Ranuccio's hand groped for the cup on the table. He couldn't allow himself to get too drunk; he'd had a busy day, and it wasn't over yet.
It had taken ages, but at last he had come to recognize, if not comprehend, Michaeli's cravings, his moods, his rages. He accepted the bursts of frantic energy that kept Michaeli upright before a canvas for fifteen hours without resting, the cloudy torpor that kept him in bed for days on end, the silences and black despair that settled over him like a heavy woolen mantle with the pottery jug of acid wine never far from reach, the sudden sweetness that descended like a sunshower, a bunch of wildflowers in a new bottle of grappa, gifts of coins and clothes.
He knew when Michaeli would drag him up and down the Via del Corso, transported by the cardsharps and fortunetellers and whores leaning against flaking plaster walls, ankle-deep in broken tiles and rotting vegetables. Beauty at its most eloquent, he said, but Ranuccio barely gave them a second glance; even in the golden late-afternoon light, they were just cardsharps and fortunetellers and whores. Nothing new there, nothing beautiful, to Ranuccio's mind.
He knew when Michaeli would disappear for days at a time and come back dirty, unshaven, sore-headed, and broke because some rent boy had wheedled away his last coin. He knew that Michaeli was a magpie, yearning after variety, any bit of glitter, cheap or precious, that caught his fancy, but that was all right, because Ranuccio was adept – oh, sweet filthy fucking mercy was he adept - at providing variety. Ranuccio knew every trick in the book, and it kept Michaeli coming back long past anyone's expectation. Everyone talked about it; Michaeli was not a man who was able to keep friends or lovers for very long, until Ranuccio had caught his eye.
But then there was Lena. She'd been indifferent at first, watching Michaeli mold Ranuccio into poses, watching Michaeli stare, watching the slow and wordless seduction smoldering between them, and her attempts to stamp glowing embers into ash had only made them flare into heated life. She'd understood then, backed away…or had she? It wasn't long before Michaeli had noticed her tight, boyish body, her smile, the tumbling mass of red hair. No, she'd egged him on, employed her own sluttish brand of sorcery. That dress Michaeli had given her, those earrings – she'd looked like a princess, not the dirty guttersnipe whore she really was. Michaeli had talked exuberantly. An entire series of paintings based on the redemption of the Magdalen. They'd be the talk of the town, rich beyond their wildest fancies. Lena now occupied the center of the room, her hair caught in rays of sunshine, burning tongues of flame. And then she'd looked at Ranuccio with calm triumph: Your turn to be jealous, darling.
Ranuccio scanned the tavern. Anyone would do for his purposes, this place was full of likely and willing lads, but he didn't want just anyone. He wanted someone Michaeli would appreciate, someone who'd make him stare wide-eyed, in awe of Ranuccio's superb taste. Michaeli wasn't the only one with an eye for beauty.
There he was, slouched in a corner, wearing the salt-stained garb of a sailor. He had a foreign look about him – light hair, angular face, pretty blue-grey eyes. He smiled as Ranuccio approached, and said something in a soft, unintelligible babble.
Ranuccio shrugged. He couldn't understand a word. "You," he said, pointing at the sailor, "come with me. Right?" He pointed at himself, then beckoned with a nod toward the door. The sailor stood and threaded his way through the tables.
Some things didn't require a lot of translation. Good thing, too.
*
Barefoot, dressed only in a pair of flaxen breeches, the sailor wandered around the room, staring in fascination at the painter's trappings: the long table with its jars of pigment and flacons of oil, brushes, grinding stones, battered knives, stained palettes, crumpled linen rags. He gazed in frank wonder at the half-finished painting, Lena in repose, eyes lowered, hair a fiery spill over her shoulders. Timidly, he touched a finger to the still malleable paint, examined his fingertip, and whistled softly.
Ranuccio blew out an impatient breath. "Come on. Let's get on with it." He pointed to the bedroom and pulled off his shirt, letting it drop to the floor.
Finally the sailor's interest was diverted from the painting. He looked Ranuccio up and down and smiled, then pulled at the strings of his breeches. He let them drop and stepped out of them. He stood quietly, his gaze candid, looking like Adam before his unfortunate attack of modesty.
Michaeli would applaud his taste, Ranuccio was sure of it. He plucked a small bottle of oil, the most expensive, from the table and walked into the bedroom, catching the sailor by the hand and towing him along. He put a hand out, touching one pale, naked shoulder, and gestured for the man to stop. "Wait."
The sailor said something in reply.
"I can't understand a fucking thing you're saying, my friend. Maybe it's better that way, eh?" Ranuccio laughed and poured a bit of oil into the palm of his hand. He brought his hand up and let the oil spill onto the young man's collarbone. It trickled smoothly downward, over a firm chest and a small, peaked nipple. Ranuccio's cock hardened. He swirled the oil onto the young man's chest and belly, making the hair and skin gleam, and trailed his hand down until it closed over his excited prick. The man gasped and shivered.
Ranuccio closed the distance between them, grasped the sailor's hair at the back of his head, and pulled, exposing his throat. He bent and suckled, licking and biting his way up the man's throat, his lips on a pulsing vein, his teeth scraping against a roughly shaven chin. Fucking an anonymous stranger, a foreign stranger, in Michaeli's bed, with Michaeli's oil. He pushed the sailor onto the bed, watching the man's lips part in soundless lust, his thighs sprawl widely apart. He knelt between the man's legs and fondled his cock and balls. He pushed two slick fingers inside the man's arse and listened to the groan that wrenched itself from that gleaming, heaving chest. "That's good. Fucking good."
"Lena?" A voice echoed from the door.
The sailor shot up in alarm, but Ranuccio was ready. He pulled his knife and held a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Be good now." The young man's eyes widened in fear, but his desire seemed to increase; he grasped the bedclothes, bit his lower lip, and pushed harder against Ranuccio's questing fingers. Sweat beaded on his knotted forehead. He tilted his head back and emitted a quiet whimper.
"Lena?" Michaeli appeared in the doorway, the sailor's breeches crumpled in his hands. He froze at the sight of Ranuccio straddling the naked young man and took a half step back.
Ranuccio grinned. Perfect. "Michaeli."
Michaeli was pale. "Ranuccio."
"Want to join in?"
Michaeli's mouth worked, but no sounds emerged. Finally he shook his head. "I'll watch."
"Please yourself." Ranuccio laid down the knife and yanked his breeches open. He poured more oil into his hand and stroked himself, shuddering as he got harder and harder. He curled his other hand round the sailor's cock and pumped in the same rhythm. The sailor, who had been staring at Michaeli, closed his eyes and moaned softly.
Ranuccio couldn't wait a moment more. He pushed the young sailor's knees up to his chest and then plunged inside, shoving in deep and hard, his slick cock burying itself to the hilt. He stayed still for a few seconds, then pulled back, almost out, and slammed in again. The man began to move with him, back and forth, impaling himself on Ranuccio's cock over and over. They moved slowly at first, then with increasing speed and violence, until the young man came with a shout and tightened on Ranuccio's prick. Ranuccio gasped and spent himself inside the sailor's tight body, moaning, feeling that the whole world was his thrusting cock and Michaeli's staring eyes. The bottle of expensive oil fell to the stone floor with the silvery tinkle of breaking glass.
*
Ranuccio awoke to see Michaeli standing near the door, pressing something into the sailor's hand. The sailor was dressed and watching Ranuccio, not Michaeli. He offered a shy smile as Ranuccio focused blearily on his pretty face. He said something in his own language. His voice was soft and low.
"Tak," said Michaeli. "Mange tak." He disappeared through the door with the sailor.
Ranuccio closed his eyes again and drifted.
*
There was a gentle touch on his naked back. "Wake up."
Ranuccio groaned. He turned, squinting out at the window. "Getting dark."
"You're cruel to me. You know that?"
Of course I'm cruel to you. It's the only thing that works these days. "You love me, Michaeli?"
Michaeli pressed his lips to Ranuccio's shoulder. "Of course. Of course I do."
Ranuccio sighed, contented. "I'm hungry."
"So am I. Where's Lena?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Of course it does." The same tone he used to say Of course I do. "Did she say where she was going?"
"No." Ranuccio turned his face to the wall and stared at the layers of peeling plaster. "She didn't." Anguish gnawed at his belly.
Michaeli loved her.
"Well, perhaps we'll wait a while."
Ranuccio didn't answer. It had been the right thing to do, to wrap his hands round her lying throat and hold her tightly. To tell her first, to watch her pale eyes widen in shock, then to push her head underwater. Her hair had floated up like red seaweed, pale coral. Faithless cunt. Michaeli would have tired of her anyway; she'd never tried to know him, never cared about what he did, not like Ranuccio.
He'd tell Michaeli in time. And in time, Michaeli would understand.
Summary: Anyone would do for his purposes
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Ranuccio/OMC
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1664 Read: 1182
Published: 02 Apr 2010 Updated: 02 Apr 2010