bakerstreet | for auld lang syne

[The coming of a new year. A time for celebration, and reflection. Reflections of past accomplishments, victories, and failures. Jonathan Crane has had a lot of those in the past year. His science has helped the kingdom, even if it's not entirely ethical.

Being allowed to look out from the balcony of the palace is a privilege Jonathan Crane isn't one to pass up. Especially when a certain king is close by.]

I suppose this is the part where we would toast.

[ Ethics. To the King, ethics is nothing less and nothing more than reverence for life—it is something which one must possess to take life away (knowing the weight of its value and the nature of sacrifice), and so too is it necessary to preserve and to pave the way forward. All of these things, Jonathan Crane has lent his service to, and Sion wonders if the man knows it. To stay the looming threat in the north, Sion had set his armies in a campaign to conquer the whole of the southern continent, amassing resources enough such that no would-be invaders would dare to breech the borders of the once-country now empire. An empire, now safeguarded not only by magic, by the innovation which Jonathan gives life to within the castle's keep.

Protecting the people... could Jonathan have ever imagined such a thing for himself? ]

Would, had we only glasses brimming with drink.

[ And they do not, do they? Largely, it is Sion's own doing: though he is dressed for the celebration, decorated in finery and in silk, he has sequestered himself away from his people's merriment, instead taking pose upon the balcony to overlook the capital city below. ]

Instead, shall I impart upon you a blessing for good luck in the new year?

Edited 2018-01-01 06:41 (UTC)

[Dr. Crane looks downright drab when compared to Sion, dressed in his usual hooded jacket over a dark shirt and pants. Still, knowing that he actually contributed to Sion's defense and conquest, it makes him smile. The king's been good to him.]

I suppose we could go down and join the celebration.

[Perhaps he can dig a proper outfit from somewhere. But for now he just gives Sion a satisfied look.]

I would welcome your blessing.

Then--... [ With steps made slow by decorum and set purpose, Sion closes the distance between himself and the other man, the many layers of his King's robes at his feet trailing in delicate susurrations behind him. It is new to him, to meet with Crane absent of either the quiet of the library or the darkness of the dungeon's in the castle's deep—to see the doctor, here, where hues of color (from fireworks, from the festivities below) might touch the hood of his cloak is somehow engrossing.

For while the doctor might be willfully mired in his work—in the practice of sowing fear and reaping its rewards—he is not incapable of being touched by the light.

By Sion, who reaches to take Jonathan's hand with his own, as is custom before he speaks: ]

May the road ahead rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back.

[ They are pretty, are they not, his words of promise and good fortune? Voice resonant as ever and as always, he continues, though he breaks from simple custom in the moment when— ]

May you continue to pursue that which pleases you... [ —he closes the remaining distance between them by way of a kiss, lips fitted to mask and all that laid exposed beneath. The contact is fleeting, if not bewitchingly so, and upon the King's withdraw, the blessing is completed with no small measure of intent: ] ...until the day when all that you desire is within your grasp.

[Up close, in this light, Sion really does look handsome. The way those silks compliment him, and the lights play off his eyes and cheekbones. Like a mythical thing of beauty from one of Jonathan's books.

He stands still as Sion gives his blessing, letting his hand just rest within the other man's gentle grip.

When Sion kisses him, Crane's blue eyes. More because he hadn't been expecting it than any adverse emotions to it. His surprise is quickly forgotten. Mask or not, that felt... nice.]

My thanks, your Majesty.

[ A lie it would be, to say the King does not find a measure of gratification in Jonathan's surprise; the way the doctor falls still beneath his kiss. Perhaps, with time, the other man might realize for himself how very human he is, his chronicle of scars and the mask they lie beneath testament only to his own mortality, never monstrosity.

Curling his fingers about the doctor's own, his eyes fall to study the union of their hands, silvered lashes thickly veiling eyes of gold.

Am I truly so predictable? Sion had asked of Crane, once upon a time, and were the King aware of where their partnership might lead—to a kiss shared not long after the passing of a year—he might not have believed it himself. Given to fancy and to whim, Sion has always been one to embrace and act upon his moods, such that the other man is no stranger to his touch. Many a time, Sion's fingers have delineated the shape of Jonathan's face, tracing over the lines of disfigurement with an odd reverence and gentleness as the King had flirted with the notion of someday unravelling the doctor completely, but--...

It had only ever been a notion, until this moment. ]

I have given voice to no sentiment which you have not earned. [ —he says after a moment, perhaps two, lifting his eyes so that gold might interlock with blue. Rather like his namesake, Jonathan stands taller than the King: the proximity they share is still close enough such that Sion must cant his head up to better perceive his companion. ]

Is it truly your wish to join our people in celebration?

[ Our, he makes the distinction, wondering how it will be met and received. ]

Edited 2018-01-01 19:32 (UTC)

[Sion's fingers are always so soft against his hideous visage. That the king doesn't look at him with repulsion, and has shared soft words and touches with him, Crane has found it unbelievable while also craving more of it.

So few people have shown him such kindness, such tenderness. Much less such a powerful man. Crane has never allowed himself to be this vulnerable. This open with affection, even just small gestures of affection.]

Well, if you wished to, I would not protest. However, we could always stay up here, and have our own little private celebration.

[He doesn't miss that 'our people']

I think our people can go without us for a while.

[ Something shifts, in the instant when Jonathan reciprocates, voicing our people of his own volition and no other's. The King's reaction is immediate, after that: for the second time, he seeks out the doctor's lips, making the offering of a kiss which is a far cry from the sweetly chaste seal of a blessing, the contact electric and undefined. Profound even as he draws away to speak, the warmth of his mouth a lingering thing on so very brisk a night. ]

Then escort me to my chambers, and I will dismiss all those who would follow.

[ A private celebration, Crane has said, and Sion intends to show the man just that, for--... They are bound, are they not? Irrevocably so, by all that they have done (and would continue to do) for the sake of a sentiment which Sion, perhaps, no longer shoulders alone.

"Our people..." ]

I need no guard, save for you, tonight.

[ And upon Sion's lips, there is a hint of suggestion not to be overlooked. ]

[Like his hands, Sion's lips are so soft. So full when compared to Jonathan's scarred lips. Yet they fit together so well. So perfectly. Like they were made for one another.]

As you wish, my king.

[Jonathan takes Sion by the hand, gently and guides him to the bedchamber.

The room is so large and decadent, not like the tiny room Jonathan usually sleeps in. He's never needed a lot of space to sleep in, even before he was given his dungeon laboratory. Usually he's slept in a combination office/bedroom.]

Just you and I.

[His free hand brushes a bit of silky hair behind Sion's ear.]

[ Sion allows himself to be lead, and Crane does so with care, lifting a hand (a hand, which has wrought havoc upon their enemies, just as it once had instilled innocents with fear) to gently tuck an errant strand of the King's pale hair back, behind the shell of his ear. If there were ever one thing which Sion had wished to show the other man, it had always been this: that they were allowed to be both (feared and loved, malevolent and benevolent in turns) so long as they remained set to purpose, anchored by a greater goal.

For Sion, his wish has always been to protect—to build a world where everyone might be able to pursue their happiness, whatever that happiness might prove to be—and if the other man has come to share this ideal, then--... ]

Sion.

[ The new year ahead will surely be bright. ]

You may call me 'Sion'. [ Perhaps amused, his lips curve into a grin, and without giving much thought to the action, he finds himself leaning into Jonathan's touch. Always, Sion himself had been the one to initiate contact between them, and seldom the other way around. ] There is little need to uphold propriety here.

[ Where they are well and truly alone, surrounded only by the gold of gilded, high-arched ceilings, and the opulence of deep burgundies and wines of great, sprawling tapestries. Of course, the heavy fabrics of the King's quarters are tempered by the gentle radiance of diamond-finery, but--... One might still find the cacophony of hues overwhelming to the eye. ]

...one of my retainers is responsible for the decoration, here. [ As well as Sion's own state of dress for the evening. Someone, after all, had to help him into his ceremonial attire. ] Is it to your liking?

Sion...

[He says the name like he's tasting it. He likes it. More than that, being allowed to say his name, it's an honor he doesn't want to waste.]

I do like it.

[He feels a little out of place here, next to such a handsome, well-dressed man, in this lovely bedchamber. But Sion has invited him into this room, to stand at his side, and share this moment with him.

Jonathan walks over to the bed, running his fingers along the soft sheets, looking over his shoulder.]

Such a large bed you have.

Surely, that cannot be the only thing of note. [ Whether it were casual observation or more sensual allusion, the comment inspires a fluting laugh from the King. Endearing to him, how someone as striking as Jonathan Crane might feel hesitant in such a setting; how one who boasted such easy command when in his own element could suddenly find himself unsettled when immersed in the domain of another. ]

For example... [ Parted from the other man, Sion divests himself of his outer-robes, the heavier brocades slipping easily from his shoulders with the obi-belt gone from his waist, the weight of the fabric seeing the garments easily crumpled to the floor. What remains in their wake are light, gauzy chiffons and silks which cling to the skin like gossamer webs, delineating the King's svelte frame while leaving just enough to the imagination. ] ...the sound of my name upon your lips, I enjoyed it immensely.

Just as I shall enjoy learning the things which might see you relaxed, if only for a time. [ Canting his head artfully to the side, the long fall of his hair cascades down, over his shoulder, bound, yet, into its regal plait. ] Will you not make yourself comfortable?

[Jonathan turns away from the bed to watch Sion shed some of the outer layers of his outfit. Those silks really do flatter him. The colors, and the way it clings to his body. He could stare at the other man all day, his eyes going up and down his form.]

I'll say your name as much as you like, Sion.

[He pulls his hood back, shedding the long, brown jacket, which he sets aside on the floor. Next come off the gloves. Jonathan's a little hesitant for a moment, before his hands go to his face and he removes the burlap mask, showing Sion his scarred face.

His visage is horrific, compared to Sion's ethereal handsomeness, and his hair is short and brown, compared to the king's silky, pale locks.]

Edited 2018-01-02 01:33 (UTC)

[ The King gives pause—not out of revulsion, nor out of pity, but out of simple regard for the man who had stood at his side during both peacetime and warfare; in loss and in greater triumph than any which the kingdom of Roland had ever known. He gives pause, his gaze falling upon features disfigured by alarming brutality, and sees--... only a person. Jonathan, who has undressed for him, peeling off both jacket and mask as though they were a second skin. ]

...you never did tell me how it happened.

[ Stepping over his own discarded clothes, Sion once again finds his way to Crane, settling only when in close enough proximity to reach out to the other man. Gingerly, the palms of his hands come to rest on either side of the doctor's face, his fingers splayed across the slender rise of a cheekbone for a moment, perhaps two, before they effortlessly comb into russet strands of hair.

It is not, of course, that the King believes the other man to be made of glass. Far from, when the scars which ravage both Jonathan's face and body tell an entirely different story, but--... For all that Sion professes himself to be a slaughter, a monster when it comes to safeguarding his people, his nature has always been softer. Gentle. And where he is concerned, there is no other way to touch someone held in esteem and in affection both. ]

If it is too great a wound to speak of, I understand, but I would have you know that you needn't ever be uncertain of it. [ Of yourself. ] Not when you are with me.

[Jonathan closes his eyes as Sion touches his face, giving a little sigh of contentment. That Sion isn't repulsed, or turning him away after all, seeing him laid out like this. Sion is seeing the man behind the mask.]

I crossed the wrong man. He was bigger and stronger than me, and he liked his sharp weapons.

[His hand touches his scarred lips. The lips that Sion had kissed just a few minutes ago, without fear. Kissed through his mask, yes, but a kiss nonetheless.]

I escaped before he could carve my entire face off. But he left me with more than one scar.

[Slowly, Jonathan lifts part of his shirt off, to show a rather nasty blade scar that runs from his stomach to his side. Thankfully it was just a flesh wound. His attacker had wanted to gut him.]

But so too did he leave you strong.

[ Fingers slipping free of Jonathan's hair, they dance, delicate and deft, down the narrow line of the man's torso to the hem of his tunic. And just as the doctor had done only moments before, Sion pushes the garment up, his palms flush to Jonathan's chest, revealing the scar in full as he makes to help the shirt over Jonathan's head so that it might stand as one less boundary between them. ]

You survived, and you became more. [ Despite the jagged line which would have liked to see Crane eviscerated for some perceived slight—crossed how? the King has no need to ask, for he is versed enough in the doctor's criminal history to understand—the one responsible for carving it unable to content with the doctor in any other way, capable of only lashing out. ] The scars are testament to your strength, nothing else.

[Sion's words make his heart swell. Such kind words, all for him. Jonathan's body is skinny, with very little muscle. Skinny and pale, with the large scar standing out in contrast to the rest of his smooth skin.

His hands go to Sion's top, pushing aside the silks and chiffon, to reveal his own body. His eyes linger on the other man's form, before meeting his gaze again.]

Beautiful.

[Crane leans down to give Sion another kiss, this one slow and lingering, caressing the king's lips with his own, while his hand cups his cheek.]

[ Beautiful, Jonathan says, and though the King has been called as much before by adoring subjects and opposers alike (for the most dreadful nature, someone had once told him, the most lovely guise), the other man's voice (the way the word is intoned with reverence and desire both) elicits a stirring of heat inside of him—a passion which sees their kiss come together with taste, touch, and the King's own fervor coiling in graceful consonance. If Sion is beautiful (and he is, every part of him radiant and warm), he kisses like art: his lips parting so that Jonathan's tongue might slide hot and slick against his own.

And having no wish to break the seal of their lips, Sion's hands find Jonathan's shoulders as moves to see the both of them seated upon the mattress of his (very large) bed. ]

I wonder... [ It is only for fear of losing breath that the King withdraws from their kiss, his voice an airy, tenuous thing: ] Do you know it, Jonathan?

[ Dipping his head, he presses his lips to the line of the other man's jaw, speaking whisper-soft against skin so weathered and worn: ]

That it is around you that I feel most at ease.

[Jonathan moans into the kiss when the king's tongue meets his own, twining them together and exploring Sion's mouth. He doesn't know when he last felt like this. If he ever felt like this. He's had romantic encounters before, but they never elicited the sort of emotion he's feeling right now.

There's no rush to get this over with, no unspoken promise that after the night is over they're never to see each other again.

He tilts his head to the side to give Sion better access to his neck as the other man kisses him.]

How ironic, that you feel such a way with the likes of me, the Master of Fear himself.

[His hands run through Sion's silky hair.]

But I would be lying if I said that feeling of ease was misplaced. For I feel the same way. I don't have to be Fear Incarnate when I'm around you. Right now, I'm just a man.

Aa, a man. [ —Sion hums his reply against Jonathan's skin, words punctured by kisses lavished upon the underside of the other man's jaw, the pale column of his throat, and that delicate place where shoulder meets with neck, flesh sinking in toward the heart. ] An arrogant one, who finds the time to boast of his own mastery and prowess while leaving his bedmate unattended to.

[ Of course, the King would hardly call himself neglected (Jonathan's hand cards through his hair, and he wonders if he should not soon see it unbound from its plait), and as much as evident in his quiet huff, his laugh, lilting and bright. To think a day would arrive when he teased and cajoled Jonathan while in bed--...

Somehow, he cannot believe it. It doesn't feel quite real.

His hands pressing flush to Jonathan's chest, Sion coaxes the man down, to lie upon his back, with little caresses and sweet, fleeting touches. And no sooner than the doctor is reclined, Sion settles astride of him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Jonathan's torso, perhaps daring the other man to take the higher ground from him. ]

But regardless... this man is someone I need not don a mask of my own with, and for that I am grateful.

[Jonathan tilts his head back so Sion has better access to his neck. A content sigh escapes him as those soft lips go to his sensitive throat.]

How inconsiderate of me.

[Sion isn't wrong about Jonathan being arrogant. He considers himself the Master of Fear, which comes with a certain amount of arrogance. His title is earned, sure, but he would be lying if he said he didn't revel in it. In the power he holds to terrify others.

When Sion pushes him back, he allows himself to relax. This bed is so soft and big, not like the beds he's used to sleeping in.]

No masks tonight.

[He accepts that dare, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Sion, flipping their positions so Sion is now laying down with Jonathan on top of him.]

[ Ah. In the breadth of a moment, Sion finds himself upended, his challenge accepted in full. And with his back to the mattress beneath them both, the King finds the new vantage point to his liking—here, he may fully study the other man, his hands finding either side of Jonathan's hips, resting there. Truly, the man is a willowed thing: long and lean, his build perfect for casting a looming shadow to terrify those who would not understand. And as for the King...? He simply basks in the shade, fingers dropping to play upon the waist of Jonathan's trousers before following the cut of the man's pelvis in a slow, sweeping touch, his hand molding to the juncture of Jonathan's legs to palm him through the fabric. ]

Then, with no front between us, tell me what you enjoy.

[ And how Sion might see that desire satisfied. ]

[Jonathan lets out a content little sigh as he feels Sion's hands on him, pulling his pants down so he may be fully bared before the powerful man beneath him.]

I enjoy being on top. I also enjoy making use of hands, or mouths.

[His hand mimes giving a hand job, as if it wasn't obvious what he meant. He hasn't really attempted to give anybody a blow job since he got scarred up. Of course, he hasn't had sex in a very long time, and Sion will be the first person he's been with since the scarring.

Blue eyes go down to Sion's lower garment, followed by his hands, wanting those out of the way so he may see his king in full.]

Well— [ In this moment, Sion's voice is a low, sultry thing steeped well with desire. Pleasing to him, to hear the doctor's voice hitch in anticipation and mellow with a sigh. Seldom does the King share his bed with others (what's more, he is known to shirk match-meetings set for him by his retainers in the hope that he might take a wife, produce an heir), and when he does, he is neither the most vocal nor the most passionate. Always, the King is controlled, and perhaps it is a touch difficult for him to let go, even here, even now. ] —it must be to your good fortune that you've secured one of those things already.

[ With the second to be found in short suit, after Jonathan has done away with Sion's under-robes and broadcloth trousers which lay beneath. Hips that had once lifted in simple acquiescence—a gesture to aid Jonathan in the man's quest to see Sion disrobed in full—now arch forward, seeking out more of Jonathan's touch as Sion effortlessly loops an arm about the other man's neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

A kiss which sees a deliberately slow, if not teasing withdraw as Sion bids: ] Let me feel them, then. Your hands.

[ Surely they can do more than gesture. ]

for auld lang syne

Sion Astal | Legend of Legendary Heroes | OTA

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