Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
“I have not done this before, Marcus,” St. John confessed with a look of pleading and fear. “I do not know what I am to do next. I will not do things well. I am afraid.”
Men are such stupid creatures. I have spent my whole life proud of my purity and chastity, and now that I am about to surrender both I am ashamed for not knowing how.
“Why-it is much the same as if you were with a woman-” he broke off, puzzlement softening into a look of such sympathy that St. John flushed. “Ah. Truly?”
“I am a Reverend, Marcus! God calls on all His children to be chaste.” St. John dropped his chin to his chest and stared at his lap, at his own smalls, the last thing that stood between him and sin.
“But did you not plan on marriage, once? What would you have done, that night?”
“It is easier with a woman, Captain,” he shook his head ruefully. “Everything is more … obvious.”
At that Cpt Aquilaine laughed a little before turning serious. “Do you not trust me?”
“Of course, Marcus. You are my friend.”
“It is not hard with us either, St. John. All you must do is enjoy yourself. Here-close your eyes and I shall show you.”
St. John lay down, feeling as foolish and awkward as he had ever felt in his adult life, and kept his eyes shut tightly as the Captain kissed him further on the mouth, the neck, and the collarbone, sliding off his own smalls and assisting St. John with his. Then they were both naked, lying next to each other, and St. John could feel, pushing against his leg, the Captain's insistent need. But a sense of unreality colored the entire situation, as if he could not really be certain that he was actually in the bed with the Captain, and not just in another of his strange dreams. He could not focus, he could not relax, he could not stop thinking about Martin Luther and Jane Eyre and how his own need had faded and would not return no matter how he was touched or kissed. As Cpt. Aquilaine settled awkwardly onto him, pushing his cock between St. John's thighs while working his hips up and down, St. John risked a glance.
He saw, in cold detail, the Captain's arms on either side of his head, the way he arched his back with every thrust, the tension of the muscles in his chest and neck, the expression of effort and need written across his face. He could feel the Captain's shaft, thick and solid, as it chafed against his inner thighs and tugged uncomfortably at his testes. In my dreams this all looked so enticing. Now here I am, not dreaming but actually experiencing it, and I find it is all so stupid and sad. He does not even look handsome, now. The Captain quickened his pace, breathing hard and fast until he froze, gave a loud grunt and shuddered through the length of his body, spilling his seed between St. John's thighs. He lay on St. John then, heavy and perspiring, and when finally he rolled off to the side, muttering something as he went, St. John did not notice what he whispered-he did not care.
He shifted a little, looking up towards the ceiling and listening to the rain drubbing on the window pane, several errant tears escaping as he wept for his shame and degradation. One ran out the far corner of his eye, tickling his cheek as it slid into his whiskers. Then a warm thumb touched his cheek, tracing the damp path of the tear back to the source. Cpt. Aquilaine followed the other tears with slow, broad fingers, over the bridge of his nose, drying off his eyes as he went.
“It seems I enjoyed myself far more than you did, St. John. What do you think?”
“I think I sold myself rather cheaply for my 30 pieces of silver, Captain.”
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“I should not have said those words, truly-I did not mean it like that. I just-I-I am sure it is different for those who have done this more frequently-”
“But you regret doing so.” His words were clipped and his voice tight.
“I regret that it was not what I had expected, that is true. But I do not know what it should have been. I simply could not stop thinking about Martin Luther, and theology, and how foolish I must look, and then it was done and I was ashamed! I am so sorry, Marcus.”
Without a word, Cpt. Aquilaine stood and removed himself from the room. St. John watched him go, wretched because half his mind was occupied with how best to recover his clothes and leave quietly, and half his mind was occupied with how the Captain, from behind, looked every bit as he had hoped for in his dreams.
He heard the sounds of pacing and creaking floorboards in the sitting room, a clink of glass, and then the Captain returned. St. John turned violently red as he saw the Captain in toto for the first time, and realized that he did indeed look like a Greek statue, only more so in certain respects. He glanced away far too late, then drew his gaze back because despite all expectations the Captain was smiling at him.
Cpt. Aquilaine perched himself on the edge of the bed, offering up a small snifter of brandy. St. John shifted over to meet him, keeping himself as modest as possible with the blankets.
“You are not angry with me, Marcus? You should be. I am sharp and unkind; my tongue is a sword and I use it most thoughtlessly. Or perhaps you are angry with me, and wish me to offer you the brandy along with my apology?”
With a sigh the Captain leaned over to tug softly on St. John's side-whiskers. “Your words did sting at first-you have this way of launching them very quickly and with a very precise aim-but if you enjoyed yourself so little that you spent your time thinking of theology then I cannot have done a very good job, could I?” He pressed the brandy into St. John's hand. “I am not myself used to being with someone so-virtuous. Take a little, perhaps it will relax you, and then if you like I shall try again and this time I shall do nothing you do not enjoy, even if I only pull my fingers through your hair. Enjoying yourself is the point, after all.”
With a nod and slightly trembling hands St. John sipped at the brandy, hoping that his error was not irreversible. It caused him to cough a little-he was still not used to taking his liquor neat-while it sent warmth trickling down his throat to pool at the base of his stomach. The alcohol soon made him slightly loose-limbed as well and his nerves grew more steady. As he tilted the snifter high and felt the last drops burn and dissipate on his tongue Cpt. Aquilaine again took up kissing him on the neck, leaving small spots of cool dampness behind as he went, and St. John began to enjoy his attentions rather than shrink from them. Physical contact, heretofore in his life, had been nearly entirely limited to shaking hands with parishioners, jostling shoulders in a marketplace crowd, or kissing his sisters on the cheek before they retired to bed-now St. John shivered and flinched at each touch and although the fingers brushing over him were so gentle, the cascade of new sensations nearly overwhelmed his body.
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“Do I presume to much, St. John? Do you wish me to stop?”
“No, Marcus-no,” he stammered out. “But it is so much-everything-I feel it all so strongly-”
So Cpt. Aquilaine kissed him again, more firmly this time, parting St. John's lips with his own and exploring with the tip of his tongue. While St. John was focused on this strange new style of kissing-unexpected and somewhat vulgar, but also offering much in the way of possibility-the Captain ran a hand up the inside of his thigh; he arched his back as if to escape but the hand remained, solid and determined. Cpt. Aquilaine continued the kiss, drawing St. John's tongue into his mouth and tugging on it, sucking on it, and while St. John considered the overtly-erotic implications of this particular action the Captain's hand moved over to encircle his cock.
From the time, far off in his distant youth, when he had first learned of the perils of onanism St. John had rarely even touched himself in such a manner; not never-sins of the flesh were one of the Great Deceiver's most clever temptations-but rarely; he had trained himself instead to take long walks through the countryside or puzzle his way through difficult Hebrew texts when the need arose. St. John had never before felt another person's hand on his most private part. Now, as the Captain touched him for the first time, sliding fingers up and down the length of his shaft, he did not even have time to recognize the joyous swelling ache that radiated up from between his legs, nor to acknowledge how much more pleasant it felt to have someone else touching him there than when he took himself in hand. The ocean waves that had rolled out turned and began their final push towards shore, the pressure growing inside him demanded escape, and to his shame he realized he could not stop it-
“Wait-no-Marcus-I can't-Marcus!-o Christ.”
St. John collapsed back onto the bed, legs shuddering as tears once more streamed out the corners of his eyes. He panted for air, heart racing as took in what he had done. I am a mortal; I do not understand the mind of God, that much is abundantly clear. How can anything so delightful be a sin? A happiness swept through his heart as he marveled at how joyful the world could be, followed by sorrow as he remembered it could not be for him. Then Cpt. Aquilaine drew him into another embrace.
“You are weeping again, St. John! Is it well with you?”
“Yes-o yes-it is well. Marcus, I am well.” He paused, embarrassed at his lack of self-control. “Ah-I am sorry! I did not expect everything to be so … precipitous. And I have made a mess on your sheets when you have been so understanding with me, and you-you cannot be enjoying yourself much. I have not the skill.”
Cpt. Aquilaine sighed and whispered sleepily, “you have no idea, St. John, how much I am enjoying this night. You cannot possibly know.”
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From under the blankets, the Captain chuckled softly. “We did indeed, and yes-it feels very distant. But do not worry that you were precipitous, as you say; that is often the way at first. Sleep a little, and I shall show you what I mean.” He pulled St. John closer so his back was flush against the Captain's chest; St. John needed no further encouragement.
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The rain had tapered off for the present and the grandfather clock in the lobby began to chime, waking the Reverend with a start. He sat up and listened intently as it struck one-two-three, without even quite remembering why the time of night was so important. Next to him, one arm still holding him close, the Captain shifted and stirred a little.
“You are awake,” he murmured, and St. John recalled why he was so glad to find it still night time. I have sinned-I am still in my night of sin and it is not yet light outside. I must make use of my time and sin boldly, as he says. Feeling equal parts selfish and shy, he turned until he faced the Captain, kissing him awake-Cpt. Aquilaine resisted, but weakly, so St. John pressed his case further.
“Marcus, you said it would be less precipitous next time, did you not? Show me.” This woke the Captain so swiftly that St. John felt a brief flash of satisfaction, to learn how he could turn matters to his own advantage, followed by an equally brief flash of despair that he would never again have an opportunity to use his new-found knowledge. But then Cpt. Aquilaine pulled him back down under the blankets and St. John did not have further opportunity to think on his sorrow until, at very long last, the Captain had demonstrated to their mutual satisfaction that yes, matters could be far, far less precipitous when given the proper attention and consideration.
When next St. John awoke dawn had come; the sun was rising over the sodden city of Calcutta. Realization that night had well and truly finished sent a stab of pain through him, and he wished he could close his eyes and shut out the world for ever. But a bargain was a bargain, and having danced he must needs now pay the Piper. Unbidden into his mind sprang the story of St. Peter, who denied the Lord Christ three times only to weep when the rooster crowed. Poor man, I have before now always held you in scorn for your weakness. I shall not do so again. The difference being that the Reverend was no saint, and that he would instead deny himself.
For the third time he found himself wiping at his eyes. He tried to keep still, tried not to disturb their last moments together, but Cpt. Aquilaine woke nonetheless.
“More tears? What is it, St. John? Why are you so sad?”
“No, not sad! I am happy, Marcus, so very happy-but now it is morning.”
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I AM YOUR GODDAMNED SERVANT, ANON.
IT HAPPENED OH MY GOD IT FINALLY HAPPENED AND IT WAS AMAZING AND AWKWARD AND BEAUTIFUL AND SO SAD AND I LOVE YOU, ANON.
BRB REREADING THIS A THOUSAND TIMES.
YES I HAVE AN ICON OF FANART OF YOUR FIC, THIS IS HOW MUCH ILU.
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oh my heart! this fic!
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I love this so much. Totally making my life!
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oh god, St. John, his whole WORLD VIEW has got to change in order for this to have any happy ending, and I cannot WAIT to see what you do next!
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This is the sweetest line ever. I awwwed when I read it.
St. John is going to suffer so prettily. Marcus is going to be all pissed off and confused. This is going to be so epic.
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i think i cried a little
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This is absolutely incredible!
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