Re-Posted Fic: 'Twixt Blame & Blindness
Title: 'Twixt Blame & Blindness
Author: tinx_r
Fandom: These Old Shades (Georgette Heyer)
Genre/Rating: Slash/R
Wordcount: 1300
Pairing/Characters: Justin Alistair, the Duke of Avon/Leon the Page
Notes/Warnings: Yuletide 2010. Reposted from AO3
Summary: What if there never was a Leonie? What if Leon was in very truth Leon?
Léon's small room in the hôtel on the Rue St.-Honore was neither large nor luxurious, but he saw no fault in it. He had it to compare with a pallet by the hearth in the noisome scullery of the tavern of the Crossbow, and before that with the tiny room under the thatch that he had shared with Jean, in the long-ago farmhouse in Bassincourt.
The narrow hard bed, the bare washstand with its enamel ewer, the tiny rag rug that kept his feet from the cold: little enough, by anyone's standards, but to Léon, they were precious indeed. The room was his own; no-one entered it save himself and the maid who, once a week, dusted and swept the servants quarters; no-one laid hands on him and dragged him, frightened and reluctant, from his bed.
In fact, it was quite the opposite. When he had fallen asleep in the coach from Versailles--and Heaven help him, he knew not what had come over him to sleep so deeply, he who was wont to rouse at the slightest sound--the Duc had carried him inside, and put him to bed with his own hands.
Léon knew it was so, for the Duc had said it himself. The thought filled him with warmth, but at the same time set his mind awhirl.
Léon was no stranger to men. In his years at the Crossbow, he had learned to know the weight of lust in a man's eyes, and to use it to his own advantage. The tavern patrons were mean, with little enough to give, but Léon learned fast to price himself within their meagre means. The money was better in his pocket than in Jean's, and if the tavern sold less ale, why, Léon would never admit it had aught to do with the time he spent in the dirty back alley, kneeling on a sack that his breeches should not give him away.
No; of a certainty he was no stranger to men. Yet this man puzzled him. There was that in Monseigneur's eyes that Léon knew: want, and withal a certain tenderness that Léon hardly dared to believe was for him. But there was none of the coarse lust, and try he never so cleverly, Monseigneur never looked aught but coolly amused.
Certainly Monseigneur had a kindness for Léon: that was assured. Did he not allow the page to tease and flirt without becoming angered? Léon understood the behaviour was unusual--he saw it in M. Davenant's bewildered fury--and took heart, but close as he felt to his Monseigneur, he was yet held at arm's length.
That evening, he was summoned to Monseigneur's presence in the library. M. Davenant was out, and when Léon saw that Monseigneur was alone and dressed for an evening at home, he permitted himself a small skip.
"Something excites you, my infant?" The lazy voice sent a flicker of excitement and anticipation--and just a hint of fear, for does one not always fear that which one loves beyond all reason?--up Léon's spine.
Léon finished filling the Duc's glass of burgundy and turned, smiling, albeit a little sadly. "I like to be with you, Monseigneur," he explained.
The Duc received his burgundy with a smile of his own, a smile that Léon had not seen before: tender, and a little amused. "I confess, petite, your company wearies me less than all of Paris."
Léon gave a small, quaint bow. "I strive," he said, soft and passionate. "For when I weary you, you shall give me to M. Davenant, and that..." Léon's lip quivered. "I should rather return to the street, Monseigneur."
"Mr. Davenant pleases you not?" Avon put up his brows. "Tell me, infant, what wickedness do you suspect him of?"
Léon hung his head. "It is not that I am not pleased with M. Davenant. It is that-- it is that-- oh Monseigneur, if I have not you, then I have nothing, and I would rather have naught in very sooth as have--as have a place, without you." At the end of this impassioned little speech, Léon fell to his knees, clasping one of Avon's strong white hands in his. He brought it to his lips, then bowed low over it. "Please, Monseigneur. I have said once, when you tire of me, I will serve in your kitchens, only to know I am close to you. That I mean."
"I believe you do. Get up, child."
Léon got his feet, shooting a look at his lord from under his lashes. Avon looked, for once, something discomposed, although he did not look angry. "Léon, the world calls me Satanas, and that not lightly. Understand, I am not a good man."
"Bah! They tell me this--below-stairs, upon the street--and I care not. What manner of man you are--ah, that is not for me to judge! Think you I know nothing of vice?"
Avon stood abruptly. "What I fear you know of vice grieves me sorely, infant."
Color flamed in Léon's cheeks. "You would cast me from you because I am not enough respectable?"
"I will not cast you out, my Léon. Come, calm yourself." Avon sat back down slowly, a frown descending on his brow.
"Monseigneur!" Léon flung himself at Avon's feet. "I would serve you--in every way!"
"Yes," Avon said thoughtfully. "This you have been at pains to show me, to the discomfiture of M. Davenant. Let that pass. But even Satanas has never yet stood accused of the corruption of youth."
"Not corruption!" Léon raised huge tearstained eyes to his lord's face. "Monseigneur, I belong to you, body and soul. Have you not said it? You take only what is already yours."
"Léon, ah Léon. You tempt me sorely. Thus I think that with M. Davenant lies your only chance of salvation."
Léon, tears dry now, stared beseechingly up into Avon's face. "My soul belongs to Satanas," he whispered. "I want not salvation."
Avon stood abruptly and Léon fell back, staring in a mix of fear and hope at the Duc. As Léon held his breath, Avon strode to the door--and turned the heavy key in the lock.
Léon leapt to his feet. "Monseigneur!" He essayed a little caper.
Avon surveyed him. "Undoubtedly I am a fool," he said calmly, "but in truth, infant, you are irresistible." In three quick strides he came to Léon's side and captured him in his arms. "Now, page, we shall see what you are made of."
Léon thrilled in the strength of the arms that held him, the crushing heat of the kiss, the power that held him, pliant and willing, in Avon's arms. Usually he was the master; his kisses nicely judged, the timing his. Tonight, he was mastered indeed, and his heart exulted.
"Monseigneur," he whispered, desire thick in his voice, and batted his eyelashes.
"Coquette," Avon said, half grim, half appreciative. He lifted Léon off his feet and carried him to a brocade couch set back against one wall. "First I shall have you naked, and then we shall see."
Léon had said, with reason, that he knew of vice, but this was a new experience indeed. To be laid out on a sumptuous couch and efficiently stripped, his soft skin kissed--and sometimes bitten--in places he had never imagined set every nerve afire. He lay quivering, at the mercy of his lord's every touch. Avon remained clothed, even when he finally took Léon's swollen manhood in his hand and coaxed him, with a few deft strokes, to give up his seed.
"My Léon," Avon whispered, and kissed him again.
Léon opened his eyes and smiled. "You know it not, Monseigneur," he whispered, "but this is salvation indeed."
Author: tinx_r
Fandom: These Old Shades (Georgette Heyer)
Genre/Rating: Slash/R
Wordcount: 1300
Pairing/Characters: Justin Alistair, the Duke of Avon/Leon the Page
Notes/Warnings: Yuletide 2010. Reposted from AO3
Summary: What if there never was a Leonie? What if Leon was in very truth Leon?
Léon's small room in the hôtel on the Rue St.-Honore was neither large nor luxurious, but he saw no fault in it. He had it to compare with a pallet by the hearth in the noisome scullery of the tavern of the Crossbow, and before that with the tiny room under the thatch that he had shared with Jean, in the long-ago farmhouse in Bassincourt.
The narrow hard bed, the bare washstand with its enamel ewer, the tiny rag rug that kept his feet from the cold: little enough, by anyone's standards, but to Léon, they were precious indeed. The room was his own; no-one entered it save himself and the maid who, once a week, dusted and swept the servants quarters; no-one laid hands on him and dragged him, frightened and reluctant, from his bed.
In fact, it was quite the opposite. When he had fallen asleep in the coach from Versailles--and Heaven help him, he knew not what had come over him to sleep so deeply, he who was wont to rouse at the slightest sound--the Duc had carried him inside, and put him to bed with his own hands.
Léon knew it was so, for the Duc had said it himself. The thought filled him with warmth, but at the same time set his mind awhirl.
Léon was no stranger to men. In his years at the Crossbow, he had learned to know the weight of lust in a man's eyes, and to use it to his own advantage. The tavern patrons were mean, with little enough to give, but Léon learned fast to price himself within their meagre means. The money was better in his pocket than in Jean's, and if the tavern sold less ale, why, Léon would never admit it had aught to do with the time he spent in the dirty back alley, kneeling on a sack that his breeches should not give him away.
No; of a certainty he was no stranger to men. Yet this man puzzled him. There was that in Monseigneur's eyes that Léon knew: want, and withal a certain tenderness that Léon hardly dared to believe was for him. But there was none of the coarse lust, and try he never so cleverly, Monseigneur never looked aught but coolly amused.
Certainly Monseigneur had a kindness for Léon: that was assured. Did he not allow the page to tease and flirt without becoming angered? Léon understood the behaviour was unusual--he saw it in M. Davenant's bewildered fury--and took heart, but close as he felt to his Monseigneur, he was yet held at arm's length.
That evening, he was summoned to Monseigneur's presence in the library. M. Davenant was out, and when Léon saw that Monseigneur was alone and dressed for an evening at home, he permitted himself a small skip.
"Something excites you, my infant?" The lazy voice sent a flicker of excitement and anticipation--and just a hint of fear, for does one not always fear that which one loves beyond all reason?--up Léon's spine.
Léon finished filling the Duc's glass of burgundy and turned, smiling, albeit a little sadly. "I like to be with you, Monseigneur," he explained.
The Duc received his burgundy with a smile of his own, a smile that Léon had not seen before: tender, and a little amused. "I confess, petite, your company wearies me less than all of Paris."
Léon gave a small, quaint bow. "I strive," he said, soft and passionate. "For when I weary you, you shall give me to M. Davenant, and that..." Léon's lip quivered. "I should rather return to the street, Monseigneur."
"Mr. Davenant pleases you not?" Avon put up his brows. "Tell me, infant, what wickedness do you suspect him of?"
Léon hung his head. "It is not that I am not pleased with M. Davenant. It is that-- it is that-- oh Monseigneur, if I have not you, then I have nothing, and I would rather have naught in very sooth as have--as have a place, without you." At the end of this impassioned little speech, Léon fell to his knees, clasping one of Avon's strong white hands in his. He brought it to his lips, then bowed low over it. "Please, Monseigneur. I have said once, when you tire of me, I will serve in your kitchens, only to know I am close to you. That I mean."
"I believe you do. Get up, child."
Léon got his feet, shooting a look at his lord from under his lashes. Avon looked, for once, something discomposed, although he did not look angry. "Léon, the world calls me Satanas, and that not lightly. Understand, I am not a good man."
"Bah! They tell me this--below-stairs, upon the street--and I care not. What manner of man you are--ah, that is not for me to judge! Think you I know nothing of vice?"
Avon stood abruptly. "What I fear you know of vice grieves me sorely, infant."
Color flamed in Léon's cheeks. "You would cast me from you because I am not enough respectable?"
"I will not cast you out, my Léon. Come, calm yourself." Avon sat back down slowly, a frown descending on his brow.
"Monseigneur!" Léon flung himself at Avon's feet. "I would serve you--in every way!"
"Yes," Avon said thoughtfully. "This you have been at pains to show me, to the discomfiture of M. Davenant. Let that pass. But even Satanas has never yet stood accused of the corruption of youth."
"Not corruption!" Léon raised huge tearstained eyes to his lord's face. "Monseigneur, I belong to you, body and soul. Have you not said it? You take only what is already yours."
"Léon, ah Léon. You tempt me sorely. Thus I think that with M. Davenant lies your only chance of salvation."
Léon, tears dry now, stared beseechingly up into Avon's face. "My soul belongs to Satanas," he whispered. "I want not salvation."
Avon stood abruptly and Léon fell back, staring in a mix of fear and hope at the Duc. As Léon held his breath, Avon strode to the door--and turned the heavy key in the lock.
Léon leapt to his feet. "Monseigneur!" He essayed a little caper.
Avon surveyed him. "Undoubtedly I am a fool," he said calmly, "but in truth, infant, you are irresistible." In three quick strides he came to Léon's side and captured him in his arms. "Now, page, we shall see what you are made of."
Léon thrilled in the strength of the arms that held him, the crushing heat of the kiss, the power that held him, pliant and willing, in Avon's arms. Usually he was the master; his kisses nicely judged, the timing his. Tonight, he was mastered indeed, and his heart exulted.
"Monseigneur," he whispered, desire thick in his voice, and batted his eyelashes.
"Coquette," Avon said, half grim, half appreciative. He lifted Léon off his feet and carried him to a brocade couch set back against one wall. "First I shall have you naked, and then we shall see."
Léon had said, with reason, that he knew of vice, but this was a new experience indeed. To be laid out on a sumptuous couch and efficiently stripped, his soft skin kissed--and sometimes bitten--in places he had never imagined set every nerve afire. He lay quivering, at the mercy of his lord's every touch. Avon remained clothed, even when he finally took Léon's swollen manhood in his hand and coaxed him, with a few deft strokes, to give up his seed.
"My Léon," Avon whispered, and kissed him again.
Léon opened his eyes and smiled. "You know it not, Monseigneur," he whispered, "but this is salvation indeed."