Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Games of Revelation |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Polly Anne Morris |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Romance |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Slash |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas\Jules |
| DESCRIPTION: | a silly story to tack on to the end of ladyaine's lovely "Revelations" with love and respect for the characters and for ladyaine too. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: | Pending permission to archive her wonderful Revelations, here is a silly sequel that Odensdisir wrote and that Pat very kindly forgave. Editorial remarks and gratuitous characterizations are the fault of the writer, and are not to be attributed to the Revelations story because it's not her fault. This story is by nobody you know. Really. I don't care what you think. Warning: These people are almost complete amateurs; they are making it up as they go along (although I grant you that their instincts appear to be adequate to the task before them). Do not try this at home without adequate attention to the door-locks and the shutters. You have been warned. |
Jules had knocked at Phileas' door, softly, and been invited in with a gentle cough; he'd closed the door. Phileas was sitting up in bed, and Jules wanted him. It had been at least four days of travel and travail (French dialect joke, please note), but intrepid adventurer Jules Verne was within sight of his goal at last.
Raising his field glasses to his eyes (he didn't have field glasses on him, so he used his hands to make that sort-of-field-glasses-thingie that we've all done) he focused: yes.
It was the fabled city of Phileasfogg, a place so remote and inaccessible that its very existence had been denied for years by other world travelers who had been unable to breach its formidable walls and all but impregnable defenses.
(Yes, I know that men aren't pregnable in the first place, but some are still less pregnable than others. Please re-read the final chapter of The Romance of the Rose one more time to get into the mood if the word bothers you. I suggest reading it in translation, though, because I can't make head nor tail of the French of it; fortunately Phileas Fogg does not have this difficulty with at least one specific French person, having demonstrated his ability to, um, never mind.)
As he gazed across the desert sands (of Phileas' bedside carpet) Jules called to mind the evocative words of the seer whose runic utterance had set him on this quest, so many, er, moments ago.
"Ah. Not in the mood for any of those options, are you?"
Perhaps they weren't runic utterances on the surface, but Jules knew how to interpret the arcane knowledge that lay beneath the surface.
"In that case, why don't you come over here and we'll just have to think of something else."
But the fabled city of Phileasfogg was not to be so lightly approached as that. He, himself, Jules Verne, had once in his life walked through the streets of Phileasfogg and been received there as a guest with the freedom of the city; it had been days. (Probably a week or more since they've left that island in the Mediterranean. I hope nobody got sand in a rubby place.) Now as he set foot to the rugged surface (it was a bedside carpet with a pretty deep pile to it) the sun set over the landscape with the suddenness remarkable to the equatorial climes (it was rather cold in Phileas' bedroom for an equatorial clime, but Phileas had blown the candle out, and so Jules shrugged and went along with it).
Curse the luck! Jules told himself, under his breath. He had left his own torch, er, I mean to say his nightstick, no, his candle, oh heck, um, okay, his own light in his bedroom, which is to say the port city of Jules'room in the county of Phileas'house on the vast and miraculous continent of Londonengland. There was to be no help for it but to proceed by touch, and furtively.
Minding his feet, his senses alive to the tendency of the floorboards to creak, Jules crept cautiously across the sands of Phileas' bedside carpet until he stood at the containment wall of the great city of Phileasfogg, Phileas' bedside, the turned-back sheets luminous in the dark (there has to be some light in the room, or this won't work. Coming in around the drawn drapes from the window, maybe).
"Verne. Do stop creeping about, you're making me nervous."
The heralds greeted him with a raucous blast from the trumpets on the parapets, but the outermost walls were easy to surmount.
As silent as a thief Jules came into the city (you know, if you're going to snort like that every time you run across a word that makes you think twice we're never going to get through this story) and laid down to rest himself alongside the great wall that guarded the secret heart of the city with his back to the wall to enjoy the warmth that was there from the departed sun (tucking his back against Phileas' chest with his rump nestled against Phileas' personality in a very friendly and encouraging manner; and cuddling against him in the bed, which was warm, in contrast to Jules' feet, which had got cold).
Phileas pulled the covers over around Jules from behind and held Jules to him for a moment, tenderly, nuzzling against the delicate skin behind Jules' ear to make him shiver. Murmuring in a deep low voice that was full of promise, and happiness that was almost wistful. "I've thought about you in my bed, Jules. Hadn't hoped to have the chance to hold you like this anytime near so soon, I am glad you could stay."
A gentle breeze blew through his hair; the citadel sent out embassies to greet him, stroking his weary limbs, caressing his ear with tender and seductive promises explicit and/or implied.
It was an old city; its secret service was legend in the annals of adventurers around the world. (For all I know that's perfectly true. Rebecca's not saying.) Jules stretched himself luxuriously, enjoying the warmth of the great wall and the ministrations of the citadel's fore-runners, recruiting his strength before he made his foray. Lazily, he tested the defenses, shifting (his feet) where he lay (to put them against Phileas' shins); and the reaction was swift and decisive.
"Damn, your feet, Verne, have you been hanging your legs out of the window? They're like ice, you keep them away from me, I'm warning you -- "
His weapons would not fail him. (Don't even think about it.) Smiling and confident, Jules turned toward the citadel to begin an assault on the city itself. The captain of the guard was suspicious and wary, but Jules knew a thing or two about persuasion, and used his command of foreign tongues to good effect to engage his opponent and win his good fellowship. There was a pleasure all its own in a good conversation; he had no difficulty understanding the captain of the guard's unique dialect. It was a temptation to put off his exploration and spend the evening with the captain of the guard playing word-games and other similar recreational activities, but he had not come to Phileasfogg to practice his linguistic skills, at least not tonight. He knew that his linguistic skills were admired and appreciated in that foreign city. (I know that Phileas appreciated Jules' linguistic skills in Chapter 11. I appreciated Chapter 11 a great deal, myself.)
Taking a deep breath Jules broke the kiss, er, conversation with the captain of the guard, and took advantage of the captain's momentary breathlessness to put aside the veil (which was actually flannel, because of the time of year) that clothed the temple walls and seek out the wonders of the inner city. He could touch the wall, and it was warm and welcoming, but the veils confounded him and he protested against the cruel fate that had led him so close to the secret treasure of the place and still denied him his right of access --
"Why would anybody want to wear a nightshirt that buttons up like that in the first place, Fogg?" Jules grumbled, trying to figure out how to get the damned thing off.
"It's cold in London this time of year, Verne, and don't even think about warming your feet, that's more than any man ought to be expected to put up with, I mean, really." But Phileas' breath came ragged in his throat. Jules smiled happily to himself, secure that his expression could not be observed.
"Oh, shut up and shift your backside, Fogg," Jules suggested, with his hands run up the back of Phileas' thighs to gather up the nightshirt by its bottom hem. It was an unfair trick of him to play, perhaps. He was serenely confident that Phileas would move when he tucked his fingers insinuatingly between Fogg's buttocks and rubbed delicately at the very sensitive skin at the top of the inner thigh; but Fogg was an older man with at least hypothetically more practice in amorous engagement, and bigger than Jules was at least on the gross skeletal level because we are simply not going to get into that in this story so you can just stop even thinking about it, and a man had to do what a man had to do to remove the (flannel) obstacles that were between him and his lover.
"Verne, I'm warning you, you've got precisely ninety minutes to stop that."
Jules struggled, and won free of the veils that defended the temple walls. He was there. He could reach out and touch the smooth marble of the walls, the sinuous twisting of the carved pillars, its velvety smoothness and its underlying strength. He could taste the salt dust on the rounded curves of the great monumental pylon of the place; he was hungry for salt, he had not had salt for days, he nuzzled at it greedily and lapped the wall salt-free.
The nightshirt crumpled up in Jules' hands around Phileas' arms, then over Phileas' head, and Jules had Phileas where he wanted him. In bed, and pressed so close to him that he could feel the pulse of Phileas' body, and knew how to quicken it; greeted Phileas' nipple with a happy kiss and drew it into his mouth to suckle at it while he pet the other, playing with it to assure it of his equal if separate affection.
Phileas' whole body moved toward the caress of Jules' mouth, his head thrown back, a sound of soft but absolutely naked desire half-strangled in his chest where Jules could almost feel more than hear it. Phileas aroused was not polite, did not dissemble, forgot that he was a gentleman, and there was nothing in all of Phileas' love-making that moved Jules quite so much as Phileas' willingness to show himself emotionally naked, and welcome Jules to him as his lover.
The city trembled on its foundations, but Jules was not to be moved from his mission or his goal. If he reached his free hand up (up across Phileas' chest, along the side of Phileas' stretched throat, to find Phileas' mouth) he could trace the sculpted wall all the way up across the arch of the causeway to touch the guard-house and engage the captain of the guard, to keep him busy and distracted while Jules supped salt along the wall and bit at the ornamental carvings (of pomegranate-blossom) in his bliss.
Phileas caught Jules' thumb between his teeth and licked the pad of it, hard, and Jules gasped as Phileas had. Tit for tat, Jules thought, his mind becoming a little fuzzy of focus (or would have thought, if the person who was writing this story hadn't decided that the phrase was a little too obvious. And therefore Jules started to think "what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the other gander as well" instead, but the phrase was far too complex for him to complete in his increasingly distracted state of mind, and the person who was writing hurried on to cover the whole thing up as quickly as possible).
The salt dust on the wall was delicious, but it was licked away too soon.
He wanted more.
He followed the contour of the wall to its sculpted focus, an ancient and intriguing artifact integral to the wall, surrounded by vines that clustered around its base and sent their soft dark tendrils up to reach toward the top of the wall; there was salt there, around the stonework sculpture, and Jules nuzzled happily around through the soft leaves of the vines, lapping at the rounded curves and incised shaft of the artifact. It warmed to the touch of his mouth; the city seemed to shift on its foundations yet again, and still Jules was too beguiled by his appetite for salt and stone to notice that a cataclysm threatened.
Phileas put his finger-tips to Jules' shoulder, to Jules' head, and his hands trembled; Jules could feel Phileas' desire, and fed from it, to return heat for heat unstintingly. It was tempting to forget his mission and abandon himself to this pleasure, one which he had experienced but to which he was far from being accustomed. But he wanted something different. He had promised it to himself, to Phileas, in his own mind, for the next time when he would have a chance; and it was time for him to make his move, or else Phileas' desire would be too much for him and he would lose his concentration.
Lost in the pleasure of supping salt from sculpture Jules forgot himself for long moments, bracing himself against the wall with both hands now to either side of the arcane carvings.
One of his hands slipped around the side of Phileas' thigh to touch Phileas' buttocks; Jules followed the track of his hand with kisses, encouraging Phileas as he went, and Phileas though apparently confused did as Jules wanted him to do and turned onto his belly.
Jules knelt up.
There was a doorway in the wall, a secret hidden place that if he could but penetrate the mysteries of the entire city would be laid out before him. He was an intrepid adventurer, and he had seen many rare sights and magical visions, experienced many sensations unknown to polite or at least public discourse; and he knew that there was transcendent pleasure waiting for him, and as important a great benefit for the entire city of Phileasfogg if Jules' own experience could serve as a yard-stick; and yet he was uncertain.
This was new territory.
Phileas shifted on the bed encouragingly, changing the angle of approach. Jules had not come completely unprepared; he knew that the desert winds blew dry, and in order to ease open a door across a threshold that had not been crossed in Jules did not know how long a time if ever it was necessary to lubricate the hinges, or risk damage to the door-jamb.
He had his unguent-dish in hand, he worked the lotion into the wall around the doorway with his thumb while Phileas bucked and trembled to his touch. The indications were encouraging, and the tension Jules could sense in Phileas' body was too much for him to resist for a moment longer.
He took firm hold of Phileas' hips, and went in.
He had never known such pleasure in his life, it almost frightened him; he retreated, but it was too good, he could not resist it and went forward once again even more deeply.
Phileas made a sound that Jules had never heard from him before, and began to invoke the Deity in soft urgent pants of consuming desire. Jules marked time for Phileas' invocation with the movement of his body, and Phileas grew more persuasive in his prayers moment by moment but it was Jules who benefited by the touch of the divine that took hold of him and seized him and consumed him and destroyed him in one terrible and eternal moment of indescribable delight.
There was an earthquake.
The city shook on its foundations, the temblor seemed to last forever, the fury of the motion of the earth shaking the entire structure to its full extent and leaving it shifted from its base, tumbled to the ground, stretched and shaped and twisted and in ruins.
Jules collapsed with his check laid against Phileas' back, and his hand left hand crept around to pet that wonderful artifact in the wall of Phileas' torso. The portion of the sculpture that he liked most had strangely lost much of its rigidity. He panted there for long moments, catching his breath, listening to Phileas stifle his ecstatic cries against the pillow, warming almost despite himself all over again to hear Phileas' pleasure.
Then he half-staggered across the desert sands (of Phileas' bedside rug) to the wash-stand to wash his hands, and carried the damp towel back to use on Phileas before he worked the nightshirt back across his lover's still-trembling body and clothed him decently for warmth in the chill air.
Jules returned the towel to the washstand and came back to bed. Phileas did not lift the bedclothes for him this time, Jules had to find his own way between the sheets but he didn't mind. Phileas had hardly moved, panting into the pillow, and Jules was so proud of himself he did not know what to do about it.
So he gathered Phileas into his arms and kissed him. "There," Jules said, and tucked his feet beneath Phileas' thigh where Phileas lay curled on his side. "Warm enough now, Phileas?"
Phileas repeated his invocation of the Deity, but more softly and quietly this time.
He, Jules Verne, world adventurer, and none other, had breached the uttermost recesses of the ancient and arcane city of Phileasfogg and lived to tell the tale.
Jules smiled; and went to sleep with Phileas in his arms, to hold him and be with him until the time should come when he would have to creep back to his own bed.
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