Gift for zee113!
Dec. 25th, 2017 10:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rueckenfigur posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
viggorli_xmasTitle: The Rake
Gift for:zee113
Author:chaosmanor
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Lord Mortensen is a rake.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Lady Hillington led the procession of matrons and giggling girls out of the dining room, past the smiling Mr Bloom, who was holding the door.
At the door, Lady Hillington looked back in, and said, "I do hope you're going to sing for us again this evening, Mr Bloom."
Mr Bloom bowed and said, "If you insist, though I'm sure we'd all much rather hear Miss Lavinia play."
Lady Hillington looked appropriately pleased. "Miss Lavinia has been practicing Lord Mortensen's favourite, 'O Lovely is the Summer Moon'."
Lord Mortensen managed to say, "Obliged," in a way that he hoped didn't sound too much like "I hope Miss Lavinia has an unfortunate accident with her harp before then."
The door closed, and Lord Mortensen flopped back into his chair and waved Baddley, Lady Hillington's butler, over.
"Have a seat, Bloom. You look exhausted," Lord Mortensen said.
Bloom slumped down in the seat Lady Hillington had vacated.
"The ladies," Bloom said, and Lord Mortensen nodded.
"It's not my favourite ballad," Lord Mortensen said. "I was accidentally polite about it once."
Baddley placed a humidor of cheroots on the table, along with a snuffbox and a box of tobacco for Lord Mortensen's pipe.
"Port, sir?" Baddley asked Lord Mortensen. "Port, whisky or claret, sir?" Baddley offered Bloom.
"Port, please," Lord Mortensen said, and Bloom waved his hand and said, "Please, no more wine."
Mortensen held two fingers up to Baddley, who bowed and glided across to the butler's pantry.
Lord Mortensen held out the cheroots to Bloom, who said, "No thank you. My voice, I have to think of tomorrow."
"Ah yes, two services with sermons on Christmas Day?" Lord M asked.
"And Compline," Bloom added.
Baddley returned with a tray bearing a decanter, two crystal glasses and napkins, which he placed on the table.
"Is this the '84"? Mortensen asked, as Baddley poured the glasses.
"The '82, sir," Baddley said. "For Christmas."
Mortensen groaned appreciatively and lifted his glass up.
"Baddley, you are a God among men."
Baddley bowed and left, and Bloom glowered at Lord Mortensen.
Lord Mortensen held up his free hand. "One moment, Bloom, then you can admonish me."
The port was darkest red and heaven to drink. The first mouthful slid across Lord Mortensen's tongue and rolled down his throat, and he sighed and loosened his cravat.
"Try it," he said. "Just a sip. Then you can chasten me for blasphemy and deliver whatever stern message Lady Hillington has asked you to."
Bloom smiled, possibly for the first time that evening, and sipped the port.
A clock ticked in the room, and Lady Hillington's crumbling mansion settled slightly with an audible creak.
"My goodness!" Bloom whispered. "What is this?"
Vicars didn't usually look like Bloom, which was probably a good thing, and watching Bloom's cheek's brighten with the punch was a delight.
"Nectar," Lord Mortensen said. "Bacchus' nectar. Lord Hillington didn't manage to drink all of his precious port before he died of apoplexy and overindulgence, and I consider it my personal duty to accept all of Lady Hillington's invitations to prevent the remaining port being wasted on negus, punch and flummeries."
Bloom said, "A terrible waste!"
Lord Mortensen raised an eyebrow. "I believe you were going to give me a personal sermon? That seems an imposition, given the demands on your duty tomorrow will also bring."
"Lord Mortensen," Bloom said. "Lady Hillington asked me to speak to you, as a man of the cloth, about your responsibilities."
"My responsibilities? Do I not pay my horse and servant taxes? Do I not provide an alms house on my estate for the destitute?"
"Lady Hillington was speaking of your personal circumstances."
Lord Mortensen sipped his port and waited, but Bloom didn't continue.
He would have to help Bloom out, obviously.
"My marital state?" Lord Mortensen suggested.
Bloom was bright red with embarrassment, not port.
"In part."
"Ah," Lord Mortensen said. "Has she told you about the scullery maids? The licentious ruts? The actress?"
Bloom nodded.
Lord Mortensen roared with laughter, and Bloom managed to go even redder.
Mortensen refilled his own glass and added a splash to Bloom's glass too. The vicar was going to need fortification.
"You think this is funny?" Bloom asked.
Lord Mortensen nodded.
"You have gone very red. It is hot in here. Why don't you loosen your cravat? It is only gentlemen here now."
Mortensen leaned across the corner of the table and pulled the knot of snowy linen at Bloom's throat loose. He was a stickler when it came to the getting up of his own linen, and Bloom's was pleasingly crisp and fresh under his fingers.
The knot loosened, taking the pressure off the collar of Bloom's shirt, and Mortensen let his fingers brush against the exposed skin at the base of Bloom's neck for a moment.
"That's better," Mortensen said. "Now, let us talk about why I have not married one of the lovely young ladies whose mammas are so keen for me to wed."
Bloom nodded.
"I'm not a cruel man, Bloom, despite what my reputation might lead you to believe. I'm not willing to marry a virtuous young lady for appearance's sake, and then make her life miserable."
"You could do your duty by her," Bloom said. "Give her a good home, and raise a family. Give yourself an heir."
Mortensen smiled, and he could feel it was brittle.
"But," he said, "but what if I know I can't do those things?"
"Every man can," Bloom said. "If he tries. If he is honourable."
Bloom had leaned forward in his earnest enthusiasm, and their knees brushed under the mahogany table.
Mortensen leaned forward too, so their heads were dangerously close over the glasses of port.
"I'm not an honourable man," he murmured, pressing his knee harder against Bloom's. "Any wife of mine would be miserable."
He eased his hand from his own thigh across to rest on Bloom's knee, and pressed his fingertips into the tight fabric of Bloom's pantaloons.
"My pleasures are not what they should be," Mortensen murmured, sliding his hand higher up Bloom's trembling thigh.
Bloom's eyes shone in the light from the glittering candelabra.
"Do you understand now?" Mortensen asked, as his hand reached the fall of Bloom's pantaloons.
Bloom swallowed visibly, and he nodded.
"Are you going to demand I unhand you?" Mortensen asked, smiling as his fingers found the shape of Bloom's prick pushing urgently against the fabric of Bloom's pantaloons.
Bloom was breathing as hard as Mortensen's favourite hunter after taking a dozen ditches, and Mortensen made the same gentling, settling whooshing noise to Bloom as he did to Gallantry.
"What are you doing?" Bloom whispered, and a droplet of sweat ran down the side of his face into his whiskers.
"Exactly what you think I am," Mortensen said, sliding his hand higher to find the buttons on the band of Bloom's pantaloons and flicking them undone.
The fall dropped open, and Lord M settled his hand over Bloom's prick, standing proud inside Bloom's drawers.
"Here?" Bloom asked, sounding scandalised.
Mortensen chuckled, finding the opening of Bloom's drawers with his fingers and working Bloom's prick free. "I'm relieved that it is the location, not the act, that is distressing you."
Bloom's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
Baddley glided back into the dining room, and Mortensen said, "Not now, please Baddley."
"Of course, sir," Baddley said, backing out of the room and pulling the door closed behind himself.
"Sit there, have some port, and let me take care of you," Lord M said, and Bloom nodded.
The skin on Bloom's prick glided smoothly, and Mortensen could feel dampness leaking from the head with each stroke. His own prick desperately needed the same attention, but it would have to wait just a little longer.
Bloom's breathing hitched, and he began to make tiny gasps through his clenched teeth.
"I'm going to…" Bloom said, and his thigh underneath Mortensen's elbow jumped like a startled buck.
Mortensen grabbed a napkin off the drinks tray on the table with his free hand and pushed it between Bloom's open thighs.
The seed came out, spurt after spurt, hitting the underside of the table and splashing across the hardwood floor, coating Lord M's hand, and soaking into his shirt cuff. The napkin had not been adequate.
Bloom folded forward onto the table. Mortensen lifted his wet hand to his mouth and began to lick it clean.
"Nooooo," Bloom said disbelievingly, and when Mortensen opened his eyes, Bloom was watching him in astonishment through a fall of curls.
"Oh, yes," Mortensen said, sucking two fingers into his mouth and then pulling them out slowly. "Now my hand is clean, I need to take care of myself."
He unbuttoned the fall of his own pantaloons and let the flap drop, then freed his prick from his drawers, making sure he was leaning back in his chair so Bloom could watch. He needed to spill, right then, before anyone decided to intrude on their privacy.
Curled fingers, pulling hard, and he grunted and spilled into the napkin.
When he was done, he took a clean napkin off the tray and handed it to Bloom. "Wipe, the floor and table."
Mortensen straightened his drawers and buttoned his fall, while Bloom crawled under the table, cleaning up the wetness. Bloom. Under the table. There was a thought to warm a cold winter's night.
Bloom climbed out and stood up, napkin in his hand, looking dismayed.
"The servants?" Bloom asked. "Will they know?"
Mortensen reached in to his jacket pocket and took out some guineas. "I'll take care of it."
He stood up too, chest to chest with Bloom. "Come here," he said, pulling Bloom in closer.
Bloom's mouth was willing against his, opening at the flicker of his tongue, and Mortensen kissed Bloom carefully.
"I think you should visit me at the manor," Mortensen said, kissing his way along Bloom's jaw. "I find myself in need of your guidance on several urgent personal matters, Reverend. Come for dinner. We're due bad weather, so I'm afraid you might be snowed in for some time."
Bloom pulled back. "Yes, we are due for snow. We should go to the ladies now."
"No hurry," Mortensen said, guiding Bloom back into his chair. "We have another ten minutes, and there is port left to drink. Fill your glass, while I go speak to the butler."
Mortensen scooped up the soiled napkins, bundled them into another napkin, and picked up the guineas. When he opened the door to the butler's pantry, Baddley was seated down the service corridor, wrapped in a cloak against the draughts and nodding off.
He jerked awake when Mortensen called his name, jumped to his feet and rushed up the corridor.
"My apologies, Lord Mortensen," Baddley said.
"I appreciate you giving us privacy for our conversation," Lord M said. He dropped his voice and added, "We've spilled the wine, and have soiled some napkins cleaning it up. Could you take care of this?"
"Sir," Baddley said, taking the napkin bundle gingerly.
"And here's a little to cover the inconvenience," Lord M said, pushing the guineas into Baddley's other hand.
"Sir," Baddley said, with a lot more feeling.
In the dining room, Bloom was filling up both of their glasses from the decanter.
"This is fine port," Bloom said.
"It is," Mortensen agreed.
Bloom's head lolled against the back of his seat. "Lady Hillington. What do I say?"
"Tell her the stories are all true and I am indeed a rake."
"But what if you're not?" Bloom asked.
Mortensen raised his glass to Bloom. "I think when you wake up tomorrow morning with a sore head and a certain amount of confusion about what has happened, you will agree that I am too."
END
Gift for:
zee113 Author:
chaosmanorFandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Lord Mortensen is a rake.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Lady Hillington led the procession of matrons and giggling girls out of the dining room, past the smiling Mr Bloom, who was holding the door.
At the door, Lady Hillington looked back in, and said, "I do hope you're going to sing for us again this evening, Mr Bloom."
Mr Bloom bowed and said, "If you insist, though I'm sure we'd all much rather hear Miss Lavinia play."
Lady Hillington looked appropriately pleased. "Miss Lavinia has been practicing Lord Mortensen's favourite, 'O Lovely is the Summer Moon'."
Lord Mortensen managed to say, "Obliged," in a way that he hoped didn't sound too much like "I hope Miss Lavinia has an unfortunate accident with her harp before then."
The door closed, and Lord Mortensen flopped back into his chair and waved Baddley, Lady Hillington's butler, over.
"Have a seat, Bloom. You look exhausted," Lord Mortensen said.
Bloom slumped down in the seat Lady Hillington had vacated.
"The ladies," Bloom said, and Lord Mortensen nodded.
"It's not my favourite ballad," Lord Mortensen said. "I was accidentally polite about it once."
Baddley placed a humidor of cheroots on the table, along with a snuffbox and a box of tobacco for Lord Mortensen's pipe.
"Port, sir?" Baddley asked Lord Mortensen. "Port, whisky or claret, sir?" Baddley offered Bloom.
"Port, please," Lord Mortensen said, and Bloom waved his hand and said, "Please, no more wine."
Mortensen held two fingers up to Baddley, who bowed and glided across to the butler's pantry.
Lord Mortensen held out the cheroots to Bloom, who said, "No thank you. My voice, I have to think of tomorrow."
"Ah yes, two services with sermons on Christmas Day?" Lord M asked.
"And Compline," Bloom added.
Baddley returned with a tray bearing a decanter, two crystal glasses and napkins, which he placed on the table.
"Is this the '84"? Mortensen asked, as Baddley poured the glasses.
"The '82, sir," Baddley said. "For Christmas."
Mortensen groaned appreciatively and lifted his glass up.
"Baddley, you are a God among men."
Baddley bowed and left, and Bloom glowered at Lord Mortensen.
Lord Mortensen held up his free hand. "One moment, Bloom, then you can admonish me."
The port was darkest red and heaven to drink. The first mouthful slid across Lord Mortensen's tongue and rolled down his throat, and he sighed and loosened his cravat.
"Try it," he said. "Just a sip. Then you can chasten me for blasphemy and deliver whatever stern message Lady Hillington has asked you to."
Bloom smiled, possibly for the first time that evening, and sipped the port.
A clock ticked in the room, and Lady Hillington's crumbling mansion settled slightly with an audible creak.
"My goodness!" Bloom whispered. "What is this?"
Vicars didn't usually look like Bloom, which was probably a good thing, and watching Bloom's cheek's brighten with the punch was a delight.
"Nectar," Lord Mortensen said. "Bacchus' nectar. Lord Hillington didn't manage to drink all of his precious port before he died of apoplexy and overindulgence, and I consider it my personal duty to accept all of Lady Hillington's invitations to prevent the remaining port being wasted on negus, punch and flummeries."
Bloom said, "A terrible waste!"
Lord Mortensen raised an eyebrow. "I believe you were going to give me a personal sermon? That seems an imposition, given the demands on your duty tomorrow will also bring."
"Lord Mortensen," Bloom said. "Lady Hillington asked me to speak to you, as a man of the cloth, about your responsibilities."
"My responsibilities? Do I not pay my horse and servant taxes? Do I not provide an alms house on my estate for the destitute?"
"Lady Hillington was speaking of your personal circumstances."
Lord Mortensen sipped his port and waited, but Bloom didn't continue.
He would have to help Bloom out, obviously.
"My marital state?" Lord Mortensen suggested.
Bloom was bright red with embarrassment, not port.
"In part."
"Ah," Lord Mortensen said. "Has she told you about the scullery maids? The licentious ruts? The actress?"
Bloom nodded.
Lord Mortensen roared with laughter, and Bloom managed to go even redder.
Mortensen refilled his own glass and added a splash to Bloom's glass too. The vicar was going to need fortification.
"You think this is funny?" Bloom asked.
Lord Mortensen nodded.
"You have gone very red. It is hot in here. Why don't you loosen your cravat? It is only gentlemen here now."
Mortensen leaned across the corner of the table and pulled the knot of snowy linen at Bloom's throat loose. He was a stickler when it came to the getting up of his own linen, and Bloom's was pleasingly crisp and fresh under his fingers.
The knot loosened, taking the pressure off the collar of Bloom's shirt, and Mortensen let his fingers brush against the exposed skin at the base of Bloom's neck for a moment.
"That's better," Mortensen said. "Now, let us talk about why I have not married one of the lovely young ladies whose mammas are so keen for me to wed."
Bloom nodded.
"I'm not a cruel man, Bloom, despite what my reputation might lead you to believe. I'm not willing to marry a virtuous young lady for appearance's sake, and then make her life miserable."
"You could do your duty by her," Bloom said. "Give her a good home, and raise a family. Give yourself an heir."
Mortensen smiled, and he could feel it was brittle.
"But," he said, "but what if I know I can't do those things?"
"Every man can," Bloom said. "If he tries. If he is honourable."
Bloom had leaned forward in his earnest enthusiasm, and their knees brushed under the mahogany table.
Mortensen leaned forward too, so their heads were dangerously close over the glasses of port.
"I'm not an honourable man," he murmured, pressing his knee harder against Bloom's. "Any wife of mine would be miserable."
He eased his hand from his own thigh across to rest on Bloom's knee, and pressed his fingertips into the tight fabric of Bloom's pantaloons.
"My pleasures are not what they should be," Mortensen murmured, sliding his hand higher up Bloom's trembling thigh.
Bloom's eyes shone in the light from the glittering candelabra.
"Do you understand now?" Mortensen asked, as his hand reached the fall of Bloom's pantaloons.
Bloom swallowed visibly, and he nodded.
"Are you going to demand I unhand you?" Mortensen asked, smiling as his fingers found the shape of Bloom's prick pushing urgently against the fabric of Bloom's pantaloons.
Bloom was breathing as hard as Mortensen's favourite hunter after taking a dozen ditches, and Mortensen made the same gentling, settling whooshing noise to Bloom as he did to Gallantry.
"What are you doing?" Bloom whispered, and a droplet of sweat ran down the side of his face into his whiskers.
"Exactly what you think I am," Mortensen said, sliding his hand higher to find the buttons on the band of Bloom's pantaloons and flicking them undone.
The fall dropped open, and Lord M settled his hand over Bloom's prick, standing proud inside Bloom's drawers.
"Here?" Bloom asked, sounding scandalised.
Mortensen chuckled, finding the opening of Bloom's drawers with his fingers and working Bloom's prick free. "I'm relieved that it is the location, not the act, that is distressing you."
Bloom's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
Baddley glided back into the dining room, and Mortensen said, "Not now, please Baddley."
"Of course, sir," Baddley said, backing out of the room and pulling the door closed behind himself.
"Sit there, have some port, and let me take care of you," Lord M said, and Bloom nodded.
The skin on Bloom's prick glided smoothly, and Mortensen could feel dampness leaking from the head with each stroke. His own prick desperately needed the same attention, but it would have to wait just a little longer.
Bloom's breathing hitched, and he began to make tiny gasps through his clenched teeth.
"I'm going to…" Bloom said, and his thigh underneath Mortensen's elbow jumped like a startled buck.
Mortensen grabbed a napkin off the drinks tray on the table with his free hand and pushed it between Bloom's open thighs.
The seed came out, spurt after spurt, hitting the underside of the table and splashing across the hardwood floor, coating Lord M's hand, and soaking into his shirt cuff. The napkin had not been adequate.
Bloom folded forward onto the table. Mortensen lifted his wet hand to his mouth and began to lick it clean.
"Nooooo," Bloom said disbelievingly, and when Mortensen opened his eyes, Bloom was watching him in astonishment through a fall of curls.
"Oh, yes," Mortensen said, sucking two fingers into his mouth and then pulling them out slowly. "Now my hand is clean, I need to take care of myself."
He unbuttoned the fall of his own pantaloons and let the flap drop, then freed his prick from his drawers, making sure he was leaning back in his chair so Bloom could watch. He needed to spill, right then, before anyone decided to intrude on their privacy.
Curled fingers, pulling hard, and he grunted and spilled into the napkin.
When he was done, he took a clean napkin off the tray and handed it to Bloom. "Wipe, the floor and table."
Mortensen straightened his drawers and buttoned his fall, while Bloom crawled under the table, cleaning up the wetness. Bloom. Under the table. There was a thought to warm a cold winter's night.
Bloom climbed out and stood up, napkin in his hand, looking dismayed.
"The servants?" Bloom asked. "Will they know?"
Mortensen reached in to his jacket pocket and took out some guineas. "I'll take care of it."
He stood up too, chest to chest with Bloom. "Come here," he said, pulling Bloom in closer.
Bloom's mouth was willing against his, opening at the flicker of his tongue, and Mortensen kissed Bloom carefully.
"I think you should visit me at the manor," Mortensen said, kissing his way along Bloom's jaw. "I find myself in need of your guidance on several urgent personal matters, Reverend. Come for dinner. We're due bad weather, so I'm afraid you might be snowed in for some time."
Bloom pulled back. "Yes, we are due for snow. We should go to the ladies now."
"No hurry," Mortensen said, guiding Bloom back into his chair. "We have another ten minutes, and there is port left to drink. Fill your glass, while I go speak to the butler."
Mortensen scooped up the soiled napkins, bundled them into another napkin, and picked up the guineas. When he opened the door to the butler's pantry, Baddley was seated down the service corridor, wrapped in a cloak against the draughts and nodding off.
He jerked awake when Mortensen called his name, jumped to his feet and rushed up the corridor.
"My apologies, Lord Mortensen," Baddley said.
"I appreciate you giving us privacy for our conversation," Lord M said. He dropped his voice and added, "We've spilled the wine, and have soiled some napkins cleaning it up. Could you take care of this?"
"Sir," Baddley said, taking the napkin bundle gingerly.
"And here's a little to cover the inconvenience," Lord M said, pushing the guineas into Baddley's other hand.
"Sir," Baddley said, with a lot more feeling.
In the dining room, Bloom was filling up both of their glasses from the decanter.
"This is fine port," Bloom said.
"It is," Mortensen agreed.
Bloom's head lolled against the back of his seat. "Lady Hillington. What do I say?"
"Tell her the stories are all true and I am indeed a rake."
"But what if you're not?" Bloom asked.
Mortensen raised his glass to Bloom. "I think when you wake up tomorrow morning with a sore head and a certain amount of confusion about what has happened, you will agree that I am too."
END
thank you!
Date: 2017-12-31 11:34 pm (UTC)How could I be anything but thankful? I do have an idea who you might be but it doesn't even matter. (Kinda.) Thank you, dear, this was such a good gift. *hugs*