I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    A hopeless Love and a pretty Crime wailing in the mud of the road.


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    Join date : 2012-05-14

    A hopeless Love and a pretty Crime wailing in the mud of the road.  Empty A hopeless Love and a pretty Crime wailing in the mud of the road.

    Post  Fabien on Sat Jun 08, 2019 6:02 pm

    Because everything here looks like this:
    Dry-eyed Death, our diligent daughter and servant,
    A hopeless Love and a pretty Crime wailing in the mud of the road.

    He did not know at what point the pain and the hurt and longing mixed together like some fine aromatic oil on unwashed skin, sweet beneath foul layers of cloth and silk.

    What he knew was this. That his earliest memories were of pain, humiliation and anger.

    Cygne d'or Estate
    7 years ago

    The Marquis, on whose land his family laboured, had a taste for cruelty that was not distinct among the upper class. Their estate was situated atop a gently sloping hill, white stone gleaming in the sunlight like some temple to higher beings. Every so often the gates would open, and the household would emerge from those ivory walls on what seemed like winged horses embellished in gold.

    Fabien's family worked the land from daybreak to nightfall. He had no childhood of which to speak, there was no time for play, no time to run through the woods savage and free. When he had strength enough for a broom, there were stables to be swept. When he gained height and agility, there were fields to till, food to be prepared, an endless catalogue of hard labour And always it was in the mud and the shit, and always he went to bed with his bones aching and the kind of hunger that breeds violence in the soul.

    The Marquis took his payment from the callouses on their hands, and the sharpening of their bones beneath their skin. And sometimes he took his payment from the bodies of young peasants under his estate, and “such is the way of it”, his father always said. Best to keep working, best to hope for a good summer and a kind winter.

    Under such conditions, Fabien grew like rotten fruit. He would disappear sometimes, for hours, for days. He would return at night, having gathered sweet apples from the orchards for his sisters. It was said he would sneak into nearby villages to play with the sons and daughters of tradesmen and beggars.

    It was a spring day when it happened.

    No one quite knew the exact details, the story became embellished over time, travelling as it did through so many tongues. Some said he had sighted the Marquis' son and daughter alone in town, two pretty birds surrounded by the flutter of their staff. They said he had offered the girl a sweet pastry and pressed his mouth to her cheek. Others claimed that the noble lad made some comment, and Fabien had struck him so hard his nose had bled, and a tooth once straight and sure had turned inward.

    All they knew was this. The golden children had returned one day, crying and dirtied, and the Marquis' son was sent to the city for special medical treatment.

    After that, an assembly was called, and every lowly peasant on the Marquis land ordered to gather in a circle before a small stage used for spring celebrations. They stood on shuffling feet, a small sea of nervous faces and whispering confusion. The blue-blooded family were arranged on a small platform, a powdered and sweet smelling jury that looked upon the amassed group like one would a herd of foul smelling livestock.

    The Marquis' wife did not soften when the scrawny boy was brought out, his arms clasped by her diligently loyal household guards.  She did not beseech her husband for mercy. There was no flinching sympathy when the boy's shirt was removed his breeches torn away to reveal a young body half wasted with hunger.

    Their master arrived on his horse, wig freshly powdered with a look of professional disinterest on his face.

    “Of course, tradition dictates that we ought to have the boy flogged properly. But this is the modern age after all, and we must set an example.” He drawled, slipping from the saddle as he and caressed the end of his riding crop between gloved fingers.

    “It is not the boy's fault that he did not learn to take the bit earlier. Such things are the duty of the parents, to which I lay the blame. ”

    And in the crowd, Fabien's father flinched in shame.

    He strolled casually over to the dirty haired boy, and gently lifted his chin with a finger. From all outward appearances, here came a tender hearted lord, reluctant to bestow this harsh punishment. But the amusement that glinted in his eye spoke otherwise And the soft leather of a riding crop, painful though it was, was not hard enough to split skin or leave marks. Such wounds were meant to be burnt into the mind, to alter the shape of thoughts, creating shackles were once there were none.

    Fabien was struck from lower spine to the back of his knees. And it continued unthinkably long, until the lord's wig had lost its neatness, and his face was reddened and glistening with sweat. And the boy's first audience, his friends and family watched in uncomfortable silence as the sun set behind the trees.

    And then, so simply, it was over.


    The Rue de chien noir
    2 years ago

    “Well, this is awkward, non?” The man whispered.

    Fabien's mind, and very nearly his bowels emptied as his eyes attempted to focus on the dark figure in the corner of the room. In the room that was meant to be empty, in the house that wasn't due to be occupied for another hour or so.
    And then the figure moved into a patch of light, and the boy caught a glimpse of his profile.

    “What are you even doing here?” The urchin hissed, his body trembling in relief.

    “Same as you, I imagine.” The figure replied.

    Putain d'enfer.” Fabien spat, and his grey eyes grew narrow with contempt.

    The boy's spine straightened, and he braced a hand against the wall of the elegant apartment to regain his breath. “You are not supposed to be here. ” He snarled, and turned sharply from the room.

    With nimble fingers and a carefully practised swiftness, the two thieves gathered what they could from the beautiful, glittering rooms. Fine ornaments, watches, purses, money carefully stashed away in places so painfully obvious the pair started to laugh deliriously between themselves.

    At last they emerged  into the cool of the night, and when they were far away, Corentine leaned against a wall and offered the boy a cigarette. He was a tall, thin man, somewhere in his late twenties perhaps. He was dressed appropriately in dark clothing, his chin faintly unshaven and his eyes bright with amusement beneath hair that was slick with dirt.

    “These sloppy little mistakes wouldn't happen, of course, if you worked for me.” Corentine sighed.

    “I am not inter-

    The dark haired man moved then with a thief's swiftness, and seized the the boy's arm, twisting behind his back as he forced him face first into the wall.
    “-Terested. Too committed, too loyal to your little troupe. I  know, I know

    His hand slipped under the boy's shirt, feeling over heat of his skin over his ribs. Soon he was tracing the outline of a inky fox, freshly branded into the boy's soft flesh.

    “I need to get back, I-” Fabien rasped, his skin flushed with colour.

    Corentine tightened his grip on the boy's arm, before he began to twist the bone in his joint hard enough to make the boy wince in pain. And the harder he twisted, the more Fabien's body softened beneath him. With a smile, he hauled the thin youth away from the wall, coaxing him to bend inelegantly over a stack of crates.

    “You're too good for pantomimes and card tricks, mon amie.” He murmured, as his hand slipped beneath the boy's waistline, and found there beneath his clothes the aching hardness he had hoped to find there.

    It had been like this several times. This mix of danger, of darkness, and then of holding the boy down and making him hurt. One night, he had taken him into his mouth, another time he made the boy finish him roughly with his hand while they sheltered in some back alley, the rain falling heavy around them.

    But this time, this time he dragged the boy down onto some dirty sheet, and exposed enough of his slim thighs and tight backside to rut him into the floor like some flea infested bitch. It had hurt him, and he had cursed, but he did not ask him to stop. He had never asked him to stop.

    And then they would part ways, slick with sweat and unable to utter a word to each other.

    He was not the first. Daima too, had discovered by chance how to enliven her acting companion. She had turned to kiss him one night, her hand fondly tangled in his hair. And as her lips had met his, that hand had pulled hard enough to make the youth flinch. And concerned and laughing, she had turned to pull her hand away, but he had grasped it tightly. Too tightly. And then what followed was a simple command.  

    Non. Harder. Hurt me. I like it when you hurt me.

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