|
Post by Mercutio on May 6, 2009 21:24:15 GMT -5
Mercutio was too intent at the moment to be smiling, although he would have appreciated the thought. (Not of his skull and bones, though, indeed had he known he would have quite disturbed, for what kind of morbid thoughts were those for now? If Tybalt were able to think about that, then he was not fully occupied as he should be.) Tybalt pulled them closer, and still it was not enough; Mercutio's hands spread against his hips and tightened, the tips of his index fingers leaving white spots behind when he shifted them on Tybalt's skin. And then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband, sliding it down- everything was hot fingers on hot skin now, hot mouths and hot breaths, it made no difference anymore and if not for the pressure perhaps Tybalt would not even know those fingers were there.
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on May 7, 2009 9:06:03 GMT -5
Tybalt's breath caught in his throat again. Ridiculous. He could control his breathing well enough to fence for a matter of hours or to run a mile, but not enough for this? Tybalt could have groaned if he hadn't already been doing so for slightly different reasons. Pulling Mercutio mercilessly closer, he rolled over, not, as it might have looked like, because he would have liked to give Mercutio the upper hand, but because he was impatient to pull his trousers down. It was only immense coordination that made this possible as he couldn't be bothered to watch his fingers as he did it, too busy pushing up against Mercutio and kissing him insistently.
|
|
|
Post by Mercutio on May 7, 2009 17:56:45 GMT -5
Mercutio helped, of course, leaving Tybalt's be for the moment as the both of them seemed to have the same goal in mind. His fingers fumbled- it was fortunate they did have the same goal in mind, for one or the other may never have done it on their own when both of them were so intent on not losing skin contact.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 7, 2009 21:00:08 GMT -5
((Um. Sorry. I'd meant that Tybalt was working on Mercutio's trousers.))
|
|
|
Post by Mercutio on May 8, 2009 6:52:34 GMT -5
(( Oops. Is fixed. ))
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on May 8, 2009 8:15:00 GMT -5
Their fingers touched more than once as they struggled at the same time on Mercutio's trousers, but it was hardly in a romantic or airy fashion; Mercutio razed the back of his hand accidentally while intending to push the trousers down over his lanky hips and he was certain Mercutio felt the bite of his nails at at least one juncture (although he made no prince of cats comment; for this, at least, Tybalt could be thankful. He did not like puns on his name, any of them). But, as always did at this time in the proceedings, the normal thoughts about how this was sordid and the like dissipated into smoke, and all he could think of, if he could think, which was rare, was how right it was, how fitting, this total, utter wrongness. That it should be Mercutio, whose tongue he so wanted to rip out, whom he wanted to spit, base, degraded Mercutio, with whom he should experience this heat, this intimacy which wasn't really intimacy at all. It was more like a violent clash and yet it was so much less structured and controlled than anything Tybalt had ever done in a duel. That was an art. That was reigning in himself.
This was nothing if not loosing those reigns, lowering himself to Mercutio's level, even letting himself be pushed beneath it by losing to Mercutio in such a context, which, perhaps, if he wasn't lying to himself, was the reason he found as much awful, sickening pleasure in pulling Mercutio up on top of him as they kissed furiously, gripping his bare hips sharply enough to perhaps leave white half-moon marks in them from his fingernails.
((And soon we need a fade-out, methinks.))
|
|
|
Post by Mercutio on May 8, 2009 17:59:07 GMT -5
(( All I could think of, while reading Tybalt's thoughts, how right, how fitting, how base, how degraded, was Mercutio laughing and saying, "Flatterer." )) Mercutio's fingers wound tight in Tybalt's hair as they kissed, not for the fascination of it or the wonder anymore, but for the pain and the look on the other man's face when he winced. And perhaps for the fierce, smug way Mercutio thought- following the line of Tybalt's jaw with his mouth or pushing him down, grinding their hips together to make him moan, sigh, snarl, anything- you're mine.*FADE-OUT*
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on May 9, 2009 13:39:24 GMT -5
**FADE-IN**
There had been such high energy in the act - just as there was high energy in a performance or in a street scuffle or, particularly, in a duel in defence of one's honor - that by the time it was over Tybalt had just sort of sunk down in exhaustion against the bed, not even thinking, in that immediate moment, of Mercutio's nude body sprawled over his own. Or, rather, while he noticed it, he was unable to give any serious thought to addressing it as a problem. He traced his fingers and the heel of his thumb down the back of Mercutio's neck, following the line of his spine and the architecture of his back; then he sighed, turned his head away from Mercutio on the bed, and lifted it to Mercutio's hair.
He had been going to tighten his fingers sharply, twist, and force Mercutio back and off him that way, then order him out of the room, but his fingers only tightened a little before he felt overcome by a wave of fatigue, physical and emotional both. He pushed them through his hair and gave his shoulder a shove to push him over, then sat up almost gingerly and tried to find his pyjamas again, hoping Mercutio would not quite recognize them as that. They were not entirely obviously pyjamas - as they were similar in style and coloring to clothing he would wear during the daytime - until one was clear-headed and noticing that they were considerably much lighter cloth.
|
|
|
Post by Mercutio on May 10, 2009 16:41:38 GMT -5
For all his inclination to mock, enrage, hurt, and otherwise annoy Tybalt, Mercutio was not particularly cruel after sex, and right now he was content to stay limply sprawled on Tybalt while the other ran a hand over his back. He took the shove in good humor and lay quietly while Tybalt dressed. Earlier, he had been convinced that there would be no sleeping that night; all the world was to blaze and burn, and Mercutio would not, could not, stay still. Now that energy and fury had burned itself out in Tybalt, and Mercutio was the dull sort of drunk and felt as wan as the moon. He could sleep now, yes, he could stumble through the streets and get his throat cut or make slow, lazy love to a whore and get no pleasure out of it but for the familiarity of a presence in his bed. He didn't rise to leave, though, not yet, for he expected Tybalt would order him to any moment and Mercutio would never show him the politeness to do it on his own.
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on May 10, 2009 16:51:31 GMT -5
((You totally anticipated Tybalt with that reply in, like, two ways. O.o))
Tybalt did indeed open his mouth to wearily snap at him, but it seemed to go dry after that, and he turned back to rebuttoning his shirt, the dark mood he had been in earlier not quite descending, although his recognition of its hanging above his head did not make his spirits likely to lighten. There was something unpleasant about the dark of his room in the middle of the night, shadows shifting around him, the tick of a clock reminding him with nauseating dread that morning would come, but resolution would not.
Tybalt did not quite realize what the combination of this meant until he rashly threw back the covers and tried to slip in, even though Mercutio's body was draped over the bed and over the blanket as well, and snapped, "Get to the other side."
Not get out, or something like that. He was too tired to correct himself, though, prodding Mercutio's stomach from beneath the sheets with his foot rather unkindly sharply to make up for the slip - which, in retrospect, probably hadn't been.
|
|
|
Post by Mercutio on May 10, 2009 17:55:23 GMT -5
Mercutio snorted- there were no sides to beds, they were all his to sprawl over, but he obeyed well enough when Tybalt prodded him and only grabbed the offending foot for a minute before releasing it when he could have shoved. He waited in what Tybalt would undoubtably interpret as a sly manner to sprawl again, blanket twisted around his legs, until after the other man had settled in.
The mood he was in now did not allow any more thought than vague surprise that he was being allowed to say. Mercutio was no more capable of following that thought to conclusion right now than he was to mock Tybalt's sleepwear (later he would, though, and as one who slept either naked or close to it himself he would find it very amusing but also, somehow, appropriate). For now, Tybalt's body was no more than an extension of the bed on which he could rest, and if there was any comfort in having another person with him Mercutio left it at mere familiarity.
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on May 11, 2009 9:52:22 GMT -5
Tybalt, resting heavily on his front and facing away from Mercutio, thought rather deliberately that he was merely doing his best to ignore, for example, the knee digging into his thigh, or the weight of an arm over his back. But it was difficult, in the moments before sleep claimed him, to lie to himself about it - it was almost comforting, the press of Mercutio's body, better still that none of the typically Mercutian traits (that red hair having visibility, or that voice making more sly comments) were present. And he wasn't alone; that was the significant bit. The pyjamas were especially useful in making it so that their skin was not bare where it touched; he did not suppose he would have been able to stomach that, but other than that, he was too tired to contemplate.
Mercutio's breath stirring his hair in a way that almost made him unconsciously grimace, Tybalt nonethelessly fell into sleep shortly afterward, which was certainly more than the insomniac had been able to do before Mercutio'd stopped by.
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on Sept 24, 2009 17:50:36 GMT -5
**A LATER MORNING**
Tybalt had managed to drag himself home eventually. The upside of all this was that by the time he made it to his bed, he collapsed into dreamless, although probably not restful, sleep, and did not wake up until noon no matter who, if anyone, pounded on his door.
The downside of this was that Tybalt hated to be home - hated waking up like hell, sore and bruised at every angle, hungover and humiliated beyond his recollection. He couldn't have endured anything more shameful in his life, unless he'd been drunker then. And he hadn't been drunk enough, either; parts were a blur, like travelling, but much of the actual visitation was left in tact. This meant not only that his memory was preserved, but that he had done a lot of that without the alcohol being the effect he'd thought it had been.
Some of that had been himself sober.
Groggy, Tybalt half-limped - managing to make this look rather unpleasant, like a gored beast might be - to the mirror to see what his face looked like. Oh, yes, lovely - the imprint of a boot, face discolored, a bad cut on his cheek from where the buckle of Mercutio's boot had caught him, lip swollen - but beyond that, caked in blood in places. As were his clothes.
He looked over his shoulder, the action making his body ache - he shut his eyes briefly, recalling Mercutio's parting words and the way he'd jerked his head off the floor - and yes, indeed, perfect. As were his sheets.
Tybalt washed his face, gingerly gathered up the bedspread, and limped down the stairs to the laundry room. Morbidly enough, the limp made his movements appear jaunty, and the servants did not know it was Tybalt himself until they saw him. The sight made them scatter.
Tybalt was slow going, much more so than usual, preoccupied and broody and resigned. It had been quite some time of working on the sheets when he carefully shrugged off his belt and pulled his shirt off over his head. He'd not yet checked his chest for bruising, but he'd been in enough fights to know more or less what it would look like - oh, yes, stomach and chest all terribly purple and discolored. Mercutio had been rough. He had paid him back for the incident in the alleyway.
What a pity that they were both exerting themselves so much for so little result.
|
|
Lady Capulet
- Masterful Virgin -
I think I am going to like Paris.%\1\%
Posts: 37
|
Post by Lady Capulet on Sept 24, 2009 18:13:38 GMT -5
The servants scattered, yes, but several of them went to tell Lady Capulet that her nephew was down in the laundry room washing blood off his sheets and looking rather... unsightly.
She was down there in moments, trailing servants like an entourage. It might have been enough to make Tybalt wish he had kept his shirt on, at her somewhat shocked and reprimanding, "Tybalt!"
|
|
|
Post by Tybalt on Sept 24, 2009 18:19:52 GMT -5
He'd only just gotten it off at this, and it was still hanging over the wrists as though he were eight and intended to leave it that way, except that this sort of abuse would be much, much more shocking and unsightly upon an eight-year-old.
He'd been in the habit of coming home bloodied and bruised then, but not to such a degree, and hardly because he'd been fighting. There had merely been a good deal of athletic training in his childhood.
The sight of his aunt made his heart sink, and its beat quicken, at the same time. He wished she'd send them away, but he didn't have the ability or inclination to shout at Lord Capulet's wife, and so did not.
|
|