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“You…” he stopped, stammering, and then inhaled before trying again, growing more formal in his language then he had been before, whispering across the length of the table. “Do you make yourself a pawn then?” He challenged quietly, so fierce that René knew he was expected to know the meaning of the strange words. “Pawns for the King to use.” James had bitten his lip, but drew his teeth free of the soft flesh to murmur accusingly at him. His eyes were like the sun, and his face was all blood and fire with the strength of his passion. Shifting in his seat did little to assuage the ache building in René’s lap, but he could feel his smile growing wider, and real, despite the growing discomfort. James is his sun, and his moon, and his starlit sky….*snicker* It’s fairly obvious though, isn’t it, that he is, if not fully in love, than in a ridiculously deep smit with James at this point, right? At least upon rereading it, after having read the rest…right? If it wasn’t clear in that damned alley in Tortuga, than it ought to be obvious here. René came back for him…
“My words, James?” he wondered, just as quiet, in James’ own English so that the son of St. Cyr would not easily comprehend, barely recalling his senses enough to be so discreet. His body was flushed with the liquor’s warmth. James had kept his words and flashed fury for him. René leaned forward with an eagerness that even Marechal would have been surprised to see, had René not made sure he stayed on the ship. “Your friend is not a king.” He nodded once, pleased when James seemed to know his exact meaning.
“Neither are you,” James asserted, tossing his head and almost displacing the terrible wig he had no doubt been told to wear, making him look like a lost footman. In a moment he would probably charge with him with clenched fists, telling his master of René’s sins. Though what he would say was almost enough to make René consider letting James explode. But he fought the urge, relishing instead the suppressed feeling that was taking James, making the other Frenchman grow wide-eyed and pale to behold.
“You already have told me what I am not,” René reminded him, something of his smile running away. “But you are a pawn, James, though you do not serve kings.” St. Cyr alone was proof of that. But James was shaking his head and glaring at him stubbornly. “You do not approve of us,” he jerked his head in Mirena’s direction. “Yet you speak our words for us, follow the wishes of your master,” he said this last word slowly, drawing it slowly like a knife from a wound when he wished the victim to suffer. And James flinched.
“I am not…”
“You are a slave to this house. Nothing more than a tool, James. If your skin were darker you would be either serving wine or warming your master’s bed!” He was not aware that he had switched to rapid but still subdued French until Etienne St. Cyr jumped in his seat and splashed a large portion of his wine onto his plate, letting out a small huff of air through his nostrils. René did not spare him more than a glance, too focused on the stupidly disbelieving expression of the man his body was twitching to fuck. heart
Somewhere between deathly pale and feverish, James looked like a man in need of a drink. Perhaps a swallow or two of the whiskey. His mouth worked, trying to overcome his shock, and then he glanced furtively this way and that, searching for what René did not know, or especially care. Then abruptly he turned his head, two shades of red warring on his face, both the colour of the roses that sometimes climbed the walls of buildings even in the city.
“I am no longer yours,” James was hushed but excited, pointing one finger at René as if just taken with a blinding realization, continuing to speak in his English. “That is why you are truly angry,” he accused proudly, waving a hand to indicate the room. Sometimes though René is a psycho pain in the ass to write, I really get more frustrated with James. I recognize the “facts” of the universe he operates in are true to the time, but goddamn, he can be so blind. And then he will *finally* grasp something only to completely miss something else. “You don’t care about this, about...” He ended his words there, but jutted out his chin, almost like the child Ben had done, months ago.
Now René did look away, finding his eyes returning to St. Cyr, wanting to be amused at the frown of concentration that was marring the white powder covering the son of a bitch’s skin. St. Cyr did not understand all of the English words; that was clear. Not like René did. He reached out and found his unused knife from the table, then stabbed it down into a soggy piece of pear, letting the metal scrape loudly across the bottom of the dish.
He was not angry. James was wrong. He sought only to push away the truth of what René had said with his crazy words.
The knife scratched along the finely crafted metal once more, and then René flicked his wrist, and the speared fruit landed at the base of the candlestick resting in the center of the long table, between them. heart, again…and…yeah…this is my obnoxious ass too…when I was ten
“You have the manner of a child.” James condemned him hoarsely, though dropping his eyes. He spoke in French now as well, letting St. Cyr hear his shame. René snapped his head up and felt his eyes narrow as James went on. “A child sulking for a lost toy.” hurrah for James!
“It is not lost,” René answered on the instant, with heat, shifting in his chair and feeling a great satisfaction when James did the same then raised his gaze to study him. For the smallest moment the temper in his muddy eyes melted and reformed into something a thousand times hotter than rage, one look alone reminding René of the sweet heat of James’ mouth, of his ass, of even his arms. No…no I do not love him. I want him only for sex. I will think of his ass and mouth, and will not imagine being held in those strong arms. Not at all. A tiny sound, what could not have been a whimper, slipped past his lips, and René clenched his teeth to prevent another. But James blinked, and then the light in his face faded from view.
“No indeed,” James agreed forcefully, turning his head as if disgusted with the very sight of René’s face. “It was tossed away.” heartbreak
It was an easy thing to again see James on his knees and hands in the dirt, amid his own vomit, wiping René’s seed from his lips with a pale hand. Easier than that to remember throwing the gold, hearing even the small splash that meant that one coin had landed in the pile of slop left behind by their small screw in the alley. Had James reached into that to pick it up? Had he gathered up any of the money? Or had he left them and found some other way to come to this miserable island? Distraction with jealousy is another classic René avoidance technique. Anxious about something, NeNe? Imagine James screwing Sir Marvell, get angry, problem solved.
“Of what do you speak?” Etienne St. Cyr recovered his wits enough to make demands, and René turned eyes on the man that he knew were frightened. Yes, René is afraid, and admitting to it, which should tell you the level of fear James started, as if he had forgotten Etienne’s presence, but even that did not slow René’s heart.
He did not know, did not know how to answer, and the thought of admitting such ignorance before St. Cyr was enough to at last make René blink and search around in his mind until he found something his mouth would say. “It is no concern of yours.” Nor would it be, if René could only get James alone long enough to change the man’s mind. One touch of René’s tongue to his prick would have James begging and weak again, then James would agree to anything, and forget all others. Forget even that René was using him, and would use him, until it was the ruin of him. René’s only value in his mind is cocksucking, which is something I really should have thought about when I wrote that first pirate porn, “Pleasure From a Killer” which became Chapter Two later. A BJ is René’s bargaining tool…which is incredibly sad, really, and is possibly the reason I don’t read Chapter Two anymore.
“James.” A demand of his own, crisply spoken, and those bleeding eyes were on him. René licked his lips to see them, muscles in his thighs jerking as he considered ignoring the rest at the table and dropping under the cloth to please James right now. Note: this has been demanded by Pooky sometime after this thing is finished That it would prove to St. Cyr that what was once was René’s was his again, and never had been anyone else’s, made René all the more excited, and he pushed his palms against the linen-covered edge so that he might shove himself back.
“What happens there, Mister Fitzroy, to make my guests look so unamused?” Frustration sizzled under René’s skin, causing him to jump and shift in his chair, vowing to slay Sir Marvell if he dared to interrupt again. But James was innocent and guilty before the prying eyes of the old fox, and he fumbled for words the way he fumbled over his own feet, trying to save himself, no doubt at last realizing his indiscretion.
“My Lord… I…” Cheeks as crimson as René’s coat, he might as well have announced their past to the world. Only a little manipulation and he would. And yet still James fought his nature, trying to contain his temper.
“Politics, my Lord,” a soft, lazy reply to the question, and René was surprised, though not pleased, to see that it had come from the son of St. Cyr,Etienne to the rescue! who was smiling coolly as he began to slice up the cold meats on his plate. It was a well-spoken lie, if a foolish one, for cutthroats like Mirena and René and Sir Marvell cared nothing for politics unless they interfered in their business. But Sir Marvell seemed ready enough to believe it, and with the memory of James’ outspokenness, René could suddenly understand why. He wondered with a thread of irritation if Etienne had understood that as well. Who is he more jealous of? Oh the complicated family net here. Doesn’t want James to talk to Etienne, doesn’t want to talk to Etienne at all. And yet is strangely interested in Etienne (it is his brother, deny it though he will) and James knows things about Etienne…haha
“Come, James, I thought our nations were allies now,” Sir Marvell tutted, with an amused look that wrinkled the skin around his eyes, though his eyes themselves remained untouched. “You must make more of an effort to be amicable.”
“Que?” Mirena was shrill in his ear, and René fixed her with a furious look that she did not seem to see. Like the peasant she was, she could not seem to control her voice when emotion took her. Her drunken screeching was one reason that he did not wish to share drink with her any more, and he had no wish to hear more of it now.
“Amicable?” St. Cyr repeated the word carefully, blinking, and René tossed his head.
“Friendly,” James supplied in a whisper. Why that should make his face colour René did not know, but he enjoyed the sight of it, and turned to Sir Marvell with a grin.
“I agree, Sir Marvell,” he murmured in English, nodding his head once at James. “I would dislike to leave the island so soon over this matter.” He paused, and watched the interest that brightened the man’s light eyes and lifted his eyebrows curiously. “Perhaps if your man and I were to talk further about…?” He struggled to remember what Etienne had claimed, and then made a small noise of satisfaction as he thought of it. How drunk do you have to be to not remember something from two minutes before…?“Our political differences? I would like more explanation,” he went on needlessly, to give the appearance of niceties. That would matter to James. Fuck niceties, in other words
After this, again he waited, and was not surprised to see the smallest answering nod and slight, amused smile from the English lord, not concerned at all with René’s wants, or in how to fulfill them. The man did not even look to James, and though that was not surprising either, René thought of what he was going to do with the man’s sugar and allowed his lips a cool smile of his own. He doubted the man would get upset if René were to slit James’ throat, much less if René were to shove his prick down it, so of course it would not trouble the man’s mind to be playing the panderer now.
James did not look wounded, with his bewildered eyes. He did not seem to realize that his employer was now also his pimp, Ok, this is weird, but reading this now, I swear I was channeling Smallville slash. I wonder if I was reading it at the time. That was so very Clark and Lex. Weird. and René let out a small breath to see that he did not. Then he rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness and returned the glance of the English lord. It was a struggle to conceal his impatience to be done with this meal, with all of those at the table save one.
“I will enjoy doing business with you, Monsieur.” The man dared to lift up his glass at him, before closing his sly lips around the edge of the cup and draining it. None seemed to notice that he had repeated his words, not even Mirena, well into her third drink of whiskey.
He was not a handsome man. It would not improve his looks to learn that René Villon had stolen his cargo and abducted and slain the son of one of his partners. It was a pity that René would not be there to see it.
“I am warm,” he pronounced in English so most of those listening would understand. “I may view the sea from your…balcony?” He knew the answer, but asked with a respectful nod, somewhat amused to watch the older man incline his head with all the dignity that kings were supposed to have. Probably James found it only fitting.
“Fitzroy,” the man honoured their unspoken agreement before René had even fully risen. “Show Monsieur Villon the way to the balcony.”
It was fortunate that James had not seemed to be enjoying his food. Having no other choice—other than telling his pimping lord no, which James would never do, he had to rise and lead René from the room. “Men of action…” Sir Marvell murmured throatily and then coughed a laugh before putting some question to Mirena.
René did not even spare a look to Mirena, mindful of the fact that even when stewed drunk Mirena was capable of gutting a man with whatever sharp object within reach. His gaze instead traveled over the tightly stretching coat fitted carefully over James Fitzroy’s back. The tension in the light blue-coloured fabric might have been eased if James had straightened, but James was still bent over like a frail old woman.
He said nothing as they passed under the large beam of the doorway, moving out into a narrow hall, where black men dressed in livery waited. James did not look at them and neither did René, beyond noticing their presence and thinking vaguely that this Sir Marvell had slaves better dressed than James.
“Your master,” René started to say, as they passed an opened door that revealed a room dripping with fabrics shot with gold, and a large, dark skinned woman sitting at the edge of a well-stuffed bed, rubbing the skin of her arms with a sweet smelling oil. She wore a gown as costly as anything in that room, and René marked to himself the need to ask Mirena again how much Marvell had offered them. He could afford to pay more if he dressed his mistress in Oriental silks. Sir Marvell, in my crazy-ass head, is the evil white honky villain (white devil white devil) from a Dolemite movie…and someday Deniau will have to bust in with his pimp cane and shoot him dead. Without the rhyming though. Because Deniau is a sad reflection of my Tupac-love, and he must get ghetto on that bitch.
James raised his head at the words, and René wanted to trace the lines of anger from his straight neck down his back to his hands, closed at his sides. Is this too cheesy? Because it just made me giggle like an idiot to read it. Le sigh. The other man moved stiffly and stumbled on a bump in the finely woven rug. The light from a small candle in a sconce in the wall did not hide René’s smile, though James did not turn and so did not see it. “Your master,” René said again deliberately, and felt a measure of both ache and satisfaction to see James’ shoulders jerk back.
The suit of clothes fit better now, though René tried to imagine James garbed in Oriental silks. They would be an easy thing to purchase, or take. Bolts and bolts of blue and ivory satins to drape the bed where he would strip James of his ill-fitting rags and dress him instead in sweat and seed, and fuck him until the longings of the past months were well forgotten.
“Yes?” James bit out, the one word black powder to the flames searing René’s middle. But James had stopped walking, standing aside so that René could step out onto the small space of the balcony. René peered over the edge, not liking to see the ground so far below, but glad to see the ocean, glittering under the moon’s white face. To quote Pooky, “René’s afraid of heights!!!!” Though the house was not in Port Royal itself, the strip of land leading to the city from the mainland was still narrow enough that those living here could enjoy a view of the sea.
The air was heavy, though a slight chill cooled his skin and made him shiver as he turned around. His hands he clasped behind him on the railing, wrapping his fingers around the rough wood. Dark, but the moon and stars were enough to allow him to gaze upon James, and to see the scowl marring his face. Far away was the sound of drums, from the slave quarters, a fast, odd rhythm that brought to his mind the memory of killing his first captain and seizing control of the ship for himself. It also reminded him of that first groan from James when the man had been bent over his desk. the origins of reggae, calypso, ska, and thus, the blues and soul, turned into Jamessex…that’s our NeNe
It was difficult to recall what it was he had been speaking of. René licked the salt from above his lip as he thought, lowering his lids at the same time so that James would not see his confusion.
“He does not value you.” He remembered at last, and took one hand from the railing to gesture back in the direction from which they had come. James did not even flick his eyes to the side, holding himself straight and still.
“I have yet to have a master that does.” James spat it out like a curse, in that peculiar way of his, then dropped his shoulders slowly in a manner that suggested something René did not understand. Mockingly, but James was not mocking. Or James is making fun of you and your constant French shrugging.“What does it matter?”
“There is a world that is not this island.” Whatever James had meant, it was not important unless he had guessed his employer’s intentions in sending him out here. René put his hand behind him once more, and shook his head to sweep his hair from his face. Black strands held together with fruit juice stayed before his eyes, but through them he could see James slapping a hand to his face, pushing up narrow spectacles to peer at René as though he were a lunatic.
“You…?” James breathed in seeming disbelief, bending his head to study his face. Whatever he saw there made him close his mouth and lift his chin, before turning his eyes toward the rest of the house. “No doubt you have seen much of the world in your life, these past month,” James muttered under his breath, and then he was sucking his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. His lips would grow sore with the way James mistreated them when he wished to control his wayward tongue.
“The world?” René frowned at the strange tone to the question, then shook his head. This was not what he wished to talk about now that he finally had James gotten to himself. A few months chasing down ships until they had found a fatly laden Dutch ship, smuggling diamonds and café from the New World, with men on board greedy but smart enough to surrender. After all, they had lived to return to the Main and steal from the Spaniards again. The rest of the time spent visiting port cities along the coast, watching his men run off to find women, hopefully willing, though he had not followed them to see, drowning one of his crew for trying to hide some jewels for himself. What James thought would be there he could not imagine. There was the ocean, and there was blood and death and gold and lust, little else. “It is the same in all places,” he answered quietly when he noticed the prolonged silence.
“One port no different than another?” James had turned his head fully to the wall, nearly pressing his face to the hinge of the long shutter. It has been well established that men, and these men in particular, have a problem communicating. In this case, not only are emotions involved—tricky—but you have the fact that other than crude jokes about sodomy and Bible-talk, there is no language that exists for homosexual love. Not in their cultures at least. Even to René it’s an odd concept, you’ll notice he has a hard time when James compares them to a married couple later. It creates serious problems for me, having to constantly had characters creating their own culture. It was that or do the whole ‘happy gay couple as example’ thing, which I didn’t especially feel like doing.
“Oui.” His reply was short, and René was grateful to now move the conversation away from the past and on to the present. He stepped away from the ledge at last, closed the small distance between them, trying to keep his steps slow.
James jumped at only his first step, darting away to the other side of the balcony and pressing himself against the opposite shutter so hard that it must have pained his back.
Alarmed, René moved a hand toward his knife and followed after James, stepping partly out into the hall. Then he stilled abruptly after seeing that there was no threat, though that did not make sense. Why had James moved so? Not even before their first time had the man jumped around like a headless chicken.
And then James fixed large, dark eyes on him, huge due to his glasses but impossible to read in the black of night and a badly lit hall. His mouth was full, swollen from his mistreatment of it, and after a few moments he opened it to let out one long breath.
René knew he was still standing frozen; half crouched defensively with one hand near his weapon, but did not raise himself up. His gaze slid down over the high cheekbones hidden by the spectacles, to the stubble lining the firm jaw, then finally touched the trembling lips themselves. Sweet lips, tightening around his cock as if James had truly enjoyed the feel of a prick in his mouth, pressing hotly over his shoulder and neck, parting to suck the skin sore. And strong arms closing around him, soft hair falling across his face as James had moved at last and tried to kiss him as though it had not been just a fucking in a filthy alleyway. hott, jesus
He blinked when the full lips firmed into a straight line, lifting his eyes at last when the skin around James’ lips darkened. With a dry, ugly sound, James coughed deep in his throat and then shifted his body, leaning further out toward the balcony. Apparently he wished to stare out at the sea.
Unbidden, René swore to St. Francis, shifting at last to peer outside and see what had so captured James’ interest. But the blasphemy returned James’ attention to him, and René smiled to see it. At last now they could talk of something of more importance then visiting empty ports and greedy English masters.
James was less than the length of his arm from him, resting against the doorjamb and shutter as if waiting for him. He was beautiful in the bit of moonlight, even with his foolish wig, with his throat exposed, for his head was laid back against the wood and he wore no cravat or collar.
“James,” René called to him softly, lowly so he would not jump again. But it was a command regardless, and James obeyed it, trembling with some feeling as he dropped his chin and looked at him directly. James swallowed once, then again. When he spoke it was just as lowly, just as soft.
“René.” James had dared to say his name again, but René allowed it, closing his eyes briefly at the weakness in that word. Then he raised one hand, working underneath the stiff coat to push aside his own neck cloth. Under that was his shirt and veste, but the lacings were easy to find, and he tugged sharply on one string, feeling those eyes on him. He did not need light to tell what James Fitzroy was feeling now.
“You…” James’ brows drew together in a brief, absent frown, as if James were trying to recall some point of their talk, and René nodded impatiently, though with some amusement. He should have expected no less. “You and the…the lady—the Spider!” James’s voice hitched the smallest degree, rising as René forced himself to stop when the toes of their shoes knocked together. He had to tilt his head up now to look into James’ face, and did not enjoy it, Liar. He’s a total size-queen though James seemed not to notice.
“Mirena,” René growled her name, not wanting to think about the other captain at that moment. But James was James, irritating and persistent, like a fly buzzing around his head. Before his eyes was the magnificent breadth of chest, hidden only by some paltry clothing, and René raised one hand and pressed his palm against the flat stomach. Even through the fabric he could feel the muscles tighten in response to his touch.
“B…but…she…” Relentlessly, James babbled on, and for the briefest moment, René allowed his fingers to slide toward the buttons of the veste James wore, daring to slip one free. James exhaled with a sudden burst of air. It tickled down over René’s face, hot and sugared. “Mirena!” James finally got out her name, after René tucked his fingers under the two different sides of the bottom of the veste and parted them with a tender slowness before slipping his fingers closer into James’ warmth. It took only that to make the body under his hand tremble.
“I do not like…” René paused, glancing up from the sight of his hand so close to what he wanted. Then he bit down on his tongue hard as he set his jaw and just for a heartbeat, pressed his fingernails into James’ skin. A sharp sound, like surprise or arousal, perhaps anger, answered it, though James did not move away, and only then did René finish. “…To hear you speak of her.”
“Is sh…she your…wife?” James ignored his threat and it should not have startled. Nonetheless, René opened his eyes wide, blinking in astonishment to hear him speak. The softly quavering English words had to be wrong.
“St. Denis save me from such a fate!” he replied without thought, then felt a chuckle erupt from him. Mirena would have been most unhappy with him for it. That thought made him laugh again. But James was scowling, and so René had no time to wonder why James would think such a thing.
“You seem most friendly.” The tone of James Fitzroy’s voice was familiar; an indignant posture of offense very much like it had been on le Diable Noir, at seeing René do anything from piss over the side to express a desire to fuck his beautiful ass. Though never had it been so pronounced. René narrowed his eyes, and smoothed his fingers over the wrinkled shirt underneath the veste, tapping the firm muscle a few times. The last tap was forceful enough to make James’ mouth tighten. “Is she your lover?” James did not stammer at all, and that was enough to draw René’s head up. James had lowered his, but he had not bent his shoulders again. They have, what seems to me sometimes, a very odd dynamic between them. And then at other times it seems completely normal. James, ostensibly the bottom, the weaker one, is larger and stronger (emotionally stronger as well). He is also, constantly, being wooed. Rene on the other hand, is domineering and dangerous, but emotionally just a little melting chocolate bunny. And James has to care for him to keep him whole…mmm. I want chocolate now.
In truth he was still holding himself stiffly against the wall, though he had not backed away from René’s touches, even the painful ones. His exquisite defiance, for his virtue before, and now, for Mirena’s. We also find the word exquisite sexy. Either from Quills, or from Much Ado About Nothing, I don’t know for sure How James must pity her, imagining her wed to the monster Villon. Probably he imagined himself as her rescuer, drawing her up into his arms and pressing those soft kisses to her waiting lips, large hands caressing her bosom.
“I…” It was René’s turn to stumble as he tried to talk. Despite René’s snarled, mangled attempt at speech, James inclined his head further, and René got the strange sense that the other man’s eyes were wide, as if waiting for him to speak, and explain. The night around them smelled of mango fruit and high priced sugar, and James’ tensely thrumming body was hot on an already warm evening. René shifted from the heat of it, his blood pumping through his veins creating rivers of fire under his skin. How he burned. And yet still the man just waited, like some cursed, damned statue carved from stone.
“No.” That was simple to say. The rest made his throat dry, though what he had intended to say he had forgotten. James inhaled, and René dropped his eyes from his face to the threadbare, badly fitting suit that James suffered in. The child had worn large, but well made clothing; James was more caring than most mothers. “She does not want you to save her,” he murmured, René double-talk. René has conversations sometimes where not once is he ever referring to what the other person thinks he’s taking about then started at the realization that he had spoken the words at all. James blinked rapidly, lashes dipping and fluttering like a flirtatious Spanish lady’s fan. Finally they rested against his cheeks, and he would have seemed at peace if it had not been for the befuddled, thoughtful frown wrinkling his forehead.
This was not where he had intended this to go, was not where he wanted to be, and René latched onto the coarse material of the veste and pulled himself forward, and up, mollified slightly at how James kept his feet despite the surprise and the new burden. There, in front of his mouth was the lovely face, shocked lips frozen in a circle as James forgot his words and gaped. Or he climbs James like a monkey
René wanted to cling, but would not allow himself the indignity, and instead arched his neck, until his lips hesitated above the whiskered jaw, near the curve of one ear. His heart, or James’, roared between them, fast and hard.
“René.” The barest whisper and René turned his head, so close to James that his breath flew against his face and upward, faintly clouding his spectacles. So close now that he could see the black at the center of the muddy eyes grow larger.
“James.” René licked his lips and found them already wet. His words fell from his mind like overripe fruit and he scrambled for meanings as James tilted his head down. “I will give you anything, James, if you stop your talk and let me have you.” He promised rashly, and meant it, preparing himself this time for the feel of arms gripping him tightly.
James’ mouth snapped closed, what had to be shyness at René’s blunt words causing his face to darken. With no warning, René was stumbling back onto his own feet, hands reaching out and finding only air. His chest hurt in two places, where large hands had shoved against him, and he looked up in astonishment in time to see James’s hand curled into a fist, before his face.
The hall was dark, the floor darker; René stared up from the blackness at the towering, shaking figure of James Fitzroy, impossibly tall, and blazing as if it were day out on the balcony. Ok, I must have been reading Smallville. Though I do sort of have an image here of this kids illustrated Bible I had when I was younger, and the angel with the sword as standing at the gates to Eden, all pissed off and flaming. This image will be important later, I think. In the final two chapters. René felt an ache in his jaw, and clicked his teeth, wincing at the pain but aware that nothing had been broken. His back hurt. He was aware of that too, and of the way James seemed to not be breathing, merely watching him silently as if he had been the one knocked onto the floor. Then James gasped.
Anyone upset that he hit, René, btw? Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t before this. René doesn’t seem to care anyway. They are men. And I swear men view punches differently. Peaceful James is still capable of violence. (A manly act, let’s not get into the politics of that). This is important for René to know.
“Are you…?” he began to ask and then stopped and flung out one hand. “I am not thy doxy!” James shouted at him, loud enough for those back in the dining hall to have heard him, if they were still there. Then at last, too late, he closed his mouth, locking his jaw so tightly that his teeth must have ground together.
“Doxy?” René heard himself repeating stupidly, still sitting on the floor when he should have risen. “What is doxy?” He shook his head and shifted to free one arm, so he could feel along the tender spot on his chin. James flinched to see him do it, though René took his eyes from the other man at last as he considered the mark this would leave on his face. Deniau would be amused, as would Mirena. It would only be Marechal who would dislike seeing him so ugly. “You hit me,” he went on blankly, pressing his fingertips against the soreness until colour swirled before his eyes. The pain did not settle his mind as it should have, but how could anything have done so, when James Fitzroy who bowed meekly before idiots had struck him in a rage?
René felt his breathing become rapid and his skin tighten with expectation; enough to have him place a hand carefully in his lap. Once there he uncurled his thumb, his breath hitching anew as the finger lightly stroked against his throbbing prick. Not yet hard, but still aroused even with him flattened and on the floor. Damn, René’s amazing
“A doxy is a…whore.” James shuddered at the word though he did not stammer. “I am not your whore,” he said again, ducking his head as if ashamed to acknowledge the word. René flung his head back, and dropped his hand to the floor, colder to the touch than it should have been. He felt the chill shiver through his skin, to his bones. This works better than a punch on René, you’ll notice. All lustful thoughts banished for the moment.
So James knew what René had made him. And had restrained himself at only one blow. Did he not set his price higher than that? Tight-jawed despite the pain, René pushed himself up and to his feet, jerking his coat straight before striding back to stand before the larger man, gesturing wildly.
“Not my whore, but your Lord’s? St. Cyr’s?” If the thought of the shifty-eyed, drunken lord placing his hands on James was not enough to make René raise his voice, then Etienne St. Cyr moaning under the attentions of those gentle hands had him nearly shouting. Un embarras—he had meant to be firm, not loud. Nonetheless he stared up through the glass of the spectacles as he asked it, and turned his face when he sensed James lashing out again.
Hesitation this time, as if James already regretted the first. René stayed on his feet though his head was forced to the side. He had it back in an instant, glaring furiously at James for not hitting harder. He was not some small, puny girl to be treated lightly. He could kill James if he wished, before James could think to raise a hand in defense. This is true, though he never would. They balance out nicely. I’m surprised it worked so well, to be honest.
James’s fist had not retreated to his side. He still held it aloft, blinking at the sight of his knuckles, though the skin had not split that René could see. The other man unfurled each finger one by one, and then slowly raised his head. “I hit you,” he said as if he had just noticed, and it was almost enough to amuse René. But James was too serious for that, shadowed now with unpleasant thoughts. “Not since…” That he did not finish. Nor his second sentence. “You did not…” Only the third statement was whole, completed through pale, thin lips. “I want to hit you again,” he confessed, then shook his head. As though his hand had been burned he tucked it under one arm, then crossed both arms across his chest. Shades of my Sparrington thing here too, must be a theme of mine. Norrington ain’t so passive though. But I think Jack might enjoy a little fisticuffs
René smeared the back of his hand along his cheek, feeling a growing swelling, and tiny cuts on the inside of his mouth, from his teeth, but no bleeding. Mirena could punch harder—if she meant to hurt.
“I want to kiss thee as well.” Mush! Schmoop! And I loves it!James added softly, though there was no blade at his throat to warrant such a remark. Before René could remember his body and his lungs and remind them to move, to breathe, James was laughing to himself, so quietly that René shivered. “A lunatic am I. A Bedlamite for certain, for just when I think you are the very Devil…” There he stopped, then blurted onward. “You have food in your hair,” he revealed, his mirth ceasing so abruptly that the drums outside seemed closer, more insistent. In other words, in the language of James, Just when I think you are some supernatural magical love machine sent to bewitch me, I notice how very real you are. You eat like a pig, René. James dropped his hands limply to his sides, clenched them tightly against his thighs, then raised them to wrap them around himself again. “What do you want from me, Sir?” His very voice wept, though that could have been in René’s mind. Ick, the writing there bugs me now
The cuts in his mouth stung as René prodded them with his tongue, finding a use for it that was not speaking. He could not speak yet, and had not been permitted to use his tongue for anything else. What he wanted…what a strange thing to be asked. He wanted to be with James. He wanted James in his bed, but that James already knew, and had shoved him aside only to make queer statements, foolishness about food in his hair. What was odd in that?
He did not want James Fitzroy to be with Etienne St. Cyr, or the lord, or even Mirena. He wanted to be away from this house, from Jamaica. He wanted…
Disgusted, René hacked out a cough and shook his head. His hair, and a crumb of pastry, fell into his face, but he kept it there. “I want you to leave this house,” he decided, firmly, and reveled in the clear puzzlement in James’ stance. Relatively direct, for René
“You are not on your ship anymore, to give me orders. Regardless of what Sir Marvell thinks me.” It did not take long for James to regain his balance, as René had not pressed the point. James was sticking out his jaw mulishly and had allowed the defiance to return to his voice. Still, René could not hide his surprise to learn that James had known of Sir Marvell’s intent in sending him out here. René wondered if James also knew that Sir Marvell would have wanted him to spy.
“You do not…! Vous n'appartenez pas ici! Il est sous vous!” Frustration with the clumsy English had him shouting in his own tongue. From the corner of one eye, René saw movement, as a small child slave tried to slip past the two madmen in the hall without being noticed. Even without James spying, the tale would get back to Sir Marvell. That was displeasing, and it was James’ fault for making him lose his temper.
James was floundering for words, understanding him, and yet furious. Clearly agitated, he pointed one finger accusingly.
“And do you prize me so highly? You who left me on my knees in the gutter? You are no better than they, and I am no better than a common bawd, for wanting you still.” He stopped there, shaking visibly and looking ill.
“Je suis retourné pour vous.” René whispered urgently. And now James translated French as if it were his beloved Latin, with a speed that was almost instant, flinching as if the idea were unwelcome.
René stretched his fingers, his itching skin soothed only by the feel of something being clutched hard against it. It was perhaps the only reason he had kept the useless token around his neck all these years.
“I am a free prince!” He announced abruptly, standing straighter and freeing his hands. “I will not be told what to do!” I am a free prince is a quote from an actual pirate, I forget which one, I’d have to consult notes. The term prince meant a lot of things then. Elizabeth said it too, in reference to herself. I can’t imagine René thinking of himself in any other term when confronted by someone questioning his status.
“Neither will I.” Slow and soft, but meant, for James lowered his head until their eyes were level. He did not seem to find it odd, that René yelled at the air. Just as slowly, René swallowed, observing James warily for that. Oh no, James might possibly, *know* you. James’ voice was even lower when he spoke again. “You have not yet finished your game with me, have you?”
René did not reply, not entirely certain that James wanted a response. James was queer, even for an Englishman, shouting out that which ought not be spoken, blushing with maidenly virtue at a small embrace, and then growing forceful on the topic of whores without the slightest shame. René bent his neck to the side instead, stretching the tight muscles, never taking watchful eyes from the still figure before him.
James was not trembling, or stammering, or anxiously feasting on his bottom lip. He did not even blink. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, at last, and René heard his own rough exhalation of breath as if it had come from someone else. He twitched reflexively and pricked up his ears, approaching footsteps making him want to stab the next fool who dared come upon them.
High girlish laughter, Mirena’s crazed mirth; four glasses of whiskey’s worth of fool coming closer.
“Mayhap if I wish to start one with you?” James wondered with what could not have been amusement in his voice, and stepped out from the balcony so suddenly that René leaned back, only just keeping himself from backing away. OhgoditssohotwhenJamesdecidestotakecontrolRenecomesinhispantalons
“René, you little baked chicken, where are you hiding?” Mirena called out gaily in her a mix of her own tongue and French, insulting him just to vex him. Ahem. Slang term in Portuguese and a few other languages referring to a gay man being on his back with his legs in the air getting fucked good and hard. Just for your edification. Probably she came to save him from himself, or from James. The thought would have been amusing if René had not had been planning her slow torture and slower death. He laid on his back for no man. Yeah right. Slutmonkey.
René felt something in his belly twist to see the strange expression on James Fitzroy’s face now. James is smitten to learn that René allows his friends to tease him. He wore no high colour, and his lips were curved upward, in what appeared to be a smile. It widened even as René watched, and then James was nodding his head to gesture behind him, though the smile fell then at last. His shoulders twitched with some imagined pressure, and James’ eyes found his feet, ungainly in petit slippers.
They were ugly shoes, uglier even then the hideous, stupid wig he wore, stringy pale curls hanging around his neck like pieces of rope. And the candlelight made him seem yellowed now, faded, mixing uneasily with the pale green brocade of his suit of clothing.
René turned to glare at Mirena, which kept her from coming any closer than a few yards, even in her current state.
“The English…left. Business, for his house.” That seemed to be the main part of whatever Mirena had wished to say, or at least what English she was able to recall to her tongue now that it was looser. “I am tired, René,” she complained a moment later, and René thought he would enjoy telling her how she had stumbled like a child unable to hold her liquor.
“I ought to see if Sir Marvell needs me.” James coughed and spoke up, addressing the floor with only the smallest glance upward.
“You will go to him now?” René demanded, spinning back from Mirena, who apparently did not mind. His earlier fury had returned, and he forgot that weakness that had had him backing away from this man. This man with his tiny, silken slippers. I am wondering if I was making some silly joke here, about silk slippers equally something feminine, like Ruby Slippers in Pooky’s Chinese epic. But I don’t know for sure now…
“With him or with you, my role is the same,” James whispered, flushing the moment the harsh words left him. And René stared down at the pointed, shining metal blade in his hand, wondering where it had come from.
“Monsieur Fitzroy!” Mirena exclaimed behind him, sounding delighted, and ridiculously young. She was older than René by a handful of years, with lines on her face from the sea.
“Madame.” James addressed her as was proper, not with fawning false flattery like his master, though his eyes were fixed on René’s sword, his jaw slack.
“In England you have your big oaks?” Mirena asked, but James was still goggling at the blade. René tapped each finger in turn on the hilt and then slipped it into his belt, not bothering to hide it this time. He would know what James had meant by that. If not now then later. René, I think, would crawl inside James’ brain if it would help him understand James’ (really quite reasonable) demands. But even if he doesn’t understand them, he would still bleed himself dry to fulfill them.
“Oaks?” James sounded strangled, coughing dryly and looking into René’s eyes with a different question in his mind.
“And you, Fitz. Roy.” Each syllable slid from the woman’s mouth like it was coated in that sugared syrup, and René wondered how much it had taken to soften the wasp’s sharp tongue. She was behind him now, at his shoulder and coming closer, though he was not her goal. “…Are you an oak?” Her gaze dropped down, and she did not look at James’ feet.
“Shut your mouth!” René barked at her in her own language and received a bleary, irritated stare in return, before her eyes went round and bright. Then she threw back her head and shouted a laugh that was so loud that it should have sobered even her. Mirena is so incredibly damn vulgar. I love her. I dislike the notion that a sexual woman is a stupid woman. But that doesn’t mean she has to be aristocratic. She is to me the image of a fisherman’s wife…except that she’s never had children so she hasn’t…uh…filled out in the manner of most Portuguese fishermans’ wives. She’s pure fantasy as well. Women pirates existed, but so brazenly? I somehow think people would have shot her from the water ages ago.
“I…” James stumbled again, not used to such women probably, though he still had not more than glanced at Mirena. His cheeks would burn to the touch, from the look of them. “I am too weak to be an…oak, Madame,” he murmured, ducking his head once.
“You scare James away, Mirena.” René was smiling at that even as he reached around to grab Mirena’s arm and steer her about. She just twisted her head around to stare back, leering at him now. She would pounce on the next man she saw in this humour, and blame René for it later.
“But perhaps Madame Aranha wishes to judge for herself?” James called out to their backs and René stiffened, dimly aware that he was standing with one foot still in the air. Mirena was bubbling over with triumphant laughter, clapping her hands to let James know he had amused and pleased her. René tightened his grip on Mirena, surprised at how strong and steady she suddenly was, but happy to feel it.
To be rejected by this Englishman was nothing, even if his body still wanted him. It had been whim only, bringing him here, and if he wanted he could still make James Fitzroy his pet; James had made that clear. But to be given horns to wear in this manner was like a sword slicing through his middle. Let us break down this NeNe thought. He is totally cool at James rejecting him. James is just some random Englishman he fucked once or twice. He means nothing to him. But if he sleeps with Mirena, who is obviously teasing, then René is being cuckolded like a husband with a cheating spouse. Now that’s amazing.
Tearing away from Mirena, he wheeled around, not even bothering to pull his dagger loose. “You will not…!” And his tongue became too thick for speech, choking him.
James was regarding him levelly, arms crossed. His face seemed rougher, the lines harsh and unforgiving though he had been playful with Mirena moments before. Then his chin lifted.
To start one with you, James had said. Un défi—a challenge in those burning eyes, whether James realized it or not.
“It is silly for me to kill such an insignificant man,” René announced to the room, to those who cared to listen. pout pout
“Silly,” Mirena agreed, drowsily. James said nothing, but his eyes widened.
“I will put you to bed instead, Belle-mere.” René told Mirena teasingly, without glancing back to her. Her hand found his shoulder however, calling him back to the world outside this small space, and the thinning of James’ lips at his words.
“My Lord will be disappointed.” James managed to sound polite, and inclined his head in a manner that was almost gracious. If it had been done by that ass-child of St. Cyr, it might have even seemed so. But James did not quite seem so willing to see him leave with Mirena on his arm.
“Je retourne encore.” René waved his free hand dismissively, though his arm felt stiff, and jerked Mirena roughly, so she would not fall over and topple them both. drunk-asses. René is the kind of drunk who seems only a little tipsy the whole night, right up until he gets the spins and falls over, holding his stomach and whining that he might vomit. Mirena just gets high.
“Sir Marvell will be pleased.” James was equally stiff, inclining his head once again, so lowly that it was almost a bow. René glimpsed the top of his head, or the top of his wig, and cursed the damned thing just as James stumbled again, and the wig slid forward an inch or so.
James was not meant to wear such nonsense. The priestly black he had been garbed in on their first meeting was what had suited him best, and if not that then he should wear nothing. It was enough to make René wonder if even diamonds would suit that stern figure before him. Would James be pleased with diamonds? Or condemn them for the blood on them? He might forget that too, if he could sell them for money for the child, the way he had forgotten what went on outside of this house in exchange for a place for the boy. It had taken only moments for René to reach that conclusion.
Ben’s curious gaze had not left him in the months since René had laid eyes on the brat. There on the dock it had been plain enough, the child sizing up René’s interest in James, with no shame at all. René had almost expected to be knifed for coming too close. So pir8fancier asked me once, something about the threads from the first chapters that come out later…I always fill first chapters with crap details. Details up the wazoo, in case I need them later, I guess, though I do have a general sort of game plan. In this case, I knew Ben would be an issue, and yes, I was already making plans for those diamonds.
“I do not come for Sir Marvell.” René thought it best to make that clear and was pleased by the flood of colour into James’ face, making it no longer so sallow. The total and utter fluff of this. It’s so lovely. I’m completely reminded of ultra-sappy yaoi manga Only the Ring Finger Knows and now I burn to see this in manga form. I would be most amused
“Adeus!” Mirena called out, her elbow finding his ribs in an expression of impatience. Holding James’ gaze for a few moments more, René ignored her for as long as she would allow. Then he was turning, leading the heavy, drunken idiot back down the hall. He did not look back, knowing that James was standing there and waiting for him to do just that.
The door to the pretty negress’ room was closed now, silence behind it, though René curved his lips into a sneer just the same. There was no mark of Etienne St. Cyr either, fortunately for him, and René followed the path they had taken when entering the large house, until he was downstairs.
Mirena grew steadier with each step, finally shoving him away with a vexed noise when they reached the foot of the great stone stairs and passed under the large arching doorway that some Spanish nobleman had once been proud of. Without a trace of weakness in her legs or step, she swept up her skirts into fisted hands and stalked out the door, where a carriage waited for them.
“Leaves me to find his lover!” she snarled in a French that was not much different than what was spoken in the gutters of Paris, and struck out viciously at the servant trying to help her inside the vehicle. Since René did know not if she spoke of Sir Marvell, or himself, he shrugged and followed her in, taking great pleasure in the fact that he did not need assistance.
“The dress becomes you, belle-mere,” he remarked as she attempted to settle the mass of fabric. That the lady she had taken it from had valued it greatly as a wedding dress obviously meant nothing to Mirena. She had stroked the silks on the ride here, enjoying the feel of them. But now René had a feeling the dress would be floating in the sea tomorrow. The threads were of a rich gold, and René studied them with interest, wondering how he would fare if he offered James gold. That colour might also suit him.
“I am not your…” she fumbled for the word and René supplied it, not bothering to hide his annoyance when she kicked him. She had been upsetting him deliberately all evening, and James had dared to call him the spoiled child.
“Step-mother.” It was the nice term for the role, though she was not worthy of either title, even if she had been his step-mother. But regardless of that, it was impossible to have a second mother when your father had never married your first.
“If I were I would tell you to marry and stop dreaming of an Englishman who hates you.”
With a start, René sat up to fix her with a look. Then he grabbed a handful of her skirt and yanked her closer. Her face formed into a stubborn look he knew only too well, but he pressed anyway.
“Do not presume…” he began, but knew that at least was a waste of time when Mirena had presumed everything from the moment he had first fished her out of a rain barrel she had fallen into one evening after smoking the herb the Africans grew in the fields. René shuddered briefly to recall her determination to help him. He wished she would find some of that herb now, and grow sleepy. “You know nothing!” he said finally and pushed her away. Then he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, suddenly very tired himself.
“He is handsome enough to make it interesting.” Mirena commented, not looking at him as she hiked up her skirts and propped one leg up on the small bench. Bending her knee, and using it to support her elbow, she rested her head and eyed him thoughtfully. “I thought so when I saw him several days ago.”
“What?” That escaped before René lined up his thoughts, but he closed his mouth sharply on the end and said no more. Not even when she grinned lustily at him and thrust out her breasts.
“I didn’t know he was yours,” she explained after letting him imagine one of her romps, and then destroyed the gown forever by ripping out several of the strings holding the busk hard against her breasts. She sighed as the gown loosened. René’s lips tightened.
“James Fitzroy is not mine.”
“He will be.” Mirena found this amusing and laughed softly to herself, growing louder each time she met René’s eyes and saw his fury. “It is easy enough to catch a man, René. Do you need me to teach you?”
“I do not like to hear you speak of him,” René whispered roughly, aware that he had said almost the same words earlier but beyond caring.
The carriage rolled and rocked into motion, almost like a ship beneath them, and they stayed in silence for a long while. When Mirena finally turned away from him with an annoyed toss of hair, René laid his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. James would be his again, and no one else’s, and even crafty lords and wide-eyed children would not stand in his way from having him.
“He is mine,” René told her, tasting the words as he longed to taste James. Mirena hummed some peasant song to herself, then stopped.
“Stubborn ass,” she murmured, and René curved his lips into a smile.
“Drunken slut,” he whispered back, but did not open his eyes. James was behind them, on smiling for him on a bed of gold shot silk, wearing nothing but diamonds.
Several moments later he frowned, and pushed the vision away with a sigh. Somehow he did not think scholarly James would care for diamonds. He would have to find something else to please him.
Huh. I wonder what the point of all that was. I suspect it was for the making out on the balcony. And also to set up for the next scene, and delicious near-screwing over a desk.
“My words, James?” he wondered, just as quiet, in James’ own English so that the son of St. Cyr would not easily comprehend, barely recalling his senses enough to be so discreet. His body was flushed with the liquor’s warmth. James had kept his words and flashed fury for him. René leaned forward with an eagerness that even Marechal would have been surprised to see, had René not made sure he stayed on the ship. “Your friend is not a king.” He nodded once, pleased when James seemed to know his exact meaning.
“Neither are you,” James asserted, tossing his head and almost displacing the terrible wig he had no doubt been told to wear, making him look like a lost footman. In a moment he would probably charge with him with clenched fists, telling his master of René’s sins. Though what he would say was almost enough to make René consider letting James explode. But he fought the urge, relishing instead the suppressed feeling that was taking James, making the other Frenchman grow wide-eyed and pale to behold.
“You already have told me what I am not,” René reminded him, something of his smile running away. “But you are a pawn, James, though you do not serve kings.” St. Cyr alone was proof of that. But James was shaking his head and glaring at him stubbornly. “You do not approve of us,” he jerked his head in Mirena’s direction. “Yet you speak our words for us, follow the wishes of your master,” he said this last word slowly, drawing it slowly like a knife from a wound when he wished the victim to suffer. And James flinched.
“I am not…”
“You are a slave to this house. Nothing more than a tool, James. If your skin were darker you would be either serving wine or warming your master’s bed!” He was not aware that he had switched to rapid but still subdued French until Etienne St. Cyr jumped in his seat and splashed a large portion of his wine onto his plate, letting out a small huff of air through his nostrils. René did not spare him more than a glance, too focused on the stupidly disbelieving expression of the man his body was twitching to fuck. heart
Somewhere between deathly pale and feverish, James looked like a man in need of a drink. Perhaps a swallow or two of the whiskey. His mouth worked, trying to overcome his shock, and then he glanced furtively this way and that, searching for what René did not know, or especially care. Then abruptly he turned his head, two shades of red warring on his face, both the colour of the roses that sometimes climbed the walls of buildings even in the city.
“I am no longer yours,” James was hushed but excited, pointing one finger at René as if just taken with a blinding realization, continuing to speak in his English. “That is why you are truly angry,” he accused proudly, waving a hand to indicate the room. Sometimes though René is a psycho pain in the ass to write, I really get more frustrated with James. I recognize the “facts” of the universe he operates in are true to the time, but goddamn, he can be so blind. And then he will *finally* grasp something only to completely miss something else. “You don’t care about this, about...” He ended his words there, but jutted out his chin, almost like the child Ben had done, months ago.
Now René did look away, finding his eyes returning to St. Cyr, wanting to be amused at the frown of concentration that was marring the white powder covering the son of a bitch’s skin. St. Cyr did not understand all of the English words; that was clear. Not like René did. He reached out and found his unused knife from the table, then stabbed it down into a soggy piece of pear, letting the metal scrape loudly across the bottom of the dish.
He was not angry. James was wrong. He sought only to push away the truth of what René had said with his crazy words.
The knife scratched along the finely crafted metal once more, and then René flicked his wrist, and the speared fruit landed at the base of the candlestick resting in the center of the long table, between them. heart, again…and…yeah…this is my obnoxious ass too…when I was ten
“You have the manner of a child.” James condemned him hoarsely, though dropping his eyes. He spoke in French now as well, letting St. Cyr hear his shame. René snapped his head up and felt his eyes narrow as James went on. “A child sulking for a lost toy.” hurrah for James!
“It is not lost,” René answered on the instant, with heat, shifting in his chair and feeling a great satisfaction when James did the same then raised his gaze to study him. For the smallest moment the temper in his muddy eyes melted and reformed into something a thousand times hotter than rage, one look alone reminding René of the sweet heat of James’ mouth, of his ass, of even his arms. No…no I do not love him. I want him only for sex. I will think of his ass and mouth, and will not imagine being held in those strong arms. Not at all. A tiny sound, what could not have been a whimper, slipped past his lips, and René clenched his teeth to prevent another. But James blinked, and then the light in his face faded from view.
“No indeed,” James agreed forcefully, turning his head as if disgusted with the very sight of René’s face. “It was tossed away.” heartbreak
It was an easy thing to again see James on his knees and hands in the dirt, amid his own vomit, wiping René’s seed from his lips with a pale hand. Easier than that to remember throwing the gold, hearing even the small splash that meant that one coin had landed in the pile of slop left behind by their small screw in the alley. Had James reached into that to pick it up? Had he gathered up any of the money? Or had he left them and found some other way to come to this miserable island? Distraction with jealousy is another classic René avoidance technique. Anxious about something, NeNe? Imagine James screwing Sir Marvell, get angry, problem solved.
“Of what do you speak?” Etienne St. Cyr recovered his wits enough to make demands, and René turned eyes on the man that he knew were frightened. Yes, René is afraid, and admitting to it, which should tell you the level of fear James started, as if he had forgotten Etienne’s presence, but even that did not slow René’s heart.
He did not know, did not know how to answer, and the thought of admitting such ignorance before St. Cyr was enough to at last make René blink and search around in his mind until he found something his mouth would say. “It is no concern of yours.” Nor would it be, if René could only get James alone long enough to change the man’s mind. One touch of René’s tongue to his prick would have James begging and weak again, then James would agree to anything, and forget all others. Forget even that René was using him, and would use him, until it was the ruin of him. René’s only value in his mind is cocksucking, which is something I really should have thought about when I wrote that first pirate porn, “Pleasure From a Killer” which became Chapter Two later. A BJ is René’s bargaining tool…which is incredibly sad, really, and is possibly the reason I don’t read Chapter Two anymore.
“James.” A demand of his own, crisply spoken, and those bleeding eyes were on him. René licked his lips to see them, muscles in his thighs jerking as he considered ignoring the rest at the table and dropping under the cloth to please James right now. Note: this has been demanded by Pooky sometime after this thing is finished That it would prove to St. Cyr that what was once was René’s was his again, and never had been anyone else’s, made René all the more excited, and he pushed his palms against the linen-covered edge so that he might shove himself back.
“What happens there, Mister Fitzroy, to make my guests look so unamused?” Frustration sizzled under René’s skin, causing him to jump and shift in his chair, vowing to slay Sir Marvell if he dared to interrupt again. But James was innocent and guilty before the prying eyes of the old fox, and he fumbled for words the way he fumbled over his own feet, trying to save himself, no doubt at last realizing his indiscretion.
“My Lord… I…” Cheeks as crimson as René’s coat, he might as well have announced their past to the world. Only a little manipulation and he would. And yet still James fought his nature, trying to contain his temper.
“Politics, my Lord,” a soft, lazy reply to the question, and René was surprised, though not pleased, to see that it had come from the son of St. Cyr,Etienne to the rescue! who was smiling coolly as he began to slice up the cold meats on his plate. It was a well-spoken lie, if a foolish one, for cutthroats like Mirena and René and Sir Marvell cared nothing for politics unless they interfered in their business. But Sir Marvell seemed ready enough to believe it, and with the memory of James’ outspokenness, René could suddenly understand why. He wondered with a thread of irritation if Etienne had understood that as well. Who is he more jealous of? Oh the complicated family net here. Doesn’t want James to talk to Etienne, doesn’t want to talk to Etienne at all. And yet is strangely interested in Etienne (it is his brother, deny it though he will) and James knows things about Etienne…haha
“Come, James, I thought our nations were allies now,” Sir Marvell tutted, with an amused look that wrinkled the skin around his eyes, though his eyes themselves remained untouched. “You must make more of an effort to be amicable.”
“Que?” Mirena was shrill in his ear, and René fixed her with a furious look that she did not seem to see. Like the peasant she was, she could not seem to control her voice when emotion took her. Her drunken screeching was one reason that he did not wish to share drink with her any more, and he had no wish to hear more of it now.
“Amicable?” St. Cyr repeated the word carefully, blinking, and René tossed his head.
“Friendly,” James supplied in a whisper. Why that should make his face colour René did not know, but he enjoyed the sight of it, and turned to Sir Marvell with a grin.
“I agree, Sir Marvell,” he murmured in English, nodding his head once at James. “I would dislike to leave the island so soon over this matter.” He paused, and watched the interest that brightened the man’s light eyes and lifted his eyebrows curiously. “Perhaps if your man and I were to talk further about…?” He struggled to remember what Etienne had claimed, and then made a small noise of satisfaction as he thought of it. How drunk do you have to be to not remember something from two minutes before…?“Our political differences? I would like more explanation,” he went on needlessly, to give the appearance of niceties. That would matter to James. Fuck niceties, in other words
After this, again he waited, and was not surprised to see the smallest answering nod and slight, amused smile from the English lord, not concerned at all with René’s wants, or in how to fulfill them. The man did not even look to James, and though that was not surprising either, René thought of what he was going to do with the man’s sugar and allowed his lips a cool smile of his own. He doubted the man would get upset if René were to slit James’ throat, much less if René were to shove his prick down it, so of course it would not trouble the man’s mind to be playing the panderer now.
James did not look wounded, with his bewildered eyes. He did not seem to realize that his employer was now also his pimp, Ok, this is weird, but reading this now, I swear I was channeling Smallville slash. I wonder if I was reading it at the time. That was so very Clark and Lex. Weird. and René let out a small breath to see that he did not. Then he rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness and returned the glance of the English lord. It was a struggle to conceal his impatience to be done with this meal, with all of those at the table save one.
“I will enjoy doing business with you, Monsieur.” The man dared to lift up his glass at him, before closing his sly lips around the edge of the cup and draining it. None seemed to notice that he had repeated his words, not even Mirena, well into her third drink of whiskey.
He was not a handsome man. It would not improve his looks to learn that René Villon had stolen his cargo and abducted and slain the son of one of his partners. It was a pity that René would not be there to see it.
“I am warm,” he pronounced in English so most of those listening would understand. “I may view the sea from your…balcony?” He knew the answer, but asked with a respectful nod, somewhat amused to watch the older man incline his head with all the dignity that kings were supposed to have. Probably James found it only fitting.
“Fitzroy,” the man honoured their unspoken agreement before René had even fully risen. “Show Monsieur Villon the way to the balcony.”
It was fortunate that James had not seemed to be enjoying his food. Having no other choice—other than telling his pimping lord no, which James would never do, he had to rise and lead René from the room. “Men of action…” Sir Marvell murmured throatily and then coughed a laugh before putting some question to Mirena.
René did not even spare a look to Mirena, mindful of the fact that even when stewed drunk Mirena was capable of gutting a man with whatever sharp object within reach. His gaze instead traveled over the tightly stretching coat fitted carefully over James Fitzroy’s back. The tension in the light blue-coloured fabric might have been eased if James had straightened, but James was still bent over like a frail old woman.
He said nothing as they passed under the large beam of the doorway, moving out into a narrow hall, where black men dressed in livery waited. James did not look at them and neither did René, beyond noticing their presence and thinking vaguely that this Sir Marvell had slaves better dressed than James.
“Your master,” René started to say, as they passed an opened door that revealed a room dripping with fabrics shot with gold, and a large, dark skinned woman sitting at the edge of a well-stuffed bed, rubbing the skin of her arms with a sweet smelling oil. She wore a gown as costly as anything in that room, and René marked to himself the need to ask Mirena again how much Marvell had offered them. He could afford to pay more if he dressed his mistress in Oriental silks. Sir Marvell, in my crazy-ass head, is the evil white honky villain (white devil white devil) from a Dolemite movie…and someday Deniau will have to bust in with his pimp cane and shoot him dead. Without the rhyming though. Because Deniau is a sad reflection of my Tupac-love, and he must get ghetto on that bitch.
James raised his head at the words, and René wanted to trace the lines of anger from his straight neck down his back to his hands, closed at his sides. Is this too cheesy? Because it just made me giggle like an idiot to read it. Le sigh. The other man moved stiffly and stumbled on a bump in the finely woven rug. The light from a small candle in a sconce in the wall did not hide René’s smile, though James did not turn and so did not see it. “Your master,” René said again deliberately, and felt a measure of both ache and satisfaction to see James’ shoulders jerk back.
The suit of clothes fit better now, though René tried to imagine James garbed in Oriental silks. They would be an easy thing to purchase, or take. Bolts and bolts of blue and ivory satins to drape the bed where he would strip James of his ill-fitting rags and dress him instead in sweat and seed, and fuck him until the longings of the past months were well forgotten.
“Yes?” James bit out, the one word black powder to the flames searing René’s middle. But James had stopped walking, standing aside so that René could step out onto the small space of the balcony. René peered over the edge, not liking to see the ground so far below, but glad to see the ocean, glittering under the moon’s white face. To quote Pooky, “René’s afraid of heights!!!!” Though the house was not in Port Royal itself, the strip of land leading to the city from the mainland was still narrow enough that those living here could enjoy a view of the sea.
The air was heavy, though a slight chill cooled his skin and made him shiver as he turned around. His hands he clasped behind him on the railing, wrapping his fingers around the rough wood. Dark, but the moon and stars were enough to allow him to gaze upon James, and to see the scowl marring his face. Far away was the sound of drums, from the slave quarters, a fast, odd rhythm that brought to his mind the memory of killing his first captain and seizing control of the ship for himself. It also reminded him of that first groan from James when the man had been bent over his desk. the origins of reggae, calypso, ska, and thus, the blues and soul, turned into Jamessex…that’s our NeNe
It was difficult to recall what it was he had been speaking of. René licked the salt from above his lip as he thought, lowering his lids at the same time so that James would not see his confusion.
“He does not value you.” He remembered at last, and took one hand from the railing to gesture back in the direction from which they had come. James did not even flick his eyes to the side, holding himself straight and still.
“I have yet to have a master that does.” James spat it out like a curse, in that peculiar way of his, then dropped his shoulders slowly in a manner that suggested something René did not understand. Mockingly, but James was not mocking. Or James is making fun of you and your constant French shrugging.“What does it matter?”
“There is a world that is not this island.” Whatever James had meant, it was not important unless he had guessed his employer’s intentions in sending him out here. René put his hand behind him once more, and shook his head to sweep his hair from his face. Black strands held together with fruit juice stayed before his eyes, but through them he could see James slapping a hand to his face, pushing up narrow spectacles to peer at René as though he were a lunatic.
“You…?” James breathed in seeming disbelief, bending his head to study his face. Whatever he saw there made him close his mouth and lift his chin, before turning his eyes toward the rest of the house. “No doubt you have seen much of the world in your life, these past month,” James muttered under his breath, and then he was sucking his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. His lips would grow sore with the way James mistreated them when he wished to control his wayward tongue.
“The world?” René frowned at the strange tone to the question, then shook his head. This was not what he wished to talk about now that he finally had James gotten to himself. A few months chasing down ships until they had found a fatly laden Dutch ship, smuggling diamonds and café from the New World, with men on board greedy but smart enough to surrender. After all, they had lived to return to the Main and steal from the Spaniards again. The rest of the time spent visiting port cities along the coast, watching his men run off to find women, hopefully willing, though he had not followed them to see, drowning one of his crew for trying to hide some jewels for himself. What James thought would be there he could not imagine. There was the ocean, and there was blood and death and gold and lust, little else. “It is the same in all places,” he answered quietly when he noticed the prolonged silence.
“One port no different than another?” James had turned his head fully to the wall, nearly pressing his face to the hinge of the long shutter. It has been well established that men, and these men in particular, have a problem communicating. In this case, not only are emotions involved—tricky—but you have the fact that other than crude jokes about sodomy and Bible-talk, there is no language that exists for homosexual love. Not in their cultures at least. Even to René it’s an odd concept, you’ll notice he has a hard time when James compares them to a married couple later. It creates serious problems for me, having to constantly had characters creating their own culture. It was that or do the whole ‘happy gay couple as example’ thing, which I didn’t especially feel like doing.
“Oui.” His reply was short, and René was grateful to now move the conversation away from the past and on to the present. He stepped away from the ledge at last, closed the small distance between them, trying to keep his steps slow.
James jumped at only his first step, darting away to the other side of the balcony and pressing himself against the opposite shutter so hard that it must have pained his back.
Alarmed, René moved a hand toward his knife and followed after James, stepping partly out into the hall. Then he stilled abruptly after seeing that there was no threat, though that did not make sense. Why had James moved so? Not even before their first time had the man jumped around like a headless chicken.
And then James fixed large, dark eyes on him, huge due to his glasses but impossible to read in the black of night and a badly lit hall. His mouth was full, swollen from his mistreatment of it, and after a few moments he opened it to let out one long breath.
René knew he was still standing frozen; half crouched defensively with one hand near his weapon, but did not raise himself up. His gaze slid down over the high cheekbones hidden by the spectacles, to the stubble lining the firm jaw, then finally touched the trembling lips themselves. Sweet lips, tightening around his cock as if James had truly enjoyed the feel of a prick in his mouth, pressing hotly over his shoulder and neck, parting to suck the skin sore. And strong arms closing around him, soft hair falling across his face as James had moved at last and tried to kiss him as though it had not been just a fucking in a filthy alleyway. hott, jesus
He blinked when the full lips firmed into a straight line, lifting his eyes at last when the skin around James’ lips darkened. With a dry, ugly sound, James coughed deep in his throat and then shifted his body, leaning further out toward the balcony. Apparently he wished to stare out at the sea.
Unbidden, René swore to St. Francis, shifting at last to peer outside and see what had so captured James’ interest. But the blasphemy returned James’ attention to him, and René smiled to see it. At last now they could talk of something of more importance then visiting empty ports and greedy English masters.
James was less than the length of his arm from him, resting against the doorjamb and shutter as if waiting for him. He was beautiful in the bit of moonlight, even with his foolish wig, with his throat exposed, for his head was laid back against the wood and he wore no cravat or collar.
“James,” René called to him softly, lowly so he would not jump again. But it was a command regardless, and James obeyed it, trembling with some feeling as he dropped his chin and looked at him directly. James swallowed once, then again. When he spoke it was just as lowly, just as soft.
“René.” James had dared to say his name again, but René allowed it, closing his eyes briefly at the weakness in that word. Then he raised one hand, working underneath the stiff coat to push aside his own neck cloth. Under that was his shirt and veste, but the lacings were easy to find, and he tugged sharply on one string, feeling those eyes on him. He did not need light to tell what James Fitzroy was feeling now.
“You…” James’ brows drew together in a brief, absent frown, as if James were trying to recall some point of their talk, and René nodded impatiently, though with some amusement. He should have expected no less. “You and the…the lady—the Spider!” James’s voice hitched the smallest degree, rising as René forced himself to stop when the toes of their shoes knocked together. He had to tilt his head up now to look into James’ face, and did not enjoy it, Liar. He’s a total size-queen though James seemed not to notice.
“Mirena,” René growled her name, not wanting to think about the other captain at that moment. But James was James, irritating and persistent, like a fly buzzing around his head. Before his eyes was the magnificent breadth of chest, hidden only by some paltry clothing, and René raised one hand and pressed his palm against the flat stomach. Even through the fabric he could feel the muscles tighten in response to his touch.
“B…but…she…” Relentlessly, James babbled on, and for the briefest moment, René allowed his fingers to slide toward the buttons of the veste James wore, daring to slip one free. James exhaled with a sudden burst of air. It tickled down over René’s face, hot and sugared. “Mirena!” James finally got out her name, after René tucked his fingers under the two different sides of the bottom of the veste and parted them with a tender slowness before slipping his fingers closer into James’ warmth. It took only that to make the body under his hand tremble.
“I do not like…” René paused, glancing up from the sight of his hand so close to what he wanted. Then he bit down on his tongue hard as he set his jaw and just for a heartbeat, pressed his fingernails into James’ skin. A sharp sound, like surprise or arousal, perhaps anger, answered it, though James did not move away, and only then did René finish. “…To hear you speak of her.”
“Is sh…she your…wife?” James ignored his threat and it should not have startled. Nonetheless, René opened his eyes wide, blinking in astonishment to hear him speak. The softly quavering English words had to be wrong.
“St. Denis save me from such a fate!” he replied without thought, then felt a chuckle erupt from him. Mirena would have been most unhappy with him for it. That thought made him laugh again. But James was scowling, and so René had no time to wonder why James would think such a thing.
“You seem most friendly.” The tone of James Fitzroy’s voice was familiar; an indignant posture of offense very much like it had been on le Diable Noir, at seeing René do anything from piss over the side to express a desire to fuck his beautiful ass. Though never had it been so pronounced. René narrowed his eyes, and smoothed his fingers over the wrinkled shirt underneath the veste, tapping the firm muscle a few times. The last tap was forceful enough to make James’ mouth tighten. “Is she your lover?” James did not stammer at all, and that was enough to draw René’s head up. James had lowered his, but he had not bent his shoulders again. They have, what seems to me sometimes, a very odd dynamic between them. And then at other times it seems completely normal. James, ostensibly the bottom, the weaker one, is larger and stronger (emotionally stronger as well). He is also, constantly, being wooed. Rene on the other hand, is domineering and dangerous, but emotionally just a little melting chocolate bunny. And James has to care for him to keep him whole…mmm. I want chocolate now.
In truth he was still holding himself stiffly against the wall, though he had not backed away from René’s touches, even the painful ones. His exquisite defiance, for his virtue before, and now, for Mirena’s. We also find the word exquisite sexy. Either from Quills, or from Much Ado About Nothing, I don’t know for sure How James must pity her, imagining her wed to the monster Villon. Probably he imagined himself as her rescuer, drawing her up into his arms and pressing those soft kisses to her waiting lips, large hands caressing her bosom.
“I…” It was René’s turn to stumble as he tried to talk. Despite René’s snarled, mangled attempt at speech, James inclined his head further, and René got the strange sense that the other man’s eyes were wide, as if waiting for him to speak, and explain. The night around them smelled of mango fruit and high priced sugar, and James’ tensely thrumming body was hot on an already warm evening. René shifted from the heat of it, his blood pumping through his veins creating rivers of fire under his skin. How he burned. And yet still the man just waited, like some cursed, damned statue carved from stone.
“No.” That was simple to say. The rest made his throat dry, though what he had intended to say he had forgotten. James inhaled, and René dropped his eyes from his face to the threadbare, badly fitting suit that James suffered in. The child had worn large, but well made clothing; James was more caring than most mothers. “She does not want you to save her,” he murmured, René double-talk. René has conversations sometimes where not once is he ever referring to what the other person thinks he’s taking about then started at the realization that he had spoken the words at all. James blinked rapidly, lashes dipping and fluttering like a flirtatious Spanish lady’s fan. Finally they rested against his cheeks, and he would have seemed at peace if it had not been for the befuddled, thoughtful frown wrinkling his forehead.
This was not where he had intended this to go, was not where he wanted to be, and René latched onto the coarse material of the veste and pulled himself forward, and up, mollified slightly at how James kept his feet despite the surprise and the new burden. There, in front of his mouth was the lovely face, shocked lips frozen in a circle as James forgot his words and gaped. Or he climbs James like a monkey
René wanted to cling, but would not allow himself the indignity, and instead arched his neck, until his lips hesitated above the whiskered jaw, near the curve of one ear. His heart, or James’, roared between them, fast and hard.
“René.” The barest whisper and René turned his head, so close to James that his breath flew against his face and upward, faintly clouding his spectacles. So close now that he could see the black at the center of the muddy eyes grow larger.
“James.” René licked his lips and found them already wet. His words fell from his mind like overripe fruit and he scrambled for meanings as James tilted his head down. “I will give you anything, James, if you stop your talk and let me have you.” He promised rashly, and meant it, preparing himself this time for the feel of arms gripping him tightly.
James’ mouth snapped closed, what had to be shyness at René’s blunt words causing his face to darken. With no warning, René was stumbling back onto his own feet, hands reaching out and finding only air. His chest hurt in two places, where large hands had shoved against him, and he looked up in astonishment in time to see James’s hand curled into a fist, before his face.
The hall was dark, the floor darker; René stared up from the blackness at the towering, shaking figure of James Fitzroy, impossibly tall, and blazing as if it were day out on the balcony. Ok, I must have been reading Smallville. Though I do sort of have an image here of this kids illustrated Bible I had when I was younger, and the angel with the sword as standing at the gates to Eden, all pissed off and flaming. This image will be important later, I think. In the final two chapters. René felt an ache in his jaw, and clicked his teeth, wincing at the pain but aware that nothing had been broken. His back hurt. He was aware of that too, and of the way James seemed to not be breathing, merely watching him silently as if he had been the one knocked onto the floor. Then James gasped.
Anyone upset that he hit, René, btw? Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t before this. René doesn’t seem to care anyway. They are men. And I swear men view punches differently. Peaceful James is still capable of violence. (A manly act, let’s not get into the politics of that). This is important for René to know.
“Are you…?” he began to ask and then stopped and flung out one hand. “I am not thy doxy!” James shouted at him, loud enough for those back in the dining hall to have heard him, if they were still there. Then at last, too late, he closed his mouth, locking his jaw so tightly that his teeth must have ground together.
“Doxy?” René heard himself repeating stupidly, still sitting on the floor when he should have risen. “What is doxy?” He shook his head and shifted to free one arm, so he could feel along the tender spot on his chin. James flinched to see him do it, though René took his eyes from the other man at last as he considered the mark this would leave on his face. Deniau would be amused, as would Mirena. It would only be Marechal who would dislike seeing him so ugly. “You hit me,” he went on blankly, pressing his fingertips against the soreness until colour swirled before his eyes. The pain did not settle his mind as it should have, but how could anything have done so, when James Fitzroy who bowed meekly before idiots had struck him in a rage?
René felt his breathing become rapid and his skin tighten with expectation; enough to have him place a hand carefully in his lap. Once there he uncurled his thumb, his breath hitching anew as the finger lightly stroked against his throbbing prick. Not yet hard, but still aroused even with him flattened and on the floor. Damn, René’s amazing
“A doxy is a…whore.” James shuddered at the word though he did not stammer. “I am not your whore,” he said again, ducking his head as if ashamed to acknowledge the word. René flung his head back, and dropped his hand to the floor, colder to the touch than it should have been. He felt the chill shiver through his skin, to his bones. This works better than a punch on René, you’ll notice. All lustful thoughts banished for the moment.
So James knew what René had made him. And had restrained himself at only one blow. Did he not set his price higher than that? Tight-jawed despite the pain, René pushed himself up and to his feet, jerking his coat straight before striding back to stand before the larger man, gesturing wildly.
“Not my whore, but your Lord’s? St. Cyr’s?” If the thought of the shifty-eyed, drunken lord placing his hands on James was not enough to make René raise his voice, then Etienne St. Cyr moaning under the attentions of those gentle hands had him nearly shouting. Un embarras—he had meant to be firm, not loud. Nonetheless he stared up through the glass of the spectacles as he asked it, and turned his face when he sensed James lashing out again.
Hesitation this time, as if James already regretted the first. René stayed on his feet though his head was forced to the side. He had it back in an instant, glaring furiously at James for not hitting harder. He was not some small, puny girl to be treated lightly. He could kill James if he wished, before James could think to raise a hand in defense. This is true, though he never would. They balance out nicely. I’m surprised it worked so well, to be honest.
James’s fist had not retreated to his side. He still held it aloft, blinking at the sight of his knuckles, though the skin had not split that René could see. The other man unfurled each finger one by one, and then slowly raised his head. “I hit you,” he said as if he had just noticed, and it was almost enough to amuse René. But James was too serious for that, shadowed now with unpleasant thoughts. “Not since…” That he did not finish. Nor his second sentence. “You did not…” Only the third statement was whole, completed through pale, thin lips. “I want to hit you again,” he confessed, then shook his head. As though his hand had been burned he tucked it under one arm, then crossed both arms across his chest. Shades of my Sparrington thing here too, must be a theme of mine. Norrington ain’t so passive though. But I think Jack might enjoy a little fisticuffs
René smeared the back of his hand along his cheek, feeling a growing swelling, and tiny cuts on the inside of his mouth, from his teeth, but no bleeding. Mirena could punch harder—if she meant to hurt.
“I want to kiss thee as well.” Mush! Schmoop! And I loves it!James added softly, though there was no blade at his throat to warrant such a remark. Before René could remember his body and his lungs and remind them to move, to breathe, James was laughing to himself, so quietly that René shivered. “A lunatic am I. A Bedlamite for certain, for just when I think you are the very Devil…” There he stopped, then blurted onward. “You have food in your hair,” he revealed, his mirth ceasing so abruptly that the drums outside seemed closer, more insistent. In other words, in the language of James, Just when I think you are some supernatural magical love machine sent to bewitch me, I notice how very real you are. You eat like a pig, René. James dropped his hands limply to his sides, clenched them tightly against his thighs, then raised them to wrap them around himself again. “What do you want from me, Sir?” His very voice wept, though that could have been in René’s mind. Ick, the writing there bugs me now
The cuts in his mouth stung as René prodded them with his tongue, finding a use for it that was not speaking. He could not speak yet, and had not been permitted to use his tongue for anything else. What he wanted…what a strange thing to be asked. He wanted to be with James. He wanted James in his bed, but that James already knew, and had shoved him aside only to make queer statements, foolishness about food in his hair. What was odd in that?
He did not want James Fitzroy to be with Etienne St. Cyr, or the lord, or even Mirena. He wanted to be away from this house, from Jamaica. He wanted…
Disgusted, René hacked out a cough and shook his head. His hair, and a crumb of pastry, fell into his face, but he kept it there. “I want you to leave this house,” he decided, firmly, and reveled in the clear puzzlement in James’ stance. Relatively direct, for René
“You are not on your ship anymore, to give me orders. Regardless of what Sir Marvell thinks me.” It did not take long for James to regain his balance, as René had not pressed the point. James was sticking out his jaw mulishly and had allowed the defiance to return to his voice. Still, René could not hide his surprise to learn that James had known of Sir Marvell’s intent in sending him out here. René wondered if James also knew that Sir Marvell would have wanted him to spy.
“You do not…! Vous n'appartenez pas ici! Il est sous vous!” Frustration with the clumsy English had him shouting in his own tongue. From the corner of one eye, René saw movement, as a small child slave tried to slip past the two madmen in the hall without being noticed. Even without James spying, the tale would get back to Sir Marvell. That was displeasing, and it was James’ fault for making him lose his temper.
James was floundering for words, understanding him, and yet furious. Clearly agitated, he pointed one finger accusingly.
“And do you prize me so highly? You who left me on my knees in the gutter? You are no better than they, and I am no better than a common bawd, for wanting you still.” He stopped there, shaking visibly and looking ill.
“Je suis retourné pour vous.” René whispered urgently. And now James translated French as if it were his beloved Latin, with a speed that was almost instant, flinching as if the idea were unwelcome.
René stretched his fingers, his itching skin soothed only by the feel of something being clutched hard against it. It was perhaps the only reason he had kept the useless token around his neck all these years.
“I am a free prince!” He announced abruptly, standing straighter and freeing his hands. “I will not be told what to do!” I am a free prince is a quote from an actual pirate, I forget which one, I’d have to consult notes. The term prince meant a lot of things then. Elizabeth said it too, in reference to herself. I can’t imagine René thinking of himself in any other term when confronted by someone questioning his status.
“Neither will I.” Slow and soft, but meant, for James lowered his head until their eyes were level. He did not seem to find it odd, that René yelled at the air. Just as slowly, René swallowed, observing James warily for that. Oh no, James might possibly, *know* you. James’ voice was even lower when he spoke again. “You have not yet finished your game with me, have you?”
René did not reply, not entirely certain that James wanted a response. James was queer, even for an Englishman, shouting out that which ought not be spoken, blushing with maidenly virtue at a small embrace, and then growing forceful on the topic of whores without the slightest shame. René bent his neck to the side instead, stretching the tight muscles, never taking watchful eyes from the still figure before him.
James was not trembling, or stammering, or anxiously feasting on his bottom lip. He did not even blink. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, at last, and René heard his own rough exhalation of breath as if it had come from someone else. He twitched reflexively and pricked up his ears, approaching footsteps making him want to stab the next fool who dared come upon them.
High girlish laughter, Mirena’s crazed mirth; four glasses of whiskey’s worth of fool coming closer.
“Mayhap if I wish to start one with you?” James wondered with what could not have been amusement in his voice, and stepped out from the balcony so suddenly that René leaned back, only just keeping himself from backing away. OhgoditssohotwhenJamesdecidestotakecontrolRenecomesinhispantalons
“René, you little baked chicken, where are you hiding?” Mirena called out gaily in her a mix of her own tongue and French, insulting him just to vex him. Ahem. Slang term in Portuguese and a few other languages referring to a gay man being on his back with his legs in the air getting fucked good and hard. Just for your edification. Probably she came to save him from himself, or from James. The thought would have been amusing if René had not had been planning her slow torture and slower death. He laid on his back for no man. Yeah right. Slutmonkey.
René felt something in his belly twist to see the strange expression on James Fitzroy’s face now. James is smitten to learn that René allows his friends to tease him. He wore no high colour, and his lips were curved upward, in what appeared to be a smile. It widened even as René watched, and then James was nodding his head to gesture behind him, though the smile fell then at last. His shoulders twitched with some imagined pressure, and James’ eyes found his feet, ungainly in petit slippers.
They were ugly shoes, uglier even then the hideous, stupid wig he wore, stringy pale curls hanging around his neck like pieces of rope. And the candlelight made him seem yellowed now, faded, mixing uneasily with the pale green brocade of his suit of clothing.
René turned to glare at Mirena, which kept her from coming any closer than a few yards, even in her current state.
“The English…left. Business, for his house.” That seemed to be the main part of whatever Mirena had wished to say, or at least what English she was able to recall to her tongue now that it was looser. “I am tired, René,” she complained a moment later, and René thought he would enjoy telling her how she had stumbled like a child unable to hold her liquor.
“I ought to see if Sir Marvell needs me.” James coughed and spoke up, addressing the floor with only the smallest glance upward.
“You will go to him now?” René demanded, spinning back from Mirena, who apparently did not mind. His earlier fury had returned, and he forgot that weakness that had had him backing away from this man. This man with his tiny, silken slippers. I am wondering if I was making some silly joke here, about silk slippers equally something feminine, like Ruby Slippers in Pooky’s Chinese epic. But I don’t know for sure now…
“With him or with you, my role is the same,” James whispered, flushing the moment the harsh words left him. And René stared down at the pointed, shining metal blade in his hand, wondering where it had come from.
“Monsieur Fitzroy!” Mirena exclaimed behind him, sounding delighted, and ridiculously young. She was older than René by a handful of years, with lines on her face from the sea.
“Madame.” James addressed her as was proper, not with fawning false flattery like his master, though his eyes were fixed on René’s sword, his jaw slack.
“In England you have your big oaks?” Mirena asked, but James was still goggling at the blade. René tapped each finger in turn on the hilt and then slipped it into his belt, not bothering to hide it this time. He would know what James had meant by that. If not now then later. René, I think, would crawl inside James’ brain if it would help him understand James’ (really quite reasonable) demands. But even if he doesn’t understand them, he would still bleed himself dry to fulfill them.
“Oaks?” James sounded strangled, coughing dryly and looking into René’s eyes with a different question in his mind.
“And you, Fitz. Roy.” Each syllable slid from the woman’s mouth like it was coated in that sugared syrup, and René wondered how much it had taken to soften the wasp’s sharp tongue. She was behind him now, at his shoulder and coming closer, though he was not her goal. “…Are you an oak?” Her gaze dropped down, and she did not look at James’ feet.
“Shut your mouth!” René barked at her in her own language and received a bleary, irritated stare in return, before her eyes went round and bright. Then she threw back her head and shouted a laugh that was so loud that it should have sobered even her. Mirena is so incredibly damn vulgar. I love her. I dislike the notion that a sexual woman is a stupid woman. But that doesn’t mean she has to be aristocratic. She is to me the image of a fisherman’s wife…except that she’s never had children so she hasn’t…uh…filled out in the manner of most Portuguese fishermans’ wives. She’s pure fantasy as well. Women pirates existed, but so brazenly? I somehow think people would have shot her from the water ages ago.
“I…” James stumbled again, not used to such women probably, though he still had not more than glanced at Mirena. His cheeks would burn to the touch, from the look of them. “I am too weak to be an…oak, Madame,” he murmured, ducking his head once.
“You scare James away, Mirena.” René was smiling at that even as he reached around to grab Mirena’s arm and steer her about. She just twisted her head around to stare back, leering at him now. She would pounce on the next man she saw in this humour, and blame René for it later.
“But perhaps Madame Aranha wishes to judge for herself?” James called out to their backs and René stiffened, dimly aware that he was standing with one foot still in the air. Mirena was bubbling over with triumphant laughter, clapping her hands to let James know he had amused and pleased her. René tightened his grip on Mirena, surprised at how strong and steady she suddenly was, but happy to feel it.
To be rejected by this Englishman was nothing, even if his body still wanted him. It had been whim only, bringing him here, and if he wanted he could still make James Fitzroy his pet; James had made that clear. But to be given horns to wear in this manner was like a sword slicing through his middle. Let us break down this NeNe thought. He is totally cool at James rejecting him. James is just some random Englishman he fucked once or twice. He means nothing to him. But if he sleeps with Mirena, who is obviously teasing, then René is being cuckolded like a husband with a cheating spouse. Now that’s amazing.
Tearing away from Mirena, he wheeled around, not even bothering to pull his dagger loose. “You will not…!” And his tongue became too thick for speech, choking him.
James was regarding him levelly, arms crossed. His face seemed rougher, the lines harsh and unforgiving though he had been playful with Mirena moments before. Then his chin lifted.
To start one with you, James had said. Un défi—a challenge in those burning eyes, whether James realized it or not.
“It is silly for me to kill such an insignificant man,” René announced to the room, to those who cared to listen. pout pout
“Silly,” Mirena agreed, drowsily. James said nothing, but his eyes widened.
“I will put you to bed instead, Belle-mere.” René told Mirena teasingly, without glancing back to her. Her hand found his shoulder however, calling him back to the world outside this small space, and the thinning of James’ lips at his words.
“My Lord will be disappointed.” James managed to sound polite, and inclined his head in a manner that was almost gracious. If it had been done by that ass-child of St. Cyr, it might have even seemed so. But James did not quite seem so willing to see him leave with Mirena on his arm.
“Je retourne encore.” René waved his free hand dismissively, though his arm felt stiff, and jerked Mirena roughly, so she would not fall over and topple them both. drunk-asses. René is the kind of drunk who seems only a little tipsy the whole night, right up until he gets the spins and falls over, holding his stomach and whining that he might vomit. Mirena just gets high.
“Sir Marvell will be pleased.” James was equally stiff, inclining his head once again, so lowly that it was almost a bow. René glimpsed the top of his head, or the top of his wig, and cursed the damned thing just as James stumbled again, and the wig slid forward an inch or so.
James was not meant to wear such nonsense. The priestly black he had been garbed in on their first meeting was what had suited him best, and if not that then he should wear nothing. It was enough to make René wonder if even diamonds would suit that stern figure before him. Would James be pleased with diamonds? Or condemn them for the blood on them? He might forget that too, if he could sell them for money for the child, the way he had forgotten what went on outside of this house in exchange for a place for the boy. It had taken only moments for René to reach that conclusion.
Ben’s curious gaze had not left him in the months since René had laid eyes on the brat. There on the dock it had been plain enough, the child sizing up René’s interest in James, with no shame at all. René had almost expected to be knifed for coming too close. So pir8fancier asked me once, something about the threads from the first chapters that come out later…I always fill first chapters with crap details. Details up the wazoo, in case I need them later, I guess, though I do have a general sort of game plan. In this case, I knew Ben would be an issue, and yes, I was already making plans for those diamonds.
“I do not come for Sir Marvell.” René thought it best to make that clear and was pleased by the flood of colour into James’ face, making it no longer so sallow. The total and utter fluff of this. It’s so lovely. I’m completely reminded of ultra-sappy yaoi manga Only the Ring Finger Knows and now I burn to see this in manga form. I would be most amused
“Adeus!” Mirena called out, her elbow finding his ribs in an expression of impatience. Holding James’ gaze for a few moments more, René ignored her for as long as she would allow. Then he was turning, leading the heavy, drunken idiot back down the hall. He did not look back, knowing that James was standing there and waiting for him to do just that.
The door to the pretty negress’ room was closed now, silence behind it, though René curved his lips into a sneer just the same. There was no mark of Etienne St. Cyr either, fortunately for him, and René followed the path they had taken when entering the large house, until he was downstairs.
Mirena grew steadier with each step, finally shoving him away with a vexed noise when they reached the foot of the great stone stairs and passed under the large arching doorway that some Spanish nobleman had once been proud of. Without a trace of weakness in her legs or step, she swept up her skirts into fisted hands and stalked out the door, where a carriage waited for them.
“Leaves me to find his lover!” she snarled in a French that was not much different than what was spoken in the gutters of Paris, and struck out viciously at the servant trying to help her inside the vehicle. Since René did know not if she spoke of Sir Marvell, or himself, he shrugged and followed her in, taking great pleasure in the fact that he did not need assistance.
“The dress becomes you, belle-mere,” he remarked as she attempted to settle the mass of fabric. That the lady she had taken it from had valued it greatly as a wedding dress obviously meant nothing to Mirena. She had stroked the silks on the ride here, enjoying the feel of them. But now René had a feeling the dress would be floating in the sea tomorrow. The threads were of a rich gold, and René studied them with interest, wondering how he would fare if he offered James gold. That colour might also suit him.
“I am not your…” she fumbled for the word and René supplied it, not bothering to hide his annoyance when she kicked him. She had been upsetting him deliberately all evening, and James had dared to call him the spoiled child.
“Step-mother.” It was the nice term for the role, though she was not worthy of either title, even if she had been his step-mother. But regardless of that, it was impossible to have a second mother when your father had never married your first.
“If I were I would tell you to marry and stop dreaming of an Englishman who hates you.”
With a start, René sat up to fix her with a look. Then he grabbed a handful of her skirt and yanked her closer. Her face formed into a stubborn look he knew only too well, but he pressed anyway.
“Do not presume…” he began, but knew that at least was a waste of time when Mirena had presumed everything from the moment he had first fished her out of a rain barrel she had fallen into one evening after smoking the herb the Africans grew in the fields. René shuddered briefly to recall her determination to help him. He wished she would find some of that herb now, and grow sleepy. “You know nothing!” he said finally and pushed her away. Then he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, suddenly very tired himself.
“He is handsome enough to make it interesting.” Mirena commented, not looking at him as she hiked up her skirts and propped one leg up on the small bench. Bending her knee, and using it to support her elbow, she rested her head and eyed him thoughtfully. “I thought so when I saw him several days ago.”
“What?” That escaped before René lined up his thoughts, but he closed his mouth sharply on the end and said no more. Not even when she grinned lustily at him and thrust out her breasts.
“I didn’t know he was yours,” she explained after letting him imagine one of her romps, and then destroyed the gown forever by ripping out several of the strings holding the busk hard against her breasts. She sighed as the gown loosened. René’s lips tightened.
“James Fitzroy is not mine.”
“He will be.” Mirena found this amusing and laughed softly to herself, growing louder each time she met René’s eyes and saw his fury. “It is easy enough to catch a man, René. Do you need me to teach you?”
“I do not like to hear you speak of him,” René whispered roughly, aware that he had said almost the same words earlier but beyond caring.
The carriage rolled and rocked into motion, almost like a ship beneath them, and they stayed in silence for a long while. When Mirena finally turned away from him with an annoyed toss of hair, René laid his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. James would be his again, and no one else’s, and even crafty lords and wide-eyed children would not stand in his way from having him.
“He is mine,” René told her, tasting the words as he longed to taste James. Mirena hummed some peasant song to herself, then stopped.
“Stubborn ass,” she murmured, and René curved his lips into a smile.
“Drunken slut,” he whispered back, but did not open his eyes. James was behind them, on smiling for him on a bed of gold shot silk, wearing nothing but diamonds.
Several moments later he frowned, and pushed the vision away with a sigh. Somehow he did not think scholarly James would care for diamonds. He would have to find something else to please him.
Huh. I wonder what the point of all that was. I suspect it was for the making out on the balcony. And also to set up for the next scene, and delicious near-screwing over a desk.
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I have become remiss in keeping in touch with the utter fabulousness of these chapters.
How drunk do you have to be to not remember something from two minutes before…?“
Maybe he has ADD haha
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*sheepish*
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One thing that really intrigued me is your comment about Marechal being a twisted father figure. That is one relationship that I would like to see explained a bit more. I mean, really, Rene gutted him for a reason and clearly it wasn't just because of the mutiny, was it? Am I reading to much into it.
I know you can't do it for every chapter, but would kill for commentary on Chapter 8 because that is such a critical chapter. It seems to me in that Chapter, two things happen. One, James gets a backbone (not that the hitting wasn't sooooo manly), but when HE instigates the sexual action, pulls Rene to him, starts cupping the goods, it seemed to me at the time very pivotal. The balance of power between them truly evened out, setting the scene for Chapter 9, possibly the hottest thing I've ever read on the net. Second, the conflict between Rene and Etienne St. Cyr is on the table.
Really adores this.
Saw your rec on your website for the Goofus and Gallant porn. THAT WAS SO FUNNY! Truly, we're all going to hell in a handbasket.
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ick ick ick
and speaking of marechal...i have unresolved issues with marechal. i think because james does. james lives in fear that he might become marechal. and rene shall have to address this later as well.
you should write fic commentary. it's very...weird. (odd, scary, annoying, surreal?)
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And Marechal. I think you've done a nice job of foreshadowing James as the new Marechal(?) dilemma. I thought a large degree of James' visceral hatred of Marechal was largely based on jealousy. Is this true?
Glad to see that Rene will address this later because it's one of major plot issues (IMHO) that needs to be somewhat resolved before this saga finishes. Obviously, the St. Cyr father thing is the major plot point to be resolved, but between them, Rene and James, there needs to be a resolution at some level of what exactly James is to Rene. Because obviously all the free prince crap is really about parity and being equal. I cannot see James shadowing along behind Rene ala Marechal!
I thought it very brilliant to show exactly how equal Rene and James have become in the scene set on deck before they land in France. The conversation between Deniau and James (which is clearly a conversation between equals--that they can bandy about comments vis a vis Rene) shows *exactly* how far James had come in both Rene and Deniau's eyes from that stuck-up prig they first laid eyes on several months earlier.
Actually, having begged for commentary on Chapter 8, really, the chapter that I would really like to see commentary on is the dream chapter after Rene gets stabbed. It's the backstory for so much of Rene's kinks and insecurities. Also, even though it's from Rene's POV, since James hears most of this, it would also be interesting to see James' commentary on this chapter!
IOS. My drug of choice.
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The dream chapter, in which Rene loses it, would be difficult to unravel I think. I could give it a whirl. Mebbe.
It's a good thing James has no interest in being Rene's Daddy figure. Just guilt that he was jealous of Marechal before he knew Marechal's actual former role in Rene's life, and then fear that he might become Marechal.