A little smut for humpday - their index is linked here if you would like to know more. Comments always appreciated.

***** ***** *****

Sometimes it's hard to remember that this is a performance, that there is an audience, and that some – maybe most – of Talen's attention is on that, not on him. He can't think that it won't matter if he arches just a little this way, or allows a hiss to escape underneath the choreographed moans, because Talen's broad hand is knotted in his hair, drawing his head back, bowing his back, and his lover will know. Will read him, without ever loosing track of the three duke's sons sprawled on the couches being tended and tempted by the rest of their troupe.

snipped for smut )
A little smut for humpday - their index is linked here if you would like to know more. Comments always appreciated.

***** ***** *****

Sometimes it's hard to remember that this is a performance, that there is an audience, and that some – maybe most – of Talen's attention is on that, not on him. He can't think that it won't matter if he arches just a little this way, or allows a hiss to escape underneath the choreographed moans, because Talen's broad hand is knotted in his hair, drawing his head back, bowing his back, and his lover will know. Will read him, without ever loosing track of the three duke's sons sprawled on the couches being tended and tempted by the rest of their troupe.

snipped for smut )
Written for [livejournal.com profile] tsuki_no_bara's Original Character Ficathon, with thanks to [livejournal.com profile] turps33 and [livejournal.com profile] kenovay for the beta reading - any and all remaining mistakes are my own.

Recipient : [livejournal.com profile] witchwillow
Request : Physical restraint of passion/need, unexpected gentleness, mental unity, 'unexpected soulmates', no romantacized declarations of love or fluff
rating(s): R-NC17 for smut. R for violence

Confession : I did not hit the rating requested, although it's there in the 'deleted scenes' if willow wants me to write them for her.

Chosen

I was chosen because of my mother. She is favoured of Lady Ellan, has been for so long that I barely heard the innuendoes by the time I left the manor, and even at 16 I did not pretend to myself that I was chosen for any merit of my own. If I have a talent it is to be overlooked, invisible, and that is not a talent designed to be noticed in a manor court full of peacocks and a manor kitchen full of busyness and braggarts both. Being chosen changed things for a brief while, but that faded with the midwinter evergreens.

onwards )
Written for [livejournal.com profile] tsuki_no_bara's Original Character Ficathon, with thanks to [livejournal.com profile] turps33 and [livejournal.com profile] kenovay for the beta reading - any and all remaining mistakes are my own.

Recipient : [livejournal.com profile] witchwillow
Request : Physical restraint of passion/need, unexpected gentleness, mental unity, 'unexpected soulmates', no romantacized declarations of love or fluff
rating(s): R-NC17 for smut. R for violence

Confession : I did not hit the rating requested, although it's there in the 'deleted scenes' if willow wants me to write them for her.

Chosen

I was chosen because of my mother. She is favoured of Lady Ellan, has been for so long that I barely heard the innuendoes by the time I left the manor, and even at 16 I did not pretend to myself that I was chosen for any merit of my own. If I have a talent it is to be overlooked, invisible, and that is not a talent designed to be noticed in a manor court full of peacocks and a manor kitchen full of busyness and braggarts both. Being chosen changed things for a brief while, but that faded with the midwinter evergreens.

onwards )
Alaine is mine, Kugan is [livejournal.com profile] k_woman's and they've not had anything posted yet.

***** ***** *****

He wraps the tie tightly around the width of his hand. Over and over he squeezes it into a fist to feel his blood pump wildly against the creased stained leather. The cut and friction of those knots is all, he thinks, that keeps from flying apart entirely under the weight of emotions.

The post can not begin to deliver enough news, and already his memories become faded with familiarity. This tattered scrap is water in his desert. He pushes his face against his fist, scrubbing the ridges of flesh and suede over his eyes, willing it to feel like anything other than his own hand, to smell like anything more than leather and horse sweat.

He could look at it with merchant's eyes. The hide is second class at best, the grain not entirely even, and the dye work is common pigment and shows tell tale blotches that pronounce it apprentice's work. And it is worn, this particular scrap, creased and streaked from wrapping around a solid que of hair, and to a merchant's eyes it would be worth pennies new and nothing now.

But with his own private eyes he sees Kugan bargain for it with his first coins, flirting a little with the apprentices and their girls. He imagines Kugan binding his sun-striped hair into a neat and practical club that will escape in wisps and curls over the day, for all that he smoothes it with water to tighten the knots. Imagines Kugan scraping his chin with a blade to finish his ablutions, but only one morning in three, grinning into the mirror as he goes. He knows in his mind the shape of the words, and in his heart the strength of the promises that make this scrap a token. To his own personal eyes it was worth more than any other object, save only the letters that had accompanied it and led him - led them both - to those promises.

As his eyes fall closed he looses the knots. The edges leave livid lines in his skin and the burn of returning blood holds all his attention for a breathless second before his heart's constant ache reclaims its primacy. The fingers of one hand caress the stiff smooth bundle of letters beneath his bolster, the other remaims wound with leather. .Nothing can be enough to tie him here, not with the wide horizons of dream and hope calling to him.


Alain sleeps.
Alaine is mine, Kugan is [livejournal.com profile] k_woman's and they've not had anything posted yet.

***** ***** *****

He wraps the tie tightly around the width of his hand. Over and over he squeezes it into a fist to feel his blood pump wildly against the creased stained leather. The cut and friction of those knots is all, he thinks, that keeps from flying apart entirely under the weight of emotions.

The post can not begin to deliver enough news, and already his memories become faded with familiarity. This tattered scrap is water in his desert. He pushes his face against his fist, scrubbing the ridges of flesh and suede over his eyes, willing it to feel like anything other than his own hand, to smell like anything more than leather and horse sweat.

He could look at it with merchant's eyes. The hide is second class at best, the grain not entirely even, and the dye work is common pigment and shows tell tale blotches that pronounce it apprentice's work. And it is worn, this particular scrap, creased and streaked from wrapping around a solid que of hair, and to a merchant's eyes it would be worth pennies new and nothing now.

But with his own private eyes he sees Kugan bargain for it with his first coins, flirting a little with the apprentices and their girls. He imagines Kugan binding his sun-striped hair into a neat and practical club that will escape in wisps and curls over the day, for all that he smoothes it with water to tighten the knots. Imagines Kugan scraping his chin with a blade to finish his ablutions, but only one morning in three, grinning into the mirror as he goes. He knows in his mind the shape of the words, and in his heart the strength of the promises that make this scrap a token. To his own personal eyes it was worth more than any other object, save only the letters that had accompanied it and led him - led them both - to those promises.

As his eyes fall closed he looses the knots. The edges leave livid lines in his skin and the burn of returning blood holds all his attention for a breathless second before his heart's constant ache reclaims its primacy. The fingers of one hand caress the stiff smooth bundle of letters beneath his bolster, the other remaims wound with leather. .Nothing can be enough to tie him here, not with the wide horizons of dream and hope calling to him.


Alain sleeps.
The housemistress kept them quartered very close, most like to save on coals. Two to a bed, and six beds in narrow pairs in each low ceilinged room. It was not so very different to the way things had been at home for him. At least here there was a pair of blankets each, and lamp oil enough not to bicker over it.

The constant closeness kept his mouth closed and his hands closer still, balled in his blankets the better to keep his secret. He watched though, as they stripped and washed and dressed. Listened to their teasing and their gossip.

Read more... )
The housemistress kept them quartered very close, most like to save on coals. Two to a bed, and six beds in narrow pairs in each low ceilinged room. It was not so very different to the way things had been at home for him. At least here there was a pair of blankets each, and lamp oil enough not to bicker over it.

The constant closeness kept his mouth closed and his hands closer still, balled in his blankets the better to keep his secret. He watched though, as they stripped and washed and dressed. Listened to their teasing and their gossip.

Read more... )
alexdraven: abstract black and white pattern (Performance)
( Sep. 13th, 2003 03:43 pm)
Original fiction by Ephemera - Performance

This index page will be updated as further stories are written.

Comments and feedback of any sort, from a simple 'I was here' to full scale LoC's [positive and negative] are most welcome and much appreciated.

***** ***** *****


Introductions : an extract from an early letter
A letter regarding unusual clients

Chosen
Annointed
Training
On the road
A day's work
Privacy
alexdraven: abstract black and white pattern (Performance)
( Sep. 13th, 2003 03:43 pm)
Original fiction by Ephemera - Performance

This index page will be updated as further stories are written.

Comments and feedback of any sort, from a simple 'I was here' to full scale LoC's [positive and negative] are most welcome and much appreciated.

***** ***** *****


Introductions : an extract from an early letter
A letter regarding unusual clients

Chosen
Annointed
Training
On the road
A day's work
Privacy
Original fiction by Ephemera - Fairytales, ghost stories and other one-offs

This index page will be updated as further stories are written.

Comments and feedback of any sort, from a simple 'I was here' to full scale LoC's [positive and negative] are most welcome and much appreciated.

***** ***** *****


Fairy Tales

Sleeping Beauty

Execution - set in the same world as Sleeping Beauty

Chosen

Sleeping arrangments

Ghost stories

Glimpses

Blue hands and Can't see straight

One Off's

Self indulgence

Storm

A candle in the dark

Two out of Three

Blood

This is sex

Kugan and Alaine - memories

Anniversary

the necrophilliac plushy gangbang story ....

and

Zombies take two - same source, very different result.

Phone Call

Skin

Abscond

Thanksgiving

Moon

Fold

Dream come true

School Stories"

Slip
Original fiction by Ephemera - Fairytales, ghost stories and other one-offs

This index page will be updated as further stories are written.

Comments and feedback of any sort, from a simple 'I was here' to full scale LoC's [positive and negative] are most welcome and much appreciated.

***** ***** *****


Fairy Tales

Sleeping Beauty

Execution - set in the same world as Sleeping Beauty

Chosen

Sleeping arrangments

Ghost stories

Glimpses

Blue hands and Can't see straight

One Off's

Self indulgence

Storm

A candle in the dark

Two out of Three

Blood

This is sex

Kugan and Alaine - memories

Anniversary

the necrophilliac plushy gangbang story ....

and

Zombies take two - same source, very different result.

Phone Call

Skin

Abscond

Thanksgiving

Moon

Fold

Dream come true

School Stories"

Slip
alexdraven: Ace of Cups from the Vertigo Tarot (AceofCups)
( Sep. 12th, 2003 11:23 am)
She cried in the night. The treasonous criminal, convicted and condemned for plotting against their Queen and threatening her very life, cried soft hopeless tears when the lamp in her cell was extinguished. The sound of it tugged at Pel’s heartstrings.

The girl was hardly more than a child, perhaps fourteen summers old at the most, thin and gawky like a colt still. Pel told herself firmly as she walked the short distance between cell and chamber that no amount of wide green eyes and freckled cheekbones could testify innocence. It was right that the girl should weep after her betrayal.

As the slow hours of the night turned though, it became harder to hold the prisoner’s guilt up as a ward against the memories. Memories of her first summer’s love, of tumbling skin on skin in the swimming pools with a girl who looked so much like Pel’s traitor charge. Carlean, her name was, all long limbs and slight elegant curves, tangled blond hair and talented hands that had made Pel squirm and beg.

Carlean had never been one for tears. No, she was all laughter and life, moans and gasps and screaming that brought her sisters out in the thunder to see that their youngest sibling wasn’t murdered but instead was lying in the hayloft, face buried in Pel’s shoulder, body quaking with laughter for the blushes and the fuss.

No tears. Not when her mother took a strap to her for the fright, not when Pel kissed those red marks in teenage benediction, not when Pel and her family packed up and moved along the trader’s road in the cool dawn of the next morning.

And yet she cried, and Pel’s heart softened.

It was for her own rest, Pel told herself, that she fixed a short candle stub to glow and gutter by the bars of the cell door, she told herself. For her own comfort that she did the same the next night and the next, through the slow rotation of the seven-day span laid down by the laws between condemnation and death.

It was for her own rest, she told herself, on the final night when not even the butter soft light could keep the hitching panic from her prisoner’s breath; for her own comfort that she turned the heavy key in the lock, set the door ajar and entered. For her own comfort she took the thin body in her arms, and purely for her own selfish desires that she kissed those chapped lips, and smoothed her hands over the tangled hair and smudged skin.

In the thin dawn light, it was for her queen that Pel mixed and measured the poisoned juices, and for her unhappy conscience that she sweetened it with honey. But it was for her heart’s sorrow that she mixed a second dose.

Under the chill gaze of the queen and the three white robed judges, it was for her duty that she held the clear glass to the traitor’s mouth, and for her dignity that she let the breath leave that young body with not a word to comfort it’s passing.

But it was for her own memories and for love that Pel took her dose, unsweetened bitter gall, and lit the last quarter inch of candle in her rooms.

***********************************************************************************************

Originally posted 15th August 2003
alexdraven: Ace of Cups from the Vertigo Tarot (AceofCups)
( Sep. 12th, 2003 11:23 am)
She cried in the night. The treasonous criminal, convicted and condemned for plotting against their Queen and threatening her very life, cried soft hopeless tears when the lamp in her cell was extinguished. The sound of it tugged at Pel’s heartstrings.

The girl was hardly more than a child, perhaps fourteen summers old at the most, thin and gawky like a colt still. Pel told herself firmly as she walked the short distance between cell and chamber that no amount of wide green eyes and freckled cheekbones could testify innocence. It was right that the girl should weep after her betrayal.

As the slow hours of the night turned though, it became harder to hold the prisoner’s guilt up as a ward against the memories. Memories of her first summer’s love, of tumbling skin on skin in the swimming pools with a girl who looked so much like Pel’s traitor charge. Carlean, her name was, all long limbs and slight elegant curves, tangled blond hair and talented hands that had made Pel squirm and beg.

Carlean had never been one for tears. No, she was all laughter and life, moans and gasps and screaming that brought her sisters out in the thunder to see that their youngest sibling wasn’t murdered but instead was lying in the hayloft, face buried in Pel’s shoulder, body quaking with laughter for the blushes and the fuss.

No tears. Not when her mother took a strap to her for the fright, not when Pel kissed those red marks in teenage benediction, not when Pel and her family packed up and moved along the trader’s road in the cool dawn of the next morning.

And yet she cried, and Pel’s heart softened.

It was for her own rest, Pel told herself, that she fixed a short candle stub to glow and gutter by the bars of the cell door, she told herself. For her own comfort that she did the same the next night and the next, through the slow rotation of the seven-day span laid down by the laws between condemnation and death.

It was for her own rest, she told herself, on the final night when not even the butter soft light could keep the hitching panic from her prisoner’s breath; for her own comfort that she turned the heavy key in the lock, set the door ajar and entered. For her own comfort she took the thin body in her arms, and purely for her own selfish desires that she kissed those chapped lips, and smoothed her hands over the tangled hair and smudged skin.

In the thin dawn light, it was for her queen that Pel mixed and measured the poisoned juices, and for her unhappy conscience that she sweetened it with honey. But it was for her heart’s sorrow that she mixed a second dose.

Under the chill gaze of the queen and the three white robed judges, it was for her duty that she held the clear glass to the traitor’s mouth, and for her dignity that she let the breath leave that young body with not a word to comfort it’s passing.

But it was for her own memories and for love that Pel took her dose, unsweetened bitter gall, and lit the last quarter inch of candle in her rooms.

***********************************************************************************************

Originally posted 15th August 2003
.

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