**Interlude 23 - We are like the bright moon; we have a darker face

Fabien remained where they had left him, his fingertips pressed against the delicious sting of torn flesh. He could still taste the vampire’s mouth on his lips, still feel the cold press of his hands through his clothes. The thought that he should now be denied him for so long was almost unbearable.

He took a few steps, pacing to and fro like a wild animal as he contemplated where he should go, what he should do. How indeed, would he keep time without waiting eagerly for the vampire to return? How could he bear passing several nights without the flutter of excitement rising in his throat at the sound of his voice?

Now he was truly alone, unfettered and free to do as he wished. He toyed with the idea of vacating the house to stalk the streets. He pictured his hands on the door, unlatching and pushing the heavy weight aside until he could feel the cold night air on his skin. There had been a time when he had longed for it, a simple path to freedom, and now it was his for the taking. But then there were thoughts of who he might encounter, hollowed out eyes and mouths pinched with starvation. Skeletal hands reaching for him, pleading, and at once the boy shrank back and stepped instead into his comforting and familiar dark.

He turned aside and wandered purposelessly, and quite without thought his feline curiosity led him to the now empty chamber once occupied by Fakhir and Lacrima. Here he lingered for a time, heavy of heart as he breathed in the scent of smoke and magic that had once filled the air. How he would miss the sound of their voices, the absence of which made the silence a living, breathing thing.

The urchin at last pushed aside his unhappiness. He stowed away his gifts somewhere secret in the kitchen, though was unable to resist tearing away a corner of her bread to taste on his tongue. Then he sought out the company of his friend, his source of light. Colombe was subjected to much begging and pleading, until she was all but forced to forgo her work in favour of some well deserved recreation. The realisation sunk in slowly, that they were truly free to enjoy their time from under the shadow of immortal creatures with murderous intent. That they could spend this moment, this gasp of their lives, eating food and tasting sweet wine and laughing until their ribs were sore.

The girl attempted to teach the urchin innocent parlour games, which in turn led to a bout of ferocious gambling which resulted in the loser forfeiting an entire stash of sugared fruit. Fabien, evidently disappointed at being bested at his own game, managed to swallow his pride and accept defeat with grace. But the boy was insatiable in his desire for distraction. He possessed a relentless energy that few could match, and finally pushed his friend to the point of exhaustion. When the night was all but spent, Colombe left him, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy with sleep and the urchin was abandoned once more to the quiet.

He took to prowling the empty house, his lips reddened from a bottle of wine that had become his new crutch. The first breath of dawn blessed him with enough light to see by, and allowed the boy to wander freely without the aid of a lantern. He pried into rooms, the courtyard, the few places where he thought his wolf might be lurking.

Eventually he appeared at the library door, little more than an angular shadow ast first, all loose limbs and heavy, sighing breath. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, and there came the sound of wine sloshing against glass as he brought the bottle back to his lips. He was the nauseating picture of revelry, his shirt loose at his throat and his skin flush from good food and drink. He turned his head, and his features were fittingly half in shadow and half in light. His finely shaped eyes moved around the room with lazy, desirous interest as he sought Émile.

Émile did not want to be found.

This desire bled in the lack of emptied wine bottles in Fabien’s path. It seeped through as the absence of doors left thoughtlessly ajar, blatant in the total void of signs as to where his pet could have crawled away to. The desire to remain undiscovered was almost achingly palpable in their perfect absence from the house, as though perhaps they had finally decided the savagery of the world outside was more palatable than that inside and had slipped into the dark streets under cover of night.

As Fabien lingered probingly in the doorway, that tangible lack of their presence remained. The quiet library was neatly arranged, books stacked in orderly rows and chairs tucked tidily under tables. There was nothing amiss, no movement to draw his eye, and he might have moved on to continue his hunt in other unlit rooms.

At least, until the tell-tale jingle of a ring against metal chimed sweetly from a shadowed alcove.

Once discovered, it was impossible to miss the makeshift bed, a single blanket and a bundle of their clothes serving as a pillow, tucked discreetly beneath a shelf. It was a pauper’s bed but they were regal as a long-legged hunting hound sprawled leisurely atop it. They had not noticed him, intent as they were on the simple, four-legged shape they were carefully carving from a bar of black soap. They laboured silently, diligently removing curled flecks from the soft soap with a pilfered kitchen knife.

The sloshing of his bottle snagged their attention and they glanced up with a start. From the shadows a flash of green kindled, eyes narrowing in wretched contempt as they took in his merry state. The collar of their shirt was tugged high in an attempt to disguise the detested collar, but it did a poor job and stark bands were clearly visible encircling the pale skin of their neck.

Their hands stilled and they shrank down like a wild animal in tall grass, willing him to overlook them and pass on. The slash of crimson around their graceful wrist was lovely complement to the bloody pinpricks that winked from their throat as they glowered at him from the floor

Fabien’s patience was hair thin. He was already close to abandoning his increasingly tedious search, and Émile was almost relieved of his company until the sound of metal on metal betrayed them. He had paused, one shoulder half submerged in the shadows of the hall and released another heavy, irritated breath.

Such vast lengths of time spent in the vampire’s dark had done something to hone the boy’s night vision, and he found the jewel green of their eyes with the accuracy of a well seasoned thief. The sound of his gait as he approached was only slightly uneven, only marginally off-kilter due to so much wine. Émile was greeted with a ripple of unkind laughter, as the boy stopped short in front of them and then crouched down to survey their handiwork.

The sight of them here, in this manner, seemed to immediately blacken his already tempestuous mood.

"This little camp necessary, is it?" He said, gesturing towards them with the bottle in his grasp.

"You have a perfectly comfortable place in my bed. More than enough space in my room, and you choose the filthy floor." The laughter returned, hollow as a tide worn shell and completely lacking in any real mirth. His eyes sought the ornate collar clasped around their beautiful throat. “Well, it’s fitting at least.”

"Though I don’t see why I should have jouer à cache-cache every time I need a fuck." The volume of voice rose with hot displeasure, as though his was some great injustice wrought upon him.

"Je ne sais pas pourquoi je m'embête." He all but snarled, as he pressed the bottle to his sneering mouth.

Fabien rose to his feet, and indicated to the space before him with a click of the fingers. He was not far away, and at such an angle they’d have to crawl towards him to reach his feet. He did not pause to regard what they were carving, too uncaring and otherwise preoccupied by whatever demons the alcohol had invited into his mind. It almost seemed as though the frustrations he nursed, they had little to do with Émile.

"Here. I want you on your knees." The golden haired youth demanded.

It was not the abruptness of the command that was unlike him, but rather the unprovoked shiver of aggression which ran through it. "I've wasted time enough looking for you. Now make up for it."

He waited, the blueish glow of dawn light breaking on his skin, and his storm grey eyes so dark they were black. The boy hungered for a distraction, and he was going to obtain it, one way or another.

Émile’s hopes of remaining undiscovered were dashed on the cruel rocks of Fabien’s gaze and their body sank lower still as though to disappear from his view. At his approach they sat swiftly up, turning their head to assess the possibility of escape, but their desire to conceal themself proved their undoing - they had made their bed in an alcove with no exit save that in which he stood, nothing but unyielding wall at their back. They were cornered like a rat in a trap of their own making.

They did not spare the time to mourn this realization but defiantly raised their head as he crouched beside them. Without looking, without much movement at all, a hand tucked the carved soap securely beneath a fold of blanket.

Émile regarded him with mulish blankness as he spoke, their countenance perfectly, infuriatingly impassive. The aggression that sparked beneath his words moved through them like a stone heaved into deep water, a soft shiver rippling across their otherwise placid demeanor.

They continued to meet his eyes as he stood, the elegant line of their jaw craned to maintain eye contact. The collar around their throat raised and lowered minutely with their breathing. It was as perfectly black as their hair as though fashioned from the same material.

They flinched as he snapped his fingers, but made no motion to move. The imperious command fell on deaf ears.

Slowly, their fingers curled over the thin paring knife in their lap, concealing it tightly within their palm. They appraised Fabien silently, contemptuously, eyes moving from the bottle in his hand to the bare skin of his throat. They registered the hostility that scorched his tone and blackened his gaze. Their lip curled, revealing a white tooth in a silent, scornful sneer.

Their spine slackened and they turned their head dismissively away as though they had evaluated him and found him wanting.  

"Did he leave you alone with the rest of his discarded toys?" Their voice was cool, rasping like a burr caught low in their chest with this reckless bear-baiting. “Pauvre toi. Pauvre, stupide toi, entombed with the rest of the dead things here while he finds a new warm hole to fuck.”

Fabien’s breath came slow and heavy as he waited for his pet to follow his instruction. He was bleached of colour, as marble white and bloodless as a carved effigy to some forgotten god.

The boy’s dark eyes did not stray from Émile. But shadowed as they were, it was all too easy to miss the secretive movement of their hands. When they answered him, disappointment rose into his throat, tugged at the corners of his mouth and sharpened his breath.

The urchin did not respond immediately. He regarded them in silence, one hand clenched into a fist at his side. His eyes traced the finely carved lines of their profile, what he could see of their half-turned features. Then he nodded once, and then again as he took a single step back, the line of his body shifting away and toward the windows. It seemed they had bested him this time, that he was successfully deterred by their barbed comment. He tipped back his head to numb this fresh insult with wine, lean throat flexing as he poured the content until the bottle was drained to the dregs. A pale shaft of light caught the strange array of scars that marred his skin.

“D’accord.” He gasped as he resurfaced, with more sour laughter escaping his lips. He swiped the back of his hand across his wet mouth, and held aloft the bottle to the light, turning it this way and that.

“D’accord, Émile. We play it your way.”

The boy flung the bottle from him with more force than he intended. It struck the floor with a weighty thud, and rolled from view.

“As we always do. As you so prefer.” The youth placed his palm flat against his taut stomach, and leaned towards them in a theatrical mockery of bowing servitude.

He continued to bend low, then lower still until with one hand he reached for them to stake his claim. The collar was the easiest to grab, thick as it was, with its metal ring that he could so easily hook with agile fingers.

“I should ask him to tear the tongue from your throat. Do you think he would refuse me?”

The urchin attempted to haul them from their hideout like one might grab an unruly pup by its scruff. If he managed it, they were all but dragged upwards towards him, with the boy caring not if they were choking before they found their feet. Any scrambling attempts to fight against him were greeted with the boy’s fist, as he aimed a punch towards their solar plexus in an attempt to knock the breath from them.

Émile did not turn to follow the black silence of Fabien’s reception to their acidic question. They remained turned cooly away, their profile a sliver of shadow, spine slack and countenance one of stately boredom.

They could not, however, entirely conceal how intently they watched from the corner of their eyes as he stepped venomously away. The hand curled in a fist on their thigh tightened.

The light that brightened the scars stippling Fabien’s skin tangled in the bottle and splashed liquid reflections across Émile’s face, illuminating a vicious green flicker beneath their indifferent gaze.

They did not startle at the heavy thud of glass flung to the floor, but turned with the grace of a wary animal to watch as it rolled from view. Their eyes remained downcast, almost demure at Fabien’s mocking bow. They remained churlishly silent. The fingers of their clenched hand shifted as they rolled the handle of the knife into their palm.

He had hooked their collar before they understood his intention, and the jarring tug at their throat burned their feigned disinterest to ashes. The corner of their lip curled contemptuously. Muscle grew taut as they pulled away, hard, but to no avail as he continued speaking, their only answer a flash of white teeth bared in a snarl.

Fabien moved to pull them to their feet and several things happened at once, in a glitter of steel and flailing limb. Émile leapt with surprising agility at him, the glint in their eye murderous as the knife winking in their palm arced toward his ribs. The blow to their stomach abruptly interrupted their momentum and the blade instead cut a glancing wound across his forearm as they crumpled inward, their instinct to double over foiled by his grasp on the collar around their throat. They choked against his grip, tears wetting their cheeks as they gasped for the breath that had been snatched from their chest.

The paring knife skittered to the floor, thin as a silver feather. Émile’s mouth watered as though about to retch as they struggled, panting, against Fabien’s grip on the inflexible collar around their throat. With the violence scrawled across their features and jaws slavering, they looked nothing so much as a rabid dog brought short by their leash.

Fabien did not feel the shock of pain from seared skin, not at first. He felt only the warmth of his blood, rising quick as a broken pipe to redden then soak the almost pristine white of his shirt. The boy turned his head to examine the wound, his eyes dark with confusion until the glint of the blade in his peripheral vision snagged his attention. His breath escaped his lungs in a hiss of irritation, and his entire body stiffened hard as stone. He turned to meet the vibrant green of Émile’s eyes, and a shadow of disappointment briefly shaped his sharp features.

His hand was firm on their collar, and the youth was silent as he watched them struggle and choke. The sounds of their enraged breath mingled with gentle sound of blood dripping on wood, steady and sure from the boy’s fingertips. He hoisted them higher, forcing Émile onto their tiptoes so that they could be even, eye-to-eye as he scrutinised them.

“Mauvais chien.” He said softly, before he struck their cheek with the back of his hand, hard enough to rattle the teeth in their skull. Still the boy kept them choking, dangling before him like a half-dead catch he had freed from a snare.

“Perfectly ruined.” He struck them again, this time on the opposing side of their perfect face. The full force of his hand sure to produce a reddened welt from temple to their beautiful mouth.

“Like I have an unlimited supply of them.”

The urchin kept them there, on the edge of consciousness. He examined them thoughtfully, as though debating whether they were worth the effort to keep them alive.

“I have kept company with working dogs who have better manners.” He struck them again, over skin already raw from his rough hand.

“But perhaps I over complicate things, non?”

“We start simpler, easier for your dumb animal brain to follow. Heel.”

He did not walk, but dragged Émile along with him and over to one of the reading tables. Books, an unlit lamp, anything that was in his way was aggressively swept aside. The speed of his movements caused a flurry of blood to splatter around him. All the while his grip on Émile’s collar remained firm, a useful aid for him to lift and force them face first across hard, lacquered wood. The boy’s hand was firm as he encouraged his pet to bend at the waist. He had unflinching disinterest in their pain, no thought for how their bruised skin might object to the weight of his body pressing down into their spine.

“Stay.” He breathed against their ear, as his hand slid up their thigh.

The pale haired boy stroked their skin through their clothes, his long fingered hand moulding over the curve of their ass with slow relish. He felt his way over them, the softness of their hips, between their thighs, precise and intimate and for as long as he desired.

Growing impatience eventually prompted him to pull, to tear if he had to the fabric at their waist to expose their body to him. Wherever he touched, he left his mark, bright and bloody on their clothes and skin. The boy’s hand moved from their body to free his cock from fabric that had quickly turned into an annoyance, and it pressed hard and eager against the soft flesh of their thigh.

Émile’s watering eyes glistened like jade as they were hoisted roughly to meet Fabien’s hard gaze. The tips of their bare toes scrabbled fruitlessly for purchase on the floor. Their hand came away red and wet where they clasped his wrist for support.

They did not offer any indication they had understood his reprimand before the blow landed. Their body jolted like an electric wire in his fist, their head snapping to the side with a choked gasp on their tongue.

The second strike fell while they were reeling from the first. The dense books and wooden shelves towering above them stoically absorbed the sound of the impact. Their head lolled on their neck in quiet warning of their diminishing grip on consciousness. A raised flush bloomed in a crimson rose across the side of their face.

They kicked, squirming weakly in his grasp, but found him unyielding. Their hands clutched at his as they choked for breath. The final blow snapped their teeth together with an audible click and tore a low groan from their chest. Their body sagged limply against the collar around their throat. A rash of goosebumps shivered violently across their neck and the sides of their face even as their eyes began to go glassy as they willed themself into blissful unconsciousness.

Émile was not granted the reprieve of insensibility. They were pliant as Fabien dragged them across the room, feet limp and bloodless as they tried in vain to stumble after him. They were too dazed to react in time and their face smashed into the table with a crunch as they were forced across it. A thin trickle of dark blood streamed from their nose. It smeared a rusted brown across their check and the implacable wood as they turned their head to the side.

The shock of pain and sudden respite on starving lungs was enough to return them to some measure of lucidity. Fabien could feel the shuddery expansion of their chest beneath him as they greedily gasped for air.

A soft whimper met the command whispered in their ear. If it was meant to be words, they were never articulated. His hand found the delicious shiver of their trembling thighs. Their skin, even beneath their clothes, was so warm.

Their teeth were bared in a silent snarl - of pain, of anger, or just a meaningless primal instinct. They did not resist him as he pulled the thin defense of fabric from their body. They were easy to undress, their attire simple and unfussy in anticipation of a rest they were not allowed, with nary a button to confound him. He exposed the round curve of their ass as deftly as shucking the meat of an oyster from the shell, revealing the delightful dimples of their back to his consuming gaze. Pads of fat curved with aching softness over feline muscle, the skin that was uncovered smooth and pale as cream. Hips and waist yielded lusciously beneath his hands.

The slick, wet heat between their thighs could not be wholly explained by the crimson streak of blood he smeared as he stroked supple skin. Silently, they shifted as much as they were granted beneath him, arching their back and parting their thighs.

Fabien’s palm slid along their skin to further expose their bare back to his hungry gaze. He gripped the exquisite curve of their soft waist with both hands, his rough thumbs pressed firm into the sensitive dip of their spine. His touch continued to sully them. He left his mark in long crimson streaks like a brand of ownership on their skin.

When Émile shifted their thighs to accommodate him, the boy released a shuddery breath

“Better.” He murmured thickly.

The urchin held them this way, firm and controlled as he began to rub the tip of his cock against the wet heat of them. His hips moved torturously, gliding against sensitive nerves until his breath had grown harsh in his throat. He edged himself with their body, toying with his restraint until he was left shivering with want. His hands had not yet grown kind, and they were sure to leave bruises upon supple flesh.

Fabien leaned back to regard them. He released their waist, and the firmness of his grip was replaced by the rough fingers parting their ass. The urchin lingered, breath heavy, as he took his aching skin in his hand and pressed himself inside. Though now mercifully slick, the boy was neither slow nor gentle. He eased into their body with a soft groan, unrelenting and without pause until he sank deep enough to fill them. He paused, his slim body trembling.

“Souviens-toi que tu es à moi.” He breathed as he withdrew, and then thrust back into them firmly.

The clenching heat of them hooked groan after groan from the boy’s throat. The grey eyed youth briefly lost his resolve and began to work himself over inside them. His body moved against theirs, until the wood beneath their bodies was creaking with the slow, indulgent rocking of his hips.

Soon he was driving deeper into them. With one hand he gripped their thigh and sought to lift it onto the table, to spread their legs further apart to grant him access. He inclined over them, the weight of his body coming to rest upon their back. This time, perhaps in reward for their obedience, the boy was careful. He did not seek to crush bone, nor stifle the air from their lungs. He supported his weight with one hand, palm flat against their side, while the other slid up their flank to stroke the soft curve of their ribs. He stroked the skin there, feeling their breath alter as he moved inside them.

Then his fingers were in their hair, stroking and caressing the inky strands as one might ruffle the fur of a well-behaved hound.

“That’s right. Very good.” He murmured gently.

The boy’s hand curled around Émile’s mouth, bloodied skin clamped over their beautiful lips to suppress any whimpering. He pressed his lips against their ear, his breath groaning as he fucked them with savage abandon.

Émile’s skin was feverishly hot beneath Fabien’s hands. They trembled under his rough treatment as though delirious, something frenzied lurking beneath the howling shivers his thumbs gouged from their skin. They adjusted dumbly at his touch, warm skin as pliant as clay.

The tight coil of arousal twining through their belly demanded they attend to his efforts in teasing himself with their body and they thoughtlessly complied, their hips shallowly rocking back and forth as the hard heat of his cock rubbed between their glistening thighs. There was no demand in the begging motion - only dumb, animal need. The firm press of the hands that pinned them only made the flesh he teased more slick. Their eyes were half-lidded, proffering the excuse of insensibility as they rocked pleadingly beneath him, their swollen mouth black with blood.

They could not suppress the groan that began low in their chest and ended in whimpering pants as he opened them up. Wisely, they pressed their chest firm into the table to brace themself against him as he filled the tight heat of their ass, aiding rather than defying him so as to not draw out the tender discomfort of being stretched so fully.

Cheek pressed against the unyielding tabletop, Émile breathed quick and fast. Soon the high whine of pain in their panting breath had ebbed. It was not long after those breaths were suffused with short, flushed groans with every thrust. The resistance in the tight heat of their body dwindled until each rocking of his hips seated him fully, satisfyingly deep as though they had been made to fit him.

Each thrust forced Émile to the tips of their bare feet. Soon their legs were trembling with the strain. It was a relief to aching calves when he lifted their thigh to the table and they gladly shifted beneath him to claim the reprieve. They braced their leg against the wood and pushed back against him with a delicious clench of muscle. This leverage allowed him to plunge so deep into them they had to smother their cry with a savage bite into the skin of their forearm. Their thighs were trembling so fiercely it was doubtful they could have remained standing without the brace of the table and the press of his body against theirs. The skin he stroked was balmy and broke into shivers beneath his fingers.

When his hand found their lips, it was clear how eager they were to have their mouth filled. They lapped hungrily at the salted blood on his hands like a dog drinking water from their master’s palm, their breath hot and humid against the fingers that stifled their whimpered moans. They thrust back against him as though to compel him to drill so deep as to hollow them out and leave only this assemblage of obedient flesh and simple, animal want remaining.

Fabien's consideration for his pet's bruised body was quick to wane. The rhythm he lapsed into, first teasing and exploratory, quickly became both selfish and punishing. He fucked Émile with unrelenting want and blisteringly hot anger. His hand remained firm across their mouth as he took what he wanted from their flesh. And yet even this was not enough, somehow lacking in it's completeness.

The boy drove himself to the edge, and then paused, buried maddeningly deep, his arms trembling against their ribs. Then his palm relaxed, and the tips of his fingers moved to caress the swell of their lips. His hand lingered there expectantly, awaiting its welcome into the silken heat of their mouth. Then he took them again with a single, deep thrust to confirm their place beneath them.

"Je vais t'apprivoiser." He groaned into their ear. "I'll make you feel it, Émile."

His thrusts into their body slowed, returned to agonisingly measured indulgence. He used them at his own leisure, rolling into them with shallow thrusts that had him moaning low in his throat. Émile's whimpering cries and gasping breaths were acknowledged, praised even with the press of his lips to their jaw.

The urchin was close, no doubt they would feel it humming electric through him. But he did not succumb to it, and instead he parted from Émile's body with a pained gasp.

His pet was not abandoned for long. The youth slipped his fingers beneath the soft band of leather, and he hauled Émile up by their throat. They were dragged to where it suited him, left in an exhausted slump on the floor between his feet. All the while, with one hand he continued to stoke the fire of his aroused skin.

"Sit. Eyes to me."

Whether they obeyed or not, he struck them across their cheek. Back over skin so raw, so tender, back again to remind them of his fierce displeasure. The urchin stood above them, clever grey eyes unspeakably hard, flushed skin beaded with sweat. His entire arm appeared red, save his fingertips, and his blood was all over Émile. The pair of them were a hellish tableau of violence and want, their silhouettes made stark and blasphemous by the dawn's fresh raidance.

He hooked a finger in the loop of their collar, though this time there was no force behind the action.

"Now finish me."

The sounds Fabien fucked from Émile’s throat were rhythmic and undemanding, the mindless, repetitive grunts and gasps of an animal no louder than the slap of flesh on flesh as he drove into the taut stretch of their warm body. The soft round curve of their ass, impossibly spread beneath him, rippled with the force of his thrusts. The ring on their collar jingled merrily.

They sucked his fingers into their warm mouth, their tongue fervently stroking his fingertips. Their tongue was soft as silk. Their mouth was impossibly wet. Their teeth clamped down on the first joint of a finger as he thrust so deep into their aching insides, their breath hot as they moaned hoarsely around him. When they softened the tight set of their jaw the finger was ringed with red dapples.

No doubt he would feel how his groaned words made their insides clench. Their hips bucked beneath him, wracked by a shudder that was not voluntary. They did not respond - they were well past words. The only reply they could muster was the graceful arch of their back as they yielded beneath him.

Where his lips brushed the delicate skin of their jaw it left shivers in its wake. They were shaking, slack against the table that supported them as he rocked into their body again and again.

Their gasp mirrored his own as he abruptly withdrew and they were left bereft, painfully deprived the heat and stretch and grounding purpose of him inside them. They choked, sputtering, as they were hauled from the reassuringly firm wood of the table and forced to the floor. Their limbs were limp as they crumpled into a heap between his legs like a marionette with severed strings. Their head was slack on their bound neck and their face was hidden beneath strands of dark, disheveled hair.

They slowly, painfully sought to heed his command, straightening their spine and lifting their head as bid. Purple-red bruises were forming on their swollen cheeks, two black eyes beginning to bloom and darken. Their gaze traveled slowly from his shins, over the achingly hard cock he worked in his palm, across the blotched blood smeared on his arm, and up to his hard eyes. They did not wilt beneath his withering gaze. Pale skin streaked in scarlet stripes of blood as they were, they were like some wild beast crouching in the shadows, the crease above their lips darkened with black trails from their crushed nose.

The slap of his palm on skin already red and raw ripped a breathy moan of genuine pain from their ragged throat, the sound subdued as though they didn’t have the energy to yelp. They flinched from the second strike though it did nothing to soften the blow. They panted, their breath a pained whine, and obediently turned their face up to him. Their cheeks were hot and their bottle-glass green eyes were glazed and wet.

Émile did not need to be forced. They were given their instructions and they complied without complaint. They rocked forward on knees that trembled to support them and took his cock past their swollen lips and into the soft, wet heat of the hungry mouth that never ceased to delight. They teased the head of his cock with their lips, eyes lidded in simple, rapturous devotion as they artfully tongued creases and lapped at ridges. They could taste only blood - his, mingling with theirs, the salt of his arousal so like blood they could not distinguish it.

Without prompting they took him deep into the satin of their mouth, to the back of their tongue, until they quivered with the struggle to hold him. Their hand rested carefully on the inside of his thigh to support themself as they dutifully worked to finish him.

Fabien’s cat-lean body, trembling with anticipation, unfurled at the heat of Émile’s breath. He twitched against their lips, as though this alone was enough to get him there. His long fingered hand crept from the loop of their collar to their crown, where he stroked through their dark hair with familiar tenderness.The curl of their tongue around his sensitive skin tore soft curses and moaning encouragement from the boy’s lips. He continued to grip the base of his cock, and impatiently eased the swollen head across their tongue.

The hand at the back of Emile’s skull applied only gentle direction, soft pressure while his hips rediscovered their desperate rhythm. His fingers moved to brush aside their inky hair when it fell in a way that shadowed his view. His other hand relinquished its grip, and found the soft underside of their jaw as his hips rocked across their tongue and into the depths of their throat.

His pet had little work to do, the boy was beyond the feeble barriers of his resistance. The artful curl of their tongue, the eagerness in which they devoured him, had the boy groaning their name. He came hard with a sharp cry, his fingers beneath their collar, and toes curling against their knees as he released.

Fabien sagged against the table, head thrown back and scarred throat glistening as he sought to gather his breath. He swept the back of his bloodied hand across his brow, and sank unsteadily to the floor before his pet. The boy gently took Émile’s head in his rough palms, careful not to press uncomfortably into the skin he had so recently bruised. The press of their teeth still marked his finger like a ring.

He brushed aside strands of dark hair from their beautiful eyes. His thumb caressed the curve of their wet lips, and then he pressed his mouth to theirs. His lips were soft and warm, gentle as he tasted himself with the slow glide of his tongue.

“Parfaitement réalisé, comme toujours.” He breathed affectionately against their mouth.

The boy’s thumb continued to brush over their swollen lips as he surveyed the damaged landscape of their exquisitely crafted features. The urchin sighed as he carefully turned their head left and right to examine the fine slope of their nose for signs of breakage. Fabien was no physician, but he’d learned to notice the tell-tale signs of split cartilage and shattered bone.

“Too early to say, I think.” He murmured. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

A creeping exhaustion had begun to blot dark shadows beneath his finely shaped eyes. He turned his head toward the window and squinted into the light, suddenly aware of its prying radiance.

“Let’s get you to my bed.”

The youth gathered his pet to his chest. He lazily shrugged their clothes back into place, with only a touch of consideration for their modesty. But he was thoughtful as slipped his arms around them, careful not to jostle their aching body as held them against the slowing beat of his heart.

Yet, there remained a lingering coldness in his eyes and voice, an absence of taunting delight and teasing.

The boy departed the scene and was swallowed up by the shadows of the hall. The room returned to a state of peace, only the knife left glittering in place, the empty bottle, and mingled flecks of their blood.

Émile’s dark head tilted into Fabien’s stroking hands with feline appreciation. They mirrored his eagerness, easily matching the rhythm of his hips with the bobbing of their head as they sucked him. He could feel how the soft skin above their jaw bulged around the hard length of his cock on their tongue.

The moss-green of their eyes, accented by the dark purple speckle of bruises he had raised, raised to meet his as they took him deep into the wet heat of their mouth. Perhaps sensing how close he crept to the edge, they tongued him with artful, teasing flicks of their silken tongue, lips stroking back and forth and taking him deeper each time. When he came with a cry, they held his twitching skin in the back of their mouth. Their throat flexed around him as they swallowed, leashed by his grip on their collar, breath shivering through their nose. Their breath was a soft gasp as he slid wetly from their mouth.

They eased back to rest on shivering calves with a wince and caught their breath at his feet. Their lips and chin glistened in the shafts of light illuminating golden motes of dust through the window.

Émile trembled like a dying hare under the affectionate touch of his hands as he knelt before them. The red band around the wrist they rested on their thigh was a startling splash of colour on pale skin. Their face was mottled with wine-dark bruises that served to complete the delicate beauty of their features, curling strands of dark hair so mussed they concealed the scar scoring their scalp from sight. They did not meet his eyes as he brushed the black hair from their face.

They obediently parted their lips to his tongue. Their mouth was warm and tasted of blood and salt. They shuddered beneath his praise as though it were agony but did not balk at his words.

The slope of their nose had swollen to an angry purple under the flaking black blood, and it was impossible to discern the damage below the raised skin. They watched from beneath their lashes as he examined them, hooded eyes remaining steadily on his face as their head was gently turned. However, their gaze fell as he carefully tugged their clothes back into some modicum of place. They obliged silently, moving slack limbs to assist but without offering anything more. As he reached around to move their clothes back into place they leaned into his chest, their body warm and trembling softly against him. They smelled, mostly, of his own skin.

His pet yielded effortlessly to his guidance. Their legs buckled beneath them when they stood but after a moment bracing their trembling limbs against the blood-smeared table, they were able to follow. They did not say a word, their tongue still in their bruised mouth, but followed docile as a lamb to his bed.