New fic: "An Indulgence Most Discreet," Lord John Grey
It's been a while since I've posted any fic- this was my Yuletide fic from this past year. Enjoy!
Title: An Indulgence Most Discreet
Fandom: Lord John Grey
Rating: PG-13
Beta: emansil_08 and llembas
Word Count: 3020
Request: I don't have anything specific in mind. Just love him and his tortured sense of honor and vulnerability and how he navigates his world. A moment with Jamie or Percy would be lovely. Or some more about Lavender House. Or even Lord John transported to the Castro circa 1979 (giggle).
Summary: John attempts to recreate a particularly memorable interaction he had experienced with Percy. Set shortly after the events of Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade.
"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."
~ Richard von Weizsaecker
Lord John Grey fingered the whip in his hands, bending it before slowly releasing the tension so that it made no sound. A faint thrum of excitement buzzed low in his belly as he acknowledged the deviancy of his plans for the evening. One face appeared to him, the memory of a husky voice in his ear questioning, "More?"
"Don't stop," he'd answered at the time, though Percy had stopped after only three more lashes with the cat-o' nine-tails. It seemed an age ago, yet the recent letter from Percy had brought back a flood of recollections with a clarity and nearness both distressing and comforting.
He'd never been to the Pale Bloom before; Lavender House was the establishment where he had let down his guard and spent time among men of his particular persuasion. It was Hector who'd frequented this Molly house, Hector who'd told John that such places existed, though it had been George Everett who first took him to visit one. Even more than usual, he did not wish to risk being recognised. He would be distinctive enough, carrying a baize bag in which to hide his piece of equipment. At least Tom Byrd was off on a two-days' holiday John had forced him to take, so his comings and goings would not be monitored as closely as they usually were while he was at the Grey manor. This was no spontaneous act of lustful perversity; no, he'd needed to orchestrate every element that led to this moment with the precision of a military manoeuvre. The irony that the event he wished to recreate had occurred while serving in his regiment was not lost on him.
"Get on with it," he admonished himself.
Within a quarter of an hour he was in his least formal attire, topped with a lightweight wool coat to guard against the autumn chill. He fortified himself with a few fingers of brandy, and then made his way out of the house, avoiding any servants. His mother was also absent, attending a dinner engagement. It wasn't until he was in a hired coach, arranged at a distance several minutes' walk from his home that he allowed himself to breathe deeply. Anticipation fluttered in his stomach like trapped butterflies; he halted the coach earlier than he'd initially planned so that he could calm his thoughts with a longer walk. Each stride brought him closer to the night's success or failure, though John chose not to dwell on what he might do if his longed-for plans came to naught.
He found his destination easily enough, though he'd never visited that particular street before. When asked for his name by the doorman, John supplied the most forgettable one that came to mind.
"Welcome, William Smith," the doorman said, smirking.
With a curt nod, John walked past him into the warmth of the entryway, noting the similarities and differences between this gathering-place and Lavender House. He'd never been one to adopt a lady's moniker, as some men with similar sexual appetites did, and he certainly wasn't going to start tonight. After assuring that any valuables were in his breeches' pocket, he hung his coat on a peg. He walked toward the familiar sights of men delighting in their own company, casting his gaze around the large, well-occupied salon. The tension in his chest eased as, for a few hours at least, he could to shed any pretence of being anything other than what he truly was: a man who loved men.
He espied a tray with glasses and a decanter and walked over to it, pouring himself what turned out to be a not altogether awful sherry. Thankfully he'd not been approached, and was able to scan the small throng without needing to carry on a conversation at the same time. It was the glint of red that caught his eye before seeing the young man with a head of dark curls at his side, and he was pierced by a twinge of guilt. The one with coppery waves was gesturing and speaking animatedly to his listeners. John took another swallow of the sweet sack, regarding the trio on an ostentatious emerald velvet couch when a pair of dark eyes flickered up, caught his, and held.
The moment had come. John raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment, tilted his head slightly, and approached the man who nominally resembled Percy, at least in physicality.
"Well, hello!" the gregarious ginger said, waving to an empty chair opposite them. "Do join us."
"Good evening," John said a bit stiffly before willing a courteous smile to his lips.
"I've not seen you before," the man with dark eyes and hair said, giving John a quick but doubtless thorough evaluation. His eyes were bright with intrigue. "I would have remembered if I had."
"Thank you for your generosity," John found himself saying.
"I'm Oswald. And you are?"
"He's too bloody serious," interjected the redhead. "You look like a man starved for fun. I'm Lady Anne, by the way."
"Pleasure," John replied, taking the man's proffered hand. He was obviously meant to kiss it, but instead he merely clasped the long fingers in his and then let go. "You may call me William."
"So, William," Lady Anne drawled, leaning back and draping an arm over Oswald's shoulder. "Why are you carrying that bag?"
"That is my business."
John took another swallow of sherry, finishing it. The flash of irritation must have shown on his face, as a tawny-haired man John guessed to be his age sitting to Oswald's right offered to refill their glasses. With a gracious smile, John handed over his glass.
"What business brings you here tonight?" Oswald asked, leaning heavily on the second word.
"Truth be told, I was hoping to find someone." He paused, collecting his thoughts to say the right thing as delicately as possible. "Someone who resembles a dear friend."
Oswald's gaze, from eyes more oval and closely set than Percy's, became crafty and knowing, his expression marring the hoped-for illusion even more. But then a warm smile rose to his lips, and the harder edge vanished.
"A pity this dear friend didn't accompany you," Oswald observed as John took back his glass of sherry.
"He lives abroad now," John said, thinking of the unsigned letter's he'd received a fortnight ago.
"What did he look like, this friend?" Lady Anne asked, taking a pinch of snuff from an engraved box he'd produced from seemingly nowhere.
John didn't answer straight away but took his time in regarding Oswald, looking at the tuft of dark hair peeking through his open stock, the thin lips, a jaw wider and coarser than memory provided. But there was a similar kindness in his demeanour, a warmth in his eyes that John hoped would be enough for his act of daring.
"Interestingly enough, Oswald bears more than a passing resemblance."
"Do I?" Oswald asked, his voice betraying nothing while his searing gaze made John acutely aware of the heaviness between his legs. He felt the weight of the amused looks of Lady Anne and the passive blond as he and Oswald conducted a brief and silent exchange.
So I shall be him for you, tonight, Oswald's body suggested as he sat up straighter. "How very fortunate for you that I decided to come here this evening."
Yes, please. John took another swallow of sherry. "Indeed. Will you join me in a room a bit… quieter?"
"Oh, go on," Lady Anne insisted to Oswald, making shooing motions. "The man has already unlaced your breeches by the look on his face. I only hope I find someone so keen for myself."
He feigned a pout. To John's immense relief, Oswald not only agreed, but he consulted with the proprietor and led them, moments later, to an arranged chamber. John's nerves were on fire, his stomach knotted and his cock beginning to strain in its confines as his illicit fantasy came to life around him. He felt the need to busy himself heating his hands over the coals in a small brazier, and agreed to the purchase of a flagon of whatever red wine the Pale Bloom had to offer. A potent whiskey was what he craved to steady his trembling fingers. Instead he took two concentrated, deep breaths, unbuttoning the top buttons of his waistcoat to free himself further.
"I've never pretended to be someone else," Oswald said, coming to stand at John's side near the heat of the coals. He placed a hand on John's hip, desire smouldering in eyes the colour of acorns.
"You don't- I don't want you to pretend to be him," John said, stumbling over his tongue, which seemed thick and unwieldy in his mouth. "Not exactly."
"What you do want has to do with what's in that bag of yours?" Oswald husked, his words spoken against John's cheekbone. He was a good four or five inches taller than John, unlike Percy, but the ragged quality to his tone caused gooseflesh to rise on his arms as it had done on that fateful day.
"Yes."
"Well, out with it, then."
John allowed himself a deep inhale of the man's cologne, bergamot and vetiver, a pleasing scent. Then he moved away, walking the few steps to his bag while Oswald poured them both glasses of wine. His eyes widened when John produced the short whip, but his hand was steady as he handed John his glass.
"I prefer to keep my skin unblemished," Oswald stated, taking a long swallow of wine.
"It's not for you. I mean," John began.
"You want me to use it on you."
John nodded, grateful that he didn't need to say the words aloud. The room suddenly felt small and confined; with fumbling fingers he undid the buttons of his shirt at the neck. Oswald gave him a searching look that turned troubled.
"Why do you want to be whipped? I don't believe that I'm capable of truly hurting you. It's not in my nature, even though you may wish it."
"No- just a few lashes," John promised. He approached Oswald and placed the handle in his right hand, and was surprised when he moved it to his left.
With a small shrug, Oswald said, "I'm different from my fellows in this as well."
John cradled Oswald's jaw in his hand, the blood thundering in his ears. Conflicting memories jostled for dominance in his mind, the past threatening to overwhelm the very real experience of the present moment. Oswald closed his eyes, then looked at John with what John recognised, to his disquiet, was pity.
"I do not seek this out with regularity," John said quickly, dropping his arm to skim his hand down the man's back. "In fact, this is the first. The only," he continued, more a vow to himself than for Oswald's ears.
"And after?"
Oswald's hands were both occupied, but he arched into John's touch.
"After, well…"
John's hand lowered further to rest atop Oswald's right buttock. Oswald smiled, a heated, feral smile, and clenched the muscle.
"Yes. You will owe me that pleasure."
John squeezed Oswald's arse, and then forced himself to look around the room. There was, of course, no wooden horse for him to hold on to here, nor bedposts to speak of. He decided to stand in front of the window after drawing the heavy curtains, and undressed to the waist. His nipples shrank and hardened at the chill, and the rest of his muscles grew taut as he stood with his legs apart, his hands braced on the window frame.
"Such a lovely back," Oswald said in a low voice.
John shuddered when the tip of the device touched his right shoulder blade and dragged lightly across his skin in a diagonal down to the waist of his breeches. Controlling his breathing proved difficult and he struggled not to hold his breath.
Crack!
John made a hoarse cry. The pain burned, but not as much as the excitement, now centred in his turgid cock. Another hit. And another. The velvet curtains bunched in his sweaty palms, visages of Percy's intense expression blurring that of Jamie's cold defiance. John squeezed his eyes together, anticipating the lashes, though after only three more there was a pause and he began to sag against the rich fabric. He started when he felt the whip trail behind his ear to the shoulder, and gave an undignified yelp moments later when it was slapped lightly between his thighs and against his tender balls. He whirled around, heedless of the whip, but Oswald had tossed it on the bed. John was consumed with lust and a frantic need to possess the man before him.
"Are you all right?" Oswald asked, his concern evident in both eyes and tone. "I didn't hurt you?"
"Quite the opposite," John growled as he lunged, his shaking hands grappling with Oswald's buttons and lacings.
Oswald let out a throaty laugh, helping John so that soon they were both naked, rutting and tumbling on the bed. He proved to be an enthusiastic and accommodating partner, generously offering his arse twice to John before they at last lay in a sweaty, spent tangle of limbs and sheets. John's bones seemed fluid, and he felt strangely comforted when Oswald drew him onto his chest, pulling a woollen coverlet over them and gently carding his fingers through John's tousled hair. For some time he rested there against the soft down of Oswald's chest, his mind blissfully empty of memory and shame, idly brushing his thumb over the jut of Oswald's hipbone.
"Will you look for me again, William?"
At first John didn't respond, having temporarily forgotten that Oswald didn't know his real name.
"My name is John," he said quietly, sliding his leg to rest securely between Oswald's.
"Well, John." He brushed a kiss against the crown of John's head. "I remain who I said I was. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you here again?"
John thought of his obligations, of the letter and unforeseen ache of Percy's absence that had accompanied it, but also the contentment blanketing him with a warmth he hadn't been sure he would feel again after Percy's perceived betrayal. He raised his head and looked at Oswald, not seeing Percy in him at all, now. Instead he saw a man not so unlike himself, and someone he had trusted not to do him harm, and who had proven worthy of that trust. He wouldn't go so far as to think that he'd seek him out anywhere other than at the Pale Bloom, but perhaps before he was called away again by his regiment…
The unanswered question hung in the air, uncertainty in Oswald's umber eyes, until John allowed a ghost of a smile to his lips.
"It would not be outside the realm of possibility."
There was a soft rumble in Oswald's throat.
"Ah, good. Well, I for one could stand a glass of wine. You?"
"Certainly."
They took their time to finish the bottle, sitting side by side in the bed, talking some about John's military experience and Oswald's love of books, but mostly enjoying a companionable silence until John began to yawn.
"Will you stay the night?" Oswald asked, his hope evident.
"It's tempting, but I really should return home. Besides, won't your companions be expecting you?"
"At this hour, if Margaret hasn't found somebody intriguing, she'll have gone home. Lady Anne, I suspect, is in another room, or if not, she'll be in the parlour, sulking." He gave John an apologetic shrug. "I don't mind their company, but I am not inclined to their levels of flamboyance. In that way I suspect I'm like you."
"Yes," John agreed. Even though the fire of his arousal had been satisfyingly quenched and he'd moved from languor almost to torpor, he fell back into his usual tendency toward personal reticence. He slid out from under the bedcovers and found his clothes, dressing by the brazier for warmth. Oswald joined him after availing himself of the piss pot and washing his hands in a basin. John too relived his full bladder. Due to the lateness of the hour he expected there would be a shortage of carriages. He checked to make doubly sure his dagger was still firmly sheathed in his belt. The walk home could prove not only long, but potentially dangerous as well.
"I hope I see you again," Oswald said, standing before the door. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but to John's relief he remained silent, only reaching out to run his fingers through John's hair over his ear.
"It has been a most memorable evening. Thank you for indulging my…" John paused, and then continued with brutal honesty, "…my perversion."
Oswald looked concerned, and shook his head. "Pain and pleasure often go hand in hand. I would not consider our actions perverse. Though there are plenty of truly scandalous acts that can and do go on here."
"I don't doubt it."
John placed a hand on Oswald's shoulder and squeezed it slightly. "Good night, Oswald."
Oswald placed his hand on John's for a brief moment and then stood aside the door.
"A very pleasant good night to you, John. Sweet dreams."
It was in the profound throes of night when John undressed for bed, returned at last to his own rooms. A strong desire to look at the welts on his back almost consumed him, but the siren call of his bed possessed the stronger power. He wondered if he would indeed dream tonight, and, if so, who would appear in that unreal realm. Once under the covers, John turned on his side, pulling the woollen blanket up over his shoulder. Though he still had Oswald's scent on him, it was Percy who came to mind as he began to drift off.
"Bene es, frater meus," he murmured, wishing his former brother in arms well, and then fell into a deep sleep.
Title: An Indulgence Most Discreet
Fandom: Lord John Grey
Rating: PG-13
Beta: emansil_08 and llembas
Word Count: 3020
Request: I don't have anything specific in mind. Just love him and his tortured sense of honor and vulnerability and how he navigates his world. A moment with Jamie or Percy would be lovely. Or some more about Lavender House. Or even Lord John transported to the Castro circa 1979 (giggle).
Summary: John attempts to recreate a particularly memorable interaction he had experienced with Percy. Set shortly after the events of Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade.
"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."
~ Richard von Weizsaecker
Lord John Grey fingered the whip in his hands, bending it before slowly releasing the tension so that it made no sound. A faint thrum of excitement buzzed low in his belly as he acknowledged the deviancy of his plans for the evening. One face appeared to him, the memory of a husky voice in his ear questioning, "More?"
"Don't stop," he'd answered at the time, though Percy had stopped after only three more lashes with the cat-o' nine-tails. It seemed an age ago, yet the recent letter from Percy had brought back a flood of recollections with a clarity and nearness both distressing and comforting.
He'd never been to the Pale Bloom before; Lavender House was the establishment where he had let down his guard and spent time among men of his particular persuasion. It was Hector who'd frequented this Molly house, Hector who'd told John that such places existed, though it had been George Everett who first took him to visit one. Even more than usual, he did not wish to risk being recognised. He would be distinctive enough, carrying a baize bag in which to hide his piece of equipment. At least Tom Byrd was off on a two-days' holiday John had forced him to take, so his comings and goings would not be monitored as closely as they usually were while he was at the Grey manor. This was no spontaneous act of lustful perversity; no, he'd needed to orchestrate every element that led to this moment with the precision of a military manoeuvre. The irony that the event he wished to recreate had occurred while serving in his regiment was not lost on him.
"Get on with it," he admonished himself.
Within a quarter of an hour he was in his least formal attire, topped with a lightweight wool coat to guard against the autumn chill. He fortified himself with a few fingers of brandy, and then made his way out of the house, avoiding any servants. His mother was also absent, attending a dinner engagement. It wasn't until he was in a hired coach, arranged at a distance several minutes' walk from his home that he allowed himself to breathe deeply. Anticipation fluttered in his stomach like trapped butterflies; he halted the coach earlier than he'd initially planned so that he could calm his thoughts with a longer walk. Each stride brought him closer to the night's success or failure, though John chose not to dwell on what he might do if his longed-for plans came to naught.
He found his destination easily enough, though he'd never visited that particular street before. When asked for his name by the doorman, John supplied the most forgettable one that came to mind.
"Welcome, William Smith," the doorman said, smirking.
With a curt nod, John walked past him into the warmth of the entryway, noting the similarities and differences between this gathering-place and Lavender House. He'd never been one to adopt a lady's moniker, as some men with similar sexual appetites did, and he certainly wasn't going to start tonight. After assuring that any valuables were in his breeches' pocket, he hung his coat on a peg. He walked toward the familiar sights of men delighting in their own company, casting his gaze around the large, well-occupied salon. The tension in his chest eased as, for a few hours at least, he could to shed any pretence of being anything other than what he truly was: a man who loved men.
He espied a tray with glasses and a decanter and walked over to it, pouring himself what turned out to be a not altogether awful sherry. Thankfully he'd not been approached, and was able to scan the small throng without needing to carry on a conversation at the same time. It was the glint of red that caught his eye before seeing the young man with a head of dark curls at his side, and he was pierced by a twinge of guilt. The one with coppery waves was gesturing and speaking animatedly to his listeners. John took another swallow of the sweet sack, regarding the trio on an ostentatious emerald velvet couch when a pair of dark eyes flickered up, caught his, and held.
The moment had come. John raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment, tilted his head slightly, and approached the man who nominally resembled Percy, at least in physicality.
"Well, hello!" the gregarious ginger said, waving to an empty chair opposite them. "Do join us."
"Good evening," John said a bit stiffly before willing a courteous smile to his lips.
"I've not seen you before," the man with dark eyes and hair said, giving John a quick but doubtless thorough evaluation. His eyes were bright with intrigue. "I would have remembered if I had."
"Thank you for your generosity," John found himself saying.
"I'm Oswald. And you are?"
"He's too bloody serious," interjected the redhead. "You look like a man starved for fun. I'm Lady Anne, by the way."
"Pleasure," John replied, taking the man's proffered hand. He was obviously meant to kiss it, but instead he merely clasped the long fingers in his and then let go. "You may call me William."
"So, William," Lady Anne drawled, leaning back and draping an arm over Oswald's shoulder. "Why are you carrying that bag?"
"That is my business."
John took another swallow of sherry, finishing it. The flash of irritation must have shown on his face, as a tawny-haired man John guessed to be his age sitting to Oswald's right offered to refill their glasses. With a gracious smile, John handed over his glass.
"What business brings you here tonight?" Oswald asked, leaning heavily on the second word.
"Truth be told, I was hoping to find someone." He paused, collecting his thoughts to say the right thing as delicately as possible. "Someone who resembles a dear friend."
Oswald's gaze, from eyes more oval and closely set than Percy's, became crafty and knowing, his expression marring the hoped-for illusion even more. But then a warm smile rose to his lips, and the harder edge vanished.
"A pity this dear friend didn't accompany you," Oswald observed as John took back his glass of sherry.
"He lives abroad now," John said, thinking of the unsigned letter's he'd received a fortnight ago.
"What did he look like, this friend?" Lady Anne asked, taking a pinch of snuff from an engraved box he'd produced from seemingly nowhere.
John didn't answer straight away but took his time in regarding Oswald, looking at the tuft of dark hair peeking through his open stock, the thin lips, a jaw wider and coarser than memory provided. But there was a similar kindness in his demeanour, a warmth in his eyes that John hoped would be enough for his act of daring.
"Interestingly enough, Oswald bears more than a passing resemblance."
"Do I?" Oswald asked, his voice betraying nothing while his searing gaze made John acutely aware of the heaviness between his legs. He felt the weight of the amused looks of Lady Anne and the passive blond as he and Oswald conducted a brief and silent exchange.
So I shall be him for you, tonight, Oswald's body suggested as he sat up straighter. "How very fortunate for you that I decided to come here this evening."
Yes, please. John took another swallow of sherry. "Indeed. Will you join me in a room a bit… quieter?"
"Oh, go on," Lady Anne insisted to Oswald, making shooing motions. "The man has already unlaced your breeches by the look on his face. I only hope I find someone so keen for myself."
He feigned a pout. To John's immense relief, Oswald not only agreed, but he consulted with the proprietor and led them, moments later, to an arranged chamber. John's nerves were on fire, his stomach knotted and his cock beginning to strain in its confines as his illicit fantasy came to life around him. He felt the need to busy himself heating his hands over the coals in a small brazier, and agreed to the purchase of a flagon of whatever red wine the Pale Bloom had to offer. A potent whiskey was what he craved to steady his trembling fingers. Instead he took two concentrated, deep breaths, unbuttoning the top buttons of his waistcoat to free himself further.
"I've never pretended to be someone else," Oswald said, coming to stand at John's side near the heat of the coals. He placed a hand on John's hip, desire smouldering in eyes the colour of acorns.
"You don't- I don't want you to pretend to be him," John said, stumbling over his tongue, which seemed thick and unwieldy in his mouth. "Not exactly."
"What you do want has to do with what's in that bag of yours?" Oswald husked, his words spoken against John's cheekbone. He was a good four or five inches taller than John, unlike Percy, but the ragged quality to his tone caused gooseflesh to rise on his arms as it had done on that fateful day.
"Yes."
"Well, out with it, then."
John allowed himself a deep inhale of the man's cologne, bergamot and vetiver, a pleasing scent. Then he moved away, walking the few steps to his bag while Oswald poured them both glasses of wine. His eyes widened when John produced the short whip, but his hand was steady as he handed John his glass.
"I prefer to keep my skin unblemished," Oswald stated, taking a long swallow of wine.
"It's not for you. I mean," John began.
"You want me to use it on you."
John nodded, grateful that he didn't need to say the words aloud. The room suddenly felt small and confined; with fumbling fingers he undid the buttons of his shirt at the neck. Oswald gave him a searching look that turned troubled.
"Why do you want to be whipped? I don't believe that I'm capable of truly hurting you. It's not in my nature, even though you may wish it."
"No- just a few lashes," John promised. He approached Oswald and placed the handle in his right hand, and was surprised when he moved it to his left.
With a small shrug, Oswald said, "I'm different from my fellows in this as well."
John cradled Oswald's jaw in his hand, the blood thundering in his ears. Conflicting memories jostled for dominance in his mind, the past threatening to overwhelm the very real experience of the present moment. Oswald closed his eyes, then looked at John with what John recognised, to his disquiet, was pity.
"I do not seek this out with regularity," John said quickly, dropping his arm to skim his hand down the man's back. "In fact, this is the first. The only," he continued, more a vow to himself than for Oswald's ears.
"And after?"
Oswald's hands were both occupied, but he arched into John's touch.
"After, well…"
John's hand lowered further to rest atop Oswald's right buttock. Oswald smiled, a heated, feral smile, and clenched the muscle.
"Yes. You will owe me that pleasure."
John squeezed Oswald's arse, and then forced himself to look around the room. There was, of course, no wooden horse for him to hold on to here, nor bedposts to speak of. He decided to stand in front of the window after drawing the heavy curtains, and undressed to the waist. His nipples shrank and hardened at the chill, and the rest of his muscles grew taut as he stood with his legs apart, his hands braced on the window frame.
"Such a lovely back," Oswald said in a low voice.
John shuddered when the tip of the device touched his right shoulder blade and dragged lightly across his skin in a diagonal down to the waist of his breeches. Controlling his breathing proved difficult and he struggled not to hold his breath.
Crack!
John made a hoarse cry. The pain burned, but not as much as the excitement, now centred in his turgid cock. Another hit. And another. The velvet curtains bunched in his sweaty palms, visages of Percy's intense expression blurring that of Jamie's cold defiance. John squeezed his eyes together, anticipating the lashes, though after only three more there was a pause and he began to sag against the rich fabric. He started when he felt the whip trail behind his ear to the shoulder, and gave an undignified yelp moments later when it was slapped lightly between his thighs and against his tender balls. He whirled around, heedless of the whip, but Oswald had tossed it on the bed. John was consumed with lust and a frantic need to possess the man before him.
"Are you all right?" Oswald asked, his concern evident in both eyes and tone. "I didn't hurt you?"
"Quite the opposite," John growled as he lunged, his shaking hands grappling with Oswald's buttons and lacings.
Oswald let out a throaty laugh, helping John so that soon they were both naked, rutting and tumbling on the bed. He proved to be an enthusiastic and accommodating partner, generously offering his arse twice to John before they at last lay in a sweaty, spent tangle of limbs and sheets. John's bones seemed fluid, and he felt strangely comforted when Oswald drew him onto his chest, pulling a woollen coverlet over them and gently carding his fingers through John's tousled hair. For some time he rested there against the soft down of Oswald's chest, his mind blissfully empty of memory and shame, idly brushing his thumb over the jut of Oswald's hipbone.
"Will you look for me again, William?"
At first John didn't respond, having temporarily forgotten that Oswald didn't know his real name.
"My name is John," he said quietly, sliding his leg to rest securely between Oswald's.
"Well, John." He brushed a kiss against the crown of John's head. "I remain who I said I was. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you here again?"
John thought of his obligations, of the letter and unforeseen ache of Percy's absence that had accompanied it, but also the contentment blanketing him with a warmth he hadn't been sure he would feel again after Percy's perceived betrayal. He raised his head and looked at Oswald, not seeing Percy in him at all, now. Instead he saw a man not so unlike himself, and someone he had trusted not to do him harm, and who had proven worthy of that trust. He wouldn't go so far as to think that he'd seek him out anywhere other than at the Pale Bloom, but perhaps before he was called away again by his regiment…
The unanswered question hung in the air, uncertainty in Oswald's umber eyes, until John allowed a ghost of a smile to his lips.
"It would not be outside the realm of possibility."
There was a soft rumble in Oswald's throat.
"Ah, good. Well, I for one could stand a glass of wine. You?"
"Certainly."
They took their time to finish the bottle, sitting side by side in the bed, talking some about John's military experience and Oswald's love of books, but mostly enjoying a companionable silence until John began to yawn.
"Will you stay the night?" Oswald asked, his hope evident.
"It's tempting, but I really should return home. Besides, won't your companions be expecting you?"
"At this hour, if Margaret hasn't found somebody intriguing, she'll have gone home. Lady Anne, I suspect, is in another room, or if not, she'll be in the parlour, sulking." He gave John an apologetic shrug. "I don't mind their company, but I am not inclined to their levels of flamboyance. In that way I suspect I'm like you."
"Yes," John agreed. Even though the fire of his arousal had been satisfyingly quenched and he'd moved from languor almost to torpor, he fell back into his usual tendency toward personal reticence. He slid out from under the bedcovers and found his clothes, dressing by the brazier for warmth. Oswald joined him after availing himself of the piss pot and washing his hands in a basin. John too relived his full bladder. Due to the lateness of the hour he expected there would be a shortage of carriages. He checked to make doubly sure his dagger was still firmly sheathed in his belt. The walk home could prove not only long, but potentially dangerous as well.
"I hope I see you again," Oswald said, standing before the door. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but to John's relief he remained silent, only reaching out to run his fingers through John's hair over his ear.
"It has been a most memorable evening. Thank you for indulging my…" John paused, and then continued with brutal honesty, "…my perversion."
Oswald looked concerned, and shook his head. "Pain and pleasure often go hand in hand. I would not consider our actions perverse. Though there are plenty of truly scandalous acts that can and do go on here."
"I don't doubt it."
John placed a hand on Oswald's shoulder and squeezed it slightly. "Good night, Oswald."
Oswald placed his hand on John's for a brief moment and then stood aside the door.
"A very pleasant good night to you, John. Sweet dreams."
It was in the profound throes of night when John undressed for bed, returned at last to his own rooms. A strong desire to look at the welts on his back almost consumed him, but the siren call of his bed possessed the stronger power. He wondered if he would indeed dream tonight, and, if so, who would appear in that unreal realm. Once under the covers, John turned on his side, pulling the woollen blanket up over his shoulder. Though he still had Oswald's scent on him, it was Percy who came to mind as he began to drift off.
"Bene es, frater meus," he murmured, wishing his former brother in arms well, and then fell into a deep sleep.