[fic] praise us with dishonor (burn us kindly) (Róméo és Júlia) 1/1
This is a fic for the Hungarian musical version of Romeo and Juliet. It is AMAZING, go watch it on Youtube (no worries, there are subs).
Then come back if you want to read my first fivesome (M/M/M/M/F) Yes, you read that right.
Title: praise us with dishonor (burn us kindly)
Author:
drcalvin
Pairing: OC's/Tybalt
Rating: NC-17 / Adult
Warnings: Angst, smut, cousin-incest, fucked up sexuality (but not non-con).
Summary: Four Capulet cousins attempt to fuck the rage and sadness out of Tybalt.
I blame the guy who plays Tybalt. He could have badwrong UST with a potted plant, and he does have badwrong UST with his aunt, Mercutio, Julia and basically everyone else in the crew too.
Tybalt rages again. It is the night of his fathers death, who fell two bitter years ago. Though he has roamed the streets after Mass, the Montagues have kept their cowardly noses indoors, and wine and cold have conspired to inflate his anger.
Tybalt rages and the servants have already locked the door to the grand dining room.
"Where is the lady Capulet?" whispers a second cousin. "Where is the master of the house?"
"Gone to visit the Duke," replies one of the liege men.
"Where is old -"
"Gone!" Tybalt has come upon them, all flashing eyes and trembling limbs, his black rage threatening to tumble him into a fit. "They are all gone!"
The doctors have warned them: Tybalt might be their champion, the strongest fighter in Verona, but the fits are dangerous.
Make sure he takes regular exercise, the doctors had said, and all the cousins tittered; Tybalt's exercise was battle and fucking and he skimped on neither. Don't let him go too long without sleep, they said, and the lady Capulet smiled coyly and swore to tuck him in personally. But most of all, the doctors said, make certain he does not become too upset - or his anger might kill him. And then they had laughed so loudly, all of the Capulets; they laughed and jeered and none had laughed louder than Tybalt.
Only a few weeks later he fell to a fit, biting his tongue bloody and choking on himself, his head and heels drumming against the floor. Lord Capulet called for doctors, the girl cousins shrieked and the young men stumbled over each other in their attempts to help.
He lived. But since then everyone in the Capulet household has walked carefully when they see the darkest clouds of rage descend upon Tybalt.
"Where is Julia?"
"Julia!" The name begins a caress and becomes a curse, his steps growing unsteady, and the offending cousin is duly smacked and pushed away, but too late - Tybalt's face grows bestial and he howls his wrath into the night. "Julia! Is not here!" The tremors take his hands and two cousins hurry over; he flings them away like rags, only to stumble a moment later.
"We'll take him to his bedroom," decides the oldest girl cousin. Family rule states she ought to remain silent and obey her betters... but Tybalt has just broken a table against the wall, fussy dried flowers and little porcelain figures flying every which way. The image of battling him down atop the splinters, of that maddened strength taking up a broken vase and tearing into - them, him, who knows; Tybalt rages and none but Julia is safe.
But Julia is not there.
They manhandle him into the nearest bedroom and a handful of them tumble upon the bed in a tangle of terror and overflowing emotion. A monster of a man; a young liege-man distantly related, two cousins too low of rank and empty of pocket to fight and fuck their way through this night of shame and a young woman; all born into this family of fighting roosters always thirsting for blood.
The other cousins and the servants call out good advice, yell for a doctor, and close the door so that they lie abandoned in the dark.
Tybalt no longer rages. The fit is fully upon him now; they stuff the corner of a pillow in his mouth and hold him down while he bucks and shakes beneath them.
"Take his knives," the girl says, "before he comes to properly." They move to obey, patting him down, stroking over the sweaty shirt to find hidden blades.
One knife, two knives, three - The liege-man gasps in the darkness, for what he felt is not a blade that cuts with steel. But before he can withdraw his hand, Tybalt rolls his hips and groans beneath him. The cousins above him grow still; no longer proud Capulets, but frightened deers in the night who hear the temptation of the hunter.
He speaks a name though it is muffled by the pillow.
"They..." The second cousin clears his throat. "I've heard from the others, that he never has the falling illness when they are in the brothel."
It is dark.
There is nobody there for them. There never is. Not for the Capulet children, who grow angry before they grow old, and who learn to fuck away their loneliness until only the anger remains.
It is dark and whose hand is first to return unto Tybalt's blade? None can know and none will tell. There is only the rustle of cloth, ties unlaced and buttons fumbled open - a girlish gasp when those strong killer's hands close around young breasts, squeezing to the edge of pain.
"Careful," one of the cousins hisses, "she is not a whore!" His hand joins Tybalt, gentling him, and their fingers tangle over the firm mound, rolling and teasing.
"Tybalt, Tybalt..." The other cousin is unlacing his shirt, and kisses a prayer into the fever-hot skin; a young man speaking to his hollow idol. He tastes the sweat, offers lips still childishly full and hands that are already bloodied from battle. A false prayer of jealousy and rivalry, their enemies would say - but they are not Capulets. Beyond the competitions, there is admiration and buried at the depth of their rage, there is the love for the family, so furious that it devours them whole.
Two years ago, the last of Tybalt was devoured.
He rears up now, taking the lips of the second cousin, growling against him even as he fucks his mouth; clutches his head in one hand, while the other hand sinks down between naked breasts and teases over the soft rounding of her belly.
Tybalt thrusts with his hips and the second cousin crawls down, tugs off his boots. They have opened his breeches, they all help to pull them down, and they shiver as one when he moans beneath them: need gentling his anger, need feeding their pride. In the dark none need to recall whose lips first close upon his hardness, though three young men will dream that they were the first brave enough to offer themselves to Tybalt's hungry mouth.
They were not, however, and they know so in the daylight. It is again a girlish bravado that takes the lead, and when next Tybalt tongues moist lips they are above him, they stain his face with female juices and it is the preciously guarded thighs of a Capulet daughter that capture proud Tybalt in place.
It is to the trembling, nervous fingers of a Capulet son that he opens his legs and offers himself. Not with humility, for that was burned out of Tybalt years ago, but with the casual grace of one who has known a hundred whores and played every game until boredom long ago.
"Tybalt," whispers a cousin and spends nipping, biting kisses over the muscular stomach while his hand dips into the girlish cleft that hides Tybalt's face.
"Cousin," whispers another, "kinsman," and perhaps he is the one who saw through the dark.
For Tybalt pushes the girl away, rolls halfway out of the bed, and the young man worshiping his blade gags, before he pulls away. His feet thump to the floor, he curls together and his breathing is too ragged for pleasure.
"This isn't the brothel," they whisper, while draping young limbs and gentle hands over his back.
"This is -"
"No Lady of the house," the youngest cousin dares to whisper, "only us. Only us."
Tybalt shudders in their grip. But though they feel the tension roiling through his muscles, as if there were cords of steel and honor tugging him apart from within, he returns to them.
He returns to them and now he sees them; now he knows. Capulet, his desperate kisses whisper, Capulet his moans sing of when saliva-slicked fingers enter him. Capulet who honors no honor when bloody-lust burns their sanity away; Capulet who falls into sin among kinsman limbs and dark family love.
They press him to his knees now, gently, and he folds beneath them; their champion beast, gentled by kind touches, if only for one night. In the dark, the long fall of hair needs not to hide anything, and one cousin grips it, steers Tybalt right and opens his legs, invites him in. He swallows a sob when there is no hesitation, when there is only the heat of his mouth and the unskilled pressure of his lips and tongue and teeth. When Tybalt takes him slowly inside, he sobs and curls together, his hands drawing love upon Tybalts back and his tears knowing that none can reach too deep.
There are his cousins at his side, the pretty young girl and the pretty young boy, kissing and teasing each other; hands giving pleasure so that claims of virginity will not be belied. They hear his sorrow, interrupt their play to shower kisses upon him, while Tybalt offers the only comfort he knows.
When the third cousin slowly enters him, Tybalt's hands flounder, searching for a halt, and they give it to him. One of them climbs over him, and there is a girl and a boy on each side, their bodies welcoming his fumbling, their hands clutching at his. There is a cousin clawing, crying at his back while his hard cock fills Tybalt's mouth, his thrusts growing more and more frantic even as his voice grows louder. Behind him, inside him, there is the inescapable presence of his kinsman; he fills Tybalt, his is the grounding grip against his hip, and their presence drowns out the roar of rage's flames. There remains only the gentle warmth of their bodies and the breaking pressure of their desire.
It is with a howl of anguish as much as lust that his cousin fills his mouth with his spend. It tastes too bitter to Tybalt; he sobs it down even as dizzy pleasure courses through his body. When he feels the cock soften in his mouth, he takes him in hand, licks him clean. Gentle, tired hands and sweet kisses are his thanks, but it is not enough; Tybalt is stumbling again and he longs for the mindless pleasure to fill him again.
Perhaps they hear him; perhaps the same desire runs through their shared blood.
Boyish lips close around his sex; their fumbling, breathless delight sending a spear of jealousy and regret through him. The familiar taste of the girl is made sweeter by the knowledge that she in some measure carries a shadow of Julia's grace within her heart-blood. He tastes her; he drinks his sin and lets it drown the hatred inside. The cousins are moving inside him, around him - but their touch is too kind. Tybalt knows how it is to have a woman worship his cock, to spread as much splendor upon him as he has gold to buy, but not this.
Fumbling and sweet and too, too honest; like the thrusts within him that are becoming frantic and losing what little finesse they had. It lights an ache inside him, it soothes scars so old he did not recall a time they did not hurt, and he sobs into the comfort of his cousin's soft stomach and warming sex. Tybalt is held and taken; he is covered in such a gentle love that he does not know what to do - it is a relief when the hands at his hip grip tight, when the last, hard thrusts become selfish and taking. It is good when he can dig his tongue deep, when he can use his finger and thumb and coax a frantic, groaning orgasm from the girl and dim her brightness before he burns. Just one more slut, he tells himself; just like there are only lips and tongue and a face to fuck beneath him, like uncounted faces he has bought before. It is all the same, he whispers in his mind, tries to repeat until he suddenly comes; the same wrenching force with which the madness strikes takes him and his whisper dies unheard.
The voice that whispers around his slackening sex is too rough and comforting. He doesn’t need to see it, as he must not see his little cousins so languid and so sweet around his sinful self. Tybalt closes his eyes and the room is dark and the night stretches long and empty.
(But there are undried tears on his face and his cousins' love wrapped around him, and perhaps, when all is over and they lie tangled so soft and sated, perhaps then nobody will recall who cried and who comforted).
Then come back if you want to read my first fivesome (M/M/M/M/F) Yes, you read that right.
Title: praise us with dishonor (burn us kindly)
Author:
drcalvin
Pairing: OC's/Tybalt
Rating: NC-17 / Adult
Warnings: Angst, smut, cousin-incest, fucked up sexuality (but not non-con).
Summary: Four Capulet cousins attempt to fuck the rage and sadness out of Tybalt.
I blame the guy who plays Tybalt. He could have badwrong UST with a potted plant, and he does have badwrong UST with his aunt, Mercutio, Julia and basically everyone else in the crew too.
Tybalt rages again. It is the night of his fathers death, who fell two bitter years ago. Though he has roamed the streets after Mass, the Montagues have kept their cowardly noses indoors, and wine and cold have conspired to inflate his anger.
Tybalt rages and the servants have already locked the door to the grand dining room.
"Where is the lady Capulet?" whispers a second cousin. "Where is the master of the house?"
"Gone to visit the Duke," replies one of the liege men.
"Where is old -"
"Gone!" Tybalt has come upon them, all flashing eyes and trembling limbs, his black rage threatening to tumble him into a fit. "They are all gone!"
The doctors have warned them: Tybalt might be their champion, the strongest fighter in Verona, but the fits are dangerous.
Make sure he takes regular exercise, the doctors had said, and all the cousins tittered; Tybalt's exercise was battle and fucking and he skimped on neither. Don't let him go too long without sleep, they said, and the lady Capulet smiled coyly and swore to tuck him in personally. But most of all, the doctors said, make certain he does not become too upset - or his anger might kill him. And then they had laughed so loudly, all of the Capulets; they laughed and jeered and none had laughed louder than Tybalt.
Only a few weeks later he fell to a fit, biting his tongue bloody and choking on himself, his head and heels drumming against the floor. Lord Capulet called for doctors, the girl cousins shrieked and the young men stumbled over each other in their attempts to help.
He lived. But since then everyone in the Capulet household has walked carefully when they see the darkest clouds of rage descend upon Tybalt.
"Where is Julia?"
"Julia!" The name begins a caress and becomes a curse, his steps growing unsteady, and the offending cousin is duly smacked and pushed away, but too late - Tybalt's face grows bestial and he howls his wrath into the night. "Julia! Is not here!" The tremors take his hands and two cousins hurry over; he flings them away like rags, only to stumble a moment later.
"We'll take him to his bedroom," decides the oldest girl cousin. Family rule states she ought to remain silent and obey her betters... but Tybalt has just broken a table against the wall, fussy dried flowers and little porcelain figures flying every which way. The image of battling him down atop the splinters, of that maddened strength taking up a broken vase and tearing into - them, him, who knows; Tybalt rages and none but Julia is safe.
But Julia is not there.
They manhandle him into the nearest bedroom and a handful of them tumble upon the bed in a tangle of terror and overflowing emotion. A monster of a man; a young liege-man distantly related, two cousins too low of rank and empty of pocket to fight and fuck their way through this night of shame and a young woman; all born into this family of fighting roosters always thirsting for blood.
The other cousins and the servants call out good advice, yell for a doctor, and close the door so that they lie abandoned in the dark.
Tybalt no longer rages. The fit is fully upon him now; they stuff the corner of a pillow in his mouth and hold him down while he bucks and shakes beneath them.
"Take his knives," the girl says, "before he comes to properly." They move to obey, patting him down, stroking over the sweaty shirt to find hidden blades.
One knife, two knives, three - The liege-man gasps in the darkness, for what he felt is not a blade that cuts with steel. But before he can withdraw his hand, Tybalt rolls his hips and groans beneath him. The cousins above him grow still; no longer proud Capulets, but frightened deers in the night who hear the temptation of the hunter.
He speaks a name though it is muffled by the pillow.
"They..." The second cousin clears his throat. "I've heard from the others, that he never has the falling illness when they are in the brothel."
It is dark.
There is nobody there for them. There never is. Not for the Capulet children, who grow angry before they grow old, and who learn to fuck away their loneliness until only the anger remains.
It is dark and whose hand is first to return unto Tybalt's blade? None can know and none will tell. There is only the rustle of cloth, ties unlaced and buttons fumbled open - a girlish gasp when those strong killer's hands close around young breasts, squeezing to the edge of pain.
"Careful," one of the cousins hisses, "she is not a whore!" His hand joins Tybalt, gentling him, and their fingers tangle over the firm mound, rolling and teasing.
"Tybalt, Tybalt..." The other cousin is unlacing his shirt, and kisses a prayer into the fever-hot skin; a young man speaking to his hollow idol. He tastes the sweat, offers lips still childishly full and hands that are already bloodied from battle. A false prayer of jealousy and rivalry, their enemies would say - but they are not Capulets. Beyond the competitions, there is admiration and buried at the depth of their rage, there is the love for the family, so furious that it devours them whole.
Two years ago, the last of Tybalt was devoured.
He rears up now, taking the lips of the second cousin, growling against him even as he fucks his mouth; clutches his head in one hand, while the other hand sinks down between naked breasts and teases over the soft rounding of her belly.
Tybalt thrusts with his hips and the second cousin crawls down, tugs off his boots. They have opened his breeches, they all help to pull them down, and they shiver as one when he moans beneath them: need gentling his anger, need feeding their pride. In the dark none need to recall whose lips first close upon his hardness, though three young men will dream that they were the first brave enough to offer themselves to Tybalt's hungry mouth.
They were not, however, and they know so in the daylight. It is again a girlish bravado that takes the lead, and when next Tybalt tongues moist lips they are above him, they stain his face with female juices and it is the preciously guarded thighs of a Capulet daughter that capture proud Tybalt in place.
It is to the trembling, nervous fingers of a Capulet son that he opens his legs and offers himself. Not with humility, for that was burned out of Tybalt years ago, but with the casual grace of one who has known a hundred whores and played every game until boredom long ago.
"Tybalt," whispers a cousin and spends nipping, biting kisses over the muscular stomach while his hand dips into the girlish cleft that hides Tybalt's face.
"Cousin," whispers another, "kinsman," and perhaps he is the one who saw through the dark.
For Tybalt pushes the girl away, rolls halfway out of the bed, and the young man worshiping his blade gags, before he pulls away. His feet thump to the floor, he curls together and his breathing is too ragged for pleasure.
"This isn't the brothel," they whisper, while draping young limbs and gentle hands over his back.
"This is -"
"No Lady of the house," the youngest cousin dares to whisper, "only us. Only us."
Tybalt shudders in their grip. But though they feel the tension roiling through his muscles, as if there were cords of steel and honor tugging him apart from within, he returns to them.
He returns to them and now he sees them; now he knows. Capulet, his desperate kisses whisper, Capulet his moans sing of when saliva-slicked fingers enter him. Capulet who honors no honor when bloody-lust burns their sanity away; Capulet who falls into sin among kinsman limbs and dark family love.
They press him to his knees now, gently, and he folds beneath them; their champion beast, gentled by kind touches, if only for one night. In the dark, the long fall of hair needs not to hide anything, and one cousin grips it, steers Tybalt right and opens his legs, invites him in. He swallows a sob when there is no hesitation, when there is only the heat of his mouth and the unskilled pressure of his lips and tongue and teeth. When Tybalt takes him slowly inside, he sobs and curls together, his hands drawing love upon Tybalts back and his tears knowing that none can reach too deep.
There are his cousins at his side, the pretty young girl and the pretty young boy, kissing and teasing each other; hands giving pleasure so that claims of virginity will not be belied. They hear his sorrow, interrupt their play to shower kisses upon him, while Tybalt offers the only comfort he knows.
When the third cousin slowly enters him, Tybalt's hands flounder, searching for a halt, and they give it to him. One of them climbs over him, and there is a girl and a boy on each side, their bodies welcoming his fumbling, their hands clutching at his. There is a cousin clawing, crying at his back while his hard cock fills Tybalt's mouth, his thrusts growing more and more frantic even as his voice grows louder. Behind him, inside him, there is the inescapable presence of his kinsman; he fills Tybalt, his is the grounding grip against his hip, and their presence drowns out the roar of rage's flames. There remains only the gentle warmth of their bodies and the breaking pressure of their desire.
It is with a howl of anguish as much as lust that his cousin fills his mouth with his spend. It tastes too bitter to Tybalt; he sobs it down even as dizzy pleasure courses through his body. When he feels the cock soften in his mouth, he takes him in hand, licks him clean. Gentle, tired hands and sweet kisses are his thanks, but it is not enough; Tybalt is stumbling again and he longs for the mindless pleasure to fill him again.
Perhaps they hear him; perhaps the same desire runs through their shared blood.
Boyish lips close around his sex; their fumbling, breathless delight sending a spear of jealousy and regret through him. The familiar taste of the girl is made sweeter by the knowledge that she in some measure carries a shadow of Julia's grace within her heart-blood. He tastes her; he drinks his sin and lets it drown the hatred inside. The cousins are moving inside him, around him - but their touch is too kind. Tybalt knows how it is to have a woman worship his cock, to spread as much splendor upon him as he has gold to buy, but not this.
Fumbling and sweet and too, too honest; like the thrusts within him that are becoming frantic and losing what little finesse they had. It lights an ache inside him, it soothes scars so old he did not recall a time they did not hurt, and he sobs into the comfort of his cousin's soft stomach and warming sex. Tybalt is held and taken; he is covered in such a gentle love that he does not know what to do - it is a relief when the hands at his hip grip tight, when the last, hard thrusts become selfish and taking. It is good when he can dig his tongue deep, when he can use his finger and thumb and coax a frantic, groaning orgasm from the girl and dim her brightness before he burns. Just one more slut, he tells himself; just like there are only lips and tongue and a face to fuck beneath him, like uncounted faces he has bought before. It is all the same, he whispers in his mind, tries to repeat until he suddenly comes; the same wrenching force with which the madness strikes takes him and his whisper dies unheard.
The voice that whispers around his slackening sex is too rough and comforting. He doesn’t need to see it, as he must not see his little cousins so languid and so sweet around his sinful self. Tybalt closes his eyes and the room is dark and the night stretches long and empty.
(But there are undried tears on his face and his cousins' love wrapped around him, and perhaps, when all is over and they lie tangled so soft and sated, perhaps then nobody will recall who cried and who comforted).