fic--"Some Pleasure There To Find"
Apr. 22nd, 2010 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freezingrayneTitle: Some Pleasure There To Find
Fandom: Tales of Vesperia--Historical AU
Characters: sheriff!Flynn and highwayman!Yuri
Rating: worksafe
Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
oddible
Teaser: "He is a mismatch of rags and finery, with the swagger of a man who knows he is invincible."
The moment the man walks in, Flynn knows he’s going to be trouble. The stumps of candles on the tables gutter as he holds the door open for his companions, a man with bushy hair and a boy who looks barely out of childhood. A motley crew.
He himself is a mismatch of rags and finery, with the swagger of a man who knows he is invincible. His coat is heavy and fine, the cuffs stitched with lace. A row of gold buttons leads up to his throat, glimmering in the firelight, but the clothes underneath look as frayed as his companion’s.
There are rings in his ears and on his fingers, a heavy chain around his throat. The heels of his boots click sharply against the floorboards.
As Flynn watches from his table in the corner, the man’s eyes sweep the room, clever and quick. He flashes a smile to the prettiest barmaid, the sort of smile that makes something flip over in Flynn’s stomach.
There is a lull in conversation as they walk in. People around here are wary of travelers, they receive them so rarely. The man’s grin widens. “Good evening,” he bids the room in general, sweeping off his hat in a grand gesture. His dark hair is tied back with a red satin ribbon, the sort a maiden gives to a knight before he leaves to battle.
He strides across the room and takes the only vacant seat at the central table. The village men look round from their cards. It’s a worn and wrinkled pack, the same one they’ve been playing with for years.
“Can we help you?” Adecor drawls thickly. He’s already half-drunk, and Flynn tries to recall again why he’d hired him as one of his deputies.
Ah, that’s right. Because his mother had asked very nicely.
The man with the ribbon in his hair just grins, reaching into his coat and drawing forth a red and gold brocaded purse. It clinks heavily as he drops it on the table.
The men at the table glance at each other, before the dealer begins to pass cars his way.
It starts off slow, the five of them tossing in coins, the stranger’s men grouped around him like a king and his court.
Flynn goes back to his ale and bowl of lumpy stew. It isn’t the most savory tasting stuff, but it’s better than going home to a cold grate and week-old bread. He has never been much of a cook.
He finishes his ale, just as a barmaid sets a flagon of spiced wine in front of him, along with a knowing smile. The best they have, and much more expensive than Flynn could really afford on his current salary.
Flynn sighs. They’ve been through this a couple of times before. “Bess, you’re a lovely girl, and I’m flattered--.”
“Oh, it’s not from me, you silly thing!” Bess says. Her eyes are sky blue, hair a spill of yellow ringlets. Her breasts jiggle as she laughs, in what Flynn is sure should be a tempting way. “It’s from the handsome gentleman beating all our young men so resoundingly at cards.”
Flynn glances round, back to the table in the center of the room, where the stranger is winning. As he watches, the man looks his way. His lips curl into a slow smile, and he raises his glass in a silent toast.
“Who is he?” Flynn asks Bess before he can help himself.
Bess lifts a shoulder. “Don’t know, really. His men called him ‘Master Lowell’. From out of town, I’d wager. He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Flynn agrees before he can help himself. He clears his throat sharply, reaching for the wine and taking a deep draft. “Tell him…tell him thanks.”
“I’ll be sure to do that and more, Sheriff,” Bess answers, dipping a curtsy and skipping back toward the kitchens.
Flynn tries to stop himself, but he can’t keep his eyes from wandering over to the card game. They’ve only been playing for less than a quarter of an hour, and already Master Lowell is winning. He’s cheating, Flynn can tell from this angle, and rather spectacularly as well, keeping the men distracted with nearly constant talk.
Depending on who was playing that night, there would either be stories told, or a fight. On nights when Flynn is present (like tonight) things tend to go more toward the story telling. Somehow, having the sheriff present tended to dissuade people from being drunk and disorderly.
Tonight, Master Lowell tells a story, something that seems to be about a highwayman and his love for a foreign princess. All the while, he drinks wine and deals the cards, rings flashing in the candlelight. They’ve drawn quite a crowd—not just the other players, but men and women from the village are listening, drawing close despite themselves, as if the stranger is taking up all the air in the room.
Outside, Flynn takes a slow breath. The night is cool and clear, and he feels oddly distant as he walks down the alley between the statehouse and the old chapel that the village had stopped using when the roof had caved in a few months ago.
He’s just reminding himself that he’d promised the pastor a few men to help with the repairs, when a figure steps across the far end of the alley, obscuring the moon.
“You didn’t stay to hear the end of the story,” a voice says. “I’m wounded.”
Master Lowell steps out of the shadows, flipping a dagger slowly from hand to hand.
“I didn’t need to,” Flynn tells him calmly, even as his heart beat quickens. Lowell backs him against the side of the chapel, so slowly that it seems natural, like he doesn’t mean to pen him in, it’s just a happy coincidence. “I already know how it ends.”
The knife in Lowell’s hand is nowhere near as sharp as his grin, as dangerous and irresistible and as perfect—and alright, Flynn isn’t really talking about the knife anymore.
“Oh yes?” Lowell flips his dagger upright. His eyes gleam as Flynn feels his back press up against the grimy brick.
“Yes, Master Lowell.” Flynn swallows. “I do.”
“Call me Yuri.” The knife goes to Flynn’s throat, lightly, just the barest touch of steel on skin, making him shiver. Lowell—Yuri—puts a hand against his chest. Flynn’s been in situations like this before, much worse situations. There were things he could do to escape, maneuvers he could take, but he stood there, feeling the weight of the outlaw’s eyes, the warmth of his palm against his chest and couldn’t move.
“You were saying?” Yuri prompts. “Finishing my story for me?” He moves the knife point along Flynn’s throat, and he can’t quite stifle a gasp.
“Yes.” He steels his teeth. “The highwayman is caught, and tried.” He feels the tip of the dagger kiss the sensitive spot below his ear, sending a full-body shiver through him. Still, he manages to finish. “And hanged.”
Yuri raises a brow. “Well, that’s one end to the story. I have a better one.” He pulls the knife away, leaning in close.
Now would be the time, Flynn thinks. Drive a knee into the outlaw’s stomach, get him against the side of the chapel, bind his hands behind him. Now would be the time.
But Yuri has replaced his dagger with his lips, breath hot on his neck, leaning in close to whisper.
“Highwayman finds sheriff alone.” Flynn’s heart is beating so fast he can feel it in his throat, and he knows Yuri can feel it against his palm. “Highwayman divests sheriff of his purse…”
Flynn makes a noise of shock as cool, clever fingers slip into his coat, pulling his purse from his belt with a clank of coins. “Highwayman bids sheriff remove his jacket to reveal any other valuables.” He is practically speaking into his ear.
Something warm and wet flicks out, and a moment later Flynn realizes it’s Yuri’s tongue. He shudders, putting his hands up against Yuri’s chest.
“I-I don’t have anything of value.”
“Is that right?” Yuri draws back, flipping his knife, sheathing it into his belt. “Well, then I’ll just have to take something else.”
He leans back in. Flynn gasps, expecting an attack, but Yuri catches his lips instead, mouth opening soft and hot.
Flynn struggles for a moment, but without any real feeling, before letting himself sag against the bricks. He groans, parting his lips for the outlaw’s tongue. Yuri kisses him for one breath-stealing moment, hot and hard and desperate.
Then he pulls away, chuckling. “Looks like you have something worth taking after all, sir sheriff.” Flynn’s blushing hard now, feeling out of breath like he’s been running for miles.
“I’ll be back for the rest of it another day.” A smile, a wink, and he’s gone, stealing into the darkness.
Fandom: Tales of Vesperia--Historical AU
Characters: sheriff!Flynn and highwayman!Yuri
Rating: worksafe
Written for
oddibleTeaser: "He is a mismatch of rags and finery, with the swagger of a man who knows he is invincible."
The moment the man walks in, Flynn knows he’s going to be trouble. The stumps of candles on the tables gutter as he holds the door open for his companions, a man with bushy hair and a boy who looks barely out of childhood. A motley crew.
He himself is a mismatch of rags and finery, with the swagger of a man who knows he is invincible. His coat is heavy and fine, the cuffs stitched with lace. A row of gold buttons leads up to his throat, glimmering in the firelight, but the clothes underneath look as frayed as his companion’s.
There are rings in his ears and on his fingers, a heavy chain around his throat. The heels of his boots click sharply against the floorboards.
As Flynn watches from his table in the corner, the man’s eyes sweep the room, clever and quick. He flashes a smile to the prettiest barmaid, the sort of smile that makes something flip over in Flynn’s stomach.
There is a lull in conversation as they walk in. People around here are wary of travelers, they receive them so rarely. The man’s grin widens. “Good evening,” he bids the room in general, sweeping off his hat in a grand gesture. His dark hair is tied back with a red satin ribbon, the sort a maiden gives to a knight before he leaves to battle.
He strides across the room and takes the only vacant seat at the central table. The village men look round from their cards. It’s a worn and wrinkled pack, the same one they’ve been playing with for years.
“Can we help you?” Adecor drawls thickly. He’s already half-drunk, and Flynn tries to recall again why he’d hired him as one of his deputies.
Ah, that’s right. Because his mother had asked very nicely.
The man with the ribbon in his hair just grins, reaching into his coat and drawing forth a red and gold brocaded purse. It clinks heavily as he drops it on the table.
The men at the table glance at each other, before the dealer begins to pass cars his way.
It starts off slow, the five of them tossing in coins, the stranger’s men grouped around him like a king and his court.
Flynn goes back to his ale and bowl of lumpy stew. It isn’t the most savory tasting stuff, but it’s better than going home to a cold grate and week-old bread. He has never been much of a cook.
He finishes his ale, just as a barmaid sets a flagon of spiced wine in front of him, along with a knowing smile. The best they have, and much more expensive than Flynn could really afford on his current salary.
Flynn sighs. They’ve been through this a couple of times before. “Bess, you’re a lovely girl, and I’m flattered--.”
“Oh, it’s not from me, you silly thing!” Bess says. Her eyes are sky blue, hair a spill of yellow ringlets. Her breasts jiggle as she laughs, in what Flynn is sure should be a tempting way. “It’s from the handsome gentleman beating all our young men so resoundingly at cards.”
Flynn glances round, back to the table in the center of the room, where the stranger is winning. As he watches, the man looks his way. His lips curl into a slow smile, and he raises his glass in a silent toast.
“Who is he?” Flynn asks Bess before he can help himself.
Bess lifts a shoulder. “Don’t know, really. His men called him ‘Master Lowell’. From out of town, I’d wager. He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Flynn agrees before he can help himself. He clears his throat sharply, reaching for the wine and taking a deep draft. “Tell him…tell him thanks.”
“I’ll be sure to do that and more, Sheriff,” Bess answers, dipping a curtsy and skipping back toward the kitchens.
Flynn tries to stop himself, but he can’t keep his eyes from wandering over to the card game. They’ve only been playing for less than a quarter of an hour, and already Master Lowell is winning. He’s cheating, Flynn can tell from this angle, and rather spectacularly as well, keeping the men distracted with nearly constant talk.
Depending on who was playing that night, there would either be stories told, or a fight. On nights when Flynn is present (like tonight) things tend to go more toward the story telling. Somehow, having the sheriff present tended to dissuade people from being drunk and disorderly.
Tonight, Master Lowell tells a story, something that seems to be about a highwayman and his love for a foreign princess. All the while, he drinks wine and deals the cards, rings flashing in the candlelight. They’ve drawn quite a crowd—not just the other players, but men and women from the village are listening, drawing close despite themselves, as if the stranger is taking up all the air in the room.
Outside, Flynn takes a slow breath. The night is cool and clear, and he feels oddly distant as he walks down the alley between the statehouse and the old chapel that the village had stopped using when the roof had caved in a few months ago.
He’s just reminding himself that he’d promised the pastor a few men to help with the repairs, when a figure steps across the far end of the alley, obscuring the moon.
“You didn’t stay to hear the end of the story,” a voice says. “I’m wounded.”
Master Lowell steps out of the shadows, flipping a dagger slowly from hand to hand.
“I didn’t need to,” Flynn tells him calmly, even as his heart beat quickens. Lowell backs him against the side of the chapel, so slowly that it seems natural, like he doesn’t mean to pen him in, it’s just a happy coincidence. “I already know how it ends.”
The knife in Lowell’s hand is nowhere near as sharp as his grin, as dangerous and irresistible and as perfect—and alright, Flynn isn’t really talking about the knife anymore.
“Oh yes?” Lowell flips his dagger upright. His eyes gleam as Flynn feels his back press up against the grimy brick.
“Yes, Master Lowell.” Flynn swallows. “I do.”
“Call me Yuri.” The knife goes to Flynn’s throat, lightly, just the barest touch of steel on skin, making him shiver. Lowell—Yuri—puts a hand against his chest. Flynn’s been in situations like this before, much worse situations. There were things he could do to escape, maneuvers he could take, but he stood there, feeling the weight of the outlaw’s eyes, the warmth of his palm against his chest and couldn’t move.
“You were saying?” Yuri prompts. “Finishing my story for me?” He moves the knife point along Flynn’s throat, and he can’t quite stifle a gasp.
“Yes.” He steels his teeth. “The highwayman is caught, and tried.” He feels the tip of the dagger kiss the sensitive spot below his ear, sending a full-body shiver through him. Still, he manages to finish. “And hanged.”
Yuri raises a brow. “Well, that’s one end to the story. I have a better one.” He pulls the knife away, leaning in close.
Now would be the time, Flynn thinks. Drive a knee into the outlaw’s stomach, get him against the side of the chapel, bind his hands behind him. Now would be the time.
But Yuri has replaced his dagger with his lips, breath hot on his neck, leaning in close to whisper.
“Highwayman finds sheriff alone.” Flynn’s heart is beating so fast he can feel it in his throat, and he knows Yuri can feel it against his palm. “Highwayman divests sheriff of his purse…”
Flynn makes a noise of shock as cool, clever fingers slip into his coat, pulling his purse from his belt with a clank of coins. “Highwayman bids sheriff remove his jacket to reveal any other valuables.” He is practically speaking into his ear.
Something warm and wet flicks out, and a moment later Flynn realizes it’s Yuri’s tongue. He shudders, putting his hands up against Yuri’s chest.
“I-I don’t have anything of value.”
“Is that right?” Yuri draws back, flipping his knife, sheathing it into his belt. “Well, then I’ll just have to take something else.”
He leans back in. Flynn gasps, expecting an attack, but Yuri catches his lips instead, mouth opening soft and hot.
Flynn struggles for a moment, but without any real feeling, before letting himself sag against the bricks. He groans, parting his lips for the outlaw’s tongue. Yuri kisses him for one breath-stealing moment, hot and hard and desperate.
Then he pulls away, chuckling. “Looks like you have something worth taking after all, sir sheriff.” Flynn’s blushing hard now, feeling out of breath like he’s been running for miles.
“I’ll be back for the rest of it another day.” A smile, a wink, and he’s gone, stealing into the darkness.
