**Interlude 25 - The sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell

Émile, content as a cat to fall asleep on whatever patch of ground they found themself, lapsed into silence. Their chest rose and fell with their even breathing beneath the bruised ruin of their face. Their lips were parted in concession to their broken nose, but the ease with which they slipped into sleep suggested fatigue took precedence over their pain.

Colombe kept quiet on her side of the stall. She did not respond to her friend’s prompting but finished her scant meal in contemplative silence. Once bowl and spoon had been primly set aside, she stretched her trembling legs and paced the length of the cell, hands carefully inspecting the walls. She chose the corner furthest from the door to slump to the ground, the back of her head against the wall.

Night fell as it always did. The drafty building did not hold heat and chill crept across the hard-packed dirt floor. Guillaume returned late, maskless and distracted, his voice a hoarse whisper in the thick dark as he slipped heavy horse blankets that still smelled of the beasts that had worn them through the bars to insulate the captives against the cold night air. He swapped out the patient dog that had been guarding them for another with a similarly spiked collar, this one dusted with tan and smaller in the shoulders. He could not be drawn into conversation and appeared preoccupied as he saw to his unwilling guests, his eyes dark and teeth white in the gloom.

Despite the late visit, it was Guillaume that woke them as the first thin rays of morning light filtered through the high windows. He carried two heavy buckets of water - bracingly cold in the crisp morning air - and abrasive soap. Colombe gratefully received a bucket into her cell, her eyes never straying from his masked face as she bowed her head in thanks, and Fabien received the other.

“Wash that wound.” He indicated the jagged black line cut into Fabien’s forearm and Émile did not attempt to conceal the haughty pleasure haunting their mouth. “It will be a few days before you will be able to see un docteur, and we only have two wash buckets to spare.”

Émile balked at this and Guillaume began to negotiate them joining Fabien’s cell so long as they intended each other no harm, but their discussion was cut short by the appearance of Victoire, who was not shy in her inspection of her prisoners. The leather of her boots was coated in a thin layer of dirt that had not been there yesterday.

“Une douzaine de tombes,” she announced, hands on her hips. The dark mask concealed her expression but her brows were sharp above her alert eyes. “La bête has killed at least twelve people in that house.”

Her eyes moved to Colombe, who had not hesitated to begin washing her face in the cold water. “Henri is fetching a newspaper for you to write on, as requested. We didn’t pack paper.” Her voice did not shift tone when she asked, “Once you have it, can you supply us with the names of the dead?”

Colombe raised her head. Wisps of hair were plastered in ringlets on her shining forehead. Her eyes flicked guiltily to Fabien before she shook her head once, dropping her gaze to her reflection in the water.

“That’s a shame,” Victoire said stiffly. She shifted on her feet and regarded Fabien.

“I appreciate that you told us where to find them, Fabien. The more you cooperate, the more painless this will be.” She eyed Émile before adding, “For everyone.”

“Guillaume tells me you’d like to check on your friend’s injuries. I think that is a reasonable request. Can either of you tell us the names of the dead?” Her silhouette through the slatted door of the cell did not waver.

Unlike his beaten and bruised pet, Fabien did not so easily succumb to the rest his body yearned for. He drifted at times, his head lolling on his neck, until he startled awake with a sharp breath. In those moments, his eyes sought the shape of Émile and his friend with fluttering panic. But he relaxed at the sounds of their breathing, and the slight stirring of their bodies as they repositioned their aching limbs.

The boy stirred drowsily at the sound of Guillaume returning. His grey eyes were watchful as they stalked his movements, his expression darkly suspicious even when the blankets were received with soft thanks. This small amount of comfort, a welcome barrier from the cold, was enough to secure the urchin at least a few hours of sleep.

When their captor woke him once more, the youth groaned and squinted against the bright light of daylight as if it pained his eyes. He stretched, with joints cracking and protesting at having been forced into such uncomfortable positions. The boy regarded his surroundings with freshly renewed misery, as though he had hoped to wake in the soft comforts of his room.

Despite it being in his best interests, he bristled at Guillaume’s instruction. He replied with a curt mercí that lacked true gratitude and lowered to his knees with the bucket placed before him. The urchin began unbuttoning his bloodied shirt so that he could slip an arm free and clean the wound without wetting his clothes

Émile had efficiently sliced the skin of his forearm cleanly and thankfully avoided the thick cabling of veins that rose beneath his pale skin. It was by all accounts a papercut, easily healed were it not for their current situation. But the split edges of his skin were red and angry, the flesh crusted over as it shakily attempted to seal over dirt and grime. Under such conditions, it threatened to turn into a very irritating scar.

The boy cupped his hand and began the process of washing clean the grit and more unpleasant looking scabs that marred his skin. Sleep-deprived and hungry, his patience was paper thin. Guillaume’s comment made his hands still, and he paused with the tips of his fingers resting on the lip of the bucket.

“Un docteur?” He laughed huskily and lifted his head to study the man’s expression. “A doctor, to see how fit we are? To say we are well enough to last a winter on our own? Tu es sérieux?”

The golden-haired youth lowered his head and angrily returned to the task of cleaning the grime from his arm.

“Je suis désolé, but non. We do not want, or need, to see a doctor.” He stated firmly.

The boy’s skin had begun to pebble from the cold, and he was in the process of slipping his shirt back into place when Victoire returned. He did not raise his head, but listened quietly as he worked. Her words to Colombe, and the mention of paper had the boy’s heart skipping several beats. His gaze moved sideways to his friend, and he met her eyes. When she shook her head, he released a shuddery breath of relief and his sharp shoulders sagged.

The boy lifted his eyes to her at the sound of his name. That he might be allowed to reclaim his pet immediately snagged his interest, but the nature of her questioning made him recoil. He turned his head from her as though he might stubbornly outright refuse to answer.

Instead, he fretted over the answer. He turned the words over in his mind as he considered how to coax his tongue into producing a name without crumbling beneath the weight of it.

"Only one name." He replied throatily.

“Jehan.” His voice quivered as he spoke it. He took a moment to collect himself before he continued. "I knew him… from ….before that house."

He swallowed, waiting for the pain of recollection to subside so that he could continue.

"The others? Non. That we do not know. I am sorry if it is not enough."

This was quickly followed by hasty questions.

“Why do you disturb them? You are looking for someone there?” He asked, as his feline-sharp eyes moved between the pair.

Victoire’s face was cut into slivers by the bars of the stall that separated them. The soft splash of water was the only disturbance to the silence as the boy gathered his answer.

“Jehan,” she repeated quietly. “And you knew him.” This was not a question, though it carried a faint accusation. “Did he have a surname? A family to notify?”

She raised her hand to dismiss his questions.

“That’s none of your concern,” she began, but Guillaume interrupted to supply, “After it is killed we will let the families know what happened to them, si nous pouvons.”

Victoire shot him a withering look that he blithely ignored as he continued, “So they are not left waiting for them to return. Spare them the agony of not knowing.”

“Oui,” she conceded stolidly. There was something rigid in the gaze that swept over the three inmates. “Better to have the worst confirmed than to not know.”

Colombe’s downcast eyes did not meet her flinty gaze. Her hands were shaking as she lifted the cool water she cupped in them to her face. Émile was listening intently to this discussion, a sliver of green visible beneath their bruised eyelids, but their expression was carefully apathetic and did not reveal anything of their thoughts.

“Mais très bien,” Victoire said. She unsheathed the knife she had carried the previous day and Émile instinctively bristled. The blade glinted strangely in the morning light, the sheen too bright to be steel. “If that is all you know, I thank you for sharing it.”

She moved to Émile’s cell door and gestured with the tip of the blade. “On your feet.”

Fabien’s pet’s jaw tensed as they obstinately ground their teeth together. They turned their head loftily away from their captor, their sullen mouth blackened with shadow.

Victoire sighed in exasperation. “Pourquoi dois-tu être si difficile,” she muttered blackly as she unlocked the door and slipped inside. Guillaume’s grip tightened on the rifle but he did not aim it. Émile grew tense as she approached.

“Ne me touchez pas,” they snarled as her shadow fell over them.

“Not in the position to be making demands,” she said coolly. “Up.” They did not have any choice but to obey this command as she hoisted them to their feet.

They struggled with unexpected ferocity, but Victoire wrenched their arm behind their back with the indifference of a farmer trussing a kicking sheep and steered them from their stall. Guillaume hurriedly unlocked Fabien’s door and she pushed his writhing prize harder than was strictly necessary to the floor.

They hit the ground hard enough to force a wheeze of air from their chest. They turned their head enough to sneer, “Va te faire enculer, pute.” Guillaume had the delicacy to wince but the tall figure in the cell was unphased. She tipped the sharp point of the blade towards Fabien. Light skittered dangerously along its thin edge.

“See to your friend,” she said. It was an insult by proximity in her mouth. “And don’t cause problems, for each other or for us, or you’ll be separated and bound for everyone’s good. Est-ce que tu comprends?”

Fabien had no desire to linger further on this subject. The motions of his hand on his bloodied arm, first slow and careful, had grown rough. The urchin did not meet Victoire’s eye’s when she repeated his friend's name. He lathered his palm with more soap and continued to irritably cleanse the skin until it burned him to do so.

“Non. Il était orphelin.” The boy replied sullenly. “Non again, we had no use for those.”

The urchin could feel his temper rise at her dismissal. The skin at the back of his neck flushed, and he was glad of Guillaume’s interruption. His hand grew still as he listened to his explanation, and the youth nodded his golden head agreeably.

“Je vois. Kind of you.” He managed to reply stiffly. “I hope you do not disturb their rest for too long.”

The grey-eyed youth’s attention was snagged by the glint of the metal blade. He lifted his chin and followed his captor’s movements with sharp distrust.

“Oui, c'est tout.” He confirmed quietly.

It was not the woman’s orders, but his pet’s stubborn refusal that had the boy hastily shrugging his shirt back into place. He rose clumsily to his feet in a flailing of awkward limbs and knocked the bucket causing a wave of soapy water to soak his leg. He swore quietly, though even in his irritation his eyes remained on his pet.

“Émile,” he warned softly.

When they landed in an unceremoniously heap at his feet, the boy released a trembling breath. His sharp shoulders sagged as though some inner tension had been released, and his youthful mouth softened. He was not quite unable to conceal the relief, delight even, which illuminated his sharp features.

He wasted no time in gathering Émile to his chest, and knelt to slip an arm around their waist so that he might hoist them back onto their feet. His arm was a vice around them, firm to the point of nearly squeezing air from their lungs. His hand was briefly rough in their hair, his lips close to their ear as he spoke.

“Surveillez vos manières.” He murmured, breathing in the scent of their hair before he pushed them down to the floor near the makeshift bed he had made for himself.

The boy had hastily shoved the bottle of brandy into their hands to silence any further insults they might conjure. Émile was then briefly free to make themselves comfortable, and with his pet occupied, he turned to give his thanks.

“Oui, perfectly. Merci, I appreciate the gesture.” He replied with a courtly bow of the head.

“Je suis désolé pour leur langue lâche. The stress, you know? It can make beasts of us. We will, of course, not trouble you.”

Émile’s skin was hot through their clothes, their body flush with the indignity of being mishandled by this stranger. Fabien could feel the tense set of muscle when he pulled them close. The smell of their sweat was sweet like freshly cut hay, their dark hair peppered with the scent of cinnamon like a dog’s silky fur after a romp in the woods.

They protested his proximity in a baring of white teeth, their palm firm against his sternum as they resisted his murmured instruction, but their eyes flashed in their bruised face as the bottle was thrust into their hands. They went soft and pliable against him, their murmured breath honeyed in their mouth. Sated by this tribute, they curled regally into his discarded blankets, their throat flexing as they drank. His fingerprints were visible in purple whorls beneath the slash of dark leather around their pale neck.

“Bien,” Victoire replied curtly. She had turned to leave Fabien’s cell when her eyes alit on the bottle in Émile’s sullen mouth. She paused, but her thoughts were not voiced as a door clanked open somewhere in the distance. She turned at the same time as Guillaume as a slight figure approached.

He was a boy no older than Colombe, tanned and rangy in a manner that suggested his hands were calloused from the plow. Guillaume intercepted him before he could approach, taking the packet he carried from his hands.

“Merci, Henri,” he murmured. The boy stretched his neck to catch a glimpse of the captives over Guillaume’s shoulder, his eyes wide with a gawking schoolboy’s curiosity, and Guillaume shifted to block his view.

“Get back to the kitchen,” he said gruffly, his tone informal. “And finish breakfast. We have mouths to feed.” The boy’s reedy protest was cut short as Guillaume swatted him with the paper and the boy grudgingly retreated back down the hall, casting one last glance at the occupied stalls before disappearing from view.

Guillaume watched his retreat before handing the parcel to Victoire as she exited and dutifully locked Fabien’s stall. She nodded her thanks and approached the door to Colombe’s cell. Once inside, she knelt beside the thinly-clad inhabitant.  Colombe could not meet her gaze, her eyes falling instead to the ripples of water in the basin beside her.

“Here,” Victoire said, offering the newspaper and a stick of graphite wrapped in rough twine. The girl hesitated before accepting them into her pale hands, bobbing her head in silent gratitude.

There was a moment where neither spoke, though Victoire did not rise. Her eyes hawkishly inspected the girl’s downturned face.

“Anything you can tell us,” she said at last. “Will help more than you know.”

Colombe nodded quickly. Her hands were tight on the paper in her hand.

Victoire watched her a heartbeat longer before nodding.”Merci,,” she said, and rose, idly wiping the grit on her palms across the front of her thighs. It was not until she had closed and locked the door behind her that she finished as an afterthought, “Especially about that house. Our enemy has the advantage of familiarity, and anything we learn about the horrors of that house will be an asset.”

Colombe’s face grew a shade whiter, but she did not respond.

Fabien’s pleasure at having his pet returned to him had continued to brighten his pale features. He stood a little more erect, and his fingers ceased their unrelenting fidgeting. The urchin left Émile to indulge, his sharp shadow falling possessively over them. His attention drifted briefly to the knife and the woman's grasp.

This new arrival was met with a fox-sharp look, and the boy took a backwards step towards Émile before he could make a measure of them. His eyes returned to Victoire as he posed his next question.

“How many of you are out there exactly?” He asked softly.

Their exchange caused the boy's shoulders to tense. He slipped over to the divide between their stalls, his eyes intent on Colombe as he watched for her reaction. The boy's jaw clenched, and he clawed nervously at the back of his neck with one hand.

"How could anything else we say assist you?" The boy murmured irritably to himself. "You have done this before, non? You have experience? You know who you stand against?"

He began to walk to and fro about his stall, eager to get the blood pumping back through his aching limbs. It gave him the appearance of a wild animal, bored with its captivity.

"You must be, to even consider an attack in the first place." He continued, speaking low to himself as he moved from wall to wall in a slow loop. "To think you have a chance. Why waste time asking the deer what they know of the lion?"

The boy ceased his stalking movements, and leant his weight against the wall that separated him from Colombe.

"Either you are already prepared without our knowledge, or you are not." He said softly, as he examined the long fingers of one hand.

"Et que Dieu vous vienne en aide si c'est ce dernier."

The mask hid her mouth, but Fabien could see the skin around Victoire’s eyes tighten when he inquired as to their numbers.

“None of your concern,” she snapped again, though this time there was a chill beneath the words. “Henri isn’t- the two of us are more than capable of putting that thing in the ground.” Guillaume straightened to his full height as though to cut a more imposing figure in validation of her words.

She watched him pace his cell as though he were a wild cat behind glass at a zoological park.

“What do we stand against?” she returned. “You ought to know, you were sleeping sound in its house-”

“Vic,” Guillaume warned softly but it went unheeded as she took a step closer, wrapping her hands around the bars of Fabien’s cage.

“Safe in its bed,” she spat. The anger in her tone was cold as a distant star, frigid enough to burn. “Unshackled. Unlocked. Practically homely. Pas un prisonnier, but a guest. I think you could tell us a great deal about that particular lion, if you were not-”

“Victoire.” He did not shout it and she did not turn away, but the admonishment had the intended effect as the shape of the word changed in her mouth before she had completed it.

“-protecting it,” she concluded flatly. She met Guillaume’s eyes only a moment before turning back to Fabien. “So why don’t you enlighten us. What do we stand against?”

She crossed her arms across her chest, inviting him to reply. The figure behind her rolled his shoulders but did not speak. Colombe was a silent shape in the cell beside Fabien, pale as a flower pressed between the pages of a book, her eyes downcast as she watched the exchange through her lashes. Émile hummed a mocking tune from his shadow but was mercifully too occupied with the dregs of the bottle in their hand to voice their thoughts.

Fabien suddenly grew very still. His hand remained held aloft, but he no longer examined his freshly cleaned fingernails. His chin lifted, and he turned his head slowly to meet Victoire’s cold, unyielding stare. The boy’s attention moved between the pair, back and forth as if he expected more from them. When they produced nothing, he placed a hand upon his stomach as though he might be ill.

“Seulement deux. Les saints vous protègent.” He said beneath his breath.

The urchin did not interrupt his captor’s accusatory assesment. He resumed his small circular route around the stall, his hand still flat upon his stomach. When she approached the stall door, the boy moved to meet her and stopped when he stood only a step away.

The brief joy that had so enlivened his sickly pallor had faded. He was once again ghostly pale, his storm cloud eyes so blackened and deep set they made his finely sculpted features ghoulish.

“Oh, chérie. Tu te dresses contre la mort.” He replied, with aching gentleness.

He stepped closer, and his fingertips grazed the bar near where her hand curled. There was a sadness in his eyes that had not been there before. For a moment, it almost seemed as though he might dare to stroke her gloved fingers.

“Call him what you will. Monster. Beast, if that is the shape you prefer. If you find it familiar, comforting.” He smiled at this, as though it were some intimate joke.“But make no mistake, only death awaits you in that house.”

“You think you are fast? That you can outwit him? That you are strong?” He looked between them again, and scoffed. “Ah, non.”

The boy lifted his chin when she spoke of his safety. The fine array of scars on his lean throat glinted like constellations in the soft light. The boy shook his head, and released a soft, shuddering sigh.

“To be as we are, is to stand in the twilight of life. Closer to the grave than out of it.” He replied simply.

The golden-haired youth indicated towards his friend with a nod of the head.

“She cannot help you. Nothing she writes there will guide you, nor clear your path. None of us can.”

His eyes returned to Victoire, and then moved beyond her. He sought Guillaume instead, in hope he might take heed of his words.

“You should abandon this.” He stated firmly. “Mourn your loved one, but live your life. Les morts reposent plus facilement que nous."

There were no signs of deception in the boy’s sharp features. If he was angry at them, it only simmered low beneath the surface. There was only frustration, specked with the seeds of growing concern that the third member of their party had planted in his mind.

“Unlock these doors, and let us go home. S'il te plaît.”

Victoire’s steely gaze did not waver as she met the boy’s eyes. She jutted her chin defiantly at his assessment, bristling at the gentle pity that settled over his tone like dust in a mausoleum.

Something in her expression shifted as he continued speaking. Her eyes were still cold and hard, the muscles of her arm tense, but he could see how the fine hairs at the back of her neck raised at his ominous conduct.

Her stillness was broken when he spoke of their loved one. She made a sudden sharp movement but it was not toward Fabien - she had turned to spear Guillaume with a look of such intense betrayal that he crumpled inward as though impaled through the heart.

“Vic-” he began plaintively but she cut him off in a voice that was hoarse with shock, “You told them about her? Comment as-tu pu?”

“Non, I would n-” he said quickly, taking a step towards her with his hands raised but she furiously severed their connection, turning back to face Fabien, and he stopped short, his hand curling back against his chest. He lapsed into a mournful silence. There was a soft tremble in the fingers she curled around the cold iron bars.

“Tu ne sais pas de quoi tu parles,” she spat. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about the life left for me to live.”

The thin skin around her eyes was red.

“You know what I think, Fabien?” She did not wait for his response. “I think you’ve been taken in with ugly lies. I think you’ve been tempted and deceived. Had everything good inside you washed out and replaced with the kind of creeping rot that allows you to stand there and defend a killer.”

She lifted the leather of her mask to spit on the floor and he caught a glimpse of her unhappy mouth, the line of a jaw belonging to a young woman who ought to have been occupied with far more pleasant pursuits.

“And what’s more I think you know it, which makes you both a fool and a coward. We are not the victims here.”

She took a step back from the bars.

“Oui, we will let you go. When we bring back the head of the thing you’ve been living with to toss, bloody and empty, at your feet.”

“That is all.” Her back was razor-straight as she turned away. “You will be given food and water, but do not expect anything more. We have little to spare for the accomplices of our enemy.”

She moved briskly away, doing nothing to conceal her bristling contempt as she breezed past Guillaume. His head turned to follow her as she moved past. His shoulders fell when she was out of sight and he exhaled a soft breath. He stood and spared Fabien a rueful look before he followed rather more dejectedly.

Colombe had slowly been creeping from the door during this exchange and now sat hunched in the far corner of her stall, furiously scribbling on the paper braced against her knee. Émile had not moved from Fabien’s makeshift bed. They looked up at him with an expression that was impossible to read.

This volatile response startled Fabien as though she had put a flame to his skin. He immediately lurched back, eager to create fresh space between them as the muscles of his spine grew tense. The boy’s grey eyes darted between the pair, and recognising his error, he quickly shook his head.

“Non, non I didn’t mean- I am only trying to-” He attempted weakly.

The boy’s attention rose toward her at the sound of his name. His stormcloud eyes widened slowly, and he winced like a hurt animal. As she continued, his spine began to curl inward protectively, and his fingers found the smooth skin of his brow. The boy’s breath caught in his throat as creeping panic overwhelmed his youthful features. Now stricken, he shook his head again, over and over, his breath ragged and whining in his throat. He swept his expressive hand from his brow to his hair and resumed his tormented route about the stall.

“But I only wanted to-” he gasped softly.

When she spoke of letting them go, the boy brightened and turned back towards the door. But he quickly found her unyielding, and her description of such violence towards his Master made him tremble anew.

“W-wait …n-non, I-” He flustered helplessly. “S'il vous plaît, je suis désolé. Can we not speak? I am sorry if I-”

When they turned to leave, the youth bound forward and all but flung himself at the door. He rattled the bars and struck the wooden plank with his leg so hard it was sure to blacken his kneecap and cause a limp when this fresh surge of adrenaline ebbed.

“S'il vous plaît, laissez-nous sortir. Vous ne pouvez pas nous garder enfermés ici comme ça!” He cried after them.

With all the blind panic of ensnared hare, he began to feel his way around the stall door. He pressed his hands against the rigid, palms flat as he smoothed over the polished wood. His fingertips clawed and prized as he sought weakness in the hinges or loose nails he could worry-free. When common sense returned to him, he pressed his brow against the cold bars and sought to calm his breath.

The boy turned slowly, his hands still upon the door. He met Émile’s eyes for a breath before his attention veered whip-sharp to Colombe. The distressed youth turned towards her, his hands locked, fingers clasped and thumbs pressed knuckle to bone as he approached. He extended a trembling hand towards her through the bars. Her friend appeared exhausted to the point of sickness, his entire body seemed as though it might collapse into itself as he stood there swaying feverishly upon his weakening legs.

“S'il vous plaît, donnez-moi le papier.” He begged softly. “T-they may not trouble themselves with us now. Please give it to me, Colombe. C-c'est dangereux.”

Fabien’s frantic cries fell dead as doves pierced through the heart to the cold floor as the two figures vanished from sight without any hesitation in their stride. The room echoed with the panic in his voice, feeling ever more like a dungeon now that they were the only inhabitants.

Colombe had not looked up from her scrawling. With every word, every clatter of distraught limbs, her stiff shoulders rose higher and higher as her face sank closer to the paper in her lap. It was not until he turned and addressed her that her writing hand stilled.

She looked up at the boy and for a moment something passed in her eyes like the dark shadow of a leviathan beneath ocean water. She looked pensively down at the paper in her hands. Her brow furrowed and she chewed her lip. She did not surrender the paper. Carefully, she separated a sheet from the sheaves she held and slowly, shakily rose to her feet. She exhaled a pained breath and moved stiffly to meet him.

Perhaps, later, if he was ever warm and safe in his own bed again, this is how he would remember her - a pale ghost in nightclothes tangled in the wan light, her hair in messy ringlets and her great dark doe’s eyes inspecting him with an intensity that nearly rivaled Fakhir’s burning gaze - though she would balk at the comparison. Surely she was frightened, as she approached him on bare feet in her sparse cell. But her spine was straight, her brows betraying more concern for her friend than apprehension about her own situation.

She reached for him and her touch was familiar, warm skin brushing against his like the memory of home, as she pressed the folded page into his hands. He could see the words she’d scribbled on the margins, between breaks, anywhere there was the blank space to fill. It was not pressing, there was no urgency to her movements. She tucked it into his palm as though it were a treat she had pilfered from the kitchen to brighten his day.

Her lips were warm and dry where she pressed them to his knuckles. It was difficult to say why, but the gesture seemed unspeakably sad.

She offered him a thin smile. There were dark circles painted roughly beneath her eyes. Without a word she turned away, moving stiffly back to the rest of the paper she had hoarded.

Émile shifted on the blankets behind him in a long, quivering stretch like a cat. “Elle va tous nous faire tuer,” they muttered, nearly too low for him to hear.

Fabien’s hand remained outstretched towards his friend, his long fingers quivering lightly as he awaited her response. His eyes trailed her movements with an animal caution, and his breath was sharp in his throat. The press of her hand caused his lips to part, and his trembling to increase. For a moment there was relief in his eyes, though it was quickly replaced by confusion, and then panic.

“Colombe.” He pressed, in the vain hope she might produce more.

When the girl withdrew from him and returned to her writing, the boy regarded her in hurt silence. His hand remained outstretched, the folded note held in the cup of his palm like an offering to a saint.

Emile’s words, low though they were, broke the boy from his breathless stillness. His fingers curled around the paper, and he retracted his arm and backed away from the iron barred divide. The boy walked unsteadily to where his pet lay sprawled, and he found the floor by their side. Émile was thoughtlessly readjusted, plucked from their languorous sprawl as the hay-strewn floor in which they had since reclined replaced with the boy’s thighs. His arms curled around their chest, and he clung to their comforting warmth and once again breathed in the scent of their hair.

The urchin closed his eyes briefly. The dark line of his brow was furrowed, and the note clenched painfully tight in his fist. He allowed himself this moment, hushing any protests from his pet with the force of his arms around them, comforting and secure.

He swallowed and unfolded the note in his hands. It was pathetically meaningless to him, of no more use than sand running through his fingers. He quickly presented it irritably to Émile, pressing the paper against their hand as though it burnt him to touch it. And though he tried, he wasn’t quite able to disguise the note of quiet embarrassment in his voice.

“Oui, perhaps. I can’t-” He began awkwardly, his body stirring uncomfortably beneath them.

“Ça dit quoi? Please. So we can know what she-” He shrugged his sharp shoulders, unable to complete the words without pain.

The youth reached for his pet's jaw, his hand firm as he tilted their head up towards him. His thumb stroked across their lower lip, before with thumb and finger he applied artful pressure to where the beautiful inkblot of aching bruises marred their skin.

“S'il vous plaît... aidez-moi.” He said softly.

Émile protested the sudden intrusion of Fabien’s body against them, though they were easily subdued by the press of his arms around their warm chest. Their skin was soft where he shifted them, their body making room for him as though that was its only purpose. He could still smell his bedclothes and the cool, dark air of his master’s house in their hair. The animal heat of their living body seeped into his clothes like blood.

They were interested despite themself in the paper clutched in his hand and their eyes followed it with the greed that they never could sheathe. They watched wordlessly as he unfolded the note, smug disdain already gathering at the corners of their lips. They bristled as he took their jaw in his hand, though the soft green of their bruised eyes made a pretty sight tilted up toward him. He could feel the shiver that rippled down their spine as he pressed his fingertips into the purple skin of their pettish mouth.

“Donne le moi,” they snapped, taking the note and straightening it with a flick. “Clearly a matter for your betters.”

They tilted the sheet to catch the dim light. Even Fabien could make out the letters of his name printed neatly at the top of the page, the rest of the words squeezed into the blank spaces between the newsprint in a neat script.

“Hm,” Émile murmured thoughtfully, savouring their cellmate’s anxious dependence on them. They scanned the written words once, enviably quickly, and then once again, pausing to contemplate each line.

“They are selling oranges for cheap at le Marché des Enfants Rouges,” they said dreamily. They tapped the notice before lazily drifting the point of their finger to indicate the words scrawled alongside “And your maid is getting ideas above her station.” Their voice was hoarse and rough in their throat.  

“It’s a goodbye letter. Principalement. Very cloying. Though where she thinks she’s going-” They cast a derisive glance at the girl’s cell, though the wood wall was too high to see her without standing. “Je ne pouvais pas dire.”

“Did you really ask le vieil homme to bite you?” they asked, the mock scandal in their tone melting to sincere curiosity as they continued without taking their eyes from the words, “Does he drink your blood?”

Relief and apprehension washed over the boy when Émile agreed to his plea. The urchin’s muscles loosened beneath them, and he inclined his head towards them eagerly when they took the note from his grasp. Fabien’s grey eyes flitted from paper to their mouth in quick succession as he hoped to make some sense of his friend's words.

His pet’s infuriating delay was met with narrowed eyes, and the boy’s lips parting as though to reply something sharp. But he held his breath and instead strove for a trembling patience as he waited for them to continue.

When Émile revealed some of what was written there, the boy’s breath hitched.

“Friend,” he corrected sullenly through clenched teeth.

He dared not interrupt further and simply lapsed into a tense silence, His eyes moved to the cell wall, and he swallowed thickly before speaking softly.

“A goodbye letter?” He murmured.

The boy’s feline sharp eyes scanned their expression for further insight and was left wanting. Once more his body moved anxiously against them, and he urged them on with the firm press of his fingers upon their skin.

“But what do you mean? Is there more?” He asked, still unable to conceal the desperation in his voice.

Émile’s question caused the boy to startle against them. The youth’s pale skin flushed ruddy, and he met their eyes in stunned silence.

“I don’t think now is the right-” he murmured evasively, before snapping off the rest of his words like a feral fox. “-Will you be quiet?” The boy hissed and jostled them with his arm.

Fabien released a shuddering breath, and his eyes turned from them to the hay strewn floor of their cell.

“Has she… written much about that?” He continued carefully.

The boy then shook his head, frustrated with both this slow fragmentary reading and the pace in which it was being delivered.

“Je ne comprends pas, can you speak it plain? Is there something here I must know?”

Émile shrugged their shoulders against him, delight at his frustration oozing from between the cracks in their nonchalance.

“That’s all it says.” They shook their head dismissively. “Really quite dull.”

They offered him the paper and gestured for him to verify for himself. The mocking glint in their eyes was snuffed out as he snapped at their questioning. It was replaced with a thin wisp of intrigue as they turned once more to the note.

“Laissez-moi voir. It mentions someone called…” They skimmed the page. “Jaseur. Is he your rival for her affections?”

They clicked their tongue at this scandalous fabrication, eyes idly scanning the neatly written words. “It seems she’s chosen him over you after all.”

They shifted feline against him until they were nearly lounging in his lap. Their body was warm and their eyes were deep water green as they looked up at him.

“I could just read it for you, mon pauvre ami analphabète,” they breathed. “Though I grow weary of this. I think my appetite for reading would be whetted hearing more about this biting and blood first.”

They held the paper out to him between two unconcerned fingers, their terms clear; take it and accept his ignorance, or talk.

Fabien’s firm grip on Émile’s soft waist tightened with irritation. He regarded them with fierce displeasure, his mouth a hard line and eyes dark with contempt.

“Arrête de jouer avec moi.” The boy snarled, his fingers clawing their flesh through their clothes.

The boy's grip on them relaxed when his pet offered a further crumb of information. He appeared puzzled at this, and his grey eyes scanned the page over his pet's shoulder.

“Jaseur,” he repeated. “Non, I don't … I don't know what she means here. Someone on the outside, perhaps, some confidant.”

The boy caught the flesh of his lower lip between his teeth and he worried at the skin until it was raw. He parted his lips to urge Émile for more, but was abruptly silenced by their demand.

“It is none of your damn business.” He replied sullenly, though his body loosened at the soft press of their body.

The urchin welcomed their closeness, guiding them against him with the flat of his palm. He regarded them with heavy breath, meeting the green of their gaze with a look of angrily suppressed yearning.

“Fine,” he relented tersely. “I'll whet your appetite.”

With Émile already so close it required little effort on the boy’s part to pull them more pleasingly against his body. He rearranged their limbs in an intimate tangle, but was careful to appear as though he were merely examining their finely sculpted skull for injury. He swept aside gleaming inky strands of hair from their jaw, and angled their exquisite profile away so that he could press his mouth to their ear.

“Oui, I ask him to bite me,” the boy breathed. “Beg him even, to sink his teeth into me, and drink from me. Which he does.”

The youth’s fingertips, unforgivably cold, slipped beneath his pet’s shirt to stroke their warm skin.

“Oui, he takes my blood when he wants, at his leisure. I am happy to grant it.” He continued, his hand stroking the soft curve of Émile’s waist.

“I love when he puts his teeth to me. I love the feeling of being split open by him, my blood wet on my skin, on his lips. It does it for me. It gets me off.”

This recollection had the youth's heart racing. He traced the curve of his pet jaw with his parted lips, his breath hot against their skin. His teeth skimmed over their skin, and he tasted them with trembling relish.

There was something aggressive in the scoring of his teeth, as though he wished to give them a demonstration. His bruised eyes were closed, and his last words were spoken hungrily into the underside of their jaw.

“And I don't know what I'll do, if I never feel his teeth on me again.”

He shifted his pet's weight, over and away from the aroused skin that now pressed hot against their thigh.

“Does that satisfy you?”

Like a coaxing cat, Émile did not resist Fabien as he pulled them close. The soft green of their eyes followed him expectantly, but they turned their head to the side when prompted. His breath at their ear sent a shiver tracing beneath the collar binding their throat.

They were a rapt audience. The hairs at the back of their neck responded to something electric in his words and when he touched their skin it raised in trembling bumps beneath his cold fingers. They leaned into his caress like an affection-starved hound. They exposed the silken flesh of their jaw to his mouth with a shameless tilt of their head, their eyes half-lidded in some rapturous fascination, and when his teeth grazed their skin they did not stifle the soft whimper of their breath.

Their breath had hitched in their throat and it took a moment for them to gather their wits as he pulled away. Their eyes were hidden beneath the dark hair that was growing long without a razor.

“Oui,” they whispered breathlessly. “Or, non, I'm not entirely satisfied-” They shifted, resisting his attempt to move them aside, and pressed the length of his roused skin against the curve of their ass. When they moved their thighs, it pressed his cock distractingly between them.  They shook the hair from their face and the glint of their eyes was as one transfixed. “But it is enough to have remembered my voice.”

They leaned back into him. Something in his account had kindled them and their skin was hot against his chest, a slight tremor in the hand that lifted the paper once more.

“Cher roi des rats,” they began, though the jeering held no venom. They spoke softly, their tone smooth and easy as they recited the neatly written words. The arch of their back to grind him between their thighs was subtle enough an observer would miss it, but Fabien could not.

“I’m sorry. If any of us were going to get out, I thought it was you. But I have an opportunity and I have to take it. For papa. For Jaseur. And in some ways, for you.” The faintest disdain touched their voice, but they continued without commentary.

“I don’t know what he’s done to you. When you told me you’d asked him to bite you, that you let him take your blood, I thought that was the worst it could get. But I see how you look at him, how he touches you, and I begin to understand why I have buried so many bodies but have lost all fear that yours will be next. I hope you are not beyond saving but I can’t be sure anymore.” There was a beat of silence as Émile rotated the paper to follow the looping path of the words.

“I hope you make it out. From his shadow, and from that house that is nothing more than a tomb. As far as it is my concern, everything that was mine is yours, to do with as you like. I won’t tell them anything they don’t already know. They don’t know him well enough to know they are already dead if they intend to cross him.”

Émile hesitated only a heartbeat before concluding, “Even after everything, I’m glad I met you. Please don’t try to find me. Your friend always, Colombe.”

The movement of their body in his lap as they raised the letter for him to take was painfully distracting. “Et c'est tout,” they murmured.

Fabien's coarse hands moulded around the infinitely tempting curve of Émile’s back. The boy caressed the beautiful dip of their lower spine, and could not resist pressing his mouth to their throat.
His lips sought where the skin trembled between the soft press of leather. The boy's hands tightened, slid down to their hips and held them with trembling agitation. He offered a murmur of approval when they began to read, though his  teeth caught and pinched the sensitive skin of their throat in a chastising bite.

The youth tried to divert his attention back to his letter. His feline-sharp eyes lingered on his pet's mouth as they spoke, but he was quickly overcome with the eager press of their body. He weakly attempted to follow Émile’s careful narration, though his focus often veered instead to the press of their thighs.

The boy's hands tightened on their hips as he urged them to rut against him. His cock stroked upwards between their thighs, pressing against sensitive nerves through cloth as he thrust firmly against them, eager for friction.

At times he paused, and his breath hitched. A glimmer of raw panic emerged in his expression, like one waking from a dream. The guilt, painful as a white hot molten blade, thrust into his heart made his hands cruel. His nails scored lines over soft skin, his teeth on their jaw left red brands.

“Bon chien,” he replied simply, when they had finished. He snatched the letter from their grasp and secreted it away.

Fabien made no comment on the contents of Colombe's note. He swept his hand over an eye which had grown sore and red, the other was too obscured by his tangled hair. There was a tightness in his throat, a fidgetiness to his hands as he moved with the restless sway of a wild horse.

“Keep quiet,”  he instructed softly.

The urchin loosened the threads of fabric about his waist, and with one hand shook his cock free. He roughly urged Émile onto their knees, and quickly loosened their clothing to expose the soft curve of their ass to his probing hands. The boy pulled them back against him, trembling at the sensation of hot, bare skin.

“Who knew,” he breathed mockingly against their ear. “A spoiled little prick like you...”

He thrust himself back between their thighs with a slow, measured roll of the hips.

“...Capable de tels appétits.” He sighed, as the point of his tongue slid across their throat.

The urchin continued to stroke himself between them, against slick skin. His movements were slow, his body trembling as he teased his cock against the silken press of their thighs. The sound of him moving slick against them was quietly obscene.

“Putain et une dégénérée...” He whispered against their skin, as his hand parted the fabric around their shoulder. “...under all this fine breeding.”

“Practically soaked though."

The boy pressed his lips to their soft skin with a trembling affection that was only too quickly replaced with cruelty. He sank his teeth into them, hard and aggressively, and sucked on the burn of indented skin.

Émile’s voice wavered whenever Fabien’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin of their neck, their body stirring distractingly against him. Their focus was wavering and the end of their recitation was hurried. Their smug pleasure at the skin they had coaxed to swell with blood between their thighs was great enough to obscure the spark of irritation that flared at his patronizing praise.

He could feel the thrill of excitement pulse through them at his quiet instruction. His pet eagerly leaned onto their knees at his rough prodding, arching their hips forward to assist him in pulling their clothes aside. The cool air prickled bare skin and they greedily settled back against his warm body, a breath throbbing in their throat at the hungry press of hot skin between the excruciating silkiness of their thighs.

The mocking words he breathed into their ear only seemed to stoke the flame he had ignited in their belly. In response, they boldly grabbed at his wrist and insistently slid his hand along the soft curve of their waist, dragging his fingers beneath their shirt until his rough palm grazed the firm point of their nipple. They shivered as his fingers brushed tender nerves. The frayed thread around their own wrist was bright as a slash of blood.

They were inarguably wet, the skin he pumped his cock between deliciously slick for him. They rolled their hips against his rhythm, cleverly working him deeper and deeper between their thighs until with a gasped breath he was stroking along the stiff swell of them. They were desperately hard and the movement of him thrusting against sensitive nerves had them squirming urgently. He could feel how their thighs trembled, their nails digging into his wrist with every exquisite thrust.

They had no defense against this accusation, slick as his cock was pressed into the cleft of their bare thighs, but they seized an effective offense. They arched their back, rocking their hips in short, desperate strokes until he was grinding against the folds of their dripping cunt.

It was not Fabien, but entirely Émile who thrust him deep until he was buried to the hilt in the delicious wet heat of them. The sound they made was a guttural groan as he filled them.

Their skin was so hot, their body quivering as they rocked him in and out.

His bite had their body clenching tight around him. Their cry of hurt faded quickly to a pretty whimper as he bruised himself into their skin with his teeth. Their pink tongue was visible as they panted after him like golden honey from a hot hive.  

“Je ne savais pas,” they gasped, their voice a husky whisper. “That you could be anything but agonizingly boring. Do it again, s'il te plaît, refais-le.”

Fabien’s palm slid appreciatively over their soft skin. His fingers flexed, then splayed as he felt his way across their achingly soft waist. The boy grazed over their nipple with one rough pad, his breath ragged as he caught the sensitive bud between thumb and forefinger. He circled the eager flesh with irritating finesse, the motion of his agile fingers guided by his pet’s gasping response.

The boy reclined back, fingers still teasing beneath their shirt as he drank in the view. His eyes devoured their half-dressed body, lingering on their glistening lips, he watched the rise and fall of their chest.  The urchin’s cock twitched against them as he watched them move against him, and his unoccupied hand slid to the curve of their hip until his palm was resting there to feel the slow undulation of muscle. When their pace changed, he gripped the shapely flesh of their ass, as his rough fingertips pinched their roused nipples.

The urchin thrust against the slick folds of them, as the exquisite press of their body urged his hips to move in response. He swallowed a ragged breath that threatened to bloom into a moan.

“That’s good,” He encouraged thickly.  “How very well beh-” The youth began before his mocking encouragement was ripped from his throat.

The boy quickly suppressed his heated response by pressing his panting mouth to his Émile’s jaw, then the curve of their throat. His grip on their ass tightened, and his fingertips sank into their flesh, deep enough to bruise. As he slipped inside them, the sudden tight heat of their body left him gasping.

“Dieu…” he rasped, his entire body quivering against them.

His hand stroked upward to the curve of their spine, and the press of his palm encouraged their hips to work him over. The feel of them clenched so tightly around him was almost the boy's undoing. He responded with a thoughtful sound, as he dragged his tongue over the skin that his teeth had brutalised.

“Qu'est-ce que je viens de dire?” He asked, as his lips strayed to the bruised line of their jaw.

Fabien did not allow them time to respond before he sank his teeth back into the muscle of their shoulder. The boy was spiteful, his teeth painfully close to raw skin from his previous bite. He held onto them, clamping into the muscle of their shoulder like a wild animal claiming a mate. Their cries were quickly silenced with the palm of his hand, pressed firmly around their whimpering lips. Eventually, the boy released them, and his palm was replaced by his mouth, then his tongue. As though he sought to swallow the cries he had just silenced, to feel them whimper against his teeth.

He urged them against him, lifting their hips so he could thrust deep into the slick tightness of their cunt. He moved carefully, his body trembling as though he dared not find his pace inside them too swiftly.

“Shall we try again? Can you be quiet?”

As though deftly tuning a long-necked instrument, the pinch of Fabien’s fingers worked hot gasps from Émile’s throat. They bucked against him, momentarily losing their rhythm in the flush of pained pleasure spearing their belly. The thin edge of an animal whimper coloured their breath.

They opened beneath his hands, thighs parting like the blossoming of some lascivious flower. He could feel the taut push and pull of muscle where they moved. They emanated a beckoning warmth, the heat and scandalous softness of their skin a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground beneath the pair. The pale skin of his beautiful pet’s waist yielded to his fingers, the luscious swell of their ass indenting at his touch like the flesh of a ripe fruit begging to be bruised beneath his hands, scored by his teeth.

Their fingers dug into his thigh, appreciative of the borrowed leverage as they rocked the hard length of his cock into the soft give of their body. One hand crept almost shyly over his shoulder and around the back of his neck, the press of their palm warm and firm as they urged him deeper.

Émile’s eyes, so misty with sharp desire that they glistened like jade, met his - and perhaps this contact was too intense, as they rolled their head to the side, greedily exposing the smooth skin of their throat to his mouth. The dark band of their collar - his collar - ringed their neck in irrefutable proof of his possession of this indecent creature that was made to be penetrated by his cock, his tongue, his fingers, his teeth, of his ownership of a hole that only became wetter and tighter the more he bit it.

They rolled their hips as they rode him, the skin where the joint of their thighs met their hips delicately creased from the angle of their legs. He could feel how their breath hitched in their throat whenever the head of his cock dragged against the sensitive skin, their breath hot and intimate along the scars that laced his throat. They trembled with eager anticipation at the press of his lips along the bare skin of their shoulder.

Fabien was firsthand witness to how much of a beating they could endure without yielding, so perhaps it was with some satisfaction he felt how they shuddered against him, heard the yelped moan his teeth aroused. They cried out as they were bit, their moans coming in short, quick gasps that were muffled beneath the press of his palm. They bucked their hips, fucking him deeper and deeper into the tight heat of their body until a convulsive shudder heralded a sudden gush of warmth. His teeth were still clenched on their shoulder as they came hard. Their fingernails dug into the skin at the back of his neck, their tongue lapping obscenely at the palm that sealed their hoarse groans in their mouth.

Émile whimpered into his mouth, eyes glazed with the pleasure of their pain. Their thighs were trembling, the raw heat of their cunt throbbing around him in time with the rapid pulse of their heart. They sucked hungrily on his tongue.

There was nothing shy to their answering of his question as they lifted his hand to their glistening lips and thrust two fingers inside. Their mouth was hot and wet and their tongue voraciously parted his fingers to lap at the space between. They pulled his fingers into their mouth, muzzled and obedient as a loyal hound as they resumed the rocking of their hips.

Fabien was left panting against Émile's cheek. He caught the soft skin of their plump lower lip between his teeth, before he relinquished his fingers to their mouth. No doubt they felt how close he was. Their clenching, shuddering climax had pinched the air from the boy's lungs. The hand on their hip had tightened, and his rough nails seared across the soft skin of their hip in angry lacerations.

The boy's lean thighs trembled beneath them. He was quiet, his body tight as he struggled to suppress the snarling desire their reaction had provoked.

His thieving fingers stroked across the length of their silken tongue. He studied his pet through grey eyes which were half lidded with desirous interest.

“Tu es vraiment pathétique.” He rasped, his voice low and velvety.

“So this is how I get you to mind your manners, hm?”

The boy's tongue glazed over the freshly made hollows in their skin. His cock twitched inside them.

“Est-ce vraiment tout ce qu'il fault? Embarrassing.”

With unnecessary malice the boy's fingers sought entry deeper into their throat. Just enough to have his pet gag prettily against him. The youth had no patience for their fatigued performance, not now they had made his blood boil in his veins. His free arm clamped about their waist, and he pulled them firm against him. He reclined back, enough for his spine to find support against the wooden beam.
With his pet clasped against him, and his fingers buried in their mouth, the boy pumped his hips into the maddening wetness of their cunt. He thrust inside them, rough at first, until with shivering precision his rhythm found focus. The urchin's pleasure began to grow urgent, each exhale turned like coarse wood into smooth, soft moaning. When he threatened to grow too loud, his mouth returned to Émile’s skin.

The boy's eyes were closed, his lips wet as he sank his teeth into them again. He appeared absent in his cruelty, as though his thoughts had drifted from their prison. As though, with each shallow, needful thrust and his mind carried him elsewhere. Back to the crimson room where strong, practised hands held his jaw and moon white hair whispered along his skin.

Fabien's body gave way with a shudder. His teeth were still clamped on his pet's skin as he came, filling them with heat as he held and hurt them. He released Émile’s shoulder with a gasp, like one half drowned at last discovering the surface. He dragged his mouth dreamily along the sharp line of their jaw, the skin of his brow hot and damp with sweat. The boy's arm loosened, but he continued to hold Émile’s against him until their trembling subsided.

After what felt an eternity of stillness broken only by softly gasping breath, the boy's arm loosened.

“We should get you clean. Then perhaps I can finally rest.” He murmured lazily, his limbs sleep heavy.

Émile’s breath was a soft whimper as his teeth grazed their lip. Their shuddering release appeared to only have whetted their appetite to feel him, hard and hungry, inside them. Their body flexed against his as they rocked his cock into them, their thighs shivering with the strain of the exertion.

They could not meet his eyes, their gaze fixed instead on his mouth as they sucked his fingers with their devilish tongue, but the jade of their eyes was glazed with a keen, wolfish hunger. His mockery coaxed their skin to raise in shivers across their throat and, in lieu of a rebuttal, they ground their hips and pressed his cock so deep into the soft heat of their body they could not stifle the sharp pant that shivered past his fingers in their mouth.

They choked as his fingers thrust deeper, the clench of their body maddening as they gagged against him. Tears brightened their eyes. His fingers glistened wet in their mouth as they sucked him, panting, the points of their teeth grazing his skin. Their tongue lapped eagerly against his hand in time with the rocking of their hips.

Perhaps it was the sting of his mocking words or the clench of his teeth on their shoulder that nudged them to the edge once more. They bucked wildly, fucking him deep into the slick heat of their body again and again before, with a low groan as though of pain, they tightened, shuddering, around him. Their nails dug into him and left starbursts of pain as they broke skin. Their eyes glistened like river stones, their thighs trembling, as they gasped, shaking, for breath.  

Their hot breath broke into soft whimpers of overstimulation as he continued to thrust into them. They writhed against him, a beautiful creature of silky skin and wet, pulsing heat, as he took his fill. They could not quite smother the short moan against his throat as he flooded them with a gush of heat. It was not without some measure of relief the rocking of their hips slowed and finally ceased.

Émile did not resist Fabien’s embrace. They lay against him, panting, their arm still wrapped familiarly over his shoulder. Their skin was feverishly hot and beaded with a delicate sheen of dew.

Slowly, the hot urgency of their breaths subsided. They turned their head when he spoke, their dark hair curling humidly.

“You need to learn when to ferme ta gueule,” they murmured into his chest. The weariness in the words was gentle warning, along with the growing looseness of their body against his, that his languid pet was perfectly content to fall asleep with him growing soft in the slick heat of their insides. Their breath was a moth-soft flutter of warmth along his skin.

For a time, Fabien’s entire body was afflicted with tremors as his spent pleasure seared through him. The muscles of his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his feline-sharp grey eyes were glazed and vacant. His hips continued to stir gently, slithering upwards to torment his nerves with the intoxicating wet heat of his pet's insides.

The urchin's hand moved to Émile’s waist. His palm slid up to their ribs to feel the flex and pull of their breath. His touch upon them was comforting, the brush of his fingers praising as he stroked them like a clever working dog.

The boy's last words had been sleep heavy, and his breathing deepened when his pet chastised him. He opened an eye lazily, and the corners of his irritating mouth curled with pleasure.

“Funny,” he murmured drowsily. “Je ne vous ai pas entendu vous plaindre.”

The boy's fingertips found their way to bare skin, still deliciously damp with exertion. He traced shapes and words across their sensitive skin, symbols and suggestions of affection kept unspoken and impossible to decipher. He briefly found their wrist, and sought the bidding there to ensure it remained in place.

His final act was to dutifully feel for, then grasp the blanket he had been given. With depleted strength and trembling limb he managed to half shrug it over their bodies. Then with a heavy sigh, his relentless fussing subsided and he curled his arm around them.

Fabien's lips brushed across Émile’s smooth brow. His grasp on them turned gentle, now their fire has been sufficiently extinguished. He indulged in their weakness a breath or two more, before his hands grew still and his muscles no longer succumbed to small twitches and spasms.

He had jostled them briefly, but perhaps not enough to encourage their bodies to separate. And no doubt he would soften inside them, until his Émile sought to reposition. And so the urchin sank into rest, his arm curled possessively around his cherished pet.