Apr. 29th, 2012 05:45 pm
languir: (Default)
[personal profile] languir posting in [community profile] felicium

٧ Alcuin Delaunay grew up the adoptive son of an exceedingly wealthy yet academically eccentric philanthropist. He had few friends aside from his own adoptive sister growing up, preferring instead to focus almost entirely on his education; therefore, he can come across as sheltered when it comes to the “outside” world and shy when it comes to social interactions. He loves his adoptive father more than anything in the world – more than he should. Modern AU / No Night Court / No Supernatural Elements

٧ In a world where the supernatural have enslaved all of mankind (and beyond), Alcuin and his mother grew up in indentured servitude to the vampiric ruler Rolande de la Courcel. Alcuin was rescued from a successful assassination attempt on Rolande de la Courcel by none other than his former lover Anafiel Delaunay. Delaunay then formally adopted the orphaned Alcuin no Delaunay and inducted him into a world of seduction, deception, and espionage. Delaunay was, himself, assassinated several years later. Modern AU / Night Court / Supernatural Elements

 ٧ Same scenario as above, only the supernatural rule from the shadows rather than engage in outright conquest of the world. Modern AU / Night Court / Supernatural Elements

√ Alcuin is a nephilim with Camaeline lineage in scenarios where supernatural elements are present.
√ Alcuin is available to be sired by a vampire in any scenario where supernatural elements are present.

Date: May. 30th, 2016 02:52 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (modern)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Snow was falling.

The calendar may have said it was spring, but Carrick had lived in America long enough to know that calendars couldn’t be trusted when it came to April on the eastern seaboard. Still though, the sight of it was enough to put a tiny hint of a smile on his lips as he pushed back his chair and stood from his computer. He made his way across to the window and pushed back the curtain a little.

Raised in the Mediterranean warmth of southern Greece, the first time he had ever seen snow it seemed almost magical to him. Long afterwards, years of special ops in some of the toughest hellholes in the world had disabused him of any wonder regarding cold weather.
He rubbed his eyes, gritty and dry from the long evening at his computer. He needed a break.

For a few moments he was content to stand at the window, one hand holding back the heavy curtains and watching the feather-soft flakes drift from the sky. It wasn’t long before the picturesque flakes that had once entranced him became a forceful curtain of bone-white that blocked out the city skyline beyond, and the wind sharpened into a howl. Crossing back to his computer, Carrick swiftly brought up the weather news. A late-season ice storm had blown in, and the forecast was for blizzard conditions and nearly two feet of snow by morning. It would be a long, cold night.

His head snapped up as the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour, still less in this weather. It was probably one of his security detail on patrol, come to give a report or check out for the night. The apartment building was home to more than one of his diplomatic clients, so there was almost always one of his highly trained operatives guarding the doors and stalking the corridors. He crossed swiftly to the entryphone next to his front door and peered at the video screen. There on the doorstep, shivering and hugging himself in the cold, was Alcuin Delauney. “Wait there,” Carrick ordered, surprise making him curt. His long stride took him to the front door of the building in only a few moments.

Carrick knew the boy’s foster’s father well – Terre D’ange’s ambassadors were well-known fixtures in the social world of Washington DC. Like many others of the diplomatic community, he employed members of Carrick’s security detail to protect both his own family and his staff. Still, he had never spoken to Alcuin in person before. He’d only seen the boy once. It had been the previous winter, when Deluaney had held his countrymen’s traditional celebration of the winter solstice. This year had been a masked ball, with guests robed and gowned as figures of myth and legend. Carrick himself had chosen to come as Kushiel, guardian of the portals of hell in Terre D’Ange’s pantheon. He had been clad in a high-collared, sweeping coat of priestly black, with horned bronze mask and a whip coiled at his belt. He’d felt the secretive, hungry eyes of those with a taste for sharp pleasures on him all night, some flushing when they glanced up into his eyes, others too reticent to approach him. Delauney’s daughter had not been one of the latter. Stunning in a column of blood-crimson silk and binding black ribbons trailing invitingly from her wrists, she had swayed across the dance floor towards him and dipped into a sweeping curtsey so low she had almost been kneeling at his feet. He had seen the darkening of her eyes as she tilted her face up to him. “My lord Kushiel.” Her murmuer had been both seductive and conspiratorial. He had smiled then and held out a hand to her. “Rise, supplicant.”

She had taken his hand and stepped lightly backwards, drawing him towards the dance floor, pressing herself against him in the first figures of a tango. As he had fallen into step, she had whispered in his ear. “I rather preferred being on my knees to you, my Lord.” He had smiled behind the bronze mask. It had taken him some time to adjust to the forthright nature of D’Angelines in matters of desire, but he had to admit he was coming to enjoy it.

When the dance ended, Phedre Delauney had tucked her hand into his elbow, turning him discretely to face a pillar where a half-hidden figure had been peeping at them both with owlishly large eyes. It was a youth, more delicate and lovely than any creature Carrick had ever seen. There was a faint flush on his cheeks as he worried his rosy lower lip between his teeth. Their gaze had only met for an instant before Phedre leaned in again. “My brother has been watching you all night,” she had murmured. “Talk to him. Please.” But when he had looked around again, the boy had fled.

And now that same boy was standing mute on his doorstep, snow coating his shoulders and milk-white hair, his skin waxen white with cold, purple shadow in the hollows beneath his wide, dark eyes.

Date: Jun. 1st, 2016 11:32 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
"You're Alcuin Delauney."

On seeing a client alone and unprotected on the street, Carrick's military training immediately took hold. Washington DC may still regard itself as the capital of the free world, but these were dangerous times. In a world of Drujani death cult extremists, corruption and murder in Caerdiccas Unitas, a civil war brewing in Alba and half of Western Europe under the control of tribal Skaldic warlords, nowhere seemed safe. It had been a bitter winter, and spring seemed a long way off.

Almost by instinct, Carrick's head snapped in each direction, seeking targets in the snow, or dangers to the shivering boy on his doorstep. One arm flew out to the doorframe, blocking Alcuin from moving back off the step before he responded to the hesitant greeting.

"Freezing half to death, it looks like." It took Carrick only a couple of seconds to assure himself that the boy was truly alone and that nobody was following him. "Come inside. Quickly."

It was only when he closed the door that Carrick truly looked at the young man. He was white as death, his huge dark blue eyes unfocused and lost. This wasn't just the effects of cold. There was something badly wrong, but it would not do to talk about it in the cold hallway. In the distance, he heard the booted tread of a security guard approaching on his patrol "Let me get you something dry to put on. My apartment is just through here."

He led Alcuin swiftly through the hallway of the building and into his rooms. The apartment was on the first floor of what had been a large and gracious colonial townhouse. Though the ceiling was lofty, wood panelling and and open fireplace lent a warmth and cosyness to the open-plan room.

Now that they were behind locked doors, Carrick relaxed a little, his curt manner easing somewhat. "You look ready to drop, Mr Delauney. Give me your coat and go warm yourself up by the fire. Can I get you something hot to drink?"

He had seen numbed shock of this kind before, on the faces of a thousand war orphans and civilians who had seen their homes and families turn to dust as fire lit up the skies of their homes. He knew a little of Alcuin's history - he had been an orphan brought back from the war-torn regions of Terre D'Ange during the first Skaldic raiding parties that had heralded the war currently engulfing the boy's homeland. To try and pressure someone for information when they were deep in shock would do little but cause them to huddle inwards. Warmth and quiet did more to open them than did demands.

Carrick brought over a large mug of spiced tea, well sweetened with sugar and pressed it into Alcuin's hands. He folded himself into one end of the sofa and made himself wait or a count of five before he spoke again.

"Tell me what's happened."

Date: Jun. 13th, 2016 10:57 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (modern)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Carrick turned away for a moment to hang up Alcuin's coat. The fine black wool was soaked through, cold to his touch. When he returned with the tea, he followed the youth's gaze up to the picture hanging above the fireplace. "A family heirloom. I brought it with me from Hellas." He looked wistfully at the sun-dappled shade of the painted olive grove, remembering the warmth of harvest time in the Mediterranean. "It's Sparta, in the south. Where I was born." He regarded the picture for a moment longer "I've never been entirely sure I like it."

He drank from his own mug as he answered. "Carrick Glaukopis, yes." Carrick wasn't the name he'd been born with, of course. It had begun as a code name early in his spec ops days, when an Irishman working in the command centre had assigned Celtic place names to each of his squad to cover their identities in event of capture. "I want to be Muff," insisted one of the squad, as the helicopter sped them over the endless desert of Persis. "Shut it or I'll make you be Bastardstown," the reply had come over the radio. "And tell that sneaky shit of a Hellene that he's Carrick. It means stony place, you bunch of uncultured philistines". Nobody on the team was entirely certain why, but the name had somehow stuck. Long after his retirement from active service, he was still using it. Helios Glaukopis seemed to belong to another life, one that blood and death and war had not corrupted.

Carrick regarded Alcuin silently as he stumbled over his explanation, snowmelt dripping from the pale hair. He shook his head slightly. "It's only water, and it's had worse." It was clear to him that Alcuin was hiding something, but Carick knew from experience that to push him on it would only make him close up tight like a flower huddling against the frost. He would just have to wait for the thaw.

Carrick stood abruptly when he saw just how sodden Alcuin appeared. "You're soaked to the skin; how long were you out there?" It may not have been his place, but he still could not stop himself from scolding the boy a little. "If I wasn't home, what did you think you going to do? People die in storms like this. And before you say you're an imposition again, you can forget leaving until the weather clears. You can stay here and I'll call someone with a four by four to take you home in the morning."

His voice softened a little as he looked again at the exhaustion in the pale, lovely face. There was no call to be so sharp, Carrick thought; the boy didn't deserve it. He looked so lost, his huge eyes full of something indefinable. He looked as though he needed someone to simply take him in his arms and hold him until he stopped shivering and melted like the snow running down his cheeks. But that, of course, was impossible.

He regarded Alcuin for a moment longer. "Let me find you something dry to put on. You'll ache all over if you stay in wet things all night. I insist. No arguments."

Carrick led the way up the stairs and to the mezzanine floor that overlooked the rest of the apartment. His bedroom was here, with a wide opened his wardrobe and pulled out a freshly laundered dressing gown, well worn to an inviting softness.

"Everything of mine would swamp you, but this will keep you warm, at least. If you bring your clothes down I'll put them straight in the dryer."

He gave a small and hopefully reassuring smile before retreating down the stairs and leaving Alcuin to change.

Date: Jun. 27th, 2016 11:52 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (modern)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
To Carrick's eyes, the youth seemed to sag visibly under the scolding. He looked so lost and confused; and not merely from early-onset hypothermia. Carrick realised that he had no idea of Alcuin Delauney's age.If he had been put to a guess, Carrick would have thought Alcuin was 17 or 18, certainly no older going from his features, but the depth of feeling in his dark eyes was far, far too old. He had the smooth cheeks and perfect full lips of the youths immortalised in Greek sculpture as the ideal of young male beauty, but those huge dark blue eyes carried a sadness far beyond his mortal years.

Carrick merely nodded as Alcuin thanked him. "No need," he replied, his voice quiet and almost gentle, without the scolding tone it had held before. "How could I leave you out in the cold?" He gave a tiny smile before retreating down the stairs. "Take your time. There are fresh towels, and a hair dryer if you need it."

Once back in the living room, Carrick busied himself with making a fresh pot of tea, then crossing back to his computer to pull up the Delauney files while he left the pot to steep. Going from the reports of the security guards who reported to him, Alcuin was the easiest of the family to guard. Delauney himself was in demand all over the world for both his diplomatic skills and to speak on literature, while Alcuin's sister Phedre seemed the epitome of the good-time girl. Social media darling, fashion muse and philanthropist, she nonetheless had a taste for the sharper nightspots found in the demimonde. Alcuin, it seemed, had a taste for nothing more exotic than the Smithsonian. Described in the notes as reclusive to the point of shyness, solitary and bookish with few friends and no known partners, ensuring his safety was an enviably easy job. So why would he have ventured out in an ice storm, alone and ill-prepared, with no destination seemingly in mind? Something was wrong.

He shut down the file just before he caught the sight in his peripheral vision of Alcuin descending the stairs. His step was light and graceful, the charcoal-coloured dressing gown setting off the fine silk of his long white-blond hair like shafts of moonlight in the night sky.

He was beautiful, Carrick thought.

"Very much." He had answered Alcuin's question flippantly, automatically, but it could not be denied that the youth's loveliness had struck him. Carrick could not help but notice the delicate bones of his ankle, and the slim length of his legs as the were revealed by the movement of the garment. He felt a stirring within him as he realised what was logically obvious - that beneath the robe, Alcuin was utterly naked. He was glad of the opportunity to turn away for a moment as he accepted the cold bundle of clothing and took it to the small utility closet off the kitchen.

His lapse from professionalism was only momentary, and he had entirely composed himself by the time he returned from the utility. He poured them both fresh tea, and indicated for Alcuin to sit. "Now.... what's happened?"

The boy had changed in the moments he had been upstairs, he thought as he regarded the youth silently. His eyes, formerly so lost, were gazing at him levelly, and were dark and almost fervent, like those of a man in the first stages of fever. Unbidden, a poem of the First World War came back to him, the brutal, haunting description of young men driven insane in the trenches. The lines had stayed with him all through the bitter winters he had spent behind lines in Skaldia and the scorching summers of Persis.

"These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride…
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad."

But it was not madness in Alcuin's eyes. He was luminous, transcendent almost, like a painting of a virgin martyr approaching the scaffold, where she would be forever united with her immortal lord.

Date: Jul. 28th, 2016 11:29 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (modern)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Carrick regarded the boy silently for a moment. Was that really all that was the matter - a teenage argument and a rebellious stomping out of the house, probaby with a vow never to return? No. From what he had read of Alcuin Delauney, that would be wholly out of character. From what he could tell, that kind of behaviour would be far more likely of Phedre.

He paused for a moment, before quietly rejoining. "You should call Delauney. Let him know you're safe." Carrick glanced at the window, where the ice storm had thickened to a fully-fledged blizzard. In the moment of silence between them, the wind howled like a tortured thing.

Carrick was quick to notice that the nervous movement of Alcuin's hands, balling in the soft fabric of the dressing gown, was causing it to to slowly ride up his bare thighs. Gods, the boy had such perfect thighs; pale and smooth and slender. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to touch them, for his own calloused fingers to trace their way up that creamy skin, how the boy would sigh as Carrick parted his legs...

He looked quickly upwards, surprise plain on his features as Alcuin spoke to him in, of all things, his own native tongue. "You speak Greek?" The boy was no less than a wonder, his musical voice lending an almost imploring tone in Carrick's ears.

And then, as if his earlier thought had been conjured into reality, he saw that Alcuin was moving lightly forward, sinking down atop him, legs parting easily as he settled down against the older man. Carrick's breath stopped for a moment before he drew the air a slow controlled inhalation that was almost, but not quite a sigh of desire. He waited for a moment, simply feeling the slight figure pressing himself against him. Alcuin was light in his lap, his bones seeming as fragile as a bird's. Carrick felt his hands move up almost of their own volition to rest lightly on Alcuin's hips, and immediately he felt a stirring between his thighs as the boy came to rest fully into his lap, bare skin pressed sweetly against him.

He drew in another slow breath, his voice quiet and deliberately gentle as he tried to gather his thoughts. "... and this is why you came to me tonight?" His hands moved slowly downwards to allow his fingers to ghost over the bare, warm skin of those perfect thighs before he looked up into the pale, lovely face. "I'm old enough to be your daddy." It was almost literally true, he thought. Carrick was in his late thirties, and to his eyes the boy in his arms could be no older than 18; 19 at most.

Carrick knew all the rules of his profession. Never get involved with a client. Never allow desire to compromise business. But whoever had made those rules had never faced the temptation of the fervent hunger in Alcuin Delauney's eyes, or been so close to those full, pale pink lips. He could not stop himself leaning forwards, closing the distance between Alcuin's lips and his own.

He would never be sure when or how he decided to bestow that first kiss on the soft lips before him, but in the space of a few silent heartbeats Carrick had caught up Alcuin's lips in his own in a soft, slow embrace. The very tip of his tongue flickered out whisper soft to trace and taste the moth he knew already would be as sweet as nectar. A few moments later, Carrick's hands were buried in the fine white blond silk of Alcuin's hair, holding him in place, his mouth slanted against the boy's own, his kiss growing ever deeper, ever more hungry. Carrick's hips began to pulse upwards as he drew Alcuin more tightly against his body, so close that he fancied he could feel the heart beating through the thin walls of the boy's chest, thumping against his own like a frightened prey animal in the lair of a predator.

When he was breathless, Carrick drew back a little, only far enough to look into the huge, deep blue eyes. "Beautiful boy," he whispered in Greek.

Date: Aug. 15th, 2016 11:25 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (modern)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Carrick's hands moved slightly on Alcuin's hips, reaching further back to stroke the firm curve of his flank and cup both his buttocks before returning to the youth's hipbones, holding him in place once more.

Carrick swallowed thickly as Alcuin's hands clung tighter to his shoulders. The perfect, full lips were almost pouty, like a disappointed child too innocent and stubborn to understand the cruelties of the world.

"My job is to keep you safe, Alcuin." He tried to be professional, to step back from the desires that were coursing through them both. "That's what your father pays me for." He was a man of nearly 40, he was supposed to be responsible and mature and self-controlled, and with any other boy, he could be. But Alcuin, so lost and so broken and so hungry, with those huge, waif-like eyes gazing at him in mingled desire and pleading, his resolve melted like the snowflakes that had so lately settled on the white-blond hair and thick eyelashes.

He wanted to pull the slender body against him, to strip away the robe and lay him down in front of the fire, to see that slender body bathed only in the flickering golden light of the fire; to touch and kiss and stroke the boy everywhere until he moaned and pleaded beneath his touch. And then, gods... to take him. Hard and deep and slow, there on the rug...

The groan that sounded in Alcuin's throat only made Carrick's arousal more intense. He deepened the kiss further, lips opening against Alcuin's own, his mouth coaxing and encouraging one moment then then demanding the next. His tongue stroked against Alcuin's own, and a spark flew through him. His hips pressed upwards harder, beginning to rock against the boy in his arms in an unconscious rhythm that mirrored the fragile, butterfly-fast heartbeat he could feel pounding in Alcuin's chest.

Carrick gasped aloud when he felt Alcuin shift in his lap, and he became aware that Alcuin was just as aroused as he was. He could feel the boy's hard heat against him. And then that soft, warm hand was stroking him through his trousers and a trembling, pleading voice was murmuring against his face, and he abandoned himself completely.

The certainty of his own desire overtaking him, he slid a hand between them and reached beneath the dark fabric of the dressing gown. His fingers were calloused, but his touch was warm and firm, curving around the hard length that stood completely at attention against Alcuin's stomach. His fingers tightened a little, stroking and squeezing before reaching lower to cup and fondle the heavy sac beneath Alcuin's erection.

He turned his face into Alcuin's own for another deep, hungry kiss before letting his mouth travel down the pale length of Alcuin's throat, bending his head backwards and feasting on the warm expanse of smooth skin before him. "You like this, sweet one? You want my hands on you - all over?"

Carrick let go of Alcuin's erection long enough to reach up and slide the robe from the boy's shoulders, baring his slender torso to his hungry gaze. Alcuin was utterly perfect, cheeks flushed as pink as his hard cock, his entire body smooth and lovely and pale as moonlight.

His cock was so hard it hurt, pressing insistently against the fabric of his trousers. He took Alcuin's hands and moved them to his belt buckle and the fastenings below. He slipped back into his native Greek as he signalled for Alcuin to open his clothing to bare his own sex.

"I want more than to touch you."

Date: Sep. 18th, 2016 06:56 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (stubbly b&w)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
The movement of Alcuin's lips against his neck as the boy whimpered and gasped was maddeningly arousing. He could feel the boy trembling under his hands as he caressed and stroked Alcuin's erection, his hips seemingly desperate to push forward and thrust into the palm that gripped him, but holding himself back, whether in nervousness or confusion, he could not tell.

He moaned a little against the smooth skin of Alcuin's throat as the boy tilted back his head, offering himself completely. There was such delicious submission in the pleas that fell from Alcuin's lips, and his mouth pressed harder to the pale column, his teeth now lightly nipping at the boy's throat before biting harder, then soothing the spot with more hungry kisses.

Carrick saw the question in Alcuin's eyes as his nakedness was revealed. "You're beautiful," he murmured. He was. The youth's figure was slender, the rippled outline of ribs clearly visible, but somehow soft and yielding nonetheless. His skin was smooth and silk-soft as a girl's, a tapered waist and flared hips lending him a beguiling androgyny only underscored by the pale locks of hair that spilled over his shoulders and down to mid-back. To the eye neither boy nor man, nor either girl nor woman, but a bewitching fey creature that seemed hardly of this earth. Was this hat centuries of poets had attempted to capture in ink when whey spoke of the ethereal, almost divine D'Angeline beauty?

It took Carrick a moment to register the change in Alcuin's voice as he worked the belt slowly free of its loops. When he looked back into the deep blue eyes they were heavy and dark, the brows drawn together, the indigo depths glittering with... what? He couldn't tell. Anger? Malice? He paused for a moment to collect himself before answering. It was true, he sometimes visited the high-end private clubs for men and women with a taste for sharp pleasures; though more often he preferred to keep his desires kept strictly bound up within his own home. In his profession, he could not afford scandal to dog him, and he was, after all a Hellene, not even an American. The small D'angeline community of the city enjoyed something of a license in the public mind in terms of where they took their pleasure, but there was enough of a puritanical element still in power here to make Carrick want to keep his nocturnal habits private. He gave a wry smile that was half accusing. Damn Phedre Delauney. She must have been gossiping. The two moved in similar circles even if their tastes were opposed, and though they were on nodding terms at the events run by secretive salons, they had never shared a bed, or a dungeon for that matter.

"In this town I doubt anyone has secrets. Especially from your father. They say he was a spymaster back home, and that old habits are never lost." It seemed both Delauney's children had inherited his talent for uncovering secrets.

Alcuin's next words took him aback, and for a moment he could not respond; merely stare at the boy who proffered the belt in tight-clutched fingers. He knew what Alcuin wanted. Or thought he wanted. He saw Alcuin's erection stiffen further, standing straight upward against his stomach, and he ached to take it in his fingers once more, to feel it pulse beneath his touch and feel Alcuin buck against him as his pleasure overtook him. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the conflicting desires that ran through them both. The boy was holding the belt out to him in a mute appeal to be taken and used and punished.

Alcuin hadn't done this before. That much was plain. For a moment Carrick saw how lovely Alcuin would look under the lash, how the belt would leave scarlet stripes on his white skin, and how the musical would be the of his sobs and cries of mingled pleasure and hurt, and he had to take a slow, deep breath to banish the image. He couldn't. Not tonight. The boy had come to him in anger and grief over some hurt - perhaps some teenage hurt that would be no hurt at all when he looked back on it in a year's time, and to take such vulnerability and subject it to pain and punishment would be a violation.

Finally, he reached out and covered Alcuin's hand with his own. He tried to make his voice as soft and level as possible, and to ignore the hardness that still stood strong at his own groin. "You are the loveliest creature I have ever seen, and to bed you - whether tenderly or in dominance - would make me the luckiest man in this city. But you came to my door lost and frozen. You needed help." He caressed the boy's face that face that seemed so sorrowful and young. "Tell me why you think I could consent to hurt you."

Slowly, with soothing gentleness in his hands, Carrick lifted the pool of soft dark fabric and settled the robe once more around Alcuin's shoulders. He meant to move his hands away, but he could not let the boy go. Instead, he cupped the pale face in his hands, thumbs caressing his jaw for a few moments before he reluctantly moved his hands away.

Date: Oct. 9th, 2016 04:20 pm (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
He might have expected Alcuin's anger to have resembled a kitten playfully savaging a favourite toy, but it wasn't. The tension he felt in the boy's body as he spat the ugly nickname Delauney's enemies had for his family was much darker.

"Demimonde? in the case of your sister, perhaps. But craven? I was a soldier once, Alcuin. The rumours are true - I was black ops. I saw what happened in Skaldia, and what they did to the borderlands of your home. Nobody who ever lived through that could be called craven. I saw bravery there that would put the military to shame." Delicately, he did not comment on the soubriquet given to Alcuin's father.

Carrick saw a scarlet flush rise in Alcuin's face and his eyes glitter with unshed tears. "My reason is that I couldn't take advantage of you while you're clearly already in pain."

His heart twisted a little as he saw the youth scrubbing at his eyes to hide his tears, so frail and lost as he babbled in an attempt to draw himself back together. When Alcuin finally buried his face in his hands, Carrick stood and quietly crossed the room. He folded himself onto the rug at Alcuin's side and reached out to gently enclose one pale hand with both his own.

"That wasn't my intention. You must understand that." He moved a little closer. "Beautiful boy," he murmured, reverting to Greek for a moment.

He regarded Alcuin silently. What could have happened that was so terrible that Alcuin felt his father had cast him out? It could not be just a confession that he was gay. The D'Angelines were liberal in such matters. Indeed, Americans often remarked that there seemed to be no sexual taboos amongst them. He continued to hold Alcuin's hand as he spoke, his fingers gently stroking the slim wrist.

"I'll say nothing to Delauney. I won't do anything you don't ask me to do. I promise you that. And I won't ask what's happened between you and your father - it's not my place to ask. But if you want to tell me tomorrow, I'll listen to it all. You think you deserve punishment. Tell me tomorrow what for. But tonight, you need to rest, and rest here. You're exhausted."

He reached up and gently pushed back the shining fall of Alcuin's hair to expose his face. He could not help himself from leaning forwards and gently kissing the boy on on his forehead.

It was not enough. He should have stood, he should have moved back to the couch and set out blankets to prepare a bed for Alcuin right there. But those eyes, those huge dark eyes so lost and hungry, and the wonderful full softness of his lips... he could not refuse the invitation he saw there.

Carrick was lost. Like a man in a dream, he leaned forward again, his lips this time softly passing over the flushed cheek, then the corner of his mouth, before he reached out to cradle Alcuin's head in his hands and kissed him once more. This time it was slow and deep and soft, almost languorous.

The boy had asked him for pain. For punishment. He thought he knew why; a submissive did not generally crave pain for its own sake, but for the sense of belonging and security that came from relinquishing all control to another. He would not give pain to Alcuin, not tonight. But there were other, sweeter means of achieving the same end...

"I know what it is you want," he murmured, his fingers caressing the shining hair. "And I know what you need. Lie back, sweet one."

Gently he pressed on Alcuin's chest, helping him settle down before the fire. His hands moving slowly, giving Alcuin every chance to reach up and stop him if he had changed his mind, he drew apart the robe to slip it down off his shoulders once more and leave him just as Carrick had dreamed a few moment ago, naked in the firelight, bare skin caressed by the flickering golden light. He was breathtaking - his body smooth and soft, a narrow waist and curving hips, long, perfect thighs that Carrick ached to caress and stroke. Once more, he leaned down and kissed him, feeling the entire length of his nakedness pressed tight to Carrick's own form. The older man's cock stirred again,and he pressed his hips forwards to gently rub himself against Alcuin's naked hip as the kiss lasted on.

Date: Jun. 23rd, 2017 11:36 am (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
For a moment, Carrick looked down, remembering blood in the snow and the desperate, empty faces of the D'Angeline civilians who until the Skalds had invaded, had known only a life of ease and pleasure. They had been like children, Carrick had thought at the time, protected and innocent children who had never known hardship. Children who had sought only to make the world a good and happy place, and who were wounded all the more deeply at experiencing for the first time the cruelties of the world outside their borders. But Alcuin... Alcuin had truly been a child. Six years old and a war orphan when Anafiel Delauney had found him alone and starving in a bombed-out village. With the refugee camps full to bursting and few nations of Europa opening their borders for fear of coming under the covetous eye of the Skalds themselves, private adoptions had been one of the few means of escape for those D'Angeline children. The lucky ones had found prospective parents among the humanitarian workers and diplomats who had worked to resolve the brutal war that was devastating the formerly tranquil land. What had the boy been through, those long days and night in the cold and brutal ashes of his former country? What had he been before Anafiel Delauney had turned him into the perfect little gentleman scholar - and how much of the broken war orphan was left? Looking at him now, Carrick thought there was more left of the wounded, starving warchild than his adoptive father may care to think.

Alcuin's attempt at dignified maturity was more affecting almost than if he had continued to look as if he were still that lost boy in the Trefoil snow. Carrick shook his head slightly and leaned forwards almost unconsciously. "No. You have nothing to apologise for. It's alright. You're cold and exhausted; of course you're out of sorts." He tried to persuade himself that they were going to stop at the kisses they had already shared, that they would go no further and that it had been a momentary lapse in judgment for both of them. "I should make you up a bed, find you some blankets... " he trailed off. It was no good. There was no denying the desire he felt. There was nothing he could do to stem the urge to pull the boy close. He wanted to cradle Alcuin, to feel those soft lips once more, and to see that sadness and desperation melt away.

When the boy rubbed away the tears from his face it left a flush behind. How Carrick longed to see the pale face flush not with shame or tears, but with pleasure. Drawing a long, slow breath, Carrick leaned forwards and gently kissed both of the damp eyelids before burying his lips in the thick, shining hair. He fancied he could still catch the scent of snow and pine trees of the boy's homeland in Alcuin's hair. It it was merely a fancy, it was a sweet one.

If there had been any chance of Carrick drawing back from the edge of desire, it was undone with Alcuin's next words. "Anything," Alcuin was promising him, and the possibilities of that promise made Carrick almost dizzy. Alcuin's startlingly dark blue eyes were wide and pleading, utterly trusting as he struggled to put his needs into words. It was a dangerous plea, Carrick knew. in this city where power was a drug, there were many men who would do anything they wished with a boy as innocent and soft as Alcuin, and throw him aside in the morning. There were still others who would use him for their rough pleasure, taking no heed of his youth or inexperience, injuring him in their greed and haste to take and possess and conquer. For all Alcuin knew, Carrick may have been one of these men. He was so innocent. So young. So trusting and fragile... and so, so tempting. Wasn't it better, Carrick's desire tried to reason with himmself, that Alcuin should find pleasure and comfort in the night of someone who understood the play of desire and pain, and who would cherish the innocence in his arms rather than seek to conquer and destroy it?

Carrick could not hold back a muffled groan when he pressed his hips forwards against the smooth bare skin of Alcuin's hip. He was hard already beneath his clothes, and as easy as it would have been to pull the boy to his feet and simply tumble him into bed, Carrick drew back, steadying himself.

He gazed down silently as Alcuin stumbled over his words, desperate and yet not knowing what would give him him release. Carrick gently cupped the blushing face, his thumb lightly caressing Alcuin's lips . "You're a virgin," he stated quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. Carrick was silent for a long moment, before pressing himself even closer against the pale body at his side. "Then this is even more of an honour and a privilege than I already considered."

He kissed Alcuin again and this time his lips were soothing and soft. " Lie back, sweet one," he murmured. "Lie back, and let me show you what you need. Let me take care of you."

Carrick's mouth moved down over the long, pale throat, his stubble brushing lightly against the smoothness of the boy's jaw and neck. His lips traced a path along the sculpted collarbone and down to Alcuin's chest, where the very tip of his tongue circled and lapped over each rosy nipple in its turn. He raised his head. " Pleasure. That's what you need tonight. Pleasure that's all for you," he breathed.

Carrick's mouth travelled downwards slowly, his hands mapping the boy's body along with his lips, his stubble brushed the soft skin of the flat lower stomach and hipbone. He paused for a moment as he reached the soft crease of skin where the curve of Alcuin's thigh began, and inhaled the sweet, fresh scent of his arousal. "You don't need to beg me, sweet, he murmured. He raised his head a little, and gave a brief but razor sharp smile. "Not tonight. Tomorrow, however... we'll talk about pain. Yes, my lamb, those rumours are all true. We can talk about punishment. Whatever you think you need. And if you want it, truly and honestly... I can give it to you." The dark promise in his pale eyes and sharpness of his smile was softened as he dipped his head to press another line of kisses up Alcuin's thigh, gently pressing the slender legs further apart. "Lying over my knee, held down and spanked like a naughty boy being punished by his daddy... Or bent over my desk and paddled. Or whipped hard with my belt until you're begging me for forgiveness." He met Alcuin's eyes once more, gently cupping his face. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Carrick paused for a moment before allowing the tip of his tongue to snake out and trace a slow, languid circle around the head of Alcuin's cock, and bestowing a slow kiss to the very tip. Slowly, inch by tortuous inch, he allowed the hard length to slip into his mouth, sucking only lightly, the pressure of his tongue against the sensitive underside waxing and waning. He gave Alcuin a long minute to adjust himself to what must have been a new and delicious sensation, but not long enough to risk the boy spending himself early. Gently, he allowed Alcuin's erection to slip from his mouth, and moved up the warm, pliant body once more with another line of kisses to his stomach and chest until his lips captured Alcuin's once more.

Without taking his eye from Alcuin's own, he slowly curled his fingers around the hard length now slick with his own saliva, and began a slow, gentle stroking rhythm.

"I want to make you come, beautiful. Like this, with my hand on you. I want to watch you, Alcuin. You look so lovely, so pure and sweet. I want to see you in pleasure." He kissed Alcuin again, deep and slow, his hand more insistent now as he squeezed and stroked, heedless of his own arousal and focusing only on the boy in his arms as he ought to bring Alcuin to the edge of climax.