Work Text:
Captain Alexander Manes nearly discards the invitation the second it arrives in his mail: a gold-embossed card welcoming him to a soiree hosted by Miss Isobel Evans, to be held the 14th of June. His reintroduction to society is long overdue, but his desire to be reintroduced tarries even further. He finds himself enjoying his solitude after long years of close quarters and constant noise, caring little that his only reliable company is a single old acquaintance, now his doctor, and a new litter of game hounds he took the liberty of emancipating from his brother’s kennels. He hesitates, however, turning the card over and over between his fingers. What harm might it do? He has little use for being an object of fascination and gossip as is the aim of most socialites who have come to call and subsequently been removed since his return from the wars. Miss Evans, however, is well known for being both a radical and an excellent hostess. He cannot, as Kyle is so fond of telling him, hide out forever.
It is, therefore, against his better judgment that he dons evening wear for the first time in nearly a decade and hails a cab to the high street and the Evans’s palatial family home. The party is well underway by the time he arrives, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he dodges the footman stationed to announce guests as they file into the hall. The last thing he needs is everyone’s eyes on him at once, searching him as if they could see if the rumors were true written upon his skin. Safely anonymized among the crowd of dancers and gossips, he accepts a glass of some pale liquor from a passing waiter and downs it swiftly. Two glasses later, mind pleasantly buzzing, he takes the arm of a passing dancer reaching out to him and lets himself be whirled into the festivities.
As the night goes on, however, Alex begin to notice a pair of eyes watching him not accounted for merely by Alex’s own paranoia. A man who flirts with the edges of the room, dressed in clothes respectable but clearly shabby, who seems to circle the dancers like a carrion bird, always just on the cusp of Alex’s sight. Irritation and anxiety shuffle under Alex’s skin. Who does this man think he is? A reporter, perhaps, every bit as vulturous to society circles as graverobbers to the battlefield. Or simply a rake, a man of low morality who means to tempt Alex into dishonor and expose him to ruin.
(A quiet voice inside his head suggests that maybe this handsome man, who looks half-wild with his unshaven jaw and riotous hair, may simply be a man of fellow feeling. He squashes the voice without mercy.)
If the man wants to watch him, he decides with a fierce exhaustion at being scrutinized so closely, then Alex shall give him something to watch. He rakes his fingers through his hair to tousle it and, like ladies might pinch their cheeks, bites his lips to bring redness to the surface.
When he next catches a glimpse of the man, he makes eye contact and smiles deliberately, only to receive a catlike grin in return. It makes his steps falter, a bit, the opposite of what he had expected—disgust, most likely, perhaps anger. But no, in this man he sees an unmistakable unfurling of interest. An answering unfurling of heat suffuses Alex’s blood, makes his head over-warm and dizzy.
Next time the waiter comes around, Alex takes a water instead. He drinks it slowly, traces a single finger around the rim of the glass. A slow, satisfied smile coaxes his mouth into shape as the man stops suddenly in his pacing to stare direct. Alex lets a single droplet of water bead upon his lower lip then thumbs it away, pressing his finger against that soft flesh in a lingering caress. He then allows himself to look back at the man and thinks of charming serpents.
The man turns on his heel and stalks away.
Finally, sweat gathering at his temples, leg aching from exertion, Alex finds himself alone and catching his breath in a corner of the vast hall. For the first time tonight, the man is nowhere to be seen, and Alex closes his eyes on a shaky, steadying breath. What did he expect? It’s a dangerous thing, too dangerous, to imagine or encourage such attraction in a place so public. Better that the man has disappeared from sight and taken temptation with him. He drives his knuckles into the knotted, painful muscle of his thigh, hissing as he kneads slow, painful circles to convince it to unclench.
“It bodes ill that the first words we speak tonight should be with pain upon your brow.”
Alex’s eyes fly open. That voice—it could only, conceivably, come from a single throat, smoky and underlaced with something forbidden, like the firelit eyes and bare hands of his hovering specter. He licks his lips and lets the silence hang between them for just a moment. In the corner of his eye, he sees the man rock minutely onto his toes then resettle, then repeat. At this little betrayal of nerves from this man who has so far been so inscrutable, a gear finally clicks over in his heart, and he lets the first flush of arousal prickle at his nerves.
“What expression would bear better tidings?” Alex asks, turning himself to fully face his temptor. “Give me cause, and I will make it so.”
“To my displeasure, I have no answer for your question, for I have seen both your smile and your ire tonight, and I find myself unmanned in equal measure.”
“It bodes ill, then, that you would speak of bad tidings with no countermeasure close to hand.”
“A clever tongue, well at home in such a fair face. A light foot, as well. You are a man of many talents.” The man clasps his hands behind his back and rocks once more onto his toes. No longer a stranger keeping time in a crowded room, there’s something almost…cute about him, and Alex falls a little deeper.
“Not so light, I fear.” He leans down and raps his false leg, bracing himself for the falling face, the pitying sneer. Better to make it known now than in the future possible.
The man’s smile doesn’t falter; in fact, he takes a half-step closer. All the air in the room draws nearer with him. Alex’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek.
“Ah, you mistake my meaning. It is only that I saw how you evaded the footman upon your arrival, and thus evaded recognition by the public who eagerly awaited you.”
“You were watching even then? It seems I am being flattered by a man my equal in stealth as well as fairness, as you so profess.”
Every time this man moves closer, Alex finds himself drawn forward in tandem. They are close enough now to brush at the shoulder, voices reduced to murmurs rising and falling with the strings of the music. The barest scent of sandalwood settles in his blood like the evening’s drink.
“Miss Evans and I are of a particular acquaintance; I noticed but a single name unaccounted for on the guest list. You might say I was waiting for you especially, sir.” The man’s voice softens to a smug purr. Alex wants to bite at his throat and feel the vibrations under his tongue. They have not even touched, but Alex wants to devour him whole.
“Then you have the advantage of me,” Alex says, “for I haven’t the privilege of the manifest nor the knowledge of the town’s social circles. What is your name, sir?”
“Michael Guerin. If you have a long memory for scandal, the name may bear some familiarity.” He dons an effacing little smirk; he leans back slightly in a defensive move Alex well recognizes from his own behavior regarding his injury. He searches his brain, and he does indeed come up with some faint remembrance. A number of years prior to Alex’s enlistment, some diatribe of his father’s about interlopers and proper bloodlines—ah yes, the discovery of infidelity within the Evans household and the subsequent dismissal of a servant boy, the unfortunate issue.
Alex extends his gloved hand to shake. “Mr. Guerin. A pleasure.”
Rather than greet him as a gentleman, Guerin softly encloses his extended hand in both of his and draws him ever closer. Blood rushes to flush his cheeks, and Alex stifles a coy little noise by biting his lip.
“You now know my name, yet your subterfuge means I do not know what it is I should call you. Miss Evans appraised all in attendance of your esteemed rank, but I think it must get rather tiring being reminded of your place in the rank and file, hm?”
The heat of Guerin’s breath washes across the shell of his ear. Alex’s grip tightens compulsively on the head of his cane as he restrains himself from touching this man’s jaw and turning his head for a kiss.
Swallowing against the tight knot of his necktie, weak with the sensation of Guerin’s thumb kneading the back of his hand, Alex says, “Referral as one’s rank is a gesture of respect, sir. Of propriety.”
“Is that how I should treat you, then? With respect? With propriety?” Guerin slides one hand up slowly up his forearm; his hooded eyes follow the movement with naked lust. How would those fingers feel against his bare skin? His cock has thickened unmistakably in his breeches, enough to embarrass him were their hips to brush together.
“It is the aim of every man to be accorded the esteem as befits his position,” Alex answers.
“It is the aim of every man to strive beyond the position to which society has him consigned; as I, now, strive beyond my station and beg for the favor of your name.”
As they’ve spoken, they’ve only reeled each other closer. This is not one of Miss Evans’s more intimate gatherings—the hall is crowded enough that no one would think it odd to see two men stand so positioned in private conversation. However, Alex still feels as if the whole world watches them with knowing eyes—the way Guerin’s hand massages gently in the crook of his arm, the way Alex cannot tear his eyes away from his tongue darting out to touch his full lower lip, the way his pounding heartbeat strains the buttons across his chest.
“So what shall it be? Shall I prostrate myself further for such intimate permission, or shall I call you Captain and be under your command?”
Alex noses at the tender patch of skin behind Guerin’s ear and rasps, “You may call me Alexander.” He nips lightly at his earlobe. “As befits your position.”
“Alex it is, then,” Guerin says, sliding his hand down Alex’s arm to take his hand. “Will you adjourn with me to a more…private location? I find that I desire only to monopolize your company entirely. Indulge my selfish ways?”
“You are a tease, sir,” Alex pants. They have already gone too far in this dark corner, lamplight at their backs. Alex’s stomach twists—at the same time giddy and young and watery with fear. He wishes Guerin would just throw him over his shoulder, so he would not have to make this decision.
“Have you not teased me close enough to madness? Perhaps the sporting thing would be a chance to return the favor.”
Guerin’s thumbnail digs into the exposed strip of skin—vulnerable, pale—between Alex’s glove and the cuff of his sleeve. A few purred words and that little half-crescent lick of pain—that’s all it takes for Alex’s cock to fatten to full hardness against his thigh. For all the hells to which he has, by time and men, been twice consigned, he never expected this bronze-eyed devil to smile at him so sweetly.
“I have never been a sporting man,” Alex says, managing to regain his equilibrium. “I prefer to press the advantage when I have worked so tirelessly to gain it.”
“Is not dueling a sport, the give and take of advantage part and parcel of the same?”
“More a way of life, perhaps, to be the kind of man who finds enjoyment in a duel rather than grim necessity.”
“Then come away with me, so I might be a tutor in the discovery of joy in the pressing of swords and the parting of flesh.”
A laugh bursts out of Alex’s chest, and he lets Guerin tug him deeper into shadow, toward a small door half-hidden by the paneling of the walls. Their flight from the hall is a whirlwind of narrow corridors and groping hands, hiding from servants with their hands over each other’s mouths and eyes sparkling in the darkness. They tumble into a small bedchamber, and Guerin locks the door behind them, and in the same breath Alex crowds him against it, lunging for his mouth. Their lips meet clumsily, hungrily; Guerin’s strong hands grip the sides of his neck and hold him steady as he tilts his head and dives back in.
When they pull apart to gasp for air, Guerin mouths at the corner of Alex’s lips, his jaw, and down his neck to his racing pulse and up again.
“Finally, finally,” he pants, “My dear, sweet thing, you are beauty incarnate, you know not how I have burned tonight watching you dance with all my sister’s paltry friends, longing to feel you under my hands—”
“You have me now,” Alex pants in return, “You have me—I am yours.”
Guerin groans loudly and seals their lips together once more, sweeping his tongue into Alex’s willing mouth to taste every inch of him. Alex grips his hips and holds on tight as Guerin begins to walk them back, all the while fumbling with the ties of both their breeches.
With a shove, Guerin sends Alex tumbling back onto the soft bed, among the rumpled sheets. Alex goes willingly, arching his hips, squirming to free himself from the confines of his too-tight pants, only for his efforts to be cut short by hands manacling his wrists to the bed.
Guerin kneels above him, jaw set, eyes ember-glowing as they drink in the sight of Alex greedily. He frees one of Alex’s wrists and jerks at the knot of his own cravat, tossing it aside, exposing the gleaming hollow of his throat. His jacket and waistcoat go next, discarded with equal lack of care, as if nothing matters as much as reducing the layers between them. Alex arches his hips jealously, wishing to be the one revealing Guerin’s skin bit by bit, touching it, biting—
The first few buttons of Guerin’s shirt are already undone, revealing the textured rough of the hair on his chest. Finally tempted beyond all reason, Alex reaches forward to tangle his fingers there, to feel the heat of him, only for Guerin to snatch his wrist out of the air. They linger for a moment, Guerin catching, Alex, caught. Then slowly, so slowly, Guerin lifts Alex’s hand to his mouth. He kisses the back of Alex’s fingers, drifting his full lips across the butter-soft leather and back again while he gently undoes the button at the nape of his wrist.
The barest brush of a rough-padded finger against that delicate skin sends a hot shudder through Alex’s belly, one that ignites into a roaring fire at the dull, nipping pressure of Guerin’s teeth on the very tip of his middle finger. He repeats the motion for each finger as Alex squirms between his knees; then, with a toss of his wild-maned head, he bares Alex’s hand entirely. Whimpering, Alex tugs like he’s trying to escape Guerin’s hold, and it has the desired result: that hand tightening to a punishing grip.
“You are a little tease.”
Guerin licks a broad stripe up Alex’s palm and, once he reaches the top, bobs his head to suck his middle and forefingers into the back of his throat.
“Unnnnh,” Alex groans at the sweet, suckling pressure against his knuckles, at the wet, hot fluttering of Guerin’s tongue against the underside of his fingers. His cock pulses in both agreement and protest at being neglected. Guerin pulls off his fingers with a pop and leans over to rummage in the bedside drawer. A vial of oil hits the bed beside Alex’s head.
“Slick up your fingers,” Guerin says. “I’d do it myself, just my mouth, spend hours worshipping at your altar and getting you wet enough to take me, but not tonight. I need you sooner.”
Alex’s hips thrust again at just the thought of being inside that intense heat. He fumbles with the cork, spilling a little of its precious contents against the sheets, busies himself coating his fingers liberally with the stuff. All the while, Guerin tears at his clothing, down to his bare chest, where he attacks Alex’s nipples with eager fingers, a curious, talented tongue, and pinching teeth.
“A-ah—all right, Guerin, I’m ready, I’m—ahh—”
Guerin whines as he pulls back, shoves his breeches and underthings down and kicks them off. He guides Alex’s hand back to his waiting hole, which clenches against Alex’s rolling, probing touch. At the breach of his first finger, Guerin drops all pretense of control with a hitching moan. His head rolls back, limp on his shoulders, as Alex strokes his inner walls—hesitant at first, then growing bolder and bolder as the flesh ripples and clenches around him.
“Ngh—Another, another, Alex—”
The second finger slides in as easily as the first, Guerin opening up beautifully under the pressure. Every lunge, every scissoring motion drives grunts and gasps from his long, exposed throat. He slides one hand down his chest to palm at his cock and the other goes into his hair, gripping and tugging in fumbling rapture.
By God he is a vision. Wanton and writhing, all sweat-gold and glowing in the low candlelight, clad only in a shirt thin and transparent and clinging to him by a single button. Half incubus who seduced Alex to his bed; half succubus keening out for a cock inside him.
Taking the initiative, Alex wriggles a third finger in beside the first two. A heavy, punched-out moan accompanies the movement.
“No more, no more—your cock, Alex, it’s enough, I want—”
But Alex ignores his whiny stuttering. He’s…aware, to put it lightly, that he has been blessed with, to be delicate, unusual size, and the last thing he wishes is for Guerin to be hurt. So, mercilessly, he twists and spreads and stretches all three fingers inside him, as Guerin goes higher and softer, until he’s reduced to sobbing whimpers. When Guerin goes down to nuzzle at Alex’s chest, his thighs trembling too piteously to hold his previous position, Alex finally relents. He slides his fingers out all at once, ignoring Guerin’s “nnnnngh—no!” at the emptiness. Tugging his head up by his hair, he kisses him, tasting the desperation in the weak kitten-licks of his tongue.
“Take my cock out,” Alex says, and Guerin scrambles to obey. He sits back up, tugs Alex’s trousers down far enough so they don’t get dirty. Alex hisses in relief as his cock bobs free; Guerin wastes no time in grabbing the oil and slicking him up and positioning himself over it. He grits his teeth and sinks down slowly.
“Fuck.” A full-body shiver takes him over, only the head of Alex’s cock seated inside him, stretching him obscenely.
“Glad for the third finger now, Guerin?”
“Gh—yes, agh, you—fucking—quod meus hortus—hha—habet, sumas, nngh, impune licebit—”[1]
Alex throws his head back with laughter and jerks his hips forward to shut Guerin up. They pick up a rolling rhythm, fast and dirty, chasing full-tilt to the inevitable end—Guerin grabs Alex’s thighs for leverage, throwing his weight forward and down, inner muscles clutching and milking Alex’s cock. And Alex gives it back in equal measure, pounding him crying and boneless, Alex’s fingers digging tiny bruises into the plush curve of Guerin’s ass. When he slides a finger into the crack, teasing lightly at his swollen, blazing-hot entrance and the place where they’re joined, Guerin arches his back and comes with a startled shout, eyes rolling back, cock twitching in long spurts. Alex comes mere moments later, pounding into his oversensitive body once, twice, and one more time, shouting his name until his throat goes hoarse.
Trembling in the afterglow, Guerin pulls himself off Alex’s cock and collapses beside him on the narrow bed, squirming close and pressing soft, eager kisses to his shoulder. Alex turns to him to capture his mouth, and they share a kiss gone gentler and satisfied, mouths just pressing open to taste each other.
“When can I see you again?” Alex asks, impulsively. “That is—may we—I know the dangers, but—”
Guerin presses a fingertip to his lips to silence him, pulls it away, and kisses him again.
“You need only call my name, and I will be—your obedient servant—”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”