Streetlights, people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the night

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Sunday, February 7th, day 252
Wee hours of the morning
Whitechapel inn, upstairs


 

This is why I hate weekends. I’m told that people in other lines of work actually enjoy them, use them to go out and generally have the good time they can’t other nights, when they have to get up and work in the morning. The difficulty I have with this is that the places most people decide to go to for their good times are the places I usually work. We made plenty of money tonight, I’m sure, and I wasn’t hurting for tips, either, but the crowd tonight was messy and lingering, although not particularly imaginative and rowdy.
 

The Whitechapel may not be a nice bar, but if I’m working here it will sure as hell be a clean one. Once we finally got everyone out, Adam and I scrubbed the tables and the bar down and then put the chairs up and mopped the floors. God, I hate mopping, but there’s no other way to get everything off the floor that our dear customers leave behind. So here it is nearly three, and we’ve just now finished. Everything I’m wearing is grimy, and my feet are aching for new boots. I did stop in the bar’s tiny kitchen to wash my hands and face and mix up two mugs of the hot buttered rum I’ve been wanting. Well, one mug. Mine is hot buttered molasses and water, which won’t taste nearly as good, but if I’m going to bed with a man I just met, I’m doing it with a clear head, just in case. Unless he offers me a sample of the brandy that’s the reason I’m doing this. Then I might make an exception.
 

At least the bed will be warm, thank God, and I won’t have to stand up and make conversation at the same time. If it gets better from there, that would be nice, but keeping your expectations low is a good way to not be disappointed in the morning. Before I go in, I make enough noise on the landing to announce my presence if he’s awake, but I’m not knocking on my own door. Really need to find a more permanent place if I’m going to be having people over.

 

OPEN to Arkady
CLOSED

 

Comments

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

The sound of a man's tread on the landing wakes me from the half doze. I rub my eyes and sit up, suppressing a yawn. After I left the bar I checked on my horse, tipped the stable boy to brush her down and collected a pair of bottles. It was cold and clear outside, and I don't feel bad about not going home.

I left the bottles on the table, just about the only thing in this bare room. Whatever secrets the man has, I didn't go looking for it. Instead I just took off my boots and laid down on top of the blanket to nap a bit.

"Didn't sound like you had to send for the sheriff, must have been a quiet night."

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Well, he got up to meet me. Didn’t have to do that. Looks like he might have been asleep but he’s up quick, for all that. I set the mugs down on the room’s small table and bend to light the lamp. Everything’s still in its place, not that there was much to disturb. He’s taken his boots off, but nothing else. I kind of wish he had. He looks even better in the lamplight than he did in the bar downstairs. “Quiet for this place,” I tell him, and sit down to take off my own socks and boots. “Still a damn long night.”

I lever myself out of the chair and start undoing the buttons of my shirt with one hand, reaching for my mug with the other. “Help yourself, if you like. It’s cold tonight.” I take a long drink of my own and set the mug down while I pull my shirt and undershirt over my head and leave them on the chair.

I meet the man’s very blue eyes, start undoing my pants, not putting on a show but not hiding anything, either. “I’m going to wash up,” I tell him, let him know I’m not coming to bed in my current state for either one of our sakes. Push everything down past my hips and step out of it, stand up naked, let him see what he’s getting himself into. “Be back in a minute.” I’d prefer he didn’t follow me, but if he does I won’t complain.

There aren’t any guests up on this floor, and I don’t think anyone else in the inn is awake at this hour anyway, so I just grab a towel and head for the bathroom. Give him a chance to get out with his pride intact if he’s changed his mind. Really hope he hasn’t, though.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

Ever so faintly, I can see the steam off the top of the mugs. Whatever it is smells like something out of the pastry shop. I pick up the second mug and hold it between both hands as I watch the bartender strip down in a flash. It's almost a challenge, the way he does it and it has me thinking that I'm behind in the race. I'll undress while he's gone then. Thank my lucky stars I washed up this morning, in the freezing cold water at the farm since the heater doesn't work terribly well.

A little tattoo I can't make out from here on his chest, and a hell of one cross his back. Looks like it took a long time to put something like that down. I have a vague memory of what that symbol's supposed to mean, but I shove thoughts like that right out.

Reluctantly, I set down the warm mug and set to tugging off my own clothes and trying to keep them to an orderly pile on top of my boots. It will be warmer sitting under that blanket to wait then. I feel that stir of longing, down in the pit of my stomach, thinking about the the spare, strong lines of the man's body as he moved. Not a bad decision at all, I congratulate myself.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

I think about the look in his eyes all the way to the bathroom. It’s been awhile since anyone looked at me like that, and in those eyes it makes me feel a little less tired going down the hall than I did coming up it. Normally I would take my good sweet time washing up. Plentiful, clean, hot water is still something I can’t take for granted. Not tonight, though, when I’ve got something considerably hotter waiting for me in bed.

I wonder how much he wants to talk first, and what about. There’re some things I want to know, some things that need to be said, and then I’m hoping he’ll let me put my mouth to better use. I like to talk, can’t make it tending bar if you don’t, but I’ve been talking all night, and I’m sick of calling people ‘sir’ and asking what they’d like. Would like to be asked what I like tonight, and call a man by his name. Not a gentleman, either, but someone who knows how to get up at the ass crack of dawn and go out and work with his hands and his back until it’s dark again. I can respect a man like that.

The cold hits me when I get out of the shower, and I’m almost shivering as I dry off. Cold air doesn’t do much for a man’s pride, so I wrap the towel around my waist for the walk back to the room. Spend most of that walk thinking about what to say and trying to get my damp hair into some kind of order. Arkady’s in bed when I come in, clothes in a pile by his boots. I take a moment to appreciate the view. “Damn, that’s a nice sight to come in to,” I say, and mean it. I pick up my mug from the table to give my hands something to do while I lean against the locked door. “You mind telling me how old you are, and whether you’ve done this before?” Never hurts to ask, and if he’s offended, I can make it up to him with interest.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

I chuckle, and raise my mug in salute at Jarmym when he enters. The sight of him in just that faded towel is enticing, almost even more so that he provocative nudity earlier. I notice he has a scar on his leg and wonder what the hell caused it. Doesn't look like something intentional, like the tattoos. I like to look at him, his skins is a bit lighter than mine and his hair much darker.

"Twenty two," I answer easily. Twenty two, and I don't know if I should think of myself as young or old. I hear life is shorter than it used to be. "And yes, I've been to bed with a man before, more than once. Unless something's drastically changed, I think I remember where all the pieces go." I don't tell him that it's been almost two years since the last time but I figure that won't matter so much. It's almost fun to be so brash about the topic. "Nothing ever terribly exotic unless you find having sex out of doors fancy."

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Twenty-two. Damn. Man could pass for ten years older than that, but I’ve got three years, not to mention three inches, on him. He’s got more than a stone on me, though, all of it muscle. Everything I’ve got goes to string, always has. Well, if he didn’t like what he saw, he wouldn't be looking at me like that. “A roll in the hay, you mean? Not my idea of fun. But good to know about the rest.”

I set my mug down on the table and cross over to the bed, squat down so I’m looking up at him. The towel’s not hiding anything, but if he wants it off, he can take it off himself. I’ve thought out what to say, but some things aren’t easy to get out no matter how much you think about them beforehand. “What happens in this room stays here. Trust you that much, or we wouldn’t have gotten this far. Also trust you’re not going to give me the clap, and I haven’t got anything to give you, either.”

Some things you can only say looking a man right in the eye, and his are very, very blue looking down at me. Hard to read, too. I push on. “Don’t have many limits, myself: no blood, no shit, and don’t pull my hair. Other than that, I’m game for anything you want to do. Hard’s better than soft, slow’s better than fast. You feel like telling me what to do, that’s fine. Don’t leave marks anywhere that’ll show in the morning. That’s how my tastes run. Anything else you want to know?” There’s not much he could ask now that I wouldn’t answer for him. Just hope he doesn’t laugh in my face after that little speech. I think it’s better to get everything out at the beginning, but some people feel differently.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

He's so serious, so earnest in his words. So... sincere. That's the word for it. I wonder where he's been, what he's lived in the past that he knows so clearly what he likes and what he doesn't.

"That's pretty clear. I'm a plain man I suppose, but I'll gladly tell you what to do if that pleases." More than anything I want to tell him just to get in the bed with me. I reach out slowly, follow the line of his jaw to this neck and down to his chest. I tap my fingers twice on the mark on his chest. Close enough now to see it is a name, it is the only thing that gives me pause.

"Just want to make sure I'm not causing trouble with anyone else," I say. No telling whose name that is, and if they have any claim to the man's heart or bed.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Didn’t do any of the things I expected him to: kiss me, hit me, laugh at me, add some preferences of his own. He was in a position to do a lot of things, and what he chose to do was touch me and ask about that mark in that way. Plain men don’t go around saying they’re plain. This is a good one, and looking him in the eye has become just a little too much right now. I look down at his hand.

“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.” It isn’t, I know. “Not promised, either. We could skip merrily down the street hand in hand, and she wouldn’t bat an eye if she saw.” Still can’t bring myself to say her name. “Meant to have it taken off, but that’s expensive. I’ll get around to it someday.” I won’t. “Right now—“ I put my hands on my knees and straighten up, able to look him in the eye again. “I’m looking for someone to fuck me into the mattress, and I’m thinking you’re the man for the job. If that's what you had in mind for the evening, that is?” I raise an eyebrow and wait to see what he'll make of this.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

Someone lost then, or never had. Probably more complicated than that, but his answer is enough to ease any qualm I might have that I'm trespassing. I decide not to pry into whatever ache that tattoo marks. He backs away from it smoothly and quirks that eyebrow in a way that reminds me of insouciant stripping earlier. I lean over to set the mug safely out of the way.

"Come on down then." I reach out to tug the towel free from those lean hips. Damn but he's a good looking man and bold as can be. I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Smiling, I pull him down to the bed and kiss him hard on the mouth. He's awfully good at this, I think hazily, before I become carried away in the salty sweet taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on my skin.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

This time, he does exactly what I expect him to: just wraps one of those big hands around my arm, pulls, and I go down. Gets rid of the towel first, too, smart man. Landing on top of him is one of the best things that’s happened to me in a very long time. The man is hard in many ways, and he wants my mouth. Takes it, too, and who am I not to kiss him back?

Can’t lose control completely, though. I make sure to keep my hands busy, which is no great hardship. It’s wonderful to be able to appreciate those muscles properly. His hands aren’t idle, either, and not terribly gentle, which is very much to my liking. His calluses scrape. I’d almost do this with no brandy involved at all.

Somewhere in the tangle of friction and heat and sweat, I remember something that’s bound to be fairly important if things continue in the direction they seem to be going. I pry an arm free long enough to reach down between the bed and the wall. Then I have to pry one of his hands free long enough to put the jar in it. “Hope I don’t have to tell you what this is for.” Also hope he can understand me when I’m gasping for breath, which is entirely his fault. Does he have to do that with his mouth while I’m trying to talk? “Use it up if you have to. Use both of us up.” That’s an offer. If nothing else tonight has been an offer, that is. And I hope he takes me at my word.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

I almost laugh and tell him the first time we stole from the coconut oil my mother kept in her dresser to rub into scars. But there's no breath or time for such a long explanation, not when I'm making sure he's interested in what's next. Because I certainly am and if I wait too long it will be far too brief of a joy. The man has such adept hands and seems to know my body almost better than myself.

"On your knees or on your back?" I ask, my lips right next to his ear. With one hand I twist the jar open. When I have Jarmyn's answer I pull him firmly into place. "Hold still now." My fingers follow the curve of his ass down, between his legs and back up to his stiff cock and I'm generous with whatever he uses for grease. THe appreciate sound he makes sends a throb right through me.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He looks happy to be doing this. Intent on the task at hand, which he seems to think is making me fall all to pieces, and certainly very aroused, but also happy. That’s new, and I find I like it.

I wouldn’t have minded just being manhandled into whatever position he preferred to take me in, but the way he asks makes my stomach turn over in a wonderful way. We take a moment to rearrange ourselves on the narrow bed. I kneel up, my back to him. I never could do this and look a man in the eye during it. Then he does manhandle me, and it is a joy to be pushed around by those hands. He tells me to hold still, as though I would move now without permission. The man could give me orders all day if he used that voice and held me like that.

I know what’s coming next, but he’s almost teasing in his preparation. Generous, like I asked him to be, but barely touching my cock, which is begging for attention. I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for him to breach my ass, and I let it out, trying to relax, hoping he starts with a couple of those long, blunt fingers. “Take your--God, take your time,” I beg, and can’t find it in myself to be ashamed. I’d happily let him fuck me with those fingers until the sun comes up, but I’m thinking he has something else long and blunt in mind for the fucking, eventually.

I want to ask him to keep talking, because that always helps, but when you push people to talk in bed it never comes out quite right. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and having seen the size of him, it’s going to hurt a bit no matter what he does, but that’s fine with me. “And stop being nice.” I’m not a girl, or a virgin. I can take what he wants to give me, and I’d rather not have it tied up in tissue and ribbons.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"Nice?" I chuckle and I slide two fingers slowly in and out before I push in a third. I twist my fingers together, back and forth inside him. With my other hand I reach around to squeeze the base of his cock. "That's what I'd be doing if I was aiming for nice at the moment." When I let go he makes a sound and I smile even though he can't see it. I pull my fingers back and press them in a bit more forcefully as I kneel up behind him. Time to slick myself up, my fingers warm and slippery. I rest my other hand on his back to steady myself before I push my cock inside as slowly as I can.

"But since you asked so nicely, I'll go first and you're going to have to wait to the very end." Start slow, finish hard, I think and close my eyes.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Christ, this man knows his business, almost taunting and very much in control. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve seen his hands, felt them, am halfway in love with them, but those fingers feel ten times bigger pushing into me like he owns me. And he would start with two. I hiss through my teeth and try to relax as much as I can. He hits exactly where I want him to, though, and he is going slow. I can feel him adding a third finger, twisting them together exactly right, stretching me open. When his other hand finds my cock, I gasp. Can’t help myself. He’s not gentle there, either, and his hand is gone far too soon. I can feel my face burning at his words, and something between a whimper and a moan escapes my lips.

He fucks his fingers into me again, harder, and if three fingers feel this big, how am I ever going to take his cock? At times like these, it’s very comforting to know that I don’t have a choice. I am going to take it, and like it, and thank him afterwards. I close my eyes, perfectly there in my head, as I feel the stretch and burn of him finally entering me. I’m babbling now, and if I had any pride left, its gone in a rush of please and stop and yes and his name, all drawn out as I try to catch my breath against the impossibly slow slide of his cock. I cannot take this, I think, there’s no way, and I’m going to make a fool of myself, and he won’t stop pushing.

He keeps speaking, breath hot on my ear, and the words sort of center me. I hang on to them and the bed and concentrate on not flinching away and just relaxing into the push. Of course he’s going to come first, and of course I’ll have to wait. How else would it be? And that’s when the pain changes, like I’m looking at it from a different angle, and I can push back and take it and nothing’s felt this good in a very, very long time.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

The sounds he make goad me on, and pushing inside him feels like running my hand through a flame. It takes all my self control not to just end right then and there, especially with the sounds Jarmyn's making beneath me. The slow, rising ache from my groin to my chest builds. Slowly, so slowly. I've no desire to hurt him more than necessary though I get the feeling he might not mind. A long sigh escapes me, and I try to make words out of my sounds but it's hard.

When I'm sure I'm settled into him, I stroke one hand down his chest and to his groin where he hangs so heavily. I squeeze his cock again as I start to move in and out, slowly picking up speed. The sound of flesh smacking together at each thrust spurs me on and I murmur words of encouragement. "Hang on for me, just a bit longer. Good."

The muscles of his back tense and shift under that elaborate cross tattoo. It reminds me of the last time I did this, but the thought vanishes like smoke as I give myself up to the moment.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He’s pressed hard against my back, and we’re finally joined completely. I feel so full, so owned, as though he’s claimed me by this act. He settles in against me, hands moving again, though I can hardly feel them now compared to the sensation of him buried in me. He wraps one hand around my cock again, giving it a brief squeeze that’s just enough to set me back on the edge. I could come, if he told me to, I could fall over that edge right now, but he hasn’t given me the word.

He begins to fuck me in earnest, as though everything that came before was just building up to the slide and slap on his flesh into mine. He’s talking me through this, I realize slowly. The words take time to filter through the haze of arousal in my head. I want to thank him, but my tongue doesn’t seem to be connected to my brain, anymore. I concentrate hard, but he’s still moving inside me, and the only thing I can manage to get out is, “Slower, please. And…the talking helps.” I’m not even sure if that’s clear enough to make out. Can’t concentrate on talking anymore.

I just want this to keep going, hard and slow, forever. I want to hang here on the edge, and feel every stroke strike sparks that flare up and then recede. Feel him around me and in me always. It’s ridiculous, and perfect.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

Soothing a man in this state is almost like soothing a horse, I think. That's also probably the most ridiculous thought I've ever had but thankfully its in my head and I try to shake the set of ridiculous comparisons out of my brain and concentrate more fully on the man. Who is not a horse, but has an equally beautiful line to his back.

So I murmur words of encouragement and slow myself down again. It's agony to do so and takes a lot of will not to just ignore him and finish. I find myself holding my breath at times as I ease back, rocking on that shivery edge. Back and forth, warm as summer time. There's the faintest shine of sweat on his skin, slick under my hands. If I didn't want the release so much, I could probably just do this forever. It feels unbearably good, better than I remember.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

I feel him slow down as soon as I ask for it, which must take more control than I can ever imagine having. He keeps moving, a powerful, steady rhythm pounding into me, but he’s murmuring something to me, and I feel that last little bit of resistance give inside. I stop trying to relax, and I just am, somehow. The sharp burn of friction is gone, replaced by a blunted heaviness that hits just right and is exactly what I need.

I want to fall completely, now that I’ve given into this. I can feel my grip on control slipping, but I know I have to hold on. He hasn’t, and I can’t. I’m babbling again, I realize, this time it’s mostly please and can’t. Trying to speak clearly requires too much of my concentration. I can’t spare it. I realize I’m making an idiot of myself, shivering and clutching at the sheets, but that’s really not important. What is important is holding on and waiting for permission. For release.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"Almost, almost," I repeat a little breathlessly. "Wait for me." I feel that heat run all the way through me, up to the top of my head. Maybe it is the drink, the late hour or something else, something about the man beneath me clutching the bed clothes like he might slip right away. Maybe just the long wait for this chance. Whatever it is, it makes for a glorious feeling.

I brush a hand teasingly against his cock, something that might be cruel but wrings an appreciative sound from the man.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

I can’t find it in myself to hate him for pushing me to wait, or even for teasing me like that. I can’t. I am about to collapse under him, though, and I hope he won’t mind terribly much. I’m the one who wanted slow, and more, and he has done nothing but what I asked. God, this is too much, though. The pressure building behind my stomach is getting harder to push back, and if I opened my eyes, I’m not sure I would see anything but stars, although it must be past dawn.

He’s still moving inside me, with more urgency now, it feels like. I’ll wait for him, but I haven’t promised not try to quicken his own climax. Certainly haven’t promised not to roll my hips and tighten on his cock at the same time. And no mention was made that I was not allowed to moan as I did it, either, and let him hear all my frustration and need.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

This is my limit, I find. Eyes closed, breathing hard with my head tilted back, pushing hard on the man beneath me. I spend myself with a wordless little cry.

"Come on then." Apparently I'm only good for short words now, but I trust my hand stroking his cock makes the meaning clear. I am still moving, less frantic now. I lean forward some, pushing the last of me deep inside.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

It works, thank God. I feel him spill inside me, a rush of wet heat that stops my shaking for a moment. Please, I think, and maybe I’m saying it as well, please let me. His breath is as hot on my ear as his seed is inside me, and his hand even hotter on my cock. I let myself fall, finally, gratefully, pulsing in time to the movement of his hand stroking me.

He’s still moving in me, thrusting deep, everything in perfect rhythm. Christ, this man could take his brandy with him when he leaves, and I would still smile the next time I see him. I blink, but things keep exploding at the corners of my vision, and it’s damned hard to think when my blood is fizzing like it’s been put through a gasogene. Can’t think of anything to say, either. Maybe he’ll stay a bit, long enough for me to collect my wits. I certainly don’t expect him to get out now that he’s finished with me, but some men don’t like to stay any long than they have to.

With great effort, I reach over the side of the bed for the towel I dropped there earlier, a lifetime ago, and pass it back to him. I haven’t quite collapsed yet, but all my bones seem to have dissolved, and the exhaustion I’d pushed back is threatening to overwhelm me again. Trying to catch my breath isn’t quite working, and my hair is everywhere, but any dignity I had is long gone. Even if I’m not terribly attractive panting and shivering, maybe the man will be pleased to have had that effect on me.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

We manage to untangle ourselves, and I manage not to fall over. Though I would like to, just fall over and not move for a bit. I sit back on my heels and he hands me that towel so I can clean myself up a bit. Slowly my heart pounds back to normal. Hopefully that was what he wanted. I'm not sure I could go again, not without some rest.

I have myself up and take the two wobbly steps to where I set that brandy. A healthy drink seems warranted after that. Restorative, even. Definitely deserved. Under the burn it tastes faintly like summer to me. I pour a generous bit into the empty mug there and carry it back to bed so I can sit.

"You look like a man in need of a drink," I say, holding out the cup. A smile quirks at the edge of my mouth.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Hurts when he pulls out, in more ways than one. He takes the towel from me, and I can hear him cleaning himself up. Hurts more when I hear him getting out of bed, but I’m not going to beg him to stay if he wants to be quit of me, however much I want it. Wish him joy on that long, cold ride home to his sister, too, I think blackly.

I take the towel from where he left it and mop up myself and the bed as best I can, trying to stop shivering and breath normally. My heart’s settling down, but the chill of the room is a lot clearer without twelve stone of farmer pressed up against me. Feel like I’ve been hit by a train, and not a train with my best interests at heart, either. Glad I don’t have to work tonight. Will have to do wash, though, state this bed is in. There’s a fun prospect in the dead of winter.

I’m trying to comb my hair into some kind of order with my fingers when he sticks the mug under my nose, and I realize he’s still here and opened the brandy for us. I swallow hard, nose full of the smell of fruit and alcohol and sex. I turn and look up at him, take the mug. Meet his eyes, say, “thank you.” Try to say it so he knows it’s for more than just the liquor.

I try to find a more comfortable position on the bed that makes room for him too, if he decides to come back. Take a good swallow of his brandy, appreciate it and the sight of the man who made it standing naked in the lamplight in front of me. Drinking after sex is bad combination for me. Turns my mouth on, makes me talk about things I really shouldn’t. But I’m tired enough now to have no qualms at all.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he minds me sitting back down. But that probably would sound ridiculous, given how forcefully we've just fucked on the bed. Too many manners, not enough sense, as my mother would say. I settle down next to him for warmth, pull one knee up to my chest. Now that I'm not moving I can feel the cold. I'm so damned tired of winter already.

He looks plowed, poor fellow. I wonder what's tumbling in his head. Probably just thinking he's tired as hell from working and fucking. Someone else talking seems to soothe him though, so I ramble a little.

"We make it out of pears, mostly. There's quince, a pair of apple trees, sometimes summer berries growing wild around the orchard. But pears are pretty reliable trees, as far as trees go. But you have to have something to sell after the fruit's gone and weather goes cold, so we make brandy."

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Arkady sits back down without being asked, thank God. I lean back against his shoulder and take another drink. The man’s as warm as his brandy, and I’m sorely in need of some warmth right now. I pull the blanket up around us with my free hand. I want to talk about the sex, but that’s never an easy thing to start, and it’s quick to become awkward. Don’t have enough brains left to fix a situation like that if I get myself into it.
He starts talking about the farm, about how they make the brandy. Sounds good, doesn’t sound easy. I wonder how he and his sister are getting by, if they’re scraping this winter. Don’t know him well enough to ask him that, for all he’s just had his cock in me. But I do know a bit about what he’s talking about, and saying so seems to the thing to do. “I grew up on a farm,” I tell him, as though this is the sort of thing I talk about every day. “M’family milked two hundred head of cattle and farmed twice that many acres. Lot of work on a dairy farm. S’probably why they had twelve of us. Is it just you and your sister out there?”

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"Damn, that's a lot of animals to keep after." It surprises me. I can't picture him as a farm boy. Not that he doesn't look capable as hell. Something about him and the way he carries himself. Clearly the life didn't suit because he's here and not keeping after all those cattle. I feel a pang of envy, but I push it away.

"Ah, yes. Just me and Vilena and a couple chickens, since our parents passed a couple years back. But we're not big and it is mostly fruit trees to keep after. We do alright. People like to drink and that keeps us going." Alright, but not great. But there's no reason to moan about our troubles with that damned farm.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

So it is just the two of them. “Sounds…quiet.” I’m partial to quiet, myself, but it can be boring. “You know how loud it gets, fourteen people in a farmhouse, with whatever animals get in? Used to go out and lie in the corn and just listen to the wind when it got really bad. Was always worth the hiding I got when I went back in.” Well, most of the time.

A man can have too much of quiet, though, and I wonder if he has, the way he talks about it. A man can certainly have too much of farming. God knows I did. “Left when I was sixteen, haven’t touched a cow since.” I wonder what he finds to get up to besides tending trees and distilling and getting very good at fucking men. “You see yourself doing that ‘til you’re gray, or not so much?” I’d never ask a man sitting at my bar that, but sitting in bed together, naked and spent, is different. More things you can’t say, maybe some that you can.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

Cows and corn. What a strange world. I can see how growing up so crowded might make a person long for the quiet of a little family plot taken up with an orchard instead of cows. I don't tell him how damned spooky it is to look at the ruined little houses we haven't torn down, the times when the wind dies and you're standing there in the lines of the trees half expecting something is going to step right out of the next world into yours, or the feeling sometimes that we're haunted by all the bones in the ground.

"I think sometimes I'd leave, but for Vilena..." I sigh. I do feel bad then, for not coming home. She might be sitting up, wondering if I have finally taken off like I threaten. "She can't bring herself to leave and I won't leave her to shift for herself out there. No one should stay out there alone."

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

The man looks lonelier than I am, for all he has someone to come home to. Although, might be easier if he didn’t, from what he’s saying. Could go where he wanted. Not my place to give this man advice about his life, though. Not sure I have any to give, anyway. Uncomfortable thought, that, a bartender without advice. Not the only thing that’s uncomfortable. I shift position again, trying to find a easier way to sit. Christ, I’m going to be sore in the morning. Guess it is morning, though. Might explain why I’m so sore. But why’m I so tired, then? No windows in the room, so it’s hard to tell the time.

I take another drink, and hold the mug out to offer him the last of it. Keep the brandy in my mouth for a minute, concentrate on the burn while I think about how to say what I want to offer him. Don’t want to sound sloppy, don’t want him to mistake me, either. “If you’re in town late again, you can come up here, if you like. Save you the ride home. I might not be in until late, but you can come. Not asking anything from you outside of this room, don’t want anything else of you, either.” Well, not quite. It’d be a lie to say I haven’t been eying his belt where it’s sitting on the floor with his clothes. But that’s a request to make another time, when I’ve got more courage and energy.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"That's generous of you. Might not get to take you up on it as often as I would like, but thank you." I take the mug and finish it off, feeling warm and tired. Good tired. His offer is a little unexpected. I wonder what it is he's looking for, because I get the feeling the hunger is different for him.

"We never spent much time in town, growing up. Our parents were... well. They had some ideas and they kept us close to home. I think they were a little afraid of the world." I set the mug down from the bed and look at Jarmyn. I wonder if he left home by choice. "You don't miss it? Your family, not the cows."

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Do I miss them? Have to think about that one for all the space of two seconds. “My family was a lot like yours, sounds like. My parents believed in separating from the world, too. That and hard work, lots of praying, and don’t spare the rod. I got out as quick as I could and headed for the city.” Not that everything was peaches once I got there, but it was still better than staying at home.

“Not many kinds of work that seem hard, after work on a farm. You know that. And all of them pay better.” I look sideways at him and think about that a minute. Hope I didn’t offend him by it. “Not to put down your line of work. Owning land and making something out of it is respectable. No one to fire you or cut your wages. But I’d never make a farmer.” Still feel like I spoke out of turn. I’d make it up to him if he wants to go another round. But I’ll let him make the first move. He’s looking as tired as I feel. “Don’t mind going to bed with one, though.”

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

I nod along. Strange thing to have in common, but maybe not. Doesn't sound like he ever looked back, from the things he isn't saying.

"Nothing pays worse, surely," I agree with a short laugh. "Can't argue with that." I'm not offended. I'm not really, when I think about it, though I've always felt a little bit self conscious about our strange family and staying at something I wouldn't choose. He obviously knows what it is like though, so I don't feel as judged as I do by men who didn't grow up waking before dawn to trudge and carry.

There's a glimmer of that provocative look in his eyes, but so help me I'm too weary to take him up on it now. He'll be lucky if I wake up in the morning to get out of his way at this rate.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

“I’ll offer your brandy to anyone who comes in looking like they can swallow it,” I promise him, and have to cover a yawn in the middle of it. “You’ll have to plant twice as many pear trees to keep up with the demand. Doesn’t that sound fun?” God, my mouth is running tonight. Need to shut up, get to back to fucking or go to sleep, one of the two. Really hope he’s in the mood for sleeping. I look at him out of the corner of my eye again and hope he won’t be offended by my not offering to go again. Probably be more offended if I fell asleep in the middle of it, though.

I yawn again, and then sit up and try to pull myself together and collect my wits. Something that needs doing now, because I don’t know if I’ll see him before he leaves in the morning. Not sure if he’s the kind of man to sneak out while I’m still asleep or not. Probably has work to do and wants to get home to his sister, anyway.

“Would you—“ Christ, why is it so hard to ask for something after everything we’ve done tonight? “Would you mind doing something for me?” I tip my head to the right and push my hair out of the way. Look him in the eye and lay two fingers on the muscle right where my left shoulder meets my neck. “Sink your teeth in hard right there, leave a mark. I—I like marks.” I sound about nineteen. Anyone seeing my back could tell I like marks. Do like to have something from a lover, though, at the end of the night, where only I can see it and feel it. It’s not that I’m not sore enough to remember him for a good long while. It’s just…nice, I guess. God, I’m getting soppy. I sort of shrug, like it doesn’t matter to me if he doesn’t want to.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"Stars above, no more trees," I groan in mock horror. I cover my own yawn with the back of my hand as he sits himself up. When he starts to ask I wonder what it might be. But any idea I had is tossed right out when he does get around to it. I probably look a little surprised. Not for the first time do I wonder where he's been between a dairy farm and Excolo, what he's seen. A man with a taste for marks. But not my business to judge. Sitting up, I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Suppose that's a better way to remember me by than hay in your clothes," I say. I kiss him on the mouth, more gentle than the first time. I kiss his shoulder then, run my tongue over his skin before I bite down. He tastes faintly mineral, like salt and iron. There's a tickle of desire in me, but I can't take advantage of it. We're both dead tired. I pull back, wondering if that's going to leave a bruise or if it was enough.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He looks surprised when I ask, but not shocked. There are questions in his eyes, but he has the good sense not to ask them. They change so easily, those eyes, and I find I like them looking at me very much. He puts one of those big, hard hands on my shoulder, makes a joke, and then he kisses me. My first thought is to protest that that’s not what I asked for, but I push that aside quickly as patent stupidity. This is a gift, and a sweet one. I return the kiss, but it lasts only a moment before he moves his lips down to my shoulder. I close my eyes and brace myself for the pain, but it doesn’t come right away. He kisses the spot I showed him, graces it with his lips and then his tongue. And then he sinks his teeth in exactly as I asked him to. I’m moaning, can’t help it. Without the warmth of arousal to dull it, the pain is sharp and deep. I need a moment to take it in, accept it. Memorize it.

I open my eyes when he pulls back. He’s looking at me like he wants me again, and I would go on my knees for him in a minute if he said the word, but he doesn’t. Just looks at me. I swallow hard, and have to think of something to say to ease whatever it is in the air between us. “You’re being nice again,” I grumble, and reach up to rub the mark, smile to let him know I’m joking. “It’ll do, I suppose.”

I lie back and put one arm under my head to raise it enough that I can see him well. Used up a fortune in oil leaving the lamp burning all while we’ve been at this, but it’s worth it for the view I have now. Don’t know what I did to deserve this man in my bed, but I’m sure as hell going to enjoy the sight of him while he’s here. The work he does has stripped his body down to planes of even muscle, and the lamplight burnishes it they way it deserves. He’s so still now, but if he chose to move, it would be easy and smooth, and just as powerful. Can’t help smiling. Have to say “thank you,” again, looking in those eyes. Also have to make my exhausted brain think of something to say that means something. “It’s been a long time, and I can’t remember when it was as good as it has been tonight. Feel like you’ve done all the work, and I owe you. Have to make it up to you another time, though.” Hope there is another time.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

When I pull away his eyes are closed, like a man praying. Maybe he is. It takes him a moment to focus himself again.

"Hardly nice," I protest with a laugh. "I bit my sister once when we were little and she didn't call me nice. I think it was more 'Arkady you rotten bastard." He leans back down, looking as pleased as can be and it makes me glad. I fall backward onto the pillow and turn my head to meet his gaze.

"Was a lot better work than farming, and a pleasure too." I grin at him. "Next time I'll let you work a little harder for it." I hadn't though ahead to what that might be, and I hope it won't be awkward the next time he sees me. I like this easy sort of way, though I don't know if that's how he manages. There's a lot of mystery to him like boxes wrapped inside boxes.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

“Never did anything like that to my sisters,” I tell him. “They were mostly younger than I was.” How have I gotten to talking about my family again? Must be the brandy kicking in.

I roll over on my side so I’m facing him, trying to look at his face and not the rest of him. Really trying not to think about next time and how he might made me work for it. My shoulder twinges as I turn, and it occurs to me that he might want something from me to remember the night, too. “Should ask, because my eyes aren’t staying open much longer, nice as the view is: anything you’d like done right now? Or questions answered? Can’t promise to tell you everything, but I won’t lie to you.”

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

There are probably a hundred things I could think to ask. whether any of them are the right thing or the the important thing to ask, I don't know. Why he came here of all places, or whose name that is on his chest. Maybe just why he decided to invite me here.

"How long did it take, the mark on your back?" I ask finally.

it's a huguenot cross

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he asked about my cross. He’s seen enough of it today. Sometimes I forget it’s there, other days it’s all I can think about. Been busy lately. I’m glad he asked about something I’m honestly proud of. “How long? About five years.” Guess I’d better explain that.

“Started out as my birthday present to myself, year I turned twenty-one. Had enough saved to get the outline done. Went back the next year to have more of the details put it. It’s turned into a tradition. Takes the better part of a day, each time. Hurts like hell. It needs a dove here, hanging down.” I roll over, show him the place on my spine. “That’ll be the next part for this year.” If I have enough saved to get it done. Excolo seems like a good place to spend money. Need to start thinking of more ways to make it, too.

He didn’t ask what it means, so he either knows already or doesn’t want to. That’s fine. Don’t mind him being interested in it. “Are you thinking of having something done?” I give in to the temptation to run my hand down his side. “Some ink would look good on you.” Can’t think of anything that wouldn’t look good on this man, though. Nothing at all on him looks damn fine to me.

Re: it's a huguenot cross

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

"I've seen that before," I say. I don't remember what it exactly it was for, but I do remember seeing a very elaborate cross like this one in the back of a book. With the bird, though the one in the book was colorful. Probably still sitting there, that pile of books we haven't touched, collecting dust and secrets.

"Not for me. There's nothing I want so bad as to keep with me all the time." That's the truth too. There's little I would keep with me.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

“Nothing at all?” I wonder out loud, and keep my hand on his hip, rubbing in slow circles. Most people can think of something they might have done, a word or a picture that means something to them, or just something they thing is pretty or tough. But not this man. I’ll figure out what that says about him when more of my brain is working.

Talking of keeping things, though. Something else that needs saying, since he seems in a good frame of mind and unlikely to go anywhere. I pitch my voice quietly, but dead serious, too, and look in his eyes. “Glad you stayed in town tonight,” I tell him, and mean it. “And I hope I’ve showed my appreciation properly here.” If he disagrees, I suppose I could manage to show some more. “I’d be proud to call you a friend, hope you come in the bar again. Hope you come up here again, too. But I’m not looking for—“ I stop to think of the words carefully, because finding the right ones is important. I finally decide on using his own back to him. “For someone to keep with me all the time.” Hope he can accept this, that he knew this was the kind of arrangement he was getting himself into. It’d be a hell of a time for him to take issue with it, because I’m not moving on this, but I also don’t want to get out of bed.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

I give a little shake of my head. He goes from light to serious, so fast.

"No cause to worry," I reassure him. "I don't expect you to tie yourself up, or to make promises. It's not what I'm after." I hope that I'm saying things right, because I've not ever really had this conversation before.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

“Thank you,” I say, for the third time tonight. Haven’t had cause to thank anyone this much in quite a while. “I didn’t think it was. Just wanted to be sure.” I climb out of bed, shivering when the cold air hits my skin, and go over to turn the lamp off. We can keep talking in the dark if he wants to, or go to sleep. I’m not going to be able to stay awake much longer, anyway, and he’d probably like to get back to his sister at a decent hour today.

I find my way back to bed and lie down with my back to him. God, this man is like a furnace. If he wants to put an arm over me and spoon up around me, he won’t hear any complaints. Yet another reason to hope he visits regularly. “I’ll be here a year, maybe, and then I’m gone. Get bored, staying too long in one place, no matter how good it is. Need to see somewhere new.” I listen to myself say this, feeling warm and sleepy and still a bit sluggish from the sex. It sounds ridiculous, but I know it won’t feel that way in a year’s time. Don’t want to think that far ahead now, though. Just want to enjoy being here and feeling like this, save up the memory for when the bed’s cold or when there’s no bed at all.

[regularblack.livejournal.com]

It seems chillier in the darkness and without thinking too hard about it I roll next to him. Far more pleasant to sleep next to a warm body than without. I tug the blanket around us and warm the tip of my nose on his shoulder blade.

"Hah," I yawn. "Better stick to that plan. Otherwise you'll suddenly decide Excolo has need of fine cheese and start buying cows one day. Town does that to people." It does and that's probably why I'm still here. The dark weighs on my eyes and I feel bone tired like I do in the middle of summer.

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He pulls the blanket up around us and sticks his nose into my back. If I were a bit more awake, I’d make a joke about that, maybe poke him, but I just don’t have it in me to now. I think he’s joking about the cows and the cheese, too, but what he describes still scares me. “I start buying cows, you have permission to take the shotgun I’m sure you have out on that farm of yours and blow my head off.” I mean it, too, but the words come out in a mumble it would be hard for anyone to take seriously.

I can feel him relaxing at my back, and if I lean into him to soak up the heat, well, the bed’s not overly large for two men. It’s been a long night, none of it bad, and the end of it very good. Didn’t expect this from the man sitting at the end of my bar looking cold. He’s not cold at all now. Could do with more nights ending this way. Hope this works out, our arrangement, that no hard feelings come of it. God knows everyone has their troubles, some worse than others. But here we are, warm in this night. Not a bad thing at all.


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