First Line Challenge by Lipstickcat
May. 15th, 2007 05:42 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lipstickcat
Title: Stain
Pairing: Ray V (Bookman)/Laurier
Rating: Nc-17
Words: 850
Notes: Eh. You read the "pairing" part, right? I don't know what happened. I sat down to write Turnbull-fic (of course), and this happened instead.... Many thanks tor_vecchio for the beta <3
First Line Author:eledhwenlin
***
Bright sunshine was streaming in through the curtains, basking Ray in a golden shine. It didn’t matter that they were in the games room; everyone knew better than to walk in on them. He wouldn’t have had the luxury of lazing like this back home, feeling the muted sunlight soaking into his bare flesh. Ma would have walked in on him by now, or Frannie, or one of the kids, and never mind that it was his house. It never really felt like it.
But here, here he could do what he wanted, when he wanted. No one would walk in because of the simple threat that if they did, he would be the last thing they would see. Ray didn’t honestly know if that was an empty threat or not. He liked to think that he wouldn’t follow through on the promise, and he tried not to spend too much time wondering if it meant that the Bookman would blind them or kill them, or which punishment was worse. But, the longer he spent being someone else, the more he came to cherish his privacy, the more he thought that perhaps he would do anything to keep it.
Everyone knew that he wasn’t shooting pool in here. They had ears, even if they didn’t have the right to eyes. They probably thought that he was nailing him over the pool table; he’d seen the way they couldn’t keep themselves from checking the felt for stains before quickly dragging their attention back to what their boss was saying. They didn’t need to know that he preferred it on the comfort of the couch, where he could take his time to appreciate the body beneath him. And sometimes he did bend him over the table, just so he’d remember what this was; that this wasn’t tenderness, this was about who was the boss.
Laurier was walking around the table, lazily rolling pool balls so that they bounced against the cushions and each other, until they eventually found a hole. He was naked, brazen, and Ray was equally shameless about watching him, his eyes following the play of light over the hard curves of his body.
The lame excuse for a mobster was already here when Ray arrived in his new role. No one had told him about him. No one had even bothered to tell him, back when he was still allowed to use his real name and be himself, that one of his collars had been let out on a technicality. One that was an absolute lie, the kind that can only be paid for by powerful men like Langoustini.
He’d almost cried out in frustration when he first saw the man – Turnbull! Why, god, why? Fortunately, his memory had moved fast enough for him to realise who this was. Exploding mint condition '71 Buick Riveras tend to work as good mementos. Strange how he’d never noticed how much the Mountie looked like a member of the Canadian Mafia. Not that he could even think “Canadian Mafia” without wanting to snort at the joke it had to be.
It turned out that Laurier was actually quite good at the grunt work. He was an imposing bodyguard, he knew how to threaten those who needed threatening, even if subtly wasn’t his thing. He had connections, which Ray guessed was why the Bookman had shown an interest in him. And he had other talents.
That had been a bit of a surprise. There’s something quite disturbing about a man dropping to his knees and unfastening your trousers without warning. But it was easy to blame him for the death of the first Riv, easy to hold him still with hands fisted tight in his hair, pulling, and fucking his mouth, taking back some kind of payment for how much it had hurt to shoot his baby.
No one had told him that Langoustini swung that way, (although to be fair, he seemed to swing in any direction he wanted to); his men did a good job of keeping hush, at least for fear of their sight. But Ray’s research guys didn’t know, couldn’t prep him with their flash cards about the Bookman’s preferred firearm or his favourite place to go for dinner. If he was more needy, or overly brutal, too much teeth, or too few growls, Laurier never said a word.
Slowly, he pulled himself off from the couch, and moved around the table. He fired a ball up the felt so that it clacked loudly against others that sat at the top end. When he reached Laurier, he paused, feeling predatory. The other man hesitated, obviously unsure what to do, trying to judge what his boss needed. It didn’t even take a shove, nothing seemed to take that much force when you were the Bookman, to get Laurier on his back. Just a palm against his chest, and he was lying on the table, open and waiting for him.
Sometimes he needed to leave a stain, just so no one forgot who was in control. So he didn’t forget either.
***END***
lipstickcatTitle: Stain
Pairing: Ray V (Bookman)/Laurier
Rating: Nc-17
Words: 850
Notes: Eh. You read the "pairing" part, right? I don't know what happened. I sat down to write Turnbull-fic (of course), and this happened instead.... Many thanks to
r_vecchio for the beta <3First Line Author:
eledhwenlin***
Bright sunshine was streaming in through the curtains, basking Ray in a golden shine. It didn’t matter that they were in the games room; everyone knew better than to walk in on them. He wouldn’t have had the luxury of lazing like this back home, feeling the muted sunlight soaking into his bare flesh. Ma would have walked in on him by now, or Frannie, or one of the kids, and never mind that it was his house. It never really felt like it.
But here, here he could do what he wanted, when he wanted. No one would walk in because of the simple threat that if they did, he would be the last thing they would see. Ray didn’t honestly know if that was an empty threat or not. He liked to think that he wouldn’t follow through on the promise, and he tried not to spend too much time wondering if it meant that the Bookman would blind them or kill them, or which punishment was worse. But, the longer he spent being someone else, the more he came to cherish his privacy, the more he thought that perhaps he would do anything to keep it.
Everyone knew that he wasn’t shooting pool in here. They had ears, even if they didn’t have the right to eyes. They probably thought that he was nailing him over the pool table; he’d seen the way they couldn’t keep themselves from checking the felt for stains before quickly dragging their attention back to what their boss was saying. They didn’t need to know that he preferred it on the comfort of the couch, where he could take his time to appreciate the body beneath him. And sometimes he did bend him over the table, just so he’d remember what this was; that this wasn’t tenderness, this was about who was the boss.
Laurier was walking around the table, lazily rolling pool balls so that they bounced against the cushions and each other, until they eventually found a hole. He was naked, brazen, and Ray was equally shameless about watching him, his eyes following the play of light over the hard curves of his body.
The lame excuse for a mobster was already here when Ray arrived in his new role. No one had told him about him. No one had even bothered to tell him, back when he was still allowed to use his real name and be himself, that one of his collars had been let out on a technicality. One that was an absolute lie, the kind that can only be paid for by powerful men like Langoustini.
He’d almost cried out in frustration when he first saw the man – Turnbull! Why, god, why? Fortunately, his memory had moved fast enough for him to realise who this was. Exploding mint condition '71 Buick Riveras tend to work as good mementos. Strange how he’d never noticed how much the Mountie looked like a member of the Canadian Mafia. Not that he could even think “Canadian Mafia” without wanting to snort at the joke it had to be.
It turned out that Laurier was actually quite good at the grunt work. He was an imposing bodyguard, he knew how to threaten those who needed threatening, even if subtly wasn’t his thing. He had connections, which Ray guessed was why the Bookman had shown an interest in him. And he had other talents.
That had been a bit of a surprise. There’s something quite disturbing about a man dropping to his knees and unfastening your trousers without warning. But it was easy to blame him for the death of the first Riv, easy to hold him still with hands fisted tight in his hair, pulling, and fucking his mouth, taking back some kind of payment for how much it had hurt to shoot his baby.
No one had told him that Langoustini swung that way, (although to be fair, he seemed to swing in any direction he wanted to); his men did a good job of keeping hush, at least for fear of their sight. But Ray’s research guys didn’t know, couldn’t prep him with their flash cards about the Bookman’s preferred firearm or his favourite place to go for dinner. If he was more needy, or overly brutal, too much teeth, or too few growls, Laurier never said a word.
Slowly, he pulled himself off from the couch, and moved around the table. He fired a ball up the felt so that it clacked loudly against others that sat at the top end. When he reached Laurier, he paused, feeling predatory. The other man hesitated, obviously unsure what to do, trying to judge what his boss needed. It didn’t even take a shove, nothing seemed to take that much force when you were the Bookman, to get Laurier on his back. Just a palm against his chest, and he was lying on the table, open and waiting for him.
Sometimes he needed to leave a stain, just so no one forgot who was in control. So he didn’t forget either.
***END***
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