Er. RPS, again?
All written to the siren call of x_saturnine. She shall be the end of me. D:
Why, yes, it is Shelley/Keats angst!smut. Obsessed? Me? Never!
Poets are Liars, My Dear
"I don't understand why you don't want him to go with us," Shelley said, looking particularly put upon.
"He wouldn't be able to keep up," John said, and he felt particularly petty, mean and childish. "He's a lame leg, he can't go with us."
"Don't be unkind," Shelley said most off-handedly, then grimaced, looking grumpy. "And don't call him lame, he doesn't like it. Besides, he has a longer stride than you. We both do."
"Who's more unkind?" John asked, and he turned away, pursing his lips. "I, who treat him like the lord he is, or he, who treats me like the peasant I am? Or maybe you, who plays us both?"
"Don't be angry, Junkets," Shelley said, and his hand was on John's arm for half a moment, a brush, then lifting away. "Besides, I wouldn't play you if you wouldn't let me."
"I don't," John tried once again, "see why he has to come. He wouldn't like it, anyway. He'd rather stay here, with that mistress of his, and--"
"Watch your tongue, John," Shelley said in the same careless tone, but he looked a little angry, and John folded himself back into his chair. "I don't understand why you're so set against him."
"Perhaps you should ask him the same," John snapped back, and he tapped his fingers against the chair arm restlessly. "I don't--" and there was a catch in his throat, and his lungs, and he coughed, raising a hand to cover his mouth. Shelley moved hesitantly, and John turned further away.
"Perhaps," Shelley said, and he was leaning forward, elbows upon his knees, "none of us should go."
"And what," John asked, and he hated his breathlessness, and the way his chest burned within, "would you suggest we do otherwise?"
Shelley smiled, a positively wicked smile, the smile he gave the pretty girls upon the streets, and the handsome men in the salons.
"To bed, perhaps?" Shelley said, and John let Shelley handle him up and out of the chair, long hands settling over near every inch of John's body.
"And," John asked, and his breathlessness was different this time, and Shelley was near laughing at him, "will he be joining us?"
"Perhaps," Shelley said, "later."
"Perhaps," John echoed, and Shelley was handling him out the door of the parlor, fingers slipping through John's cravat, untugging and pulling upon the ends of the fabric.
"Mmm," Shelley hummed, and he sounded positively charmed. "Perhaps. Should we, though, move on to a room?"
John stumbled after Shelley, and his hands slipped onto Shelley's jacket, slipped upon the buttons, and inside, against Shelley's thin shirt.
"Come, no quick wit?" Shelley asked, and his arms were about John, and then John was lifting into the air, against Shelley's shoulder.
"You," John said, and his breath went out in a gust as his breastbone met Shelley's shoulder, "would gain nothing by it, if I said anything at all." His hands scrambled down Shelley's back, trying to find purchase, and Shelley's hands settled upon John's back and thighs, heavy and warm.
"You wound me, little Junkets," Shelley said, and he jostled John, but it was far kinder than it had been months before, and when Shelley laughed, moving down the hallway, his movements were far more gentle. John let his head hang, cheek turned against Shelley's back, and it was warm, and almost soothing.
"Should I call you Percy?" John asked idly, and the floor and wallboards were swimming in his sight, moving forward and backward. Shelley's chest and back rumbled beneath him, and John caught his fingers in the heavy material of Shelley's jacket.
"I'd that you'd call me that before, but you're always determined against me. Don't trouble yourself for my regard, Keats." Shelley's hand left, then he was swinging John down, and John let his body limp, feeling as though he were a boy, and jumping from the cliffs into the lake again.
"Perhaps we all trouble ourselves too much? Hopeless poets, some of us, and mighty lords, the others, and look where we are." John caught the door handle, and the door clicked before it swung open, a groan of the hinges.
"Indeed," Shelley said, and his hands were upon John again, pulling and tugging, and John grabbed at Shelley's hands, tripping them both over the threshold and into the room. "A well enough place, for two artists with little in life but life itself. To the bed, or would you rather upon a couch?"
"Or a wall, or a vanity, or some other oddity of yours?" John asked, and Shelley's hand was slipping into his trousers, between skin and cloth, and John felt his hand slip in as well, curling around Shelley's fingers, and him, and the room was dizzy in his sight.
"John," Shelley said to John's ear, and John clutched at the arm wrapped about his waist. "John, to where do we go? Your body--"
"Damn my body," John said, and gasped, arching up on his toes, curving back against Shelley's body. Shelley's face was near his, and John could see the corner of Shelley's mouth. "Perhaps, to the Lord's bed?"
"You're a wicked person," Shelley said, and he was laughing against John's hair. "George will kill you some day, if you keep playing tricks on him."
"Unless my body," John began, and then it hurt, Shelley's hands clutching and grabbing and near tearing.
"Don't," Shelley said, and he wasn't laughing anymore, and his mouth looked angry in the corner of John's sight, "don't say such things, John."
John held his tongue, and his breath, and after a moment Shelley's arms and hands loosened, caressing and tracing and pulling again. John caught Shelley's jacket sleeves, curled his fingers against the material, and letting his eyes close against the spinning room.
"I would," Shelley murmured, "give you every happiness you could want, if you'd but ask." His voice was smooth again, thick against John's skin.
"You'd seduce me as though I were a woman," John said dryly, and Shelley was pulling at his clothing again, at the buttons and ties and hooks.
"And what would you have me do?" Shelley asked. John stepped a bit away, shrugged away his jacket, folding it quickly, laying it over his arm. Shelley was moving behind him, shrugging off his own jacket, dropping it to the floor.
"Treat me less as a pet, or a play thing, and more as a man." John undid his cuffs, then pulled at the loosened cravat, slipping it from his neck. "Perhaps I should take comfort that you treat everyone as your play things."
"What if I told you that you're my favorite, of my play things?" Shelley asked, and his shirt was upon the floor as well, trousers open on his waist.
"I'd call you a liar," John said, and he set his jacket and shirt upon a chaise, cravat folded between the two. He pulled at his trouser fastenings, hissing as his fingers touched skin, and kicked off the legs.
"I don't lie, John," Shelley said, and he sounded affronted, shedding the last of his clothing, bent over and looking almost put out. John smiled, folding his trousers.
"We're poets, Shelley, we all lie. It's what we do, playing with pretty words to make pretty lies."
"I wonder," Shelley said, and he was moving closer, and then he was grabbing John, pushing him back until John's back met plaster, dry and smooth against his skin, "what critic put those words in your mouth. Another article, Keats?"
"You," John said, and he grabbed Shelley's hair, pulled Shelley's face closer, until he could kiss him, mouth upon mouth. It tasted bitter, and John wondered if it was Shelley, or if it was himself in Shelley's mouth.
Shelley's hands were on John's waist, and one was sliding down, then in, between John's legs, and John leaned further against the wall, sliding his feet further apart, hips jutting out. Shelley's other hand spread out across John's stomach, and John felt his muscles quiver and jump, body feeling peculiarly light and empty.
"Bones," Shelley said as he pulled back, mouth looking wet. "You're thin," and Shelley sounded accusing. John groaned and pulled at Shelley's hands, breath harsh.
"Would you rather fight," he asked, "or would you rather kiss? I've no wanting for it, but I thought you--" and the rest left in a gasp, and he clutched at Shelley, felt his fingernails dig into Shelley's skin.
Shelley leaned forward, and down, and his forehead was hot against John's shoulder, and his breath was hotter still, and John felt Shelley's hands catch him, and hold him up. John bit his tongue, and tasted blood, and turned his face away, looking upon the plastered walls as the room spun, then collapsed, then spun again.
"You," Shelley said, and then he was laughing, breathless. "Hold up, don't fall on me." John felt his fingers slip from Shelley, and felt Shelley wrap about him tighter, heavy and stubborn and insistent, holding him up from the floor.
"I," John said, and the catch was back, and he was choking, fingers light against Shelley's skin. Shelley's mouth looked small in the corner of John's sight, and John let himself sink, dragging against Shelley. When he licked his lips, they tasted of blood.
"John," Shelley said, and the room was righting itself slowly, walls and floor and ceiling, and Shelley before him. "John," Shelley said, and, "John."
"I," John said, and his body burned, lungs and heart and eyes, and Shelley was over him, poet eyes and artist mouth. "Shelley," he said, and Shelley didn't smile, nor laugh.
"John," Shelley said, "you've blood," and Shelley's thumb was against the corner of John's mouth. "Perhaps," Shelley began, then, "I think--"
"Shelley," John said, and he grabbed at Shelley's hands, and Shelley shook him off distractedly, worried eyes and sad mouth.
"I'm a fool," Shelley said. "I'll find George. He'll set things right. Perhaps," and Shelley was smoothing back John's hair, careless, flighty gestures, "we'll play cards tonight."
"You're a fool," John said, and Shelley smiled at him, naked and thin and crouched upon the floor before him, like some kind of Adam, unaware of the world.
"Yes," Shelley said, "I am, aren't I?" And he kissed John's mouth, and John's temple, and was gone, in trousers and an unfastened shirt, looking for his Lord.
John sat upon the floor, and waited, and Shelley didn't come back. The floor, John learned, was very cold indeed.
And, and, Byron/Severn angst!smut, my life is complete. *dies a very small death*
Paint a Picture
Severn was mewling beneath him, twisting and clutching the sheets, sweat beading upon his back. Byron leaned over, closer, pressed his mouth against Severn's shoulder, sweat salty against his tongue. Severn was tight around him, and hot, and Byron spread his hands over the man's hips, over his back, thumbs near touching.
"God," Severn said, and his voice was half-muffled by his fist. Byron grabbed at Severn, clutched at him, and pulled him closer, pushed himself further in.
"God," Severn cried, and it was near a whine, plaintive and thready, and Byron groaned, closing his eyes as he leaned against Severn's back, breathing in sweat and Severn and sex.
Severn was pushing back, gasping sounds that made Byron pant, and Byron was clutching, and pulling, and coming apart at the seams, breaking into the little pieces Shelley swept up with a laugh and a smile.
"He's not," Severn said hours later, knotting his cravat with thin, paint stained fingers, "doing so well. The doctors say--" Severn's fingers fumbled, and Byron reached out, batted Severn's fingers away.
"Shelley wants him to come to Shelley's estate," Byron said, tying Severn's cravat, then straightening it, tucking it into Severn's half-done up coat.
"He won't," Severn said, and fixed his ragged cuffs carefully. "He's stubborn. He doesn't want anyone to know."
"How," Byron asked, and he didn't want to know, but the thought of Shelley, thoughtless eyes and careless mouth, was chasing him, laughs and smiles and assurances of everything turning out well. "How is he?"
Severn hesitated, hands patting his pockets, and Byron sat on the edge of a chair arm. "It won't," Severn finally said, "be much longer. There's a lot of blood."
Severn was silent for a moment, and Byron was pulling out his snuff box, tilting it in his hands, watching the faint sunlight reflect across the gold and silver.
"There is," Severn repeated, and his voice sounded like a half-sob, like it had some hours ago, when he'd been pleading and whining and kneeling upon the bed, sweat-soaked and sex-stained. "Too much blood."
"Shelley would come to see him, if he knew," Byron said, for everyone knew it, Mary and Keats and Severn himself, and Byron was the only one who would say it, because Byron was the one all the words were forever set upon.
"Keats would refuse," Severn said, then, "he's still proud. He'd rather die alone, than in the company of friends."
"Then what," Byron asked, and the snuff box's edges were cutting into his palm, angry red lines, "are you to him?"
"I," Severn said, and he was fastening his coat, smoothing down the fabric with his trembling fingers, "am nothing much at all."
Why, yes, it is Shelley/Keats angst!smut. Obsessed? Me? Never!
Poets are Liars, My Dear
"I don't understand why you don't want him to go with us," Shelley said, looking particularly put upon.
"He wouldn't be able to keep up," John said, and he felt particularly petty, mean and childish. "He's a lame leg, he can't go with us."
"Don't be unkind," Shelley said most off-handedly, then grimaced, looking grumpy. "And don't call him lame, he doesn't like it. Besides, he has a longer stride than you. We both do."
"Who's more unkind?" John asked, and he turned away, pursing his lips. "I, who treat him like the lord he is, or he, who treats me like the peasant I am? Or maybe you, who plays us both?"
"Don't be angry, Junkets," Shelley said, and his hand was on John's arm for half a moment, a brush, then lifting away. "Besides, I wouldn't play you if you wouldn't let me."
"I don't," John tried once again, "see why he has to come. He wouldn't like it, anyway. He'd rather stay here, with that mistress of his, and--"
"Watch your tongue, John," Shelley said in the same careless tone, but he looked a little angry, and John folded himself back into his chair. "I don't understand why you're so set against him."
"Perhaps you should ask him the same," John snapped back, and he tapped his fingers against the chair arm restlessly. "I don't--" and there was a catch in his throat, and his lungs, and he coughed, raising a hand to cover his mouth. Shelley moved hesitantly, and John turned further away.
"Perhaps," Shelley said, and he was leaning forward, elbows upon his knees, "none of us should go."
"And what," John asked, and he hated his breathlessness, and the way his chest burned within, "would you suggest we do otherwise?"
Shelley smiled, a positively wicked smile, the smile he gave the pretty girls upon the streets, and the handsome men in the salons.
"To bed, perhaps?" Shelley said, and John let Shelley handle him up and out of the chair, long hands settling over near every inch of John's body.
"And," John asked, and his breathlessness was different this time, and Shelley was near laughing at him, "will he be joining us?"
"Perhaps," Shelley said, "later."
"Perhaps," John echoed, and Shelley was handling him out the door of the parlor, fingers slipping through John's cravat, untugging and pulling upon the ends of the fabric.
"Mmm," Shelley hummed, and he sounded positively charmed. "Perhaps. Should we, though, move on to a room?"
John stumbled after Shelley, and his hands slipped onto Shelley's jacket, slipped upon the buttons, and inside, against Shelley's thin shirt.
"Come, no quick wit?" Shelley asked, and his arms were about John, and then John was lifting into the air, against Shelley's shoulder.
"You," John said, and his breath went out in a gust as his breastbone met Shelley's shoulder, "would gain nothing by it, if I said anything at all." His hands scrambled down Shelley's back, trying to find purchase, and Shelley's hands settled upon John's back and thighs, heavy and warm.
"You wound me, little Junkets," Shelley said, and he jostled John, but it was far kinder than it had been months before, and when Shelley laughed, moving down the hallway, his movements were far more gentle. John let his head hang, cheek turned against Shelley's back, and it was warm, and almost soothing.
"Should I call you Percy?" John asked idly, and the floor and wallboards were swimming in his sight, moving forward and backward. Shelley's chest and back rumbled beneath him, and John caught his fingers in the heavy material of Shelley's jacket.
"I'd that you'd call me that before, but you're always determined against me. Don't trouble yourself for my regard, Keats." Shelley's hand left, then he was swinging John down, and John let his body limp, feeling as though he were a boy, and jumping from the cliffs into the lake again.
"Perhaps we all trouble ourselves too much? Hopeless poets, some of us, and mighty lords, the others, and look where we are." John caught the door handle, and the door clicked before it swung open, a groan of the hinges.
"Indeed," Shelley said, and his hands were upon John again, pulling and tugging, and John grabbed at Shelley's hands, tripping them both over the threshold and into the room. "A well enough place, for two artists with little in life but life itself. To the bed, or would you rather upon a couch?"
"Or a wall, or a vanity, or some other oddity of yours?" John asked, and Shelley's hand was slipping into his trousers, between skin and cloth, and John felt his hand slip in as well, curling around Shelley's fingers, and him, and the room was dizzy in his sight.
"John," Shelley said to John's ear, and John clutched at the arm wrapped about his waist. "John, to where do we go? Your body--"
"Damn my body," John said, and gasped, arching up on his toes, curving back against Shelley's body. Shelley's face was near his, and John could see the corner of Shelley's mouth. "Perhaps, to the Lord's bed?"
"You're a wicked person," Shelley said, and he was laughing against John's hair. "George will kill you some day, if you keep playing tricks on him."
"Unless my body," John began, and then it hurt, Shelley's hands clutching and grabbing and near tearing.
"Don't," Shelley said, and he wasn't laughing anymore, and his mouth looked angry in the corner of John's sight, "don't say such things, John."
John held his tongue, and his breath, and after a moment Shelley's arms and hands loosened, caressing and tracing and pulling again. John caught Shelley's jacket sleeves, curled his fingers against the material, and letting his eyes close against the spinning room.
"I would," Shelley murmured, "give you every happiness you could want, if you'd but ask." His voice was smooth again, thick against John's skin.
"You'd seduce me as though I were a woman," John said dryly, and Shelley was pulling at his clothing again, at the buttons and ties and hooks.
"And what would you have me do?" Shelley asked. John stepped a bit away, shrugged away his jacket, folding it quickly, laying it over his arm. Shelley was moving behind him, shrugging off his own jacket, dropping it to the floor.
"Treat me less as a pet, or a play thing, and more as a man." John undid his cuffs, then pulled at the loosened cravat, slipping it from his neck. "Perhaps I should take comfort that you treat everyone as your play things."
"What if I told you that you're my favorite, of my play things?" Shelley asked, and his shirt was upon the floor as well, trousers open on his waist.
"I'd call you a liar," John said, and he set his jacket and shirt upon a chaise, cravat folded between the two. He pulled at his trouser fastenings, hissing as his fingers touched skin, and kicked off the legs.
"I don't lie, John," Shelley said, and he sounded affronted, shedding the last of his clothing, bent over and looking almost put out. John smiled, folding his trousers.
"We're poets, Shelley, we all lie. It's what we do, playing with pretty words to make pretty lies."
"I wonder," Shelley said, and he was moving closer, and then he was grabbing John, pushing him back until John's back met plaster, dry and smooth against his skin, "what critic put those words in your mouth. Another article, Keats?"
"You," John said, and he grabbed Shelley's hair, pulled Shelley's face closer, until he could kiss him, mouth upon mouth. It tasted bitter, and John wondered if it was Shelley, or if it was himself in Shelley's mouth.
Shelley's hands were on John's waist, and one was sliding down, then in, between John's legs, and John leaned further against the wall, sliding his feet further apart, hips jutting out. Shelley's other hand spread out across John's stomach, and John felt his muscles quiver and jump, body feeling peculiarly light and empty.
"Bones," Shelley said as he pulled back, mouth looking wet. "You're thin," and Shelley sounded accusing. John groaned and pulled at Shelley's hands, breath harsh.
"Would you rather fight," he asked, "or would you rather kiss? I've no wanting for it, but I thought you--" and the rest left in a gasp, and he clutched at Shelley, felt his fingernails dig into Shelley's skin.
Shelley leaned forward, and down, and his forehead was hot against John's shoulder, and his breath was hotter still, and John felt Shelley's hands catch him, and hold him up. John bit his tongue, and tasted blood, and turned his face away, looking upon the plastered walls as the room spun, then collapsed, then spun again.
"You," Shelley said, and then he was laughing, breathless. "Hold up, don't fall on me." John felt his fingers slip from Shelley, and felt Shelley wrap about him tighter, heavy and stubborn and insistent, holding him up from the floor.
"I," John said, and the catch was back, and he was choking, fingers light against Shelley's skin. Shelley's mouth looked small in the corner of John's sight, and John let himself sink, dragging against Shelley. When he licked his lips, they tasted of blood.
"John," Shelley said, and the room was righting itself slowly, walls and floor and ceiling, and Shelley before him. "John," Shelley said, and, "John."
"I," John said, and his body burned, lungs and heart and eyes, and Shelley was over him, poet eyes and artist mouth. "Shelley," he said, and Shelley didn't smile, nor laugh.
"John," Shelley said, "you've blood," and Shelley's thumb was against the corner of John's mouth. "Perhaps," Shelley began, then, "I think--"
"Shelley," John said, and he grabbed at Shelley's hands, and Shelley shook him off distractedly, worried eyes and sad mouth.
"I'm a fool," Shelley said. "I'll find George. He'll set things right. Perhaps," and Shelley was smoothing back John's hair, careless, flighty gestures, "we'll play cards tonight."
"You're a fool," John said, and Shelley smiled at him, naked and thin and crouched upon the floor before him, like some kind of Adam, unaware of the world.
"Yes," Shelley said, "I am, aren't I?" And he kissed John's mouth, and John's temple, and was gone, in trousers and an unfastened shirt, looking for his Lord.
John sat upon the floor, and waited, and Shelley didn't come back. The floor, John learned, was very cold indeed.
And, and, Byron/Severn angst!smut, my life is complete. *dies a very small death*
Paint a Picture
Severn was mewling beneath him, twisting and clutching the sheets, sweat beading upon his back. Byron leaned over, closer, pressed his mouth against Severn's shoulder, sweat salty against his tongue. Severn was tight around him, and hot, and Byron spread his hands over the man's hips, over his back, thumbs near touching.
"God," Severn said, and his voice was half-muffled by his fist. Byron grabbed at Severn, clutched at him, and pulled him closer, pushed himself further in.
"God," Severn cried, and it was near a whine, plaintive and thready, and Byron groaned, closing his eyes as he leaned against Severn's back, breathing in sweat and Severn and sex.
Severn was pushing back, gasping sounds that made Byron pant, and Byron was clutching, and pulling, and coming apart at the seams, breaking into the little pieces Shelley swept up with a laugh and a smile.
"He's not," Severn said hours later, knotting his cravat with thin, paint stained fingers, "doing so well. The doctors say--" Severn's fingers fumbled, and Byron reached out, batted Severn's fingers away.
"Shelley wants him to come to Shelley's estate," Byron said, tying Severn's cravat, then straightening it, tucking it into Severn's half-done up coat.
"He won't," Severn said, and fixed his ragged cuffs carefully. "He's stubborn. He doesn't want anyone to know."
"How," Byron asked, and he didn't want to know, but the thought of Shelley, thoughtless eyes and careless mouth, was chasing him, laughs and smiles and assurances of everything turning out well. "How is he?"
Severn hesitated, hands patting his pockets, and Byron sat on the edge of a chair arm. "It won't," Severn finally said, "be much longer. There's a lot of blood."
Severn was silent for a moment, and Byron was pulling out his snuff box, tilting it in his hands, watching the faint sunlight reflect across the gold and silver.
"There is," Severn repeated, and his voice sounded like a half-sob, like it had some hours ago, when he'd been pleading and whining and kneeling upon the bed, sweat-soaked and sex-stained. "Too much blood."
"Shelley would come to see him, if he knew," Byron said, for everyone knew it, Mary and Keats and Severn himself, and Byron was the only one who would say it, because Byron was the one all the words were forever set upon.
"Keats would refuse," Severn said, then, "he's still proud. He'd rather die alone, than in the company of friends."
"Then what," Byron asked, and the snuff box's edges were cutting into his palm, angry red lines, "are you to him?"
"I," Severn said, and he was fastening his coat, smoothing down the fabric with his trembling fingers, "am nothing much at all."