knew them well enough but only seemed to bother when the mood struck him, or when he found they could be useful. Which meant of course that his little display now was intentional, as Etienne had suspected it was even if the Marquis was a man to naturally object to, all of this a ploy, possibly to hurry along Etienne's departure.
Despite the urgency that this would imply, Etienne stood where he was, pushing out a long, slow breath to let the Marquis know just how unacceptable he found the situation. If the Marquis had been a different sort of man, he might have directed a quick—yet barely hidden—expression of longing at him as well, speaking silently of a need to be alone. It would doubtless have been answered with great haste.
But all of Paris knew of the man's devotion to his mistress, so Etienne did not, sending his gaze carefully back to the peasant and blinking rapidly to find eyes that no longer sparkled staring steadily at him. The frown that marred the smooth forehead seemed nearly as childish as a pout, but a darting glance to the lips revealed them to be in an unamused line, full even when pressed together.
It was no wonder he had been so sought after by wicked men, with a mouth like that.
His chin lifted, and the boy's followed.
"A word?" The short words were left without a title of respect attached, and Etienne allowed himself a smile, hearing the murmur of voices above even the music now, the strings echoing through his blood, heating it as wine had never done, making his voice too loud.
"If I were you, I would take precautions against such a man sneaking into my home again." Etienne perhaps angled his head in the direction of the flustered nobleman, but his eyes he left where they were. The warning was near to a slap in the face, as though the boy before him were going to ravage this man's wife and pale daughters—something they would undoubtedly enjoy. And his insult was rewarded with a small frown on the handsome face, a brief tightening at the full at mouth before an irritated glance to the side, which said clearly that the Marquis' guest had already beheld the women of the house.
The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming, and Etienne directed his gaze elsewhere to enjoy the pleasure of the small victory, swinging his eyes back up at the sudden easy flow of Parisian, as clearly spoken as if Louise or Suzette themselves had been before him.
"And before I got a chance to introduce myself…." The false regret had not been learned in any schoolroom, and if Etienne had made himself hide his enjoyment of this, then the boy would not have dared, making a show of his straight, even teeth, the strong column of his throat as he threw his head back and laughed softly.
If he thought to tease with that then his efforts were wasted when Etienne moved his gaze. His amusement was that of a child, and they were wasting time with this display.
The Marquis had stepped away, leaning to speak into a footman's ear, and Etienne turned back to the man at last, putting out a hand, palm up, a habit useless now, when the Marquis had been given hints of the truth. This must end, and soon, if he was to excuse himself without any questions. A note would have more discreet, but the boy had chosen this way, revealing the child he still was.
It was not curiosity that had brought him here, and the least that could be said for him was that he did not pretend that it was. Beyond that, the boy was as foolish as those who claimed him.
Etienne was in no need of rescue.
A blur of colour startled him into almost taking a step back, a hand going to his side though he wouldn't have been able to use even a small blade in this place. His head went up at the quick movement, eyes wide at the strong brown hand reaching for him, the hand that dared to touch his own, warm fingers trailing across his palm as the hand was just as quickly withdrawn. Once gone, there was only the faint itch where a length of cheap pink ribbon had been drawn across his skin, and Etienne raised his eyes, not daring to look down to that hand or that wrist with its lover's token.
There was a skill in the delicate touch that the nimblest thief would envy, that should have been surprising in the blunt, calloused fingers, leaving only the impression of pressure and warmth in his empty hand. If not for the ribbon, he might have thought it a creation of his mind, but he had no need of such dreams any more than he desired a savior.
His mouth remained closed, his tongue hiding behind his teeth like a frightened woman behind a door. He was left to hope that his expression remained as frozen, his mask of irritation good enough to show to the Marquis; the man's round horrified eyes growing rounder with the realization of what this insult given in his house, to this guest, could cost him, never knowing that the cost would have been the same.
It would mean death of course, for the peasant foolish enough to render such an offense as laying hands on a noble, perhaps a crippling beating at the very least. Under that penalty, it was a wonder that anyone should have done it—or not done more. That, combined with the man's foolishly daring act of walking into this home should have also warned a smart man that this visitor was either mad or a man above the ordinary. Mercy or sense were required, and the Marquis possessed neither, something that Etienne could have learned without ever having to attend his dull party.
He closed his eyes as the Marquis began yelling, indecorously shouting across the room for more footmen, straining to be heard when the musicians did not cease their playing.
It was not his lips that curved upward in sharp amusement, could not be even with the Marquis' lack of dignity. This act was not his work, and no favours had been done him with this display.
Etienne opened his eyes and turned them away from the grin of triumph, not knowing or caring about what victory the boy thought he could claim from this. The Marquis' destruction was hastened, and a spectacle had been made of him in such a way that others would connect the event in their mind to the public offense given to Etienne Saint-Cyr, and there were already too many whispers.
That grin remained fixed in his mind's eye, as though Etienne's thoughts now were exactly what gave the boy so much pleasure.
Whatever had they seen in the whelp, to save him from the gutter when so many others could have been better trained?
Etienne's hand, still outstretched, fell to rest at his hip, one foot angling out carelessly to show his heavy, gold-lined slipper. Then he licked his lips, parting them as though he considered speaking. His painted whore's mouth drew the eye, even the cunt-loving gaze of the Marquis, and for that Etienne did smile, feeling how they each pulled in breath, how they stared.
But the boy knew the trick, and better than most. If Etienne were to mention where he had learned it, most would never believe him. It was not a skill of a man, especially a man of his blood. Perhaps that was why he had learned it so well.
The Marquis turned and Etienne pulled in a long breath of his own, closing his mouth and twisting his lips before glancing pointedly to the empty place in front of him, allowing himself a cruel smile when the Marquis visibly jumped to see the boy gone.
There were a few unconcealed giggles from the ladies dancing, making no secret of their interest in the strange scene, and if the Marquis had forgotten them, Etienne had not. An audience was always present, lurking in the shadows of the mind, ready to pounce on the first missed step, the line spoken out of turn, hungry for the taste of humiliation, the sweetest meat seasoned with hidden tears.
The man was making apologies now, choking on words that in his youth he would never have needed to say, begging forgiveness on rumor alone from the scion of a fallen house, unable to even chase a criminal from his home. He would never catch the boy, and the footmen had no heart for the chase. He was an ugly fat fool with too much money and too little dignity.
He was about to be relieved of both, begging or no. But his life was still his, and his daughters, and there were families who had risen back to glory with less. It was a struggle worth the price, even if others with their sparkling green eyes did not agree.
There was a sudden pounding at his temples, a sickness behind his eyes and Etienne tried to shake away the ache, the weight dragging at his bones that reminded him of the hour, urging him to bed. Soon he would be an old man, bent double while young nursemaids helped him to rest.
The image was amusing enough to add some strength to the smile he tossed in the worried fool's direction, and then Etienne was moving, gliding easily through clumsy, drunken dancers without interrupting a single step. The Marquis' eyes were on him as well as any number of others, sharp and considering, but he kept his stride slow, pausing at the doorway, catching another glimpse of himself as the footman swung open the wide, mirrored doors.
It was perhaps only the late hour that made him think so of his age. Not yet thirty and younger-seeming in the smoky room full of guttering candles. Perhaps it was time to think of his nursery, something possibly worth mentioning, he decided, quickening his step.
The twist to his lips was his alone, and if he shared it through the mirrors with the Marquis, the man could think what he would. Not even the king himself could begrudge him this smile, and with it he escaped into cool, quiet halls.
He allowed himself a soft breath as well, sighing as the music faded away, leaving only the click of his slippers on the floor and the hushed swing of doors being opened for him.
The Marquis was easily prodded into foolish behavior, which would simplify taking his fortune from him. But he had been left with a badly-drawn portrait of Etienne Saint-Cyr, and that would have to be remedied. Etienne Bertrand Michel Moreau du Saint-Cyr was a wastrel son of a murdered man, a fool and a cocksucker, a drunken fop. That is all the man needed to know of him, and with enough evidence, other stories of him would fade to nothing. He must never wonder why the King would tolerate such a man, must never get the chance, not if he wished to live.
A note perhaps, praising the Marquis' choice of music which had in fact been tolerable, or an invitation to his home, either here or in the country. The country would require a longer visit, and Etienne fought the urge to grimace as he left the house and stood out in the night air.
The man must not find him too distant, not a man like that. He sought to elevate his position and was most eager to buy his way into the king's graces. He thought the Saint-Cyr name a good stepping-stone, pretending for now not to know of the unsavory rumors. Or perhaps he was truly ignorant. It was not likely to matter much, in the end. Etienne would allow the man to orbit him, would smile just enough to offer hope of teaching the man how to ascend higher, and offer guidance on the best manner to spend that vast fortune his ancestors had been smart enough to accrue.
It was not altogether a lie. Louis would be most appreciative of the Marquis' monies. He might even honour the family for their generous gifts someday, if he remembered. If not, Paris was full of old vines withering under the new sun's glare.
Jacques was jumping down from his carriage before the horses had fully stopped, landing without a sound at the door as though anticipating precisely where he would be needed. A trace of a limp today, which meant rain tomorrow, if Jacques was to be believed. A simple warning—even one about the weather—was not to be taken lightly, and so when Jacques raised his head and met his gaze for a moment, Etienne nodded and did not scold as some might have.
It was dark inside the carriage of course; it must have served the boy well. Etienne did not attempt to search the shadows as he stepped inside and slid to the opposite side. He settled onto the thickly-padded cushion as Jacques closed the door behind him, adjusting the lines of his coat without raising his gaze.
"A note would have been better. In the future, you will remember that." He spoke quietly, dropping one hand down to the small ledge under the cushions, passing his fingertips over the sheathed dagger though not enough to draw attention to it. The boy knew enough secrets.
"Sent to suck this one dry too?" The body slid forward with an ease that spoke of too much time spent hiding in dark places, the moon coming through the windows to fall on the slender figure lounging insolently with one booted foot on the dark, pricey satin, his back against the padded wall.
One arm was resting across the bent knee, the pose too deliberate to be chance, and Etienne used the darkness to study the strong, spread legs, and the space between them.
The boy had spoken with triumph in his voice, as though he had spent his time out here searching for wit and thought his choice of words very clever. It did not disguise the way he stared, even in the dark of the carriage.
Etienne moved with no warning, pressing forward until his fingers were at the boy's throat and squeezing hard. The boy's head came up, his eyes wide and bottomless in the lack of light, and then the rosy lips parted. Etienne leaned in until that last free breath was his, the heat nearly enough to melt the paint at his mouth.
There was no liquor at those lips, no glossy paints. They should have appeared innocent, but the curse that slipped past them was low-born and common, the kind of thing he would have learned from his bastard care-giver.
He did not bring up his hands, perhaps knew he did not need to, or only did not want to. He had not worn gloves, and his hands, though quick and slender, were strong, rough with various labors. They would be warm and so calloused Etienne would feel it against his skin as they tracked through white rice-powder and forced his away.
If he were to raise them. But the boy breathed hard, let Etienne taste his breath, and did not move. The interior of the carriage was too dark, even with their bodies and faces so close, for Etienne to see into the man's eyes, but he knew they watched him.
He had learned the courage and defiance elsewhere. It was often easy, with a strength of a man, to forget having ever been helpless, though he did not think the boy had. That Etienne had not seen a weapon did not mean there was not one, just as the way the man held himself motionless now did not mean he could not fight.
His hand was also bare; Etienne could feel the quick pulse pounding hard under his thumb, it did not not flutter with fear as it should have. The blood was hot even through skin, thrilling next to the faint rasp of stubble that he had not expected.
He should have and his own carelessness mocked him.
He allowed himself a small inward breath, flicked his eyes from the mouth to the shadowed throat. The smooth curves of his fingernails would leave marks in the flesh if he pushed harder, and for a moment, Etienne imagined it, thin white moons along the veins, pushing out when the man swallowed. The clouds outside could never touch them.
He exhaled, narrowing his eyes and making certain his gaze stayed even with the green eyes so carefully watching him. He felt his leg, his thigh pressed along the heat of another, strong and muscled. A man's, though the boy did not act it with his foolish displays, his actor's gestures that he thought were clever.
Etienne had no use for the past, and no future worth thinking of. He inhaled the air they did not share, then squeezed harder.
"Never touch me without my permission." It was more a hiss than a whisper and he clenched his teeth to keep back more. He did not...with others he had no say, but with this boy he did, and he would ram that truth between those lips.
He was a spoiled youth, too stubborn and willful, trained too well in using his beauty to get what he wished. If those stupid enough to claim him would not put him in his place, then Etienne would.
That others had tried, that when the boy finally did lift his hands to circle Etienne's thin wrists a length of ribbon tickled him, was meaningless. It was Etienne's nails marking him, and the boy's skin dark like the night itself capturing his hands.
Etienne tightened his grip for another moment, waiting for the noise of pain that never came, and then he relaxed his hold enough to allow breath, feeling the shuddering sigh across his cheeks, on his eyelids when he blinked.
The boy was frowning slightly, the brows drawn in thought and Etienne could have pressed his forehead to his to smooth the lines there if he wished. "Ben…" he whispered the name and felt the shaking force held back in the hand that came up to rest over his, held him still for too long of a moment with no effort at all.
The frown disappeared until eyes that far too often were as clever as the boy imagined simply watched him, would turn any colour Etienne wished to make them in the changing light. He was being studied.
Etienne pulled back at the realization, hiding his scowl though it was perhaps already too late, Ben's smile was also deliberate for all that it was real. Etienne had no doubt that the pleasure could have been hidden if the boy had wished to hide it. It would have been as easily done as vanishing before the Marquis' eyes. The boy was smart, but he still knew nothing.
Etienne looked down to readjust his cuffs, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he considered the effect his show of ill-humour had had on his clothing. It would be an odd request to make of a tailor, sleeves that did not rise and wrinkle should he strangle another man. Not that it was the man's place to question him.
He had a slight smile of his own as he raised his head once more; fixing his eyes for a moment on the pale crescents he had left in the brown skin.
He would speak to the tailors in the morning.
James would not be pleased to see marks on his boy, and that amusing thought nearly made him laugh. He allowed his lips to crack until his smile revealed teeth, arching one brow at the brat that had been sent for him and looking up as he did.
His own breath was strangled from him, trapped and burning in his chest to catch sight of the fires that raged for him. They did not slink from the shadows, they swallowed the darkness whole, light and heat where there had been nothing before. Brighter than the light outside, the sun finally arriving to vanquish the moon and let it rest.
And the smile. That smile. The meaning made his gaze slide away, his cheeks stinging with an unfamiliar flush. The forgotten feeling of having made a mistake sent a jolt to his heart, made it hammer for a moment against his ribs.
He had given the boy something he had wanted.
Etienne licked his mouth, tossing his head as his memory whispered back his words to him, what he had said in his moment of careless temper.
It meant nothing. He knew the names of his servants too, as Suzette had named her gaggle of lapdogs. Did he think Etienne had never heard the incessant whining of James Fitzroy after his adopted street filth?
Nonetheless he felt his mouth tighten—the late hour making him tired and his mind slow.
He sat against the cushions and thought he would change them to new colors, something brighter in the dark. He had never cared to be left to the shadows, even with his hands free and a weapon close.
As though they had no fear of the dark, childish or otherwise, the green eyes stayed on him, perhaps content to wait, perhaps confused. But the man did not move for now, and it was nearly enough of a victory to make Etienne forget the momentary triumph that had sparked in Ben's eyes, were Etienne to ever forget any trespass against him.
He had not given his permission, and would not, unless the boy had something real to offer, something of value for Etienne to take, and destroy. That was his work, and his sole talent, if he did not count fucking.
He adjusted his cuffs for a moment longer and then directed his gaze out the window, at the vague stirrings of dawn and gathering thunderclouds. He let the silence linger, did not bother to waste time with questions of direction or what was so urgent to have taken him from his work.
Jacques would know their destination—no doubt some low-class inn where the boy would be comfortable—and the boy could suffer in quiet for his rudeness. Etienne would know their business soon enough.
But his eyes left the window, and the fading piece of silver in the sky, and went to the man once again leaning indolently against the cushions on the bench in Etienne's carriage. There was always an audience, ready to see him fail, eager to see him step wrongly. Those sharp, ever-changing eyes on him were no different.
The words and glares for his actions were meaningless, as they always were, for it was no angel, no sainted Fitzroy staring back at him, and breath so hot did not offer redemption. Etienne Saint-Cyr sought no redemption in any case, and had no need of gentle tokens.
He would not slip again. The cost was too high, and to echo that thought the last of the moonlight passed over the ragged bit of pink knotted at the brown wrist. The moon battled off the oncoming storm in vain, glowing brighter as it was taken at last. Without the dawn for rescue the world grew dark, and Etienne let out a breath and turned away, longed to close his eyes.
He started when there was motion, blinked with heavy eyes and looked, reaching out before even fully awake, before even knowing that he had slept. The carriage was stopping, and Ben was at the window, and Etienne undisturbed, until Ben turned back to him, his grin bright and too knowing.
They have a complicated relationship.
Etienne repost, for the sake of neatness and everything being in one place.
AN: Fanfiction for my own work...by me. Does that even count as fanfic? Well an original ficlet for Ideas of Sin, set sometime after that. Take it as canon if you want,![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380453870i/2215943.gif)
pir8fancier
does. :)
Adults Only, violence, sexual content, and it probably won't make sense if you haven't read IOS.
It was the slick, cool press of the knife at his throat that made him stop, his feet alone no longer moving as he arched his neck forward, into the blade until the hand holding it would feel the pressure and know his anger.
There was an ache in his head that had been there for the past hour and promised to grow stronger and yet there was still much to be done. He had no time for the games of a mocking demon.
"I do not have time for your nonsense." Etienne pitched his voice low, making his annoyance obvious even if he could not shout for worry of disturbing the creature now housed only a few yards away. Where she would stay, it seemed. Father had managed to see to that, making plans as though Etienne were not aware of both his honour, and his duty. How pleased his sisters had been, to see the duty no longer on them.
He allowed his lips to curve, not at all amused, then inhaled sharply through his nose as the heat his back increased, pressing closer. It touched him everywhere, the back of his legs, protected only by stockings, seemed to burn, his back scorching beneath his just-a-corps, what could not have been a bead of sweat falling down the length of his spine, sticking to once-crisp linen.
He would not and did not shiver, lifting his chin instead and waiting as the metal at his neck warmed. The blade was no longer as cold as it was once, even if it still hungered for him. This time real amusement made him smile, safely, where it could not be viewed by the dog at his back.
"We will speak later." The calm in his own voice at issuing such a dismissal was no match for the sudden jump in his heartbeat at the expectation of the consequences. Servants and nobles alike had learned to run at his voice in the past year, trembling at his very lack of rage and the way in which he could, if he so chose, show his displeasure. Only those who had felt the kiss of the leash would share in his excitement.
The pressure at his throat did not ease. The blood racing through him now seemed to flood before his vision, only red before his narrowed eyes as he slid his own slim blade from his sleeve and slashed at the arm over his shoulder. "I am not joking!" he snarled as he turned quickly, some of the blood splashing onto him as he did and ruining what had been a costly ensemble.
His body felt tight, his flesh still burning, the pounding in his skull grow hard enough to make him think fondly of vomiting. But he kept his grip tight on the pretty blade now spotted with blood, sweeping his gaze carefully over his enemy's body until he came to the hit he had scored.
Teeth bared like the beast he was, Deniau still had his weapon ready, letting the blood drip from his arm to the floor as though he did not know it was there. It was a pain he denied now, though he might feel it later, and Etienne opened his mouth wide in a silent laugh. If his own teeth were bared, it was only a reminder that he had his mouth now, to bite as he pleased.
Spots of red also marred the white shirt that the black man had chosen to wear while here in the city. Opened to the waist, as it always was, in the wetness of rain or the heat of a sunny afternoon, exposing thick muscle lined with scars. Those too, had been dotted with the man's own blood. It would feel hot, stinking of his iron hatred. It would taste of copper and salt, lingering on his teeth if he did not take a sip of wine, and Etienne pointed the tip of his knife in Deniau's face.
"I did not invite you to my chambers, dog." His breath came to him harshly, making his words slower than they should have been, and Deniau's nostrils flared to detect even this small victory.
"Afraid your wife will hear you pleading for my cock, rich man?" There was no emphasis on the word, and yet Etienne felt the ache in his head throb anew at the reminder, knew he glanced in the direction of her rooms, through the walls of his own. Almost the apartments of a real wife, though she was not that, not yet.
"You have never heard me plead," Etienne sneered at him when there had been silence for a moment too long, tossing his head coolly despite the sting at his cheeks. "How would she?"
A hiss left Deniau's mouth, a curse in his peasant's French, a rage in his eyes that he did not hide as he lifted his arm to his mouth and bent his face to it. His skin gleaming with perspiration as he tasted the wound Etienne had given him. Etienne watched his lips part even as he own did the same, gasping softly at the pain.
Too quickly, Deniau moved, rough hands grabbing Etienne by his upper arms and then yanking him forward, using his body to close the door behind them even as Deniau slid to the side. His body would bruise, and for that Etienne snarled, panting into the hard wood of the door as he was held there. His hold on his knife remained, and he knew that to be deliberate too, just as Deniau's act of kissing his wound had been meant to disarm.
"If you leave me the knife, I will kill you for this," Etienne vowed easily, shuddering as the fierce heat returned to his back, familiar breath at the back of his neck.
"You made no mention of a wife, rich man," Deniau's words were for his ear alone, though no one else would dare enter this room, he still kept their secret sacred. Only the flatness of teeth scraping the soft lobe of Etienne's ear promised any threat otherwise.
"I do not recall you asking me, when I was bound in the dark," Etienne lifted his chin and kept his voice icy, aware of the trembling of his legs, the tightness in his stomach that had little to do with sickness now. It was a score for him once more, always a score for him, when the weakness of honour reminded a dog he was a man.
Retribution came in the form of a hard embrace, swift and sudden to hold all of him as a hand went to his cock. Clothing, no clothing, the difference did not seem to matter to Deniau as he squeezed. He took what was his because it was his, and others needed the reminder.
Etienne bit his lip to hold back any careless words, feeling his breath pushed back against his face, hot on his skin, the wood unrelenting against his forehead as his footing slipped. No hand reached out to save him, and he smiled, for he had not expected one to. There was a soft stroke to his prick instead, just one, but enough to leave his cock pounding as his head had been only moments ago, and he closed his eyes.
"She seems charming," he murmured, his tongue like water, cool against his lips as he smiled. She seemed a fool. And he thought himself the same, his cock hard for the beast at his back, his legs spread in order to be mounted. But he would not beg.
"Quite lovely." His teeth were sharp against his cheek, shoved to the door with the force of sudden invasion, his grunt to be taken as one of pain. Perhaps it was. "Beautiful," he praised easily, feeling the slice of flesh, catching the scent of blood that was not his own.
He arched up, his back pressed to Deniau's chest, held fast with one strong arm as though Etienne were not already full with him. Short, hot breath under his ear and the threat of teeth at his neck, impatient with want for his fairness, furious at his defiance. Careless and weak with lust, supposing Etienne to be the same.
One shiver at last slid down his back, where a kinder hand might have soothed him, brushed circles of apology. A weaker hand. And Etienne laughed, breathless and quiet against the door, moving his hips to thrust against a warm, wet palm, shaking at the rough touch.
The dog pulled out in response, not completely but enough to ache, and trapped as he was Etienne still felt the storm along his veins, his muscles twitching at Deniau's slow drive back in.
"I will bed her tomorrow," Etienne promised, thrusting into a hand that would never be soft. Not for him. Hard and waiting and he felt himself longing for release, if only to have that hand pressed to his face, to hear the order to clean it as Deniau continued to fuck him.
His tongue tasted of iron as he darted it to lick his dry lips, and Etienne thought perhaps he had bitten his cheek.
"Shut up, rich man." The dog could barely speak, the thrill as hard in Etienne's prick as the teeth at his throat. Such need for him. Etienne almost pitied him for such weakness, grunting his pleasure as his own thrusts were pushed forward by Deniau's cock into him.
"Do you…" Words came slowly now, at odds with his furiously rocking body, and he swallowed his own blood in order to speak, to reach the end. So fucking close. "Do you object to that, dog?" he asked, his voice rising as Deniau shifted, as the hand tightened, and he was left to nothing but a wet agony, a scream against a door that the servants now knew well.
And still Deniau thrust into him, unsatisfied, unendingly hungry, and Etienne smiled through his body's pain, the caresses to his sore prick, his own seed used to coax him back to hardness. He would bruise, and the dog would again know weakness.
"Yes…" he hissed softly, echoing the word that he had not imagined hearing from Deniau's mouth, carefully whispered as Etienne had sank in sated delirium. The mouth at his neck was almost soft, fangs hidden until Etienne wished them bared once more.
(Ah, Etienne…) The End
AN: Fanfiction for my own work...by me. Does that even count as fanfic? Well an original ficlet for Ideas of Sin, set sometime after that. Take it as canon if you want,
pir8fancier
does. :)Adults Only, violence, sexual content, and it probably won't make sense if you haven't read IOS.
It was the slick, cool press of the knife at his throat that made him stop, his feet alone no longer moving as he arched his neck forward, into the blade until the hand holding it would feel the pressure and know his anger.
There was an ache in his head that had been there for the past hour and promised to grow stronger and yet there was still much to be done. He had no time for the games of a mocking demon.
"I do not have time for your nonsense." Etienne pitched his voice low, making his annoyance obvious even if he could not shout for worry of disturbing the creature now housed only a few yards away. Where she would stay, it seemed. Father had managed to see to that, making plans as though Etienne were not aware of both his honour, and his duty. How pleased his sisters had been, to see the duty no longer on them.
He allowed his lips to curve, not at all amused, then inhaled sharply through his nose as the heat his back increased, pressing closer. It touched him everywhere, the back of his legs, protected only by stockings, seemed to burn, his back scorching beneath his just-a-corps, what could not have been a bead of sweat falling down the length of his spine, sticking to once-crisp linen.
He would not and did not shiver, lifting his chin instead and waiting as the metal at his neck warmed. The blade was no longer as cold as it was once, even if it still hungered for him. This time real amusement made him smile, safely, where it could not be viewed by the dog at his back.
"We will speak later." The calm in his own voice at issuing such a dismissal was no match for the sudden jump in his heartbeat at the expectation of the consequences. Servants and nobles alike had learned to run at his voice in the past year, trembling at his very lack of rage and the way in which he could, if he so chose, show his displeasure. Only those who had felt the kiss of the leash would share in his excitement.
The pressure at his throat did not ease. The blood racing through him now seemed to flood before his vision, only red before his narrowed eyes as he slid his own slim blade from his sleeve and slashed at the arm over his shoulder. "I am not joking!" he snarled as he turned quickly, some of the blood splashing onto him as he did and ruining what had been a costly ensemble.
His body felt tight, his flesh still burning, the pounding in his skull grow hard enough to make him think fondly of vomiting. But he kept his grip tight on the pretty blade now spotted with blood, sweeping his gaze carefully over his enemy's body until he came to the hit he had scored.
Teeth bared like the beast he was, Deniau still had his weapon ready, letting the blood drip from his arm to the floor as though he did not know it was there. It was a pain he denied now, though he might feel it later, and Etienne opened his mouth wide in a silent laugh. If his own teeth were bared, it was only a reminder that he had his mouth now, to bite as he pleased.
Spots of red also marred the white shirt that the black man had chosen to wear while here in the city. Opened to the waist, as it always was, in the wetness of rain or the heat of a sunny afternoon, exposing thick muscle lined with scars. Those too, had been dotted with the man's own blood. It would feel hot, stinking of his iron hatred. It would taste of copper and salt, lingering on his teeth if he did not take a sip of wine, and Etienne pointed the tip of his knife in Deniau's face.
"I did not invite you to my chambers, dog." His breath came to him harshly, making his words slower than they should have been, and Deniau's nostrils flared to detect even this small victory.
"Afraid your wife will hear you pleading for my cock, rich man?" There was no emphasis on the word, and yet Etienne felt the ache in his head throb anew at the reminder, knew he glanced in the direction of her rooms, through the walls of his own. Almost the apartments of a real wife, though she was not that, not yet.
"You have never heard me plead," Etienne sneered at him when there had been silence for a moment too long, tossing his head coolly despite the sting at his cheeks. "How would she?"
A hiss left Deniau's mouth, a curse in his peasant's French, a rage in his eyes that he did not hide as he lifted his arm to his mouth and bent his face to it. His skin gleaming with perspiration as he tasted the wound Etienne had given him. Etienne watched his lips part even as he own did the same, gasping softly at the pain.
Too quickly, Deniau moved, rough hands grabbing Etienne by his upper arms and then yanking him forward, using his body to close the door behind them even as Deniau slid to the side. His body would bruise, and for that Etienne snarled, panting into the hard wood of the door as he was held there. His hold on his knife remained, and he knew that to be deliberate too, just as Deniau's act of kissing his wound had been meant to disarm.
"If you leave me the knife, I will kill you for this," Etienne vowed easily, shuddering as the fierce heat returned to his back, familiar breath at the back of his neck.
"You made no mention of a wife, rich man," Deniau's words were for his ear alone, though no one else would dare enter this room, he still kept their secret sacred. Only the flatness of teeth scraping the soft lobe of Etienne's ear promised any threat otherwise.
"I do not recall you asking me, when I was bound in the dark," Etienne lifted his chin and kept his voice icy, aware of the trembling of his legs, the tightness in his stomach that had little to do with sickness now. It was a score for him once more, always a score for him, when the weakness of honour reminded a dog he was a man.
Retribution came in the form of a hard embrace, swift and sudden to hold all of him as a hand went to his cock. Clothing, no clothing, the difference did not seem to matter to Deniau as he squeezed. He took what was his because it was his, and others needed the reminder.
Etienne bit his lip to hold back any careless words, feeling his breath pushed back against his face, hot on his skin, the wood unrelenting against his forehead as his footing slipped. No hand reached out to save him, and he smiled, for he had not expected one to. There was a soft stroke to his prick instead, just one, but enough to leave his cock pounding as his head had been only moments ago, and he closed his eyes.
"She seems charming," he murmured, his tongue like water, cool against his lips as he smiled. She seemed a fool. And he thought himself the same, his cock hard for the beast at his back, his legs spread in order to be mounted. But he would not beg.
"Quite lovely." His teeth were sharp against his cheek, shoved to the door with the force of sudden invasion, his grunt to be taken as one of pain. Perhaps it was. "Beautiful," he praised easily, feeling the slice of flesh, catching the scent of blood that was not his own.
He arched up, his back pressed to Deniau's chest, held fast with one strong arm as though Etienne were not already full with him. Short, hot breath under his ear and the threat of teeth at his neck, impatient with want for his fairness, furious at his defiance. Careless and weak with lust, supposing Etienne to be the same.
One shiver at last slid down his back, where a kinder hand might have soothed him, brushed circles of apology. A weaker hand. And Etienne laughed, breathless and quiet against the door, moving his hips to thrust against a warm, wet palm, shaking at the rough touch.
The dog pulled out in response, not completely but enough to ache, and trapped as he was Etienne still felt the storm along his veins, his muscles twitching at Deniau's slow drive back in.
"I will bed her tomorrow," Etienne promised, thrusting into a hand that would never be soft. Not for him. Hard and waiting and he felt himself longing for release, if only to have that hand pressed to his face, to hear the order to clean it as Deniau continued to fuck him.
His tongue tasted of iron as he darted it to lick his dry lips, and Etienne thought perhaps he had bitten his cheek.
"Shut up, rich man." The dog could barely speak, the thrill as hard in Etienne's prick as the teeth at his throat. Such need for him. Etienne almost pitied him for such weakness, grunting his pleasure as his own thrusts were pushed forward by Deniau's cock into him.
"Do you…" Words came slowly now, at odds with his furiously rocking body, and he swallowed his own blood in order to speak, to reach the end. So fucking close. "Do you object to that, dog?" he asked, his voice rising as Deniau shifted, as the hand tightened, and he was left to nothing but a wet agony, a scream against a door that the servants now knew well.
And still Deniau thrust into him, unsatisfied, unendingly hungry, and Etienne smiled through his body's pain, the caresses to his sore prick, his own seed used to coax him back to hardness. He would bruise, and the dog would again know weakness.
"Yes…" he hissed softly, echoing the word that he had not imagined hearing from Deniau's mouth, carefully whispered as Etienne had sank in sated delirium. The mouth at his neck was almost soft, fangs hidden until Etienne wished them bared once more.
(Ah, Etienne…) The End
Free Reads/Comment Fic Master post
Because I like to write things and I like to entertain my friends and because sometimes I want to play with my characters for a few paragraphs, behold! A master post!
This will include both links to commentfic and short fiction I've done as well as longer stories (and one novel) that are currently up to be read for free and hopefully enjoyed. And please keep in mind that most of the commentfic is unedited. :)
Ideas of Sin
An Age of Sail epic about a naive English clerk and a French corsair and their ongoing battle for the soul of one and the body of the other. It's been up for years and has since been edited but you can still find both versions online.
Ideas of Sin
or
Ideas of Sin the pdf (put together by the amazing
pir8fancier
)
or
Ideas of Sin The Original Version
Ideas of Sin fiction:
A high school AU for an Age of Sail pirate love story. I know right?
The High School Crack Fic and it's porny short sequel James Did a Bad, Bad Thing
Ideas of Sin fiction featuring Etienne Saint-Cyr:
Untitled Porn Snippet--a glimpse into how messed up Etienne really is.
A Bit of Pink Ribbon--a possible future for the son of Saint-Cyr.
Some Kind of Magic:
I Want Candy --a commentfic about Ray and his crotch-sniffing tendencies.
Gingerbread --another commentfic in which someone requested Ray and Cal trapped in a spell/inside a gingerbread house. Just in time for Christmas!
Three from a commentfic challenge I did one day, Taste the Rainbow!
1. Fairies suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder.
2. Ray comes out to his mother
3. Cal decides to have fun with Ray during a full moon
Fiction featuring T. Kirkpatrick: (Some people have expressed an interest in hearing more about Thomas, and there does happen to be a commentfic I wrote with![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380451598i/2033940.gif)
sinjah
in existence and I'll post it as soon as I've cleaned it up. and dealt with all the capslock porn.
Somebody Named Will
You should know this story is technically self-written fanfiction for an unfinished novel of mine involving Charlie and Will. Charlie is grumpity and anxious and has some issues and Will is a friendly, kinky little slut--er...awesome and sweet person. Why haven't I finished it? I have no idea. But it's a mess.
Aaaaanyway, this story is set after the end of their meet-and-fall-in-love story, and features Will meeting Charlie's family and also some kinky bathroom sex.
My Man Godric
A fantasy short story. Bertie is just the king's foolish, poetry and embroidery loving, sometimes crossdressing brother, useless in times of crisis and completely beneath the notice of someone strong like the country's most famous general, Godric of the South. Or so Bertie thinks.
Casper Gets His Wish
A cracky Christmas present for a friend where a fussy accountant elf at the North Pole has serious issues with an annoyingly laid back creative elf.
How have I never done commentfic for Karol and Hart? That's just sad.
This will include both links to commentfic and short fiction I've done as well as longer stories (and one novel) that are currently up to be read for free and hopefully enjoyed. And please keep in mind that most of the commentfic is unedited. :)
Ideas of Sin
An Age of Sail epic about a naive English clerk and a French corsair and their ongoing battle for the soul of one and the body of the other. It's been up for years and has since been edited but you can still find both versions online.
Ideas of Sin
or
Ideas of Sin the pdf (put together by the amazing
pir8fancier
)or
Ideas of Sin The Original Version
Ideas of Sin fiction:
A high school AU for an Age of Sail pirate love story. I know right?
The High School Crack Fic and it's porny short sequel James Did a Bad, Bad Thing
Ideas of Sin fiction featuring Etienne Saint-Cyr:
Untitled Porn Snippet--a glimpse into how messed up Etienne really is.
A Bit of Pink Ribbon--a possible future for the son of Saint-Cyr.
Some Kind of Magic:
I Want Candy --a commentfic about Ray and his crotch-sniffing tendencies.
Gingerbread --another commentfic in which someone requested Ray and Cal trapped in a spell/inside a gingerbread house. Just in time for Christmas!
Three from a commentfic challenge I did one day, Taste the Rainbow!
1. Fairies suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder.
2. Ray comes out to his mother
3. Cal decides to have fun with Ray during a full moon
Fiction featuring T. Kirkpatrick: (Some people have expressed an interest in hearing more about Thomas, and there does happen to be a commentfic I wrote with
sinjah
in existence and I'll post it as soon as I've cleaned it up. and dealt with all the capslock porn.Somebody Named Will
You should know this story is technically self-written fanfiction for an unfinished novel of mine involving Charlie and Will. Charlie is grumpity and anxious and has some issues and Will is a friendly, kinky little slut--er...awesome and sweet person. Why haven't I finished it? I have no idea. But it's a mess.
Aaaaanyway, this story is set after the end of their meet-and-fall-in-love story, and features Will meeting Charlie's family and also some kinky bathroom sex.
My Man Godric
A fantasy short story. Bertie is just the king's foolish, poetry and embroidery loving, sometimes crossdressing brother, useless in times of crisis and completely beneath the notice of someone strong like the country's most famous general, Godric of the South. Or so Bertie thinks.
Casper Gets His Wish
A cracky Christmas present for a friend where a fussy accountant elf at the North Pole has serious issues with an annoyingly laid back creative elf.
How have I never done commentfic for Karol and Hart? That's just sad.
May 20, 2011
halp?
Anyone know how these chat things in mailing groups work? There's a Dreamspinner promotion thing over at Literary Nymphs this weekend for the First Time for Everything Daily Dose collection, and the last time I was involved with a Yahoo group it was the 90's. THE 90'S, PEOPLE.
The self-promotion thing is another nightmare, but less worrisome since I pretty much count on me making an idiot of myself, but technical failure at internets is far more humiliating.
The self-promotion thing is another nightmare, but less worrisome since I pretty much count on me making an idiot of myself, but technical failure at internets is far more humiliating.
May 15, 2011
Word count fail. I'm at the second to last scene, and I'm...
Word count fail. I'm at the second to last scene, and I'm already over the word limit for the short story thing.
What to do? I suppose I could proceed and then either expand or cut. But damn it all.
Ooh or I could give up and play around on Twitter.
What to do? I suppose I could proceed and then either expand or cut. But damn it all.
Ooh or I could give up and play around on Twitter.
May 13, 2011
Totally my soundtrack song for when Felix and his pirate ...
Totally my soundtrack song for when Felix and his pirate finally get to screwing.
Trouble for Me
Not that it really fits their history, but it kind of just fits their smut.
Yay! Smut!
Trouble for Me
Not that it really fits their history, but it kind of just fits their smut.
Yay! Smut!
