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31_days2005-08-11 05:39 pm
cibeles.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-11 05:39 pm
[August 11] [Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell] The King is a Fool
Title: The King is a Fool
Day/Theme: August 11 / I claim proud kinship with your race and blood
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Character/Pairing: Stephen Black / the evil fairy
Rating: Hard R / light NC17
The King is a Fool
You were never sure quite what to believe when it came to this mysterious gentleman, were you? He always did frighten you, and he always did fascinate you, but you were always torn. Both terribly beautiful and beautifully terrible, he was more dream than reality. After all, he is a fairy, something beyond your frame of mind. To him, you are an inferior crafted for his pleasure and amusement.
So why couldn’t you believe what happened when it finally did? Everything that had happened before was only a prelude to this, and everything that followed only an afterthought, a hasty life in the shadow of an event long gone.
He was controlled, then. Careful. Clever. Drawing you in, running a thin, gloved finger down your back – the art of seduction was his profession, it seemed, while you stiffened against him and bit your lip. You did not say a word. And he – he said things in the fairy-tongue. Enchanting things.
You did not say a word when he began to unbutton your jacket and then your waistcoat from behind with one hand, softly kissing your neck and untying your clean white cravat with the other. Afraid or enamored?
You still said nothing as the fairy ran his hands over your hips and your lavender breeches, luxurious and no doubt expensive, a long-ago gift from the very gentleman now pressing against you, slid down your legs in a satin river and formed a little pile around your boots.
And you still were silent when you raised your eyes to meet his in the mirror and you saw not two men, one dark and one light, one light and one dark; you saw a bed. To the left were rows and rows of iron candelabras lit with emerald flames. To the right were locked doors. The bed itself caught your attention because, like the rest of the room’s features, it was massive and draped in fluttering veils the colour of a winter noon sky.
He took you towards it, removing your jacket and your waistcoat in one fluid motion and slowly taking your cravat between his teeth and pulling it away. The two items were disposed of and you placed your hands on top of his. Somehow your shirt’s buttons had been unfastened, and the bed was nearer, and you were excited.
Why so surprised, Stephen Black?
Why so surprised when his hands escaped yours and something pressed against you, he pushed into you – where did his breeches go? you had to wonder, but this was no time for questions – and you moaned and thrashed against him, and his fingers deftly stroked the tip of your cock before taking it all in that insanely huge yet too-small hand that couldn’t truly satisfy you. Where had this all come from?
“Stephen, you mortals are such beautiful fools,” breathed man as you leaned into him and you both fell to the bed, something breaking loose. The curtains whispered in the air around you and traced figure-eights on your dark thighs.
Your hands unconsciously reached behind and rove through his hair, delighting in the vast amount of it. So thick and soft, and so grey for a man who appeared so young – appeared no more than a few years older than you at the time.
All the while he taunted you, sometimes abandoning his little game to make you scream just to hear you moan and writhe against his solid figure. From the waist up he was still perfectly dressed, not a single wrinkle out of place. You could easily tell as you leaned into him and let him penetrate you further.
He knew your secrets.
He knew your thoughts.
You didn’t mind.
And that bloody hand!
You were shaking beneath him with quickening breath and pinpoint eyes and he said something in your ear, maybe it was “You’re a little brat sometimes” or “Your blood gets hotter yet mine – mine becomes ever colder” or even a fairy’s prayer, but you – ah, you had just ceased to heed his little speeches.
And when you finally did shudder and shriek and go limp in his masterful hand, clawing at the black cushions, your eyes fluttered closed and for the next part, you had it in darkness when he arched against you and dug his fingers into your limp arm damp with sweat.
But he was not tired. He did not feel guilty and you, sore and stunned, did not know what to think or feel when he turned you round and you saw him totally in control. This was his story, and you were a supporting player, a trifle. A particularly interesting little trifle but a pawn nonetheless. His lips pressed against yours and his tongue did things you could not reciprocate.
Your hands moved as if in a dream and began to fully undress him.
“So it is not over, then,” he murmured when he had a chance to allow words to pass his swollen lips so close to yours you could feel the meaning of his words, bittersweet and cold
“Not over,” you repeated.
The fairy laughed, locks of thistle-down hair caught in dark verdant light falling in his eyes. Beauty.
“I take it beautiful fools don’t know when to stop.”
He shook the hair from his eyes and they revealed wicked intent. Fear.
“No.”
And it wasn’t over.
Day/Theme: August 11 / I claim proud kinship with your race and blood
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Character/Pairing: Stephen Black / the evil fairy
Rating: Hard R / light NC17
You were never sure quite what to believe when it came to this mysterious gentleman, were you? He always did frighten you, and he always did fascinate you, but you were always torn. Both terribly beautiful and beautifully terrible, he was more dream than reality. After all, he is a fairy, something beyond your frame of mind. To him, you are an inferior crafted for his pleasure and amusement.
So why couldn’t you believe what happened when it finally did? Everything that had happened before was only a prelude to this, and everything that followed only an afterthought, a hasty life in the shadow of an event long gone.
He was controlled, then. Careful. Clever. Drawing you in, running a thin, gloved finger down your back – the art of seduction was his profession, it seemed, while you stiffened against him and bit your lip. You did not say a word. And he – he said things in the fairy-tongue. Enchanting things.
You did not say a word when he began to unbutton your jacket and then your waistcoat from behind with one hand, softly kissing your neck and untying your clean white cravat with the other. Afraid or enamored?
You still said nothing as the fairy ran his hands over your hips and your lavender breeches, luxurious and no doubt expensive, a long-ago gift from the very gentleman now pressing against you, slid down your legs in a satin river and formed a little pile around your boots.
And you still were silent when you raised your eyes to meet his in the mirror and you saw not two men, one dark and one light, one light and one dark; you saw a bed. To the left were rows and rows of iron candelabras lit with emerald flames. To the right were locked doors. The bed itself caught your attention because, like the rest of the room’s features, it was massive and draped in fluttering veils the colour of a winter noon sky.
He took you towards it, removing your jacket and your waistcoat in one fluid motion and slowly taking your cravat between his teeth and pulling it away. The two items were disposed of and you placed your hands on top of his. Somehow your shirt’s buttons had been unfastened, and the bed was nearer, and you were excited.
Why so surprised, Stephen Black?
Why so surprised when his hands escaped yours and something pressed against you, he pushed into you – where did his breeches go? you had to wonder, but this was no time for questions – and you moaned and thrashed against him, and his fingers deftly stroked the tip of your cock before taking it all in that insanely huge yet too-small hand that couldn’t truly satisfy you. Where had this all come from?
“Stephen, you mortals are such beautiful fools,” breathed man as you leaned into him and you both fell to the bed, something breaking loose. The curtains whispered in the air around you and traced figure-eights on your dark thighs.
Your hands unconsciously reached behind and rove through his hair, delighting in the vast amount of it. So thick and soft, and so grey for a man who appeared so young – appeared no more than a few years older than you at the time.
All the while he taunted you, sometimes abandoning his little game to make you scream just to hear you moan and writhe against his solid figure. From the waist up he was still perfectly dressed, not a single wrinkle out of place. You could easily tell as you leaned into him and let him penetrate you further.
He knew your secrets.
He knew your thoughts.
You didn’t mind.
And that bloody hand!
You were shaking beneath him with quickening breath and pinpoint eyes and he said something in your ear, maybe it was “You’re a little brat sometimes” or “Your blood gets hotter yet mine – mine becomes ever colder” or even a fairy’s prayer, but you – ah, you had just ceased to heed his little speeches.
And when you finally did shudder and shriek and go limp in his masterful hand, clawing at the black cushions, your eyes fluttered closed and for the next part, you had it in darkness when he arched against you and dug his fingers into your limp arm damp with sweat.
But he was not tired. He did not feel guilty and you, sore and stunned, did not know what to think or feel when he turned you round and you saw him totally in control. This was his story, and you were a supporting player, a trifle. A particularly interesting little trifle but a pawn nonetheless. His lips pressed against yours and his tongue did things you could not reciprocate.
Your hands moved as if in a dream and began to fully undress him.
“So it is not over, then,” he murmured when he had a chance to allow words to pass his swollen lips so close to yours you could feel the meaning of his words, bittersweet and cold
“Not over,” you repeated.
The fairy laughed, locks of thistle-down hair caught in dark verdant light falling in his eyes. Beauty.
“I take it beautiful fools don’t know when to stop.”
He shook the hair from his eyes and they revealed wicked intent. Fear.
“No.”
And it wasn’t over.