Prize of War: Part Three

One of Ganzorig’s concubines shook Jun awake, helping him out of the bed from amongst the dozen other men and passing him his clothes. Dawn was just breaking. “He’s asking for you,” the slender Asian said. “You can take him his breakfast.” The man handed the half-dressed warrior a plate of warm Khuushuur.

Taking a moment to grumble quietly, Jun finishes dressing and takes the food. The early morning air is crisp, and there is still frost on the blades of grass; he is glad he’s added a fur-lined coat to his clothing. All the non-Chinese concubines are jealous of his silk undergarments, after Jun had let them all try them on, and they had seen how warm the beautiful, soft material is.

Staring resolutely ahead, Jun does his best to ignore the snickers and crude remarks of the warriors who have activities outside their tents, walking briskly to Ganzorig’s tent. Opening the flap, he offers the plate of food to the seated general.

It had been more than a week since Ganzorig’s poisoning, and the general was much stronger now. He was sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of mare’s milk.

The Mongolian general takes the Khuushuur from Jun in the traditional way, supporting his elbow with his left hand. He offered Jun the mare’s milk, smiling.

In his time with his new people, Jun has gotten more used to their food and customs. He accepts the milk, holding his elbow in a similar way. He does a cursory inspection for floating hairs before taking a gulp. Mare’s milk is very sweet, tasting almost of honey, and had made him gag the first few times he had tasted it. He still can’t bring himself to drink airag, but being drunk around these men hardly seems a good idea, anyway. He sits on a heap of fabric at the side of Ganzorig’s bed, leaning against the bed comfortably.

Ganzorig held the dumplings in his big palms, warming his hands with them before eating them. When he was done eating, his hand slid off the side of the bed to squeeze Jun’s muscular upper arm affectionately. His hands were still quite warm.

“I have something for you, little General.”

Making a small grimace of distaste, sure that some grease has been wiped on his clothing, Jun half-turns to look at his master. He is a little wary of what Ganzorig might have to offer him. “Oh?” he asks, politely neutral.

Ganzorig pulled a sheathed sword out from the blankets. It was a little smaller than most Mongolian swords, though not much lighter. He puts it into Jun’s arms. “Only what you asked for.”

Jun laughs softly, pleasantly surprised. Standing, he takes the gift with a small bow. “Thank you,” he murmurs, touched. Stepping back from the bed and unsheathing the blade, Jun executes an intricate dance with the sword, testing its balance and how comfortable it is in his hand. Finished, he ties the sheath around his waist and slides the weapon into it. “Now your concubines will have another reason to be jealous of me…though I doubt most of them would want a sword. Your men will not be concerned?”

“I know that you will never harm me. My men may not understand, but they will not disobey me.” Ganzorig watched Jun handle the sword with pleasure. “If you do not wish to keep the sword in the concubine yurt, you may leave it here.” the General passed Jun the last Khuushuur. “And I have one more thing for you. However, this thing you may only have with me or one of my men with you.”

Taking the greasy dumpling and popping it in his mouth, Jun chews for a moment, then swallows. “How do you know I will never harm you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I do not think the concubines will mind my having a sword, I am not sure why I said that. Perhaps because I was thinking about how much they admire my silks.” Jun frowns slightly; he might, possibly, have guessed what the first present would be. Now, he has no idea. “I understand,” he nods.

“You are a clever man; you know hurting me would end in your death. And you respect the wishes of your Prince, no matter how you disagree with them.” Ganzorig whistles, “Batzorig!” and his horse ventures into the tent, leading a dun mare, attached by a rope around their necks. “Sarangerel.” he says, holding out his hand for the second mare. “She has no rider. She is patient and she will teach you to ride one of our horses.”

Trying to hide his concern—the Mongol horses have, to a one, been cantankerous, stubborn and prone to biting and kicking. Much like their riders, he thinks, suppressing a smile. “Yes,” he agrees, “that is exactly why. Thank you, again. This is a fine gift.” He cautiously approaches the short, stocky horse, offering a hand for the mare to sniff. Horses in his country, even warhorses, are treasured for their even dispositions and loyalty to their riders. Every moment with them is not a test.

Sarangerel sniffed Jun’s palm, snuffling and lipping a bit. She watched the foreigner with dark, intelligent eyes. Batzorig huffed impatiently.

“She has taught children to ride.” Ganzorig chuckled, seeing the concern in Jun’s eyes. “She has been ridden for many years. If you were one of my children, you would have been given a horse at three, and before that, you would have ridden sheep.” he stroked the man’s dark, coarse hair idly.

Smiling at Ganzorig’s mare, Jun unties his new mount, letting Batzorig loose. Holding the rope lightly, Jun strokes Sarangerel’s velvety nose, deciding to ignore Ganzorig’s comments, and the hand on his head. “Thank you,” he repeats, watching the mare closely for signs that she may strike, flee, or bite.

Sarangerel leaned into his hand, guiding it up to her ear and scratching herself on him, rubbing vigorously. Ganzorig laughed.

Momentarily confused—Jun has not had much experience with horses when he is not riding—the young general scratches softly on the mare’s shaggy ear. He slowly works his hand over more of her face, neck and shoulders, his fingers sinking into her thick winter coat. He’s obviously smitten.

Ganzorig smiles as he watches his little General scratch and love the horse. Jun’s people have so little affection for their horses. They’re merely a form of transport to them, whereas for Ganzorig’s people, they’re part of the family. They are a man’s pride, like his children and his wives. Jun had obviously never learned to scratch a horse. It was like not learning how to walk! Ganzorig could hardly fathom it.

“Would you like to ride? I’m well enough.”

Jun quickly assesses Ganzorig—while the larger man is still clearly not fully recovered, he does look better. “Alright,” Jun replies, only a little hesitantly. “Your horse has wandered away, though.”

The big general whistles again and his mare reluctantly presses through the tent flap, ignoring Jun and Sarangerel completely as she goes to rest her nose against Ganzorig’s chest. He pulls himself out of bed –completely naked- using her mane, and guides her to his clothes, neatly laid out for him by one of his wives or concubines. He leans against Batzorig as he dresses.

Jun is a little surprised by Ganzorig’s nakedness, and he delicately glances away while the warlord dresses. “…are you sure you are well enough?” he asks, stroking Sarangerel’s powerful neck. He is not yet aware just how much more comfortable the Mongols are on horseback than on their own two legs.

“Riding will be easier than walking.” Ganzorig explained, “Batzorig will take care of me.” He pulled on his sheepskin coat and pulled himself onto her back. He nudged her and they stepped forward as one. He waited for Jun to mount.

Looking skeptical, Jun watches Ganzorig mount. Indeed, as soon as the warlord is on horseback, he does seem healthier. Jun eyes his mare’s complete lack of tack, knowing there is no way he could control a horse the way Ganzorig is.

Ganzorig takes a moment to realize what Jun needs. “There’s a bridle by the door.” he pointed to a pile of what looked like random scraps of leather.

Quite perplexed, Jun stares at the heap of leather strings roughly knotted together. Picking up the tangle, he turns it this way and that, trying to figure out how it is supposed to work. Periodically, Sarangerel nudges him, trying to help. Increasingly frustrated and not wanting to look foolish or ignorant, Jun begins undoing knots to start fresh with a length of leather.

Ganzorig chuckled, offering a hand to take the bridle. He quickly sorts it out, putting it on Sarangerel’s face and patting her cheek. He gives the reins to Jun. “You can practice when we get back.” Batzorig walked forward and left the tent.

Sarangerel gives a horsy sigh, tossing her head as if noting how silly her new rider is.

Laughing softly at himself, Jun is now faced with the problem of mounting without the aid of stirrups. Although the mare is short, Jun is none too tall himself. Finally, he leads Sarangerel to the bed, positioning the mare beside it. Standing on the bed, he’s able to scramble onto the willing horse’s back. Tugging the reins, he turns her toward the tent’s flap, ducking against her neck as she pushes through and they rejoin Ganzorig and Batzorig.

Ganzorig smiles at his little concubine. Batzorig took off through the camp at a trot, weaving through tents, men, fires, horses and livestock.

Jun soon gives up trying to control his mount, noticing that she is mostly following Batzorig, anyway. Sarangerel seems to have decided her rider is some sort of hopeless imbecile who needs to be cared for. Jun is surprised by the size of the camp; it is even larger than he would have guessed. He settles back and enjoys the ride, laughing as Batzorig stops to bite or nuzzle several enemy or friend horses as she passes, quite unhindered by Ganzorig, who is doing much the same with people he sees. In fact, Ganzorig seems to be allowing his mount to choose their speed and direction, with very little input. It is a very strange style of riding to Jun.

Once they’re free of the camp, Batzorig pauses unwillingly to wait for Jun and Sarangerel. Ganzorig looks back to Jun. “Is she taking care of you?” he chuckled.

Frowning a little at Ganzorig’s patronizing tone, Jun cannot help but smile back. “Yes, I think she is,” he admits, patting the mare’s sturdy neck. He stares out across the vast steppe, imagining riding and riding until he is home again. With a sigh, he turns Sarangerel to face a different direction.

Ganzorig pushes Batzorig to move and she takes off at a canter across the wide-open grassland. He enjoys being out of his tent. He finds staying inside stifling. Being on horseback feels much more like home.

Jun cannot help but smile as he watches Ganzorig ride; the warlord’s delight at being mounted is clear as he bounces along on Sarangerel’s back after the other rider, allowing his mare to guide them.

They rode together for perhaps an hour before Ganzorig slowed Batzorig so the horses were side by side.

“What do you miss most?”

Surprised, Jun relaxes his grip on the reins (making Sarangerel snort appreciatively). “About home, you mean?”

“Yes. Your city. Your people.” Ganzorig kept his eyes on the horizon as he asked, stroking Batzorig’s mane.

“I…I do not know. The food, perhaps,” Jun says, trying to sound frivolous and not show how much the question had rattled him. He turns to face the horizon, as well. “What about you? Why are you attacking my country? You do not seem to care about gold or worldly possessions, you have told me that yourself. What do you hope to gain?”

“All the men in this camp come from different tribes. Did you know that? We fought, killed each other and were paid to do so by your people. Under me, my people fight under one banner. We’re one people. Before me, it was centuries of your people pitting my people against each other.” Ganzorig said, eyes dark. “That’s why I burn the cities and wipe the land clean of them. I want there to be no memory of them when I am through.”

Unable to think of a response to this, Jun sits quietly on his horse for some time. "Then why keep me?" he asks.

"Though I despise what your people have done to mine, I still find you beautiful." Ganzorig looked Jun up and down.

Blushing a little under the warlord's penetrating gaze, Jun digs his heels into his mare's sides, urging her faster. He needs to move, to think on what Ganzorig has said. He is aware that his people have been keeping the Mongols under control, but he had always thought of them as primitive savages, who needed benevolent guidance to not overrun the world. He had never seen them as people.

Ganzorig allowed Jun to ride ahead, slowing Batzorig's urge to race the other mare and patting her. He kept pace behind Jun quietly.

Finally, Jun reins in his mare, halting and waiting for Ganzorig to catch up with them. "I cannot say that I disagree with my people's ways, because they are still my people...but I can see why you would be angry." Turning to face the massive camp, with fires just beginning to glow in the twilight, he murmurs, "and this is very impressive."

"Impressive? The camp, or what we've done?" Ganzorig stopped his mare right next to Jun's. Batzorig took this opportunity to bite Sarangerel's neck.

"Both. There are not many men who could bring such fierce people together under one banner." Jun is forced to grab his mare's mane as Sarangerel dances sideways to avoid Batzorig's teeth.

Ganzorig nods, watching the campfires with Jun silently. After a moment, he asks, "Are you ready to ride back?"

Jun nods, deep in thought.

They let the horses canter back. They both know where they're going and soon they find themselves weaving through the camp, noisy and busy with all the men eating, drinking and talking. The horses stop outside Ganzorig's tent and the warlord dismounts.

A moment later, Jun slides off Sarangerel, with rather less grace than Ganzorig. He is quite sore, being unused to riding without a saddle, and a little out of the practice of riding at all.

"Where would you rather sleep?" Ganzorig asks him.
Jun considers the question for a moment, then looks at the ground. "With you," he admits. "The concubines never let me sleep," he adds quickly.

"Even though I snore?" Ganzorig laughed.

"As long as I fall asleep before you, it is not a problem. What do we do with the horses?"

"Let them loose. They'll graze with the herd." Ganzorig patted Batzorig on her flank, sending her off. He lifted the tent flap for Jun.

Sarangerel follows Batzorig, playfully kicking up her heels at the other mare, as the two horses trot off to join their friends.

Jun ducks under the flap, breathing in the deep, rich smells of the tent: fabric, leather, sweat, horse, tea, smoke...he certainly has fewer responsibilities here, he reflects.

Ganzorig followed Jun into the tent, going back to his bed and sitting on the edge, unbuttoning his long lambskin coat.

Placing the complicated skein of leather that makes up Sarangerel's bridle back where he had found it, Jun sits lightly on the edge of the bed, some distance from Ganzorig.

Ganzorig pulled off his coat, leaving it on the edge of his bed. "I did have one more thing for you."

Laughing softly, Jun turns to the warlord. "Is this some sort of festival?" he asks.

"We had a very good battle a few weeks ago. I meant to give it to you earlier." he dug through the furs on his bed (where he seemed to keep everything) and came up with a round black bottle. He handed it to Jun.

Jun takes the bottle, reading the graceful Chinese characters on the side. "Rice wine! Thank you." The young general had not been aware that Ganzorig had noticed his distaste for airag. He tries not to think about where the warlord had gotten the drink.

Ganzorig grinned, clapping him on the back. "Now you'll have something to drink besides mare's milk."

Jun gasps a little at the force of Ganzorig's hand on his back, but he smiles back at the warlord. "Do you treat all of your...I mean, your concubines...this well?" Jun has tried very hard to make it clear that he is separate from the concubines.

"I bring things back often." he laughed, "Why did you think their tent was so lavish?" He didn't mind if Jun thought of himself as something other than a concubine. He certainly was different than those weak, slender men.

"True." After a moment's consideration, Jun fixes Ganzorig with a careful stare. "What is the price of these gifts?"

"You're already paying the price." Ganzorig assured him, fingers weaving into Jun's coarse hair. For some reason, the man's hair delighted him.

"Yes, I suppose I am," Jun says, wryly. However, he has to admit that the hand in his hair does feel good, and he closes his eyes, leaning into Ganzorig's hand. Just a little.

Ganzorig leaned in closer, kissing Jun's ear.

Jun tenses, but leans against Ganzorig's side to steady himself.

"Dinner." Ganzorig murmured.

"My ear?" Jun murmurs, confused. His mind is feeling a little foggy from the pleasant sensation of Ganzorig's warm, wet mouth.

Ganzorig chuckled. "You can make Khuushuur now, can't you?"

"Ahh...oh, yes. The concubines taught me."

"Make some for me."

(then we went and made Khuushuur, which are delicious. You should all eat them. Eat them now!!)

Attack of the Killer Butler!

Michel is running, more or less blind with the amount of blood dripping incessantly down his hair and into his eyes. He cannot stop; if he does, they'll catch him, and he'll have a lot more than blood to worry about. He's forgotten, for the moment, that one hand is pressed to his abdomen, keeping...things...safely inside where they belong.

Ivar is walking sedately, following the trail of blood, his cock dripping with anticipation of the kill. He's not concerned. Even if the boy manages to leave the manor, he's miles from help.

Jerome is in his small study, sipping tea with shaking hands, trying to block out the horrific sounds from below.

Lydon laces his bloody fingers with Ivar's, smiling at his friend with a baring of teeth. They would finish this night with the best sex, they were both thoroughly aroused.

Ivar curls and straightens his fingers, relishing the tackiness of the still-wet blood binding their hands together. His answering grin shows the blood oozing between his teeth.

Michel sobs, hearing their footsteps behind him. He's bruised and bloody, not just from the torture he's fled, but from crashing into furniture and other obstacles on his panicked flight. "Please!" he screams, "please, just let me go!" as he crashes through the house.

Lydon laughs, kissing Ivar, then pulling him along as he sped up. "Ya tebya lyublyu!"

"And I love you, my Englishman," Ivar cries, throwing back his head and laughing, until they're skipping along like schoolboys following the trail of blood and broken things.

Lydon fingers the little kitchen knife he's been playing with all night. His fingers are sticking to it, just as they're sticking to Ivar's skin. Blood soaks them both up to the elbows, spattered across their clothes and skin, stuck to their hair and even their eyelashes.

Ivar smiles, more a curling of his lip. "I can't wait to lick it all off of you," he growls, wiping a bloody curl off of his forehead, his accent thickening with lust and the hunt.

Lydon groaned, knees going a bit weak.

They're close enough now that Michel can hear them, but he can't seem to make himself run any further. He's reduced to a painful, shambling walk, trying to keep his noisy sobs in check.

Ivar catches his partner easily, twirling him into his arms and pressing their chests, their lips together, leaving bloody handprints on one of the few remaining bits of Lydon's skin. "I have you, my treasure."

Lydon wraps his arm around Ivar's neck, kissing him deeply, melting against him.

"Mmm...Lydon, darling, as much as I want to fuck you right here in this wonderful puddle, there is the boy. He won't get far, but..."

"Nnngh..." Lydon groaned, fingers undoing Ivar's apron. "Jerome!" he shouted.

Jerome puts down his tea with a sigh of regret, standing and going to the undoubtedly bloody and lustful young Master and his terrifying friend.

Ivar rips the apron loose and pins Lydon to the floor with his hips, smearing some of the blood onto his partner's opening as lubrication, before grabbing both of Lydon's wrists and violently penetrating him.

Lydon screams, his whole body bucking under his lover's thrusts.

"Don't just stand there gaping," Ivar snarls at Jerome, "do your fucking job and clean this up. But first, find the boy and take care of him." He lowers his dripping mouth to Lydon's throat, biting and worrying the soft skin there.

Lydon makes a series of inhuman sounds, wrapping his legs around Ivar and pulling him deeper, neck offered up to the teeth happily.

Jerome splutters, but leaves, following the blood trail. Take care of him. Kill him?

Ivar doesn't notice the butler leave, so intent is he on ravishing and ravaging his partner.

Michel has found himself in the kitchen, where he is frantically, but weakly, pounding on the glass patio door from where he's fallen to his knees.

Jerome goes to the weak, struggling boy, trying to keep his horror in check. He hesitates beside him, then kneels.

The kneeling boy screams, coughing pink foam from his mouth, and for a moment his hand falls away from the ragged wound in his belly, revealing things that shouldn't see light. He gazes up at Jerome, the horror in his eyes matching the butler's. "...help..." he gasps. He has no idea who the man is, only that he hadn't been in the basement while...

Jerome swallows hard. He can't help but wonder if the boy has already lost some organs and other things that weren't meant to be outside of his skin. The slit across his stomach is wide and the boy is drenched in blood and other unmentionable things. "I... I'll help." he stands, looking about for any sort of weapon.

Michel stares up at the older man with complete trust, allowing himself to relax and settle on the floor.

Jerome chokes back tears, digging through a drawer and finding a kitchen knife. He kneels back down with the boy, cradling him, keeping the knife behind the boy's back.

The boy nestles against the stranger, croaking, "What's your name?"

Jerome wraps an arm around the boy, stroking his hair. "I'm Jerome." Please don't tell me your name.

The boy smiles painfully. "Michel. Did they...hurt you, too?" He closes his eyes, pressed against Jerome's side like a frightened child.

"I... no." he holds the boy. He can see how labored his breathing is. He can see the slick, dark things falling out of the gaping wound in the boy's belly. He closes his eyes and slits the boy's throat.

Michel has time for a fleeting, betrayed look at Jerome before he collapses in the older man's arms. He splutters a little and jerks a few times, then is mercifully still.

Jerome silently cleans up the body, the blood and the horrible trail all the way back to the basement.

*****

Christian is enjoying one of his few days off with a bottle of bourbon, regaling his wide-eyed Yves with war stories.

Yves is suitably wide-eyed and hanging on Christian's every word. Also, literally hanging on to Christian.

Jerome is writing letters on the table, sitting across from them, having his own -glass- of bourbon.

Squeezing his husband's sweet ass under the table, Christian leers across at Jerome, with just the beginnings of a slur tilting his words. "Yeah, that'sh what a man does. He gets it done. He kills people. Right, Jerome?"

"I don't think the measure of a man has anything to do with killing." Jerome says quietly.

Yves, always a little--well, infinitely--more of a keen observer than his husband, drunk or no, leans into Christian and murmurs, "C'mon, Christian...let's go have sex."

"No, I wanna talk to Jerome! What does it have to do with, Jerome, if not with killing? That's a pa--a pa--a wussy answer, that's what that is. That's the answer of a man who's never killed anyone."

Jerome gives Yves a small smile, sipping his bourbon and turning back to his work stiffly.

Yves smiles back, looking rather pained. He moves to the next phase: grabbing Christian's crotch.

Christian brushes Yves' hand aside, looking smugly across the table at Jerome. "Don't just sip there and sit your drink!"

Jerome stood abruptly, finishing his drink and collecting his papers to leave, trying to ignore Christian.

Yves gives a sigh of relief, giving Jerome his most apologetic expression.

"No, no, Jerome! Don't just leave. We were having...a conversation." With another belt of bourbon, Christian strides (in his mind, anyway) across the room and grabs Jerome's sleeve.

Jerome turned and decked him, face red with anger.

Yves shrieks and he grabs the armrests of his chair, but he stays seated--anything he tries to do will just make the situation worse, at this point.

"Jerome!" Christian laughs heartily, clapping the older man on the back and rubbing his jaw with his other hand. "I didn't know you could hit like that."

"Be quiet, you fool." Jerome said softly. "You know what kind of house this is. You remember Ivar, don't you?" His voice never raised above his usual quiet, but it was shaking.

Christian pales, and he actually takes a step back from the butler. "Yes...what has that got to do with anything?"

Yves quietly bangs his forehead on the table a few times.

"You know what he likes." Jerome sighed. "You can't even imagine what Master and Sir got into once the Master inherited this house." Jerome shuffled his papers again, making them perfectly neat. "I have cleaned up after them through it all."

"Cleaned up..." Christian is clearly having a little trouble keeping up. "Oh. Jerome, you have killed someone! Good for you!"

"Alright, that's it! Come on, Christian, I'm taking my ass and leaving, and you're coming with me." Yves shoves his chair violently back and heads for the doorway Jerome isn't in.

Jerome clenched his hands, crumpling his papers a little. "Go with your husband." he hissed.

With something close to fear in his eyes, Christian follows Yves out.

Cadavre Exquise

The hangman has bundled the day's wares into rough sacks, setting them out for doctors, anatomists and medical students to purchase. Stripped of their clothes, of course.

Jonathan, a mid-twenties medical student, has ventured down to the gallows after the days hangings have been finished to buy a corpse for his studies. After poking about through the bags and prodding the stomachs and sides of the deceased, he makes his selection and pays the hangman (not only for the body, but also for helping him move the corpse into a carriage).

The hangman, having counted Jonathan's money, is all too happy to assist the young man with his morbid purchase and see him on his way.

It's dark by the time Jonathan gets to his flat. He drags the body in to his room and lays it on the floor. After quickly ascertaining that it isn't dripping or oozing onto his carpets, he blows out the candle, undresses and tucks himself into bed with a happy sigh. Tomorrow he can practice on a fresh corpse.

Several hours later, he's awoken from his sleep by strange shuffling, moaning noises from the floor.

Jonathan feels an absolute horror come over him. This must be a nightmare. That or someone has broken into his flat. The corpse cannot be moving.

The sounds become more distinct; something is moving inside the sack, trying to claw its way out.

Jonathan practically leaps off the bed, scrambling for his candle and manages with shaking hands to light it.

In the flickering candlelight, Jonathan can see a pale foot that has worked its way out of the sack and is held only by the rope holding it shut. The sack is clearly moving.

With some apprehension, the medical student unties the sack and begins to pull it off the naked and squirming corpse.

The man within, who had managed to struggle into a sitting position, falls over as soon as the sack is no longer keeping his body and limbs close together. Gasping, the former corpse claws at his throat, coughing painfully.

Jonathan pulls the man up into his chest, and with some difficulty, lifts him onto the bed. He unties the rope from around the man's wrists and pulls the remnants of the noose off his neck, trying to remove the fibers of rope from the torn skin.

The man, ashen-pale and visibly trembling, even in the scarce light, rests against Jonathan's chest, unable to do much more than groan and twitch in pain when the student's hands find an especially sensitive part of his raw neck.

Jonathan manages to pull all the visible fibers from the stranger's neck. Since the man can't talk yet, he quickly stretches the man out, giving him a bar to hold and using his scalpel to let out blood that may have died.

Grimacing, the man turns away, quite helpless and unable to stop Jonathan, but trusting him, as he clearly knows what he's doing. He concentrates on breathing, noticing with some alarm that it sounds more like wheezing, on the pain, and on the fact that, despite having been hung that morning, he's alive.

Jonathan bleeds the stranger until he can feel his pulse slow a little, then puts pressure on the wound until it closes. "Can you speak yet?"

The man relaxes when the implements of bleeding are taken away, and he opens his mouth. He has to cough and make guttural sounds before he can finally reply, "Yes." He's quite young, probably under twenty, hardly a man, after all.

"I'm Jonathan."

"Shelby," the hanged man croaks, slowly moving his arms until he can rub feeling back into his wrists and hands.

Jonathan takes over, helping to increase circulation through the man's hands.

"Thank you," the boy murmurs, his voice gradually sounding stronger. "Where am I?"

"My flat." he says, rubbing the boy's hands. "I... bought you as a corpse."

Recoiling, Shelby stares at the student with wide, horrified eyes. Shaking his head in denial, he hisses, "Corpse?"

"The hangman was selling corpses from today." he nodded.

Shelby nods. "Why did you...buy?" Shuddering, he painfully wraps his arms around himself, huddled on the bed.

"I'm a medical student, I need cadavers to study."

"You were going to...cut?" Shelby's eyes, somehow, get even wider, and he edges away from Jonathan.

"Yes.. when you were a corpse." he assures him.

"...won't kill me?"

"No."

Suddenly, Shelby grips Jonathan's arm. "Please don't turn me in!" he cries, followed by a bout of coughing.

Jonathan pushes him down into the bed, stroking his hair. "I... I won't."

Shelby's shoulders lower as he relaxes, and he nods his thanks, finding the hair stroking very comforting as he struggles not to weep. He's exhausted and his throat feels like he's swallowed acid, and he's glad to be taken care of.

"Just rest for tonight, we'll figure it out in the morning." Jonathan murmured, suddenly realizing that he was nude and grabbing a robe.

Yawning, Shelby nods and nuzzles happily into Jonathan's side. He hadn't even noticed that the other man was naked.

Jonathan strokes his hair, then rubs the boy's neck and chest gently, stroking his soft skin.

"...I'm not hurt anywhere else..." the boy croaks, thinking that the doctor is checking him for injuries.

Jonathan chuckles. "No, I don't think so." That hadn't been what he was doing, but it was a good excuse to touch more of him. He explored the boy more intensely.

"Alright," Shelby says, puzzled but trusting. Also, he's too weary to do much about it, although he finds himself blushing and isn't sure why.

The medical student finds himself toying with Shelby's nipples absentmindedly.

Shelby squirms, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "Maybe I should just go now," he whispers.

Jonathan shook his head. "Why were you being hanged?"

"...sodomy..."

Jonathan laughed softly, wrapping his arms around Shelby's thin frame. "Were you guilty?"

Shelby shakes his head, crying out as the movement tears more small wounds in his neck.

Jonathan stroked his hair, one hand sliding down to part the boy's asscheeks, sliding a finger up against his puckered anus.

"Ahhh!" Shelby bucks, trying violently to escape the intrusion.

Jonathan held him close, keeping his finger pressed against the boy's entrance. "It'll feel nice."

Shivering, Shelby whimpers, "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

"Do you really want me to stop?" Jonathan slid his finger into the boy to brush up against his prostate.

Shelby gasps, bucking again, but for a different reason now. He's terrified by this man, but the feeling...he has no idea what it is or what it means, but it feels...he shakes his head, pressing himself closer to Jonathan.

Jonathan removed his finger, digging a bottle of oil out of his desk quickly and sliding two fingers back in, curling them.

Shelby rolls his face into the mattress to stifle a scream, one hand finding his little cock and beginning to pump it as Jonathan assaults his rear.

Jonathan presses his fingertips to Shelby's prostate, pressing his cock up against the boy's thigh.

"Ahh! Yes!" Shelby is quite lost in the moment, forgetting the ridiculous circumstances and his near death in the pleasure.

Jonathan stretches the boy further with a third finger, nibbling on his shoulder, carefully away from the rope marks.

Thrashing, Shelby cums into the bedding with a muffled shriek, nearly kicking Jonathan with his flailing legs.

Honeymoon

Carrion and I have a serious 'Aztec' fetish. The culture, the dress, theritual sacrifice, piercing and bloodletting... even their poetry and art. Ihave an aztec (not the right word for them, I know, but most people know themby this name, so that's what I'll be calling them) character, and Carrion has afew different spanish/conquistador characters. Usually our games involvesacrifice but since we had our honeymoon at a private get-away in the countrymiles from anyone...
I was in nothing but my moccasins and loincloth, with some rope and awalking stick I had found earlier. Carrion was dressed fairly normally.
We decided that this conquistador of hers had stolen something from one ofthe pyramids or priests. Camaxtli, my aztec, was told to chase him through thejungle and bring him back alive.
I gave her a head start, then I was after her. I love chasing her,especially since we had the prairie and the forest all to ourselves. We had twochases that day. The first one was over pretty quickly. Mostly because I jumpeda hedge (almost gave myself a heart attack too, I thought I was going to tripand die, but it was hard not to go all out once I was playing). I caught herabout 20ft from where we started.
I pushed her to her knees, stepped on her back and tied her arms around thewalking stick. I bound her arms uncomfortably around the five-six foot stick soit was tucked in her elbows and her wrists were tied across her belly. I ledher back to the temple to be dealt with :D
The second time we chased it was evening, the sun was setting. We were bothwearing pants this time (too many insects for me, sadly) but still had themoccasins. I gave Carrion a two minute head start and then took after her,listening for her. It took me longer than I expected, mostly because I wouldhear wildlife rustling and assume it was her. I actually fell off a log in themiddle of the forest and scraped myself up. I was glad nothing was broken diesof embarrassment.
Eventually I saw her when we were almost at the river and sped up. I nearlycaught her on the bank, but she managed a sprint and got maybe another thirtyfeet before she tried to climb back up the bank. I grabbed her, forced her tothe ground and tied her in the same way, forcing her all the way back home (atleast a five minute walk from the river)
Yay for hunting down, capturing, binding and taking home an unwillingcaptive.
grin
***
Carrion and I have a love of cultures, if you haven't noticed. For awhile wewere really into the samurai, so of course we had to do a 'samurai' roleplaywhile we were away.
The building we were in had a large meditation room, with wooden floors andrice paper privacy screens and a fireplace.
So I let the fire, set out some candles, and captured myself a samurai.
At first I had her tied up, but I released her soon, as she swore not toescape.
I poured her some tea and we talked for awhile. I interrogated her verycarefully, slowly, making sure to ask questions several different ways to getthe answers I needed.
When we reached a certain point in the RP it was impossible to tell if shewould give me the truth or not. I grabbed her wrist and held her arm over oneof the nearby candles, her skin burning. I continued to ask her questions. Shetook it very well. I used hot wax as well, with the same results. As soon as Iwas satisfied that she'd been honest the entire time I released her.
It was all fairly 'dignified', I was careful not to humiliate her charactertoo much. Everything was done with a great deal of respect.
But I loved it :D

Raphael's (special) Fantasy

(Write about an abduction fantasy from Raphael’s point of view. Make it sexy.)

They came for me in the middle of the night. I don’t know how they got past the dogs, the guards, the locks, the doors…all I knew was being awoken by strong, rough hands in the dark, a hand clamped painfully tight over my mouth to keep me from screaming. I struggled as best I could, trying everything my father had taught me, every dirty trick Bruno had taught me; but they were too big, too strong. I was young and slender and half-asleep and startled. Maybe scared.

One of them threw me over his shoulder, his clothes dirty and smelling of sweat. I started to protest, and the world went dark.

When I came to, it was still dark. There were scraps of light from time to time, and there was enough air. A greasy rag was in my mouth, tied around my head. My wrists and ankles were also tied--enough to keep me from moving, but not enough to hurt. I squirmed about, trying to figure out where I was. It was noisy, and smelly, and I could hear voices.

A car trunk. Now, I was afraid. At best, I was being held for ransom. At worst…

I swallowed hard, trying not to think about it.

The car slowed, and stopped. I heard the doors slam, voices approaching. I tried to cover my eyes as the trunk was opened by a man with a flashlight pointed at me, forgetting my hands were tied.

I was scooped up again, tossed over a different shoulder (that smelled slightly better) and brought into a building. It was open and echoed and cold and dark, lit by only a few bare bulbs. I was dumped on a chair, my wrists and ankles tied to it, the gag left in. A scratchy hood was thrown over my head, blocking out almost all the dim light. I heard them walking away. I panicked a little, tried to call after them, but could only make muffled noises. I realized I was breathing too fast, that I had to calm down.

I did, finally, I think mostly out of boredom. I don’t know how long they left me alone, but I had actually started to fall asleep gain, sagging into the ropes holding me to the chair, when I felt a gentle hand on my thigh.

“Bruno, it’s too early…” I started to say. I got as far as “Mmm, mmf” before I woke completely and remembered I was gagged.

I heard a man chuckle and say something. The hood was pulled off, and I blinked. Another light had been brought and was directly in front of me, over the shoulder of the man touching me. I could dimly make out two other, larger men standing some distance away, obviously menacing.

The man with his hand on my thigh was different. He wasn’t an enforcer or a thug, he was classy--nice, tailored suit, well-cut hair, pleasant cologne…sort of like my father, but sexier. Unless you’re Bruno.

“Your father killed my brother,” the man says, his manicured fingers tracing up and down my leg, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I thought about killing you, but…” his other hand raises to stroke my cheek, twining in my hair, “I heard you were pretty. I’m not disappointed.”

Handsome, I think, not pretty. And if this were really happening, it would just be creepy, not sexy. But it’s not, so it can be. He’s the most handsome, intimidating, sexy, dangerous man I’ve ever met (besides Father) and he’s stroking me and it feels so nice.

“Let’s take this off so I can see those lips,” he says gently, taking off the gag.

I work my jaw, glaring at him a little, even though I’m hard and I want him, but I can’t let him know that.

He stands and unbuttons his pressed suit pants, pulling his cock out of his silk boxers. “If you bite,” he says, “you’ll be dead before I feel your teeth.”

I nod, turning my head away as he brings his hips closer. He grabs a fistful of my hair, turning my face to his penis.

I open my mouth, allowing it to enter me. It’s warm--no, hot--and a little salty. I carefully keep my teeth out of the way as he pushes it further and further until I can feel his scratchy hairs on my lip. He pulls it out almost all the way, then back in, and I really want to touch myself, but I’m still tied up so I can’t, so he just fucks my mouth as I’m tied to the chair, his hand on the back of it and in my hair to keep me from falling over backwards.

Just as he cums, I see the other men hit the floor.

The man looks up at the thud of their bodies, pulling away from me, his cock going soft.

Bruno is standing behind him, his gun still smoking, a big grin on his face. He puts the hot barrel to the man’s forehead, and the man winces as the hot metal touches him.

“Wait,” I say. “He touched me. He made me suck his cock.”

Bruno’s expression gets even more terrible.

“You should make him suck yours,” I say, “but make sure he can’t bite you.”

Bruno nods and forces the man to his knees, taking his own cock out. He uses the butt of his gun to knock out the man’s teeth before making the man suck him. As he cums, Bruno pulls the trigger and blows the man’s brains out.

I wish Bruno had untied my hands first, but he does now, then he picks me up and we walk away, and he asks, “Want ice cream, Raph?”

Javersmerelda

(If characters are all from the same author, it’s not really a crossover, right? *heh*)

Grantaire awoke feeling restless, so he gathered his sketching materials and let his feet take him where they wanted to. Soon he finds himself in an unfamiliar area of Paris. Surprised and delighted--there aren't many of those left--he settles himself down on an embankment to draw. After a while, he realizes that something about the wall he's drawing seems...off...He finally realizes that there is in fact a concealed door, that he would never have noticed, had he not been looking at it so carefully. He gathers his pencil and paper, and carefully clears some plants away, tugging at the door.

He finds himself in a dark tunnel, a bit like the sewers, but quite dry. There's very little light, though he can see some glowing at the end of the tunnel.

Deciding that this is the perfect adventure for an otherwise dull day, he fishes in his pockets until he finds a stub of candle and a match, and sets off, following his little light and the glow he can see.

It doesn't take him long to feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The light at the end of the tunnel doesn't seem to be getting any closer and now he could swear he's hearing humming.

A little disconcerted, but not one to give up easily once he's set his mind to something, he swallows hard and keeps walking, one hand brushing the back of his neck subconsciously. He shakes his head a little to see if that will stop the barely audible noise.

The humming only gets louder, and perhaps jauntier. Then it stops and he hears two distinct voices.

"We should hang him, Clopin!"

"Yes, I quite agree. We haven't had that sort of entertainment in at least a day."

The hairs on Grantaire's arms raise--one of the voices is absurdly high and squeaky, and the other is jovial enough, but with a definite hard, menacing edge. He blows out his candle, then turns and heads back the way he came as quietly as possible, glad that there were no side-passages to confuse him.

"Does he think you won't find him if he blows out his candle?" the squeaky voice asked.

"It seems that way. Too bad for him." the deeper voice chuckled. The laugh went on for awhile, echoing through the tunnel until Grantaire couldn't be sure where it was coming from.

The laugh is extremely unnerving, and Grantaire finds himself trembling slightly, wrapping his arms around his torso--it suddenly seems much colder and damper in the tunnel. He tries to breathe quietly and not run for the exit, knowing logically that the voices must still be somewhere behind him, but...not very comforted by this.

As he approaches the entrance, he bumps right into a man wearing a plague doctor mask. "Boo." he chuckles. The puppet on his hand waves a tiny noose.

Grantaire yelps with suprise and fear. "How...how did you get ahead of me?" he stammers, taking a step back.

"I've always been ahead of you." he grinned.

The puppet nodded. "Let's put him on trial!"

"Whatever for?" the man looked surprised. "Did we decide on a crime?"

"Trespassing!"

Grantaire is trembling, though he couldn't have told anyone why--he's faced much more dangerous situations, and not been nearly as afraid. Maybe it's the damned puppet... "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to trespass. I was just curious, and I saw the door, and I'll just be going..."

"No, you won't." the man grinned, grabbing him with the unpuppeted hand and dragging him towards the lighted end of the tunnel. When they finally got there, he popped Grantaire onto a platform and threw a noose around his neck. There were puppets seated at what looked like a courtroom. A judge with a tiny gavel, a jury, all frowning, and the man was busily affixing a wig to the puppet on his hand.

"It will be a fair trial!" he announced.

Grantaire can't help but laugh at the dire and absurd scene, although he's rather pale. The man is clearly insane, but very strong and no less dangerous for his madness. "Please, I think there's been some mistake..." he says, still trying to sound reasonable. He tries to remove the noose without drawing the other's attention.

"No mistake was made!" cried the puppet, "This man is clearly a murderer!"

"This trial is for trespassing." the man muttered.

"A trespasser! Look, even now he's still trespassing!" the puppet slapped R's face (albeit, gently).

It crosses Grantaire's mind that, if this wasn't happening to him, it would be really, really funny. He would pay to see someone correcting...his hand. The puppet slapping him is the last straw. Throwing the noose aside, he moves to jump off the platform. "Alright, look here, you!" He finds himself looking around the courtroom for a moment, as though they're people, then shakes his head and looks back at the man. "I'm sorry I trespassed in your...weird lair...but I'm leaving now."

The man jerked R back by his collar, forcing him into the chair and sitting in his lap. "It's best just to let them talk." he smiled amiably. "Otherwise they get quite cross."

Grantaire gasps as he's pulled back, leaning as far away from the masked man as he can. "...no one is talking but you..." he says, rather wide-eyed.

"I have hardly said a word, except to correct Monsieur here." he gestured to the puppet. "Now, let's watch the trial. But first, what is your name?"

Grantaire briefly considers coming up with a false name, but a) it isn't a real court, and b) the man is clearly delusional, so it doesn't seem worth the effort. "...Grantaire..." he says, not bothering to respond to the rest.

The man starts to monologue through the puppet with the wig, presenting the case to the judge puppet, who had permanent angry eyebrows. "This man was caught trespassing by me, myself and Clopin, who is the only witness here who is not completely round the bend!"

Here, Clopin paused to whisper to Grantaire. "That's me."

"Clearly he needs to be punished! Hang him!"

The little puppet jury didn't move, but the insane man threw his voice from them. "He's guilty! Hang him!"

Clopin left Grantaire's side, disappearing beneath the judge's pulpit. The judge puppet moved, then pointed down at R. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, wondering if this is -really- happening to him, or if he had slipped on a puddle on the way into the tunnel and hit his head...-really- hard. Still, he's very impressed by the man's ability to throw his voice. "I...ah...I'm sorry! I realize that this isn't exactly a legal court, but I don't think that will effect the...ah...effectiveness...of the sentance. I didn't mean to trespass, I didn't know I was. Please, just let me go."

The judge looked down at where Clopin was hiding and they had a whispered conversation. Then the judge looked back up and shook his head. "No. Hang him!"

Clopin skipped out from under the pulpit, wearing a little inspector puppet, that looked like a tiny copy of Javert.

Grantaire pales, convinced that he's about to die in this mad puppet theatre. Perhaps if he played along...? "Ah, Inspector! Surely you can see that it was an honest mistake! No one loves the law more than Javert, he'll make sure justice is served! Hanging seems...rather extreme!"

Javert-puppet seems to consider this, scratching at his little puppet sideburns. "I'm certain we can come to an agreement." Javert puppet looked to Clopin. The voice Clopin chose sounded precisely like Javert's.

"Ah...yes...I'm sure we can..." Grantaire suddenly realizes there's nothing keeping him in the chair, and he leaps up, preparing to bolt.

"Then we'll only half hang him!" Clopin grinned, tossing the noose over Grantaire with the help of Javert-puppet. He tightened the noose and tossed it over a pole above them, pulling the rope down, and Grantaire's body up to his tiptoes.

Grantaire gasps, too startled by Clopin's speed to struggle. He dances on his toes, gasping, face turning scarlet--and his cock instantly hard, making him redder. He wonders, idly, what the man means by 'half hang'...

Clopin ties off the rope so Grantaire is left dangling, carefully puts down Inspector puppet (making sure that he's facing away) and then drops to his knees, removing Grantaire's pants and starting to suck him off.

Grantaire strains to look down at the man in front of him, but soon has to give up and concentrate on not suffocating. His cock springs to full attention, which concerns him a great deal and makes him wonder if insanity is possibly contagious. It doesn't help that he's fantasized about this...more than once.

Clopin takes his time enjoying Grantaire's struggling and gasping, taking the boy's entire cock into his mouth. He has to lift his mask in order to do so, letting it rest on his back as he sucks the man's cock.

Grantaire is soon moaning ecstatically (if a little hoarsely) and praying that he'll get to cum before he's killed, at least.

The madman slides a long, lubricated finger into Grantaire's anus, finding just the right spot and putting pressure on it. The head of R's cock hits the back of Clopin's throat.

R tries to gasp "oh, god", which mostly comes out as a strangled gasp, bucking and riding the finger until he almost loses his footing.

Clopin lifts him up a bit by his ass, allowing him a few gasps of air while he slides in another finger.

Grantaire gasps accordingly, his feet pumping madly until his ankles are resting on Clopin's shoulders, his eyes rolled up in his head in ecstacy. He had always sort of half-wanted to die more or less like this, but hadn't thought it likely.

Clopin bites down at the base of R's cock, not as hard as he could, but certainly hard enough to hurt. His fingers curled inside the other.

R's eyes go wide, and he's momentarily afraid that his cock has been bitten off, and he gives a hoarse little scream, but soon realizes he's fine. He spasms wildly as the fingers curl, cumming tidally, most of it landing on the noose and his neck.

Clopin pushes him off after he's cum, letting him dangle and spin on the end of the rope. He lifts the little inspector puppet, nodding to it. "Is this about half hanged?" he asked. His face is still bare of the mask. "Cut him down." the puppet told him. Clopin sighed and cut the rope, letting R fall to his knees.

Grantaire gasps and chokes and reddens as he hangs, his loose hands clawing wildly at the rope, feet kicking in all directions. He doesn't hear the conversation, and when he's cut down, he's only on his knees for a moment--he very quickly falls forward to all fours, clawing at the noose, sobbing.

At that moment, another, hidden door is opened, and Javert himself walks in. He's not wearing his great coat and top hat, and his sideburns are about the only recognizable part of him. He's wearing a rather outlandish emerald green coat, and his long hair is tied back with a matching ribbon. He strides in, obviously quite familiar with the place.

"Francois!" Clopin brightened considerably. "Look, I have little Francois out!" he showed him the puppet, who did a little dance.

Javert smiles, somewhat indulgently. "Yes, I see that. It's...a remarkable replica. You're in a good mood--" he sees Grantaire at that moment, but doesn't recognize him from this angle. "I see you're...entertaining...someone." He wants to rush over and make sure the man is alright, but he's clearly alive, and one must be delicate with Clopin.

"Yes, but you argued that he should only be halfway hanged, so he's still alive." Clopin nestled into Javert's chest affectionately, tense body relaxing.

Javert gently wraps an arm around the shorter man, idly stroking his chest. "Did I? You mean this one, here?" He points to the puppet. "How did you...half hang him?"

The puppet nods. "I hanged him until he came, of course."

Javert raises an eyebrow behind Clopin, but nods. "...of course...and you did a very good job." He notices now that the man is, in fact, dripping onto the platform. "May I go see, cousin?"

Clopin nods, going to tuck the Javert puppet away. It wasn't needed now that Francois was really here.

Javert lightly strokes Clopin's hair, stepping up to the platform to examine the victim.

Grantaire, meanwhile, is not completely aware of what's going on. When he hears the new voice, he just assumes Clopin is still just talking through the Javert puppet.

Clopin tucks away his puppet, then follows Javert to see Grantaire, sitting next to the panting, gasping man.

Javert kneels beside the collapsed man, removing the noose as gently as he can, frowning a little when the coarse fibres are reluctant to pull free of his stubbly neck. When the rope is tossed aside, he gently raises the man's face, eyes widening momentarily as he recognizes him. "...Grantaire?" he gasps, quite concerned. "Are you alright?"

Grantaire finds himself looking into the cool grey eyes of the Inspector himself. For a moment, he thinks the puppet is just being held really close to his face. "Javert?" he tries to ask, having to stop and painfully clear his throat with a racking cough "...am I dead? Are you dead?"

"Neither of you are dead. Unless we're all dead together." Clopin said sagely, picking at his fingernails with a knife.

"...yes, thank you, cousin..." Javert sighs, carefully rolling Grantaire onto his side for the moment, before standing and regarding Clopin. "And what was he, ah, tried for?"

"Trespassing. Possibly murder." he frowned. "Are you angry, cousin?"

"No, Clopin, of course not...is it trespassing or murder?" Javert asks, gently.

"Trespassing. Between you and I, I don't think the prosecutor was entirely sober."

"I see...a serious accusation, indeed. You should look into that." Javert produces a bottle of wine and a packet of food, offering them to Clopin. "I would like to take the accused with me."

"You are the inspector, I suppose." he eagerly takes the food and drink. "But I was hoping you'd stay." he pulled the mask back over his scarred face, as if suddenly realizing he was exposed.

Javert had been a little surprised to see the scars--not that he hadn't before, but Clopin was usually loathe to be without a mask, unless he was intentionally trying to display them. "Ah...I wish I could, cousin, but these are serious charges. He must be interrogated at once." Javert is practically vibrating with the effort not to just scoop Grantaire up and be gone, but...Clopin is older than him and therefore commands his respect.

Clopin nods, miserably. "You'll come back?"

"Of course." The inspector kisses his masked forehead. "Don't I always?"

He nodded again, clinging to Javert briefly before letting him go, he retreated to the pulpit, digging through his puppets.

Javert embraces him in return, rushing to Grantaire's side as soon as Clopin leaves. He gathers the now unconscious boy up as carefully as he can. "Until next time, cousin." With that, he leaves the Court of Miracles and is back on the Parisian streets.

Grantaire stirs in the Inspector's arms, moaning a little.

"You're safe." Javert murmured, opening the door to his flat without putting the boy down.

R rolls his head until he can look up at his saviour, wincing as he moves his neck. "What happened?" he whispers roughly.

"You met Clopin." he sighed, stroking Grantaire's hair and tucking him into bed, climbing in with him. "Try not to move your neck. You'll stay here until you heal."

Grantaire has a sudden, vivid flashback to what he had thought would be his last orgasm, and he bucks wildly in the other's arms.

Javert pulls R to his chest, letting him buck and shake.

After a moment, Grantaire recovers, bright red with embarrassment. "Uhh..." he says weakly. He cuddles up against the Inspector, rather at a loss. "Thank you..." he croaks.

Javert smiles wryly. "You enjoyed some of that, then?"

"Ohgod..." Grantaire says, burying his face in Javert's chest, utterly embarrassed.

"Well... I'm sure some of it was good." Javert wasn't sure what to say to make R feel better. "You don't have to explain."

"...thank you..." the R-lump murmurs, yawning. "You'll have to explain...later..."

"You sleep." the inspector kissed R's forehead.

Grantaire nods, drifting off in the Inspector's arms.

R woke to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking. He was still in Javert's bed, a mug of coffee sitting on the bedside table.

Grantaire stretches, yawning, only to yelp when it moves his still-tender neck. "Ow...I think I have splinters..." he nurses the coffee happily, cuddling it close to himself for comfort.

Javert comes in with a plate of food. "You're awake." he smiled, giving him the plate and sitting behind him, letting R rest on his chest.

Grantaire nods, smiling in return, and happily nestling onto the older man. "Thank you for saving me," he says, still a little raspy, but mostly recovered.

"I'm just glad I got there when I did, and that he wasn't intent on killing you." Javert stroked Grantaire's hair.

"He wasn't?" R asks, purring softly at the hair petting. "What was he doing? ...why were you there?" He suddenly has a flood of questions. "...not that I'm not grateful."

"He was... mostly just playing with you, I think. I don't know if he would have killed you if I hadn't come in then. And... I've known him since we were young."

Grantaire nods. "...how?" he asks, a little tentatively, not entirely sure he wants to know.

"We're... cousins."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "...oh. That's...odd. Has he always been..." he searches for a neutral word.

"No, he's changed." Javert picked a few rope bits off Grantaire's neck.

"Ow. Thank you. What happened?"

"When he came to Paris, a man took an interest in him. This was when he was twenty or so. Clopin didn't want to be his lover, but the man threatened him with burning at the stake." Javert continued to pick at the rope.

R's eyes widen in horror. "Oh, god..." he whispers, turning to look at Javert. "...ow."

"He was the man's lover for a few months, but I think it was then that he started... talking to himself." Javert kissed R's neck. "The man decided to get rid of him and tried to burn him. Clopin was very lucky that someone got to him in time, his burns didn't kill him."

Grantaire nods, eyes wide with dismay, speechless.

"He hasn't been the same since. And once he'd recovered, he became very conscious of his scars."

"...scars? Oh, the mask." Grantaire's eyes are rather teary. "I can't imagine...I'm glad you...thank you..."

Javert kissed R's forehead. "Are you crying for him or for you?"

R smiles, rolling so he's cuddled beside Javert. "...mostly him," he admits. "I'm ok."

"Eat your breakfast." he murmured, stroking R's back. "And don't worry about Clopin."

"...how can I not! That poor man! ...how many people has he killed? What is that place?" Hunger wins out quickly, as it usually does, and he's soon ravenously devouring the food.

"I'm honestly not sure if the exact number, but several a year. I don't always find the bodies. Mostly they're gamin who wandered into the Court of Miracles."

Grantaire looks briefly repulsed, swallowing his mouthful. "The Court of Miracles?" he asks. "-That's- the Court?"

"You've heard of it?"

R shrugs. "Of course, who hasn't? Thought it was a myth. I certainly didn't think it was a...deranged puppet theatre..."

"It didn't used to be. It was a sanctuary, but... for Clopin, a sanctuary had to be devoid of other people. He's the only one who stays there these days."

The cynic nods, still looking a little disturbed, but definitely feeling better after his meal. "...thank you..." he breathes.

He gets kissed soundly.

R smiles genuinely, nuzzling even closer to the Inspector. He thinks about...repaying...the man for a moment, blushing as he remembers his last sexual encounter.