**Interlude 15 - Of the ox who loves his yoke and deems the deer of the forest stray and vagrant things

Fabien fell quiet at Émile's scathing refusal, and his expression grew solemn and thoughtful. Their comment regarding his position in the house was met with a flicker of irritation, and the boy drew a sharp breath as though stung.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded slowly as though Émile's rebuff had been successful.

"Non? I am not good enough for you, Votre Altesse? I don't meet your high standards?"

The boy did not allow them the opportunity to complete their answer. He struck them hard across their cheek, catching the side of their mouth. His uninjured arm was strong, and there was force enough behind it to knock the air from their lungs.

"C'est dommage."

The boy gathered a fistful of raven hair at the base of their head. He looped the dark stands around his fingers, and hoisted them uncomfortably onto the bone of their kneecaps so their eyes were level.

The urchin twisted their head back, forcing bone and muscle to flex to the point of pain. He dragged his hot tongue from the centre of their stretched throat, up towards the underside of their chin with all the refinement of a street dog claiming a mate. The taste of their skin was met with a shudder of longing.

"You are mine, Émile." He breathed fervently against their throat, pressing each word like a molten brand from his hot mouth. He traced his wet lips up toward the sensitive area beneath their ear.

"Mine." It was spoken with such low, shuddering pleasure. "And I will take as much time with you as I want."

The boy pressed his lips against the bruised column of their exquisite throat. He kissed them with a feral savagery, the scrape of his teeth scoring red lines over pale, bruised skin.

When he had had his fill, the urchin's hand relaxed, allowing Émile a moment of reprieve as he paused to catch his breath.

"But d'accord, since you are always begging me." He continued throatily.

His other hand resumed undoing the last fastenings around his waist. He hastily shrugged his aroused skin free, his breath sharp as he held himself loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

The grey-eyed youth slowly and firmly eased Émile's head down towards the tip of his achingly hard cock. His fingers tightened in their hair, tense in expectation of refusal or violence.

"Now open your mouth. Show me what a bonne petite salope you are."

There was a brittle suggestion of cold pleasure in the line of Émile's lips as their assessment was met with annoyance.

"You-" they began evenly, but whatever withering retort they had on their tongue was quickly broken into fragments as he struck them hard enough to snap their head to the side. Their teeth came together with a click of bone. The fine porcelain white of their skin bloomed red beneath his palm.

The start of an oath formed in their mouth but when he hoisted them to their knees their breath bled in a hiss from between their teeth and their eyes when they met were glinting wet with pain. His tongue on their throat had them writhing weakly without the leverage to truly squirm. The scrape of his teeth forced a low moan from their chest.

He left them panting, the taut line of their body trembling and their face flushed red with stifled exertion and the sting of his words.

Émile did not struggle against his hand. Their breath was hot on the head of his cock. This command was blissfully easy to obey, and he would not have to repeat it. Nor would he have to guide them - at his prompting, they opened their mouth and, looking up at him with eyes that were impossible to read, took him inside.

This alone would surely be enough to convince the urchin it was worth the effort he had spent to get here. The heat of their silken mouth was exquisitely eager and so wet it led one to suspect his rough treatment had made their mouth water.

They took him so deep they were in danger of choking on his cock at the back of their throat and when their mouth shuddered and tightened around him they corrected, tilting their head back. His skin glistened with their spit as they eased him along their tongue until they could suck teasingly on the tip.

Their hand grasped his thigh above the knee but it was only to steady themself as they worked his flesh. They were, inarguably, very good at this.

There were no more venomous insults or surly refusals with their mouth occupied - the only sound they made was the wet suck of their mouth and the soft whine of their breath they could not quite keep in their throat. They rolled their head back to meet his eyes, the imprint of his hand on their cheek red as a mark of ownership and their beautiful lips stretched pleasingly around the hard skin of his aroused cock.

Fabien was at first still reluctant to relinquish his firm grip upon Émile’s hair. The boy studied them carefully, his finely-shaped eyes narrowed and sharp features tense despite the flush of arousal that had so enlivened his pallid skin.

The youth grew completely still when they simply followed his instruction without protest or struggle, and his lips parted almost in surprise at the sudden heat of their mouth. His breath caught in his throat, and was held behind gritted teeth as he watched them take him into the depths of their throat.

"Ah - dieu, yes." He gasped on a shuddering exhale, his toes curling at either side of Émile’s legs as his hips rose from the edge of the bed.

Slowly, the youth's fingers began to loosen in their hair, until he was affectionately stroking through the inky strands with the soft flex of his lockpickers fingertips. Every so often his grip tightened once more, and his breath grew short in his throat.

"Fuck, oui. I like that." The boy praised softly, before releasing another sharply panted breath that this time turned into a low moan.

He lifted his unoccupied hand, and it remained held midair in with an agitated flit of the fingers, as though he were unsure how to make use of it. Eventually his palm slid against the other side of their skull, until with fingers trembling his thumb began to gently caress the scar that cut through their shortly cropped hair.

The boy's bruised eyes were heavy lidded with desire as he met their gaze, and the sight of them between his legs made his aroused skin twitch against their lips. The boy’s skin flushed almost to the point of embarrassment, and he quickly averted his grey eyes to the wall to regain his focus.

"Y-you - you are so beautiful, Émile." He rasped thickly, unable to prevent the words from spilling from his gasping lips. "So ...very good."

He swallowed thickly and reclined his weight back, releasing them from his grasp so that he might support his weight on one trembling arm. The fingers of his other hand continued to stroke the short cropped hair at the side of the head, only pausing to sweep aside any stray locks that threatened to obscure his view.

Suddenly the slick glide of their tongue almost became too much, and he released them entirely to bury his fingers into the depths of the tangled golden hair that fell about his brow.

It wasn’t long until they had hips stirring beneath them, as the boy’s head tilted back and he was reduced to little but soft whimpers and appreciative moans. Still he struggled to fiercely prolong his pleasure, despite the fierce trembling that had overtaken his thighs.

The flicker of the lone candle dusted the room with a warm glow that blackened the shadows and reduced the population of the house to the two of them - it was inconceivable there could be anything more pressing than this shuddered exhale, this half-moaned breath, the soft flick of a wet tongue in that open mouth.

The curve of Émile’s undressed back was smudged with shadow as though drawn in charcoal, the lines of their body bathed in the warmth of the flame. It darkened the line of their jaw as though with the point of a knife. They were beautiful on their knees between his legs, their skin soft beneath his hand and their wine-warm mouth greedy as it dragged along his cock and made it glisten.

When his grasp loosened from their hair they warily lifted the hand that was not steadying themself on his thigh and, when they were not stopped, enlisted its aid. The firmness of their slick palm stroking his skin was almost intolerable, their fingers skillful as they wrapped around him. They quickly found a rhythm that was apt to rob him of his sense as they slid him along their tongue.

They paused, shivering like a hare when his hand brushed against the scar carved into their scalp. But when pain did not follow they tilted their head into his hand with the receptivity of a well-loved dog and continued as bid, the press of his palm warm.

Their eyes had not lost any of their hardness when they met his, though the contempt was rather lost beneath the shine of detached arousal. Mindful of being watched, they turned their head away and wantonly pressed their wet tongue along the length of him, licking him with indecent and exaggerated care. Their breath was hot on wet skin. Their lips closed teasingly over the head of his cock and the very edge of their teeth scraped gently on his skin as they took him once more into their devilish mouth.

His hoarse praise brought heat to their cheeks. The mark of his hand burned red along the side of their face. Despite themself, the slope of their body had warmed to the soft pliability of liquid wax.

They brought their legs together and lifted themself to their knees. The green flit of their gaze met his eyes as though for approval as they took him deep in the velvety heat at the back of their mouth, their hand meeting their lips as it twisted along his hard shaft in time with the bobbing of their head. They had evidently taken his demand to prove the value of his effort to heart.

Fabien, transfixed and trembling, was stripped of speech as he watched Émile's hand stroke down the length of his hot, aroused skin. The boy's lean chest heaved with gasping breath, and his hips stirred in slow, aching motions at the glide of their palm.

"F-fuck" he whined, as his body began to squirm in agonised pleasure. The slow drag of their tongue enticed deep, groaning desperation from the youth.

When Émile took him back into the heat of their mouth, the boy's head arched back, exposing his scarred throat to the golden light.

Soon the lingering wariness that had tightened the boy's muscles began to melt away like frost touched by the sun. As the urchin's guard began to crumble, he allowed himself to fully succumb to this exquisite rhythm, until he was little but moaning, writhing want.

"Émile, I'm-" he panted weakly, his body shivering with restraint as he rocked into their mouth with short, hungry thrusts.

The boy reached for them once more, his fingers curling beneath their chin as his thumb brushed the corner of their wet mouth. His hand slipped urgently back into their hair, stroking against their scalp in soft affection before his grip tightened and held.

"Ah, prends-le pour moi. Avaler." He gasped as he came with sharp urgency. He thrust into them, skin twitching and breath groaning as he gushed upon their tongue.

The boy's fingers relaxed, his body unstrung and exhausted. He allowed Émile a moment to breathe, before he hoisted them up so their mouths could meet. With thighs still trembling and breath ragged, he looped their hair around his palm like one training a geldling on the rein.

Fabien held them, gentle and firm, as he pressed his lips to theirs. He kissed them deeply, the flit of his tongue almost aggressive as he tasted himself on their lips, in their mouth.

"You did very good, mon coeur." He breathed contentedly against their lips, his body twitching and shivering in the wake of his spent pleasure. "My good pet, my beautiful Émile."

The youth's hand softened, and he took Émile's head in his palms to softly and adoringly press his mouth to the side of their cheek. He held them this way for some time, quiet and intimate, as his thumb brushed soothingly across their skin.

The boy examined their features, he lingered on the blush of red across their cheek from his palm. It was strange in its intensity, perhaps uncomfortable, to be looked upon in such a way. As though there was something he wished to communicate, but could not.

"I want you in my bed." He murmured simply, breaking the silence as though it were nothing. His voice remained warm with happiness.

The youth hastily shrugged his shirt from his shoulders, dismissing the bite of pain that caused him to wince. The skin of his shoulder had begun to blacken. Bruises shaped like finger marks were as dark and vivid upon his forearms as burns.

The grey eyed youth was concerned only with encouraging Émile to join him, reaching for them with his long fingered hands.

He was not rough as he pulled them against his chest. His arms curled possessively around them, and his hands were gentle as he allowed them to settle comfortably against him.

The urgency of Fabien’s thrusts along their tongue forced Émile’s spine to straighten to avoid choking on him. Their panted moans hummed through his skin. Their grip on his thigh tightened almost painfully, nails digging into fabric as his hands held their head in place.

Their eyes were half-lidded as they tongued him past the point of no return and as he gave way they fell to trembling, compliant stillness. Deep as he was on the back of their tongue they had little choice but to obey his instruction and as he shuddered into them they dutifully swallowed the hot spurts of his pleasure, their mouth flexing around him and their breath shivering from their nose.

His skin was wet when he drew away. They did not lift their eyes to meet his but took advantage of the opportunity to breathe, their bare chest heaving. They were still panting softly when he lifted them to his mouth. They shivered at the press of his tongue but opened to him without complaint. Their lips were soft and tacky. Their mouth tasted of salt.

His praise seemed to wound them, the words prickling painfully at exposed nerves, and they closed their eyes, their breath stuttering past their teeth. They drew aside as though in expectation of being allowed to leave but had not yet extricated themself from his affectionate limbs or the grip in their hair before he pulled them close and they, limply, obliged.

They did not struggle from his grasp but shivered against him like a hare in the jaws of a hound, their skin almost feverishly hot beneath his lips. Their hand held his wrist loosely, without thinking. Their thumb gently tapped the rhythm of a frenetic heartbeat against his arm.

They could not bear the intensity of his scrutiny when he pulled away to examine him and they turned their eyes aside, swallowing thickly. The thin skin beneath their eyes was dark with the most fantastic bruised blue like the underside of a jay’s wings. They did not speak. His hands had tousled their black hair and it framed their face in unruly strands.

His declaration was evidently not the one they were expecting as their gaze jolted quickly back to him, their eyes dark with unhappiness. Their lips parted as though to protest this decision but they obstinately swallowed whatever objection they had.

They were not quick to accommodate his desire. They remained still on their knees beside the bed as he undressed, hesitation etched clearly into their countenance. They were reluctant to move at the insistent pull of his hands but, after a moment of silent deliberation, they stood on stiff legs and allowed themself to be compelled into the sheets beside him.

They were still trembling as he made room for them against his chest. Their soft skin had a sheen of sweat as though with fever. They tensed as his arms curled around them, but as their body heat bled together and the boy’s breathing grew regular, their limbs became loose and slack and the hard angle of their neck softened to allow their head to fall against him. They did not speak but it seemed they could be convinced to find this sleeping arrangement tolerable.

Fabien waited patiently for Émile to accompany him, and he made no further demands nor sought to hasten them. His skin was warm where they came to rest against him, and his pulse had not yet slowed. Though they were too shrouded in darkness to be visible, his feline-sharp eyes had grown troubled, as though guilt had struck his heart sharp as an arrowhead.  

Without the boy’s rasping commands and groaned breath, stillness crept light-footed into the room. The shadows cast by the waning candlelight danced with impish glee across the walls, though it was no doubt a far more cosier place to sleep than their host’s unsettling quarters. The quiet of the room was broken only by the occasional sound of movement elsewhere in the house, old beams settling into place with a soft creak.

The boy stroked the soft curve of Émile’s shoulder with his fingertips. He traced the smooth skin in soothing, circular motions, and pressed his lips to the top of their head. He lingered there, open mouthed as though he had something to say. But whatever it might have been, it was swallowed and abandoned.

The youth pulled the covers around their bodies with a surprising tenderness, a needless gesture that was not accompanied by soft mockery or smirking chatter. Rather, he held Émile firm against his chest, his body curled around theirs in such a way that seemed quietly protective. As though the urchin had made preparations to spend yet another wretched night surviving the cold of the streets. A habit, perhaps, that he had not yet fully been able to break.

He sighed contentedly, his breath a warm flush near their ear which steadily began to deepen. Soon the muscles of his arms had grown slack, and the youth drifted into much needed rest. He did not wait to see if his new acquisition would follow him into sleep.

Slowly, the candlelight burned down to nothingness, until the room had grown dark.