crooked moon: draža and gideon

[onefellswoop]

-The Crooked House. shut the fuck up eustace. WHY ARE INFINITE WEASELS?
-A private word. jack you can't slip away from the bird that easily.
-Where you belong. hello puppy, hello daddy. hello gideon?



supplemental:
-Jack's notes. revelations in the margins.

Comments

[onefellswoop]

Oh. Oh, it’s -

Relief even as he burns molten. Even as his hand relinquishes Orev’s throat and rushes along his spine, burying and clutching at feathers. Even as Gideon gasps for breathes he can’t fully draw against the chain’s merciless clamp. Relief is already settling over him with the rush of release, pulsing violence as strong as the first encounter, rendered painful in ecstasy for all the time he went without.

(And for all the time he went without Daddy.)

He doesn’t shout; his cries are hoarse, breathless, blooms of dark spots forming in his vision and mingling with the image of Daddy above him, shadowy, vast, dangerous. (Loving. He feels it, he feels how much love there is, and it must be from Orev, it must be, because Gideon is too small, too incomplete, too broken (not enough) to embody all the love in the space between them.)

He doesn’t shout, and neither does he neglect to tend his Daddy’s ache. (It was what Draža commanded. He’ll never forget that first night he was given this (very welcome) responsibility. He’ll never forget the first time he undid his Daddy.)

The command keeps him bound to Daddy’s release, his own drawn longer and lingering, viciously slow-burning. Gideon arcs his neck, head back against the floor and throat bared to Orev, his voice breaking against thanks, against “Daddy” and “yes” and “please”, disjointed words that don’t cohere into sentence. Words that shatter into weeping laughter when pleasure grows unbearable, when his own release is wrung out and his cock overstimulated (and still, and still, and still -)

(Draža did this to him a time or two. Not always tying their releases together with command: sometimes, he would order Gideon to continue, to keep going, to come again, again, and “Oh no, Puppy. Again”, until Gideon thought his mind would break and his body would disintegrate, would shatter, would split at its seams.

(Draža never did anything to him that he didn’t love.))

When there’s nothing left but blossoming warmth and breathlessness, he falls back panting, weak, and still whispering thanks to his god.

<.>

His Puppy does so well.

Heeding Daddy’s hand and Daddy’s encouragement. Chasing every spark at Orev’s skin and grasping, a catch of feathers that steals (claims, rightly claims) a tremor of Daddy’s being, that leads Orev nearer, nearer to blinding gold and brilliance.

His Puppy follows Orev and takes him, incites and conducts him beautifully. Until Orev’s skin has turned to firestorm and he longs only for bright and brighter fire, until his lungs ache and cloud his vision, leaving one sight only, one brilliance toward which Orev rushes, one brilliance onto which he fixes focus and into which he breathes, breathes, ah Gideon.

A kiss for this man as culmination crashes toward him, inevitable as tides, as death, as finding and returning to this man.

His perfect, perfect (love) Puppy.

Who doesn’t falter.

Who arcs beneath him, around him, and its with the quaking of Puppy’s body with the fruition of shuddered groans, yeses, pleases writ in Gideon’s voice and Gideon’s breath that Orev knows ascension, as in a rush of atmosphere, the night sky gathering and spinning upward to a burst of stars, to a suspension of vision, to the bursting of bright sun.

And in this brilliance, one word echoed in his voice or in his mind, “Puppy, Puppy, Puppy.”

After, in silence, he feels warmth aglow beside him. Feels his own body gone boneless, though his arms wrap something, someone solid, and infinitely dear.

He’s curled close, he realized, and when he opens his eyes, it’s with a shock of wonder, and a smile small but true, infinitely soft.

(There you are, my lover.)

His hand’s found Puppy’s hair again, and slowly, feeling as though time’s slowed, perhaps gone absent around them, he blinks against burning eyes, and speaks—

“Ah, my Puppy.

“Beautiful.

“That was. You are. Beautiful.”

<.>

When Orev sinks against him, Gideon winds his arm around his lover's shoulders and draws him nearer still. The chain vanishes and with its absence, he's able to draw in a full, deep breath. His free hand settles against Orev's throat, cupping, his thumb lightly sweeping the other man's jaw in slow, idle arcs.

Now and again he shivers, aftershocks of pleasure racing along his spine and raising goosebumps along his flesh.

It's been so long. Yes, since they made love, or fucked, or tended one another (or, since Gideon was at Daddy's mercy), but it's been just as long since they lay together like this. (And still, it's as familiar as dancing, as kissing, as speaking 'Daddy'. He could almost pretend Daddy never left him.) When he opens his eyes to study Orev, his expression softens in a way it hasn't before, full of private tenderness.

[ DC 12 INT, Orev may remember this look. He can hazily recall the protectiveness and aftercare from Gideon that was connected to the times he felt desire/need. If he rolls a 15 or higher, he may have a full formed memory. ]

As his breathing slows and his heart finds a steady rhythm, Gideon traces a finger along the line of Orev's jaw, his own eyes rimmed wet and shining. A smile, small and uncertain but full of wonder, curves his lips.

Softly, he asks, "Are you real?"

<.>

[ intelligence: 21 ]

That tenderness; those eyes.

He’s known this look before.

(Accompanied with a brush of fingers, yes, just like now, like warm skin gentle at his jaw.) (Accompanied with ’Daddy’ spoken soft-awed.) (With an arm wrapping around him, quieting, quieting the raucousness that rose in—

Orev.

Whoever he was, before this name. A gnawing wary, volatile feeling, and he thinks (feels this like knowing) that there were times he must have known desire, known aching like he’s done this day.

It’s a thought that feels like hazard. Like something hunted. Something raging, cornered in its fear.

Something Gideon must have seen.

Something Gideon, Orev is certain, soothed.)

And now. Now, hazy, a memory swims to his mind, a distant echo growing clearer, growing close—

There’d been ecstatic reverence, there’d been a pinnacle in tandem with this man, and he knows there’s been brilliance, he knows there’d been ascendence and it ought to have turned to the warmth and ease he knows here in this room.

But something ran amiss.

But there’d been no soft sinking after, or it’d been painfully brief, because something, something shocked through the man Orev was and set his mind aflame, thoughts racing, raging and recoiling, driven into frenzy, into himself scrabbling upward, unable to stand quickly. Teeth clamping with a stumble, jarring onto one knee with the taste of iron in his mouth, tongue-bitten, then sharpness gashed along his chest and the sight of his own talons glistened, dripped with red.

He must have been speaking he must have been wild-eyed, seeking the door, feeling trapped trapped feeling ire with himself, with his desire, and he’d sought flight, sought to tear free from his skin or to shed blood or anything, anything, to quiet the howling in his mind—

But there’d been a hand at the back of his neck.

But there’d been an arm drawing his face against a throat, warm-dark and pulse still racing. A pull not forceful. A pull careful and inviting, like safety, like blessed silence.

And there’d been Gideon’s voice, cutting through the howling of a thousand half-voiced thoughts and warinesses, there’d been Gideon’s voice banishing chaotic worries: “Daddy, I’m here.

“It’s all right.

“Got you, hey, I’ve got you.”

Sensation of a form enwrapping his, of himself and this other body sinking to the floor. Puppy’s chest against his back and Puppy encouraging Orev(-not-Orev-yes-Orev) to breathe, only breathe, hey it’s okay, just breathe with me, all right?

(Then a word, a name Orev can’t fathom, can’t allow into his knowing. (Hazardous to know.) (Too soon, it’s too soon to let himself know.) A name (his name) offered in tones careful and loving. Offered like guardianship.)

In Gideon’s arms, he’d quieted. Clinging and finally, finally unashamed, unafraid. Held like that, he’d drifted off to silence, into sleep, nestling close as Gideon sang to him, a soft, achingly familiar tune.

It’s—

Oh, it draws the burn to his eyes again, and Orev doesn’t mind. Thinks, yes, this man knows him, better even than Gideon may know. Thinks even in his madness, there’d been one voice, one man who could draw him back toward himself.

Thinks, of course, of course, because isn’t that same man bringing Orev back to his own center? Doesn’t he feel like himself, almost whole, with this man.

He hears Gideon’s words now, and his own smile is complicated: wonder-struck and gentle, sorrowing and writ with adoration. And Orev nods, drawing his thumb along Gideon’s lip, then brushing to catch a tear.

“Yes, Dearest.

“I’m real. I’m here with you.”

And pause. A kiss set with care to Gideon’s forehead. Then, “You take very good care of your Daddy.

“How fortunate I am.”

[onefellswoop]

His smile turns tremulous before he buries his face at Orev's neck, clinging, legs and arms tangling with Daddy's. (He's real. This is real. It's not a dream, not a spell, not an accident of thought.

Somehow, Daddy came back to him. Somehow, he wants Gideon again. He thinks Gideon is dear, and maybe perfect, maybe enough (for now.))

There are thoughts threatening at the fringes of his mind: that they've been gone too long, that Cala and Walter will come looking for them. That they can't remain here all day, much as he wants to do nothing but. (Worse, darker notions crawl like shadows behind these: that he shouldn't have done what he did. That he'll regret it. The spectre of shame is there, just at the borders of comprehension.) For now, however, he doesn't care to relinquish any of this.

It's been so long since he was held safe in Daddy's arms, sheltered by his wings. Since he held Daddy in kind.

After a long span of moments - ten, fifteen, time ticking on and on relentlessly - that he spends breathing, caressing, feeling the beat of Orev's heart against his chest, he stirs drowsily. Nuzzles and trails kisses along feathers and bare skin with idle hums of adoring delight. His hands caress as though committing Orev's body to memory (or reaquainting himself with planes he's known and lost.)

Then, with a quiet, resigned sigh, he relinquishes one hand's hold to reach back and blindly seek the journal on the floor behind him. He offers it, held between their chests, with a lowered chin, an almost-pout, and upcast eyes. There's an air of faint playfulness to this look as well as to the way he holds the journal, as though he's (not-)chagrined and (not-)sorry.

"Did you want this?"

(Anyway, he's still got the arcane focus. At least there's that.)

<.>

He doesn’t track the time spent in drowsy quiet, in the aftermath and memory of Gideon’s heart-breaking smile. He knows it breaks too soon (how could he ever weary of this moment, the perfect peace of this man wreathed with him, breathing steady warmth at Orev’s aching throat). He understands it has to; there’s work yet to be done this day, though the town had fled from Orev’s mind, though at this moment, he doesn’t care a fuck what’s happening outside this room. Can’t recall just now what brought the two of them up to his room, whether he’d followed Gideon (Jack; not even half an hour ago, this man’s name was Jack) (astonishing, that a handful of minutes may turn monumental and cast the world in unguessed light) or the other way around.

He watches, head canted, as the boy shifts (barely keeping himself from setting a hand to Puppy’s arm with encouragement to stay, don’t move at all). Finds himself charmed by Gideon’s loose-limbed reaching, and by the eyes that don’t leave his, by a tousle of golden hair that Orev reaches out to smooth, then ruffle all over again.

He doesn’t register the journal until Gideon’s brought it almost to his chest.

As Gideon settles back into place, it’s his eyes, wide as if pleading, offering a show of penitence, that hold Orev’s focus. The pout that Orev could swear hides a smirking smile, an expression suggesting that Puppy’s very very sorry for something, but shouldn’t his Daddy forgive him? Hasn’t he been such a good Puppy?

Well. He *has*, and Orev’s about to say as much when he sees what Gideon’s brought between them, and the breath that would have become speech turns instead to a huffed laugh. Rather than reach for the book, he draws two claw-tipped fingers along Gideon’s hand, along his wrist. Near the book, but not taking it yet.

Another crooked smile, slight toss of his head. “I’m afraid I do need it, Puppy.

“What a good boy you are, to bring it to my attention.” There’s a kiss for his Puppy, soft offering of brushed lips ending with a press of claim, as Orev’s hand draws soothing through Gideon’s hair.

“Daddy’s perfect Puppy.” Another kiss, the time darted beneath Puppy’s ear, punctuated with a soft, lingered laugh.

When he draws back, he’s aware of the journal, though his eyes fix only on Gideon. “I’d nearly forgotten its presence—

“I suppose I’d forgotten where we were, at all.” His smile warms further, and his thumb brushes back, forth, back and forth along Puppy’s cheek for several moments before Orev nods, lifting one hand, palm up.

“My journal, Puppy.”

<.>

With another sigh, this time resigned, Gideon obediantly hands over the journal. Oh, he would have liked to remain thoughtless and joyful, laughing softly under the ruffle of a hand in his hair and moaning, arcing into sweet kisses. He would have liked to spend hours wrapped in Orev's embrace just this way, just the way they have so many nights before. But some things have to come to an end, and, yes, he knows Orev needs the journal.

Still, his hand lingers on it and a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth when he thinks of what it contains. He considers asking Orev to stop reading it, or to rip out the pages that speak of that other Puppy, but before he can say a word, there's a wooden rapping at the door.

"Helloooo?" Cala sounds hesitant even in sing-song, unsure about what she might be interrupting. "I know you're - well, I don't know if you're busy or arguing again or if you're even in there, but you're not in our room and you're wasting daylight, so Walter's going to break the door down in five minutes if you don't come out."

Gideon shifts to his back, propping himself up on his elbows so he can glare at the door. "That's not necessary, Cala, and you know it."

There's a soft snickering from outside; Gideon he huffs and sets about arranging his clothes, then falters when he sees the stains on them. With an accusatory gesture of one hand to his midsection, he stares at Orev.

<.>

Well; it couldn’t last forever. This respite. This world all of their own.

(It couldn’t last forever. But they’ll find it again. Isn’t it inevitable? Isn’t it dire.)

The journal clasped now to his own chest, Orev gives a dramatic shake of his head at Calamus’s intrusion. Watches fondly as Gideon glowers at the door, and has half a mind to draw the boy back downward, to encourage a day spent here, reclaiming their respite, only knowing one another.

It wouldn’t be wise. There is work to do, and there are problems Orev needs to solve. There’s the matter of the being that stalks his dreams. There’s the matter of his journal, and what in fuck’s name he was trying to tell himself in saving it.

Also, Orev wouldn’t at all put it past Walter to break in the door, which would cause another set of headaches and likely end with their accommodations rescinded.

So as Gideon begins seeing to his clothes, Orev draws himself to sit upright, in no hurry and watching as Gideon sees the— Ah, well. (Poor Puppy.) The mark left on his clothing. Smirk crooked, Orev draws a fingertip across the dampness and speak hushed, conspiratorial and not at all contrite, “Oops.

“Lucky we have coin to see the tailor, hm?”

Gideon isn’t alone in bearing signs of their exaltation, though Orev was luckier - or more advantageously positioned - and bears only sparser stains. There’s a moment’s near-worry in his mind (he doesn’t need others to know what he gets up to!) (he doesn’t like anyone knowing his business), but it vanishes quickly. What can it matter, after all? What can any opinion in this village mean to him, and really it’s none of their affair, and above all, what harm in these stains, when they’ve been given by his Puppy?

Having adjusted his own clothing, Orev tchs his tongue, gifts a kiss to Gideon’s jaw. Pauses before moving to take up the not-entirely-normal bag from the Crooked House, head cocked, his smile speaking reassurance and a flash of teeth.

“For the time being, you’ll simply need to suffer Daddy’s mark.

“Poor, poor Puppy.”

<.>

Gideon answers with an exasperated huff of a laugh and a glance away that was meant only to be a moment, enough for him to begin collecting himself - but it lingers. He settles his gaze on the door, his smile evaporating and slowly turning to a frown.

(What's going to happen when they leave this room?) (What's Cala going to say? What's he going to say to her?) (And - what does this mean for Gideon now? Doesn't it sound like Orev's intent on keeping near, wasn't he already intent on keeping near before this all happened? How is he going to sever his contract with Draža if -

If he doesn't know anymore what he wants? Or is he just indulging in wishful thinking with this belief that Orev wants to stay with him?)

He shakes his head to brush off the thoughts beginning to crowd in on him and pushes himself to his feet. One problem at a time, he tells himself. "I'm going to get my coat and dissuade her from whatever she's planning to inflict on me. Us."

He pauses here, an uncertain faltering in his steps and a rub of his hand along his other arm. Gideon glances awkwardly at Orev, watching.

Waiting.

<.>

[ insight: 25

Gideon is obviously waiting for permission to leave.

And. Is also very obviously hoping Orev will confirm that "us" is a word he can use.

Orev is also able to tell Gideon is starting to feel squirrelly, doubtful, and anxious about all of this. His eyes have darted distrustfully to the journal as though he's worried about what Orev will learn from it. ]

There’s something wearing at the boy. Something closing in, tensing at his shoulders, drawing his sight over and again to the journal in Orev’s hand.

It isn’t an act. This is something other than the contrition feigned, the faux-pout that accompanied the journal’s return. And Orev watches silent, one claw drifting along the journal’s cover.

It’s true, Gideon had been troubled (near-terrified) (mortified?) by the journal. He’d scrambled wildly, had looked rather like a corner animal as he backed off, step by step. Orev can’t begin to guess what it was Gideon had seen, what he’d remembered to drive him frantic. He’ll have to think the incident over. (Later, when he’s climbed up from this drowsiness. Later, because he’s not eager to leave it yet.) He— Perhaps ought to speak with Gideon about it.

“What was it in the journal? Something troubled you.”

Almost before the words have landed, he shakes his head, raises a hand. Suggesting, ‘Not now.’ Because no, this isn’t the time; not with eager ears outside the door and the threat of Walt running rampant. Breaking eye contact just long enough to reach for his bag, Orev slips the journal into it, closes the bag.

“Later, Gideon. You’ll tell me. I’ll keep the book closed until we’ve spoken.

“A promise to be taken within reason, of course. I’ll require my journal’s aid sooner than not, but this talk can wait for nightfall.”

Two steps take him back to Gideon, and Orev settles a hand at Puppy’s bicep, gives a steady caress. Then he nods toward the door. “Go to her, Puppy.

“Tell her what you please about us.” A moment as he keeps the boy’s eyes, unblinking, and offering the hint of a smile. “That she needn’t worry herself. That we’re capable of taking care of one another.”

A squeeze to Puppy’s arm, then, “I’ll be with you shortly.”

<.>

Whatever he'd been thinking about the journal no longer matters; it's out of reach in Orev's bag. For now, anyway. (It's almost a relief, to have the matter settled this way. To have Orev make the decision for him, even if doubts gnaw at his mind.)

He nods, agreeing to something here: perhaps to speak later, or perhaps to waiting for nightfall, or to going to speak with Calamus. It's when Orev echoes his 'us' that a faint blush creeps along his cheekbones and Gideon finds himself unable to suppress a hint of a smile. (For a moment, he looks hopeful. Although the was an 'us' with Draža, he was never told he could speak of it.

'Us' never extended past their door except in play.)

(He thinks Orev knows not to play with him that way in front of Calamus. Probably.)

For a heartbeat, he's unsure whether to simply leave, or to kiss Orev in parting. He settles for taking the other man's hand from his arm and pressing a kiss to the backs of his fingers, slow and light like grace, his eyes held ever in Orev's gaze.

(Trouble's waiting outside the door in the form of all his doubts, but at least there's this. At least he had this hour with Orev.)

Though he turns and heads for the door, he doesn't release Orev's hand until he's completely out of reach.

When he opens the door, Cala - evidently listening at the keyhole - stumbles into the room and then makes a hasty retreat into the hall.

<.>

He nods to Gideon, ignoring the brief tumult of Calamus. Not quite aware that his hand remains aloft, precisely where Gideon’s left it, he smiles, mouths, ’My Puppy.’ And remains in place as the door shuts and Gideon disappears from view for the moment, only for the moment (though there’s a tightness in Orev’s, a brief impulse to follow after, to not lose the boy again) (he’s not going far; Orev will be with him shortly).

In the silence of his room, he draws his just-kissed fingers to his chest. Settles them against his heart and holds, breathes, breathes. Smirks to himself as he draws his hand along his throat, feels the ache of it, the bruise that must be forming beneath feathers. And he looks to the floor, where he found his Puppy, his (love and his) lover, where he knew only trust, only certainty. Knew a connection to existence and to himself he hasn’t known since waking without memory.

Eventually, he gathers the rest of his items - the books to be returned, the parchment onto which he’d scrawled aborted notes - considers attempting to clean the stains from his clothing and decides against it. Take a breath of the air, the room, the lingering trace of what he and Gideon found and became together.

And Orev leaves to rejoin the party.