Embrace - Ch 2
Jun. 2nd, 2008 10:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrShort chapters, one and two. Mergh. Hopefully they will get longer from here.
And this is much more what I wanted for these two. I is pleased, yus.
It also reminds me I still need to find a good beta for this story, since my usual suspects are not available (two being busy, the last does not like the story).
Ah, well. I'm not too concerned with beta'ing until I get a bit further along.
This chapter is NWS
Stregoni had always been an insomniac, a trait he had acquired from his mother. So many nights they had sat up together, grateful at least not to be alone in their sleeplessness, both envying those who could sleep effortlessly through the night – including his father, who slept like the dead.
He hated it, not least of all because he always did incredibly stupid things when left alone in the dark of night.
Like wander the halls, hoping and dreading that someone else might be awake.
Do you want me?
He balled his hands into fists, and tried to convince himself he should go back to his room and resume work annotating his Pharmacopoeia. But brandy settled warm in his belly, buzzing in his head, and he could not stand still.
The halls were empty as he wandered them, his every step a thundering echo on marble tile, mercifully muffled whenever he trod over rug.
Go back to bed, idiot, he tried to tell himself. He didn't know why he'd bothered, it had been a lost cause from the moment he'd left his own home to stay at the Sangre estate for a few days.
As he reached the east wing, music filtered toward him. Piano, the music a slow, heartbreaking piece. A thousand times he'd wanted to ask why it was always sad music, why nothing happy ever came out of that piano, but it was one in a thousand questions he never managed to voice.
Because like the ones he did dare voice, it would only met with some cold, cruel reply.
He was always cruel, had been from the first, but Stregoni had never been able to walk away, and stay away.
Why do you always act so cool, doctor? Do you think you're deceiving me? Your eyes are blue fire, when you look at me. Do you want me?
Like the proverbial moth to the flame, Stregoni wandered down the hall the music room. Their eyes had met for only a moment over dinner, but it had been enough to let him know that they both would be drunk tonight.
He pushed the door open, and tried one last time to remind himself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. It had never worked before, not since that first night, and it would not work this time.
All manner of potions and tonics and syrups cluttered the shelves of his apothecary in town. He knew the recipes for more medicines than he could count – and nearly all of them could also be considered deadly poisons.
None of them was as potent or addictive or potentially fatal as what drew him time and again to the cruel embrace of the beautiful man playing a mournful song on the piano.
Gille was the very definition of breathtaking, especially now when there was no one around to look down upon or impress, no social engagements pending, no visitors looming. No, he was dressed only in black breeches and a white shirt he had not bothered to lace, his long hair loose around his shoulders, hiding the elegant lines of his face and the bewitching gold-flecked pale green eyes.
Stregoni hovered in the doorway, part of him knowing he should flee, the rest of him too addicted to even think of it.
The music room was a somber place, the floor all black marble tile, the paneling a deep, rich red. Silver candelabra were scattered about, though only the one nearest the piano was actually lit.
Just behind Gille was a massive portrait of two men. It looked as though someone had simply painted Aubrey twice, but it was in fact Karl and George Bathory, the respective fathers of Aubrey and Gille. Twin brothers, and Stregoni recalled his father saying they had once been quite close. Though George Bathory lived only a few miles away, in a nearby estate, Stregoni had never met him. The man had become a recluse since the death of his wife in childbirth.
So much of a recluse, in fact, that Gille had come to live with his uncle. Beyond that, Stregoni knew nothing about the situation. No one knew anything, except Gille and Lord Sangre.
All Stregoni knew was that Gille could be and often was cold and cruel, and that he never got kinder than merely condescending.
Except sometimes…
He shook his head and looked again at the portrait. Gille had much in common with the twins, much in common with Aubrey, but there was a beauty to his features that they lacked, and that had likely come from his mother.
The two men were only in their mid-twenties at the time of the portrait. Handsome, severe, hinting at the over strict Lord of the manor Lord Sangre would eventually become – though, at that, Stregoni could not tell which was which.
One was seated, hands clasped over one knee, as though he were listening attentively to an unseen speaker. The second twin stood over the seat, slightly bent, as if to whisper to his brother when the speaker turned away for a moment. The chair was black velvet, matching their dark clothes, cuffs and throats displaying lace that was almost garishly white by contrast. To the right of the chair was a marble planter, from which tumbled the long, deep red blossoms of the flower Stregoni knew was called love-lies-bleeding.
He was stirred from his musings by the sudden absence of music, and dropped his gaze to see that Gille had turned to look at him.
The green eyes drew him like an opium addict to laudanum.
"The midnight hour strikes, and the doctor appears. Some would say that makes you a witch, doctor," Gille said, mouth curving in that too familiar smirk. Stregoni ached to wipe it from his face. Permanently. He wanted to see something tender, something…
Shoving the pointless, dangerous thoughts aside, he drew just close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted. Instead, he waited.
Gille reached out to pick up the glass of wine perched on the edge of the piano. Deep, blood red, and probably dry – Gille had always favored dry wines. His fingers were long, elegant, the nails meticulously manicured. He took a deep sip, eyes never leaving Stregoni's, the fine gold-flecked jade color only dulled a bit by the no doubt potent wine.
The sound of the glass clinking as Gille set it down again seemed shockingly loud in the ringing silence.
Brandy burned deep in his gut, but Gille burned hotter still throughout his entire body.
A wicked addiction he would do best to rid himself of, but he was as hopeless as the addicts he tried to help every week.
Gille touched him first, and Stregoni counted it a small, cheap victory. He was no better dressed than Gille, wearing only the bare minimum required to preserve modesty until he reached the music room.
He shivered faintly as his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, the laces teasing briefly across his nipples before Gille's mouth and tongue trailed with agonizing slowness across his stomach. Reaching out, he shoved his hands beneath Gille's shirt, digging his nails into the soft skin beneath, feeling hard muscle. A spoiled brat Gille might be, but he was too vain and proud to allow his body to spoil.
Lowering his head, he breathed in the scents that clung to Gille, remnants of his soap – cypress and marigold, and a hint of cologne which remained elusive. He moaned softly as Gille's mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of tingling heat, making him gasp sharply and tighten his hold until he earned a noise in return.
Gille abruptly stood up, arms bands around Stregoni's waist. Standing at his full height, he was at least a head taller than Stregoni. He nipped at Gille's collar bone, but before he could get a better taste of the fine skin, his head was tilted up and his mouth plundered.
He tasted like his dark, dry wine, a hint of clove. Something darker still and so rich, something that was all Gille. If he could distill it, whatever it was about Gille that drugged him so, he could addict the world to it.
His mouth was explored, devoured, taken until not a breath remained in his body, and he was left dizzy and gasping. Only then did he realized they had moved across the room to the black velvet chaise lounge.
Gille grabbed his shirt and removed it entirely, then removed his own, before those graceful fingers moved greedily to his breeches. Stregoni gasped as the cool air struck him, but almost immediately the chill was banished by Gille's fevered touch.
An addict he might be, but he was not so consumed by this wicked drug he would stand stupefied. Recovering himself some small measure, he shoved hard, sending Gille tumbling down on the chaise. Straddling him, Stregoni attacked Gille's pants, getting them open despite the delicious distraction of being yanked down to be intoxicated by another of those devastating kisses.
The kisses hurt more than anything, because at times they seemed to say things he knew Gille would never say. These nights were dirty secrets, and he didn't know why they had succumbed to that first, long ago urge one blizzard-shrouded night.
Touch after agonizing touch, gasps and moans and muffled cries, hot, sweat-slick skin, all melted into a haze of lust and need, until the fingers buried deep inside him finally slid away and he was guided down on Gille's cock, shaking hard as he adjusted to the fullness, wishing he did not miss it, need it. Hating himself for it, but unable to deny it.
Hands braced on Gille's chest, pale green eyes searing him with the wine-soaked lust that filled them, Stregoni began to move – there was nothing slow or hesitant, they were both too drugged on the moment for that. He buried his shout in Gille's mouth only just in time.
Their panting filled the music room as the fever slowly cooled, and Stregoni dreaded the return of his senses.
It came all too soon, as Gille slid from his body and the fire in his eyes eased, then finally died.
He did not wait for the snide comments, the cruel remarks, but slid away and picked up his discarded clothes, cheeks burning with shame as he dressed.
Gille said nothing, but he could feel the cold eyes upon him, knew the cutting words hovered on the precipice, that they would tip from sharp tongue with the next breath.
Though he knew he was no whore, at the end of these damned interludes, he felt it.
Still Gille said nothing. That was strange enough that the pace of Stregoni's heart began to increase, a flush of hope causing his steps to slow as he reached the door, and he braced a hand on the frame to turn around and see if just maybe…
"Good night, Carrot."
Cold. Dismissive. As though he were bored again, now that the amusement had come and gone. And that damned name. Carrot. He knew his hair was ugly, ridiculous, not the more vibrant red-gold that his mother possessed. Gille knew he hated it. Gille always knew where and how to hit for maximum pain with minimal effort.
He continued walking, though his steps were still slow. As he reached the end of the hallway, the sounds of slow, sad music reached his ears.
Stregoni pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, and told himself it was the late hour, and the candlelight, which made them sting and water.
And this is much more what I wanted for these two. I is pleased, yus.
It also reminds me I still need to find a good beta for this story, since my usual suspects are not available (two being busy, the last does not like the story).
Ah, well. I'm not too concerned with beta'ing until I get a bit further along.
This chapter is NWS
Love Lies Bleeding
(chapter two)
(chapter two)
Stregoni had always been an insomniac, a trait he had acquired from his mother. So many nights they had sat up together, grateful at least not to be alone in their sleeplessness, both envying those who could sleep effortlessly through the night – including his father, who slept like the dead.
He hated it, not least of all because he always did incredibly stupid things when left alone in the dark of night.
Like wander the halls, hoping and dreading that someone else might be awake.
Do you want me?
He balled his hands into fists, and tried to convince himself he should go back to his room and resume work annotating his Pharmacopoeia. But brandy settled warm in his belly, buzzing in his head, and he could not stand still.
The halls were empty as he wandered them, his every step a thundering echo on marble tile, mercifully muffled whenever he trod over rug.
Go back to bed, idiot, he tried to tell himself. He didn't know why he'd bothered, it had been a lost cause from the moment he'd left his own home to stay at the Sangre estate for a few days.
As he reached the east wing, music filtered toward him. Piano, the music a slow, heartbreaking piece. A thousand times he'd wanted to ask why it was always sad music, why nothing happy ever came out of that piano, but it was one in a thousand questions he never managed to voice.
Because like the ones he did dare voice, it would only met with some cold, cruel reply.
He was always cruel, had been from the first, but Stregoni had never been able to walk away, and stay away.
Why do you always act so cool, doctor? Do you think you're deceiving me? Your eyes are blue fire, when you look at me. Do you want me?
Like the proverbial moth to the flame, Stregoni wandered down the hall the music room. Their eyes had met for only a moment over dinner, but it had been enough to let him know that they both would be drunk tonight.
He pushed the door open, and tried one last time to remind himself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. It had never worked before, not since that first night, and it would not work this time.
All manner of potions and tonics and syrups cluttered the shelves of his apothecary in town. He knew the recipes for more medicines than he could count – and nearly all of them could also be considered deadly poisons.
None of them was as potent or addictive or potentially fatal as what drew him time and again to the cruel embrace of the beautiful man playing a mournful song on the piano.
Gille was the very definition of breathtaking, especially now when there was no one around to look down upon or impress, no social engagements pending, no visitors looming. No, he was dressed only in black breeches and a white shirt he had not bothered to lace, his long hair loose around his shoulders, hiding the elegant lines of his face and the bewitching gold-flecked pale green eyes.
Stregoni hovered in the doorway, part of him knowing he should flee, the rest of him too addicted to even think of it.
The music room was a somber place, the floor all black marble tile, the paneling a deep, rich red. Silver candelabra were scattered about, though only the one nearest the piano was actually lit.
Just behind Gille was a massive portrait of two men. It looked as though someone had simply painted Aubrey twice, but it was in fact Karl and George Bathory, the respective fathers of Aubrey and Gille. Twin brothers, and Stregoni recalled his father saying they had once been quite close. Though George Bathory lived only a few miles away, in a nearby estate, Stregoni had never met him. The man had become a recluse since the death of his wife in childbirth.
So much of a recluse, in fact, that Gille had come to live with his uncle. Beyond that, Stregoni knew nothing about the situation. No one knew anything, except Gille and Lord Sangre.
All Stregoni knew was that Gille could be and often was cold and cruel, and that he never got kinder than merely condescending.
Except sometimes…
He shook his head and looked again at the portrait. Gille had much in common with the twins, much in common with Aubrey, but there was a beauty to his features that they lacked, and that had likely come from his mother.
The two men were only in their mid-twenties at the time of the portrait. Handsome, severe, hinting at the over strict Lord of the manor Lord Sangre would eventually become – though, at that, Stregoni could not tell which was which.
One was seated, hands clasped over one knee, as though he were listening attentively to an unseen speaker. The second twin stood over the seat, slightly bent, as if to whisper to his brother when the speaker turned away for a moment. The chair was black velvet, matching their dark clothes, cuffs and throats displaying lace that was almost garishly white by contrast. To the right of the chair was a marble planter, from which tumbled the long, deep red blossoms of the flower Stregoni knew was called love-lies-bleeding.
He was stirred from his musings by the sudden absence of music, and dropped his gaze to see that Gille had turned to look at him.
The green eyes drew him like an opium addict to laudanum.
"The midnight hour strikes, and the doctor appears. Some would say that makes you a witch, doctor," Gille said, mouth curving in that too familiar smirk. Stregoni ached to wipe it from his face. Permanently. He wanted to see something tender, something…
Shoving the pointless, dangerous thoughts aside, he drew just close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted. Instead, he waited.
Gille reached out to pick up the glass of wine perched on the edge of the piano. Deep, blood red, and probably dry – Gille had always favored dry wines. His fingers were long, elegant, the nails meticulously manicured. He took a deep sip, eyes never leaving Stregoni's, the fine gold-flecked jade color only dulled a bit by the no doubt potent wine.
The sound of the glass clinking as Gille set it down again seemed shockingly loud in the ringing silence.
Brandy burned deep in his gut, but Gille burned hotter still throughout his entire body.
A wicked addiction he would do best to rid himself of, but he was as hopeless as the addicts he tried to help every week.
Gille touched him first, and Stregoni counted it a small, cheap victory. He was no better dressed than Gille, wearing only the bare minimum required to preserve modesty until he reached the music room.
He shivered faintly as his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, the laces teasing briefly across his nipples before Gille's mouth and tongue trailed with agonizing slowness across his stomach. Reaching out, he shoved his hands beneath Gille's shirt, digging his nails into the soft skin beneath, feeling hard muscle. A spoiled brat Gille might be, but he was too vain and proud to allow his body to spoil.
Lowering his head, he breathed in the scents that clung to Gille, remnants of his soap – cypress and marigold, and a hint of cologne which remained elusive. He moaned softly as Gille's mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of tingling heat, making him gasp sharply and tighten his hold until he earned a noise in return.
Gille abruptly stood up, arms bands around Stregoni's waist. Standing at his full height, he was at least a head taller than Stregoni. He nipped at Gille's collar bone, but before he could get a better taste of the fine skin, his head was tilted up and his mouth plundered.
He tasted like his dark, dry wine, a hint of clove. Something darker still and so rich, something that was all Gille. If he could distill it, whatever it was about Gille that drugged him so, he could addict the world to it.
His mouth was explored, devoured, taken until not a breath remained in his body, and he was left dizzy and gasping. Only then did he realized they had moved across the room to the black velvet chaise lounge.
Gille grabbed his shirt and removed it entirely, then removed his own, before those graceful fingers moved greedily to his breeches. Stregoni gasped as the cool air struck him, but almost immediately the chill was banished by Gille's fevered touch.
An addict he might be, but he was not so consumed by this wicked drug he would stand stupefied. Recovering himself some small measure, he shoved hard, sending Gille tumbling down on the chaise. Straddling him, Stregoni attacked Gille's pants, getting them open despite the delicious distraction of being yanked down to be intoxicated by another of those devastating kisses.
The kisses hurt more than anything, because at times they seemed to say things he knew Gille would never say. These nights were dirty secrets, and he didn't know why they had succumbed to that first, long ago urge one blizzard-shrouded night.
Touch after agonizing touch, gasps and moans and muffled cries, hot, sweat-slick skin, all melted into a haze of lust and need, until the fingers buried deep inside him finally slid away and he was guided down on Gille's cock, shaking hard as he adjusted to the fullness, wishing he did not miss it, need it. Hating himself for it, but unable to deny it.
Hands braced on Gille's chest, pale green eyes searing him with the wine-soaked lust that filled them, Stregoni began to move – there was nothing slow or hesitant, they were both too drugged on the moment for that. He buried his shout in Gille's mouth only just in time.
Their panting filled the music room as the fever slowly cooled, and Stregoni dreaded the return of his senses.
It came all too soon, as Gille slid from his body and the fire in his eyes eased, then finally died.
He did not wait for the snide comments, the cruel remarks, but slid away and picked up his discarded clothes, cheeks burning with shame as he dressed.
Gille said nothing, but he could feel the cold eyes upon him, knew the cutting words hovered on the precipice, that they would tip from sharp tongue with the next breath.
Though he knew he was no whore, at the end of these damned interludes, he felt it.
Still Gille said nothing. That was strange enough that the pace of Stregoni's heart began to increase, a flush of hope causing his steps to slow as he reached the door, and he braced a hand on the frame to turn around and see if just maybe…
"Good night, Carrot."
Cold. Dismissive. As though he were bored again, now that the amusement had come and gone. And that damned name. Carrot. He knew his hair was ugly, ridiculous, not the more vibrant red-gold that his mother possessed. Gille knew he hated it. Gille always knew where and how to hit for maximum pain with minimal effort.
He continued walking, though his steps were still slow. As he reached the end of the hallway, the sounds of slow, sad music reached his ears.
Stregoni pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, and told himself it was the late hour, and the candlelight, which made them sting and water.
