Page 4 of Marked Out with Greater Brightness

Blake laughed, not out of amusement as much as, Cam thought, surprise at being seen. “No. I don’t know. I just think…I like watching the two of you be happy. Talking about books.”

Ash, across the room, looked at Cam, and at Blake, and then put Tales of the Mad Monk down and came over. He was the portrait of an English gentleman-scholar: willowy, pretty, hair like moonglow and elf-groves and all manner of things from fairy-stories. He was also taller than Blake, but looked younger, or he would have if not for the tiny lines of tiredness and responsibility and inheritance around those hazel eyes. “Oh, love, I’m sorry, were we neglecting you?”

“No,” Blake said. “I like books. I write books.”

“But you could use some attention.” Cam let his hand tighten: a grip. Blake actually shivered, lips parting. Cam told him, “You’re ours, and you know you are; in a moment, though, since you’ve started with the tea, so good of you,” and got a smile.

Ashley set a fingertip against Blake’s mouth, very purposefully. “You are ours, love. And of course we’re thinking about you. And you’re going to wait, and be good for us, and think about what we’re thinking, for you.” He moved the fingertip, trailed the hand lower: a slow caress across Blake’s chest, stomach, the swelling obvious line of cock under clinging buckskin. Ash stroked him gently, taking charge, bringing him to even more visible hardness; Blake outright whimpered.

Ash, Cam had concluded over the last month, was new to this but decidedly good at it. Not terribly experienced, but a fast learner. And their Blake needed firm loving command.

He said, “Ashley, go and sit down, with a book if you’d like. Blake, pet, you stay here with me.”

Ashley, entertained, said, “Oh, you’ve got plans,” and found the novel again and went to curl up in the chair nearest the fire. He also shrugged out of his coat along the way, and considered his tall boots.

Well. They could work with that. Cam said, “I’ve always got ideas about what you need, both of you, my sweet boys,” and twirled a lock of Blake’s hair around his finger, and released it. “Go and help him with the boots. Being useful. Then come back here.”

Blake nodded, impressively quickly. His cock pressed against his pantaloons, so full and eager that Cam could practically trace each vein. Blake truly did like being useful, and being used; that was one of the keys, though not the entirety.

He took over the sorting out of tea, since he’d offered in the first place. He also watched the luscious tableau, as Ash extended one long leg, a lazy prince limned in firegleam. Blake—visibly happily aroused—knelt at his feet. Eased off one boot, then the other, as Ash traded legs. Blake stayed on his knees for a moment, after; Ash petted his hair.

Cam ran a hand through his own hair. Red, crinkly, starting to be streaked with silver in odd spots. He was indeed older than they were. And the overlay was dizzying, for a moment: himself and Hugh in those matching chairs, laughing, arguing about the merits of novels or too-sweet wine; Hugh on both knees for him, joyous and fearless; Hugh naked in bed and sitting up, having had a thought, to grab a book and look up a specific fact about the uses of dog-button seed in cases of dysentery…

Himself preparing to leave. This house, this practice.

Ash said something to Blake, in the present, quietly. They both turned to look at Cam, in flawless unison, even though Blake had stayed on the floor.

“Oh, both of you,” Cam said, “honestly, and the first thing we’re doing is getting you both warm and comfortable, that one is an order,” and then he added, “Didn’t I tell you to come back here, pet?” and Blake tossed him a wicked grin—with some relief—and did.

Cam made him carry the tea-tray. Blake was smiling, tiny and self-directed, about it.

Cam took the other large chair, mostly to see what Blake would do. Blake grinned at him more, and then settled back onto both knees, not formal but comfortable, leaning against Cam’s leg. He also tipped his head against Cam’s knee, pressed a tiny kiss there, sat back up. One hand looped around Cam’s ankle.

“Very nice,” Cam told him, and fed him a piece of oat-cake. Ash said, “Oh, lovely; look at you, both of you,” and unsuccessfully smothered a cough, but also dropped a hand to the fall of his own breeches, bringing their attention to his desire, watching them. “I wish I’d ever been any good at drawing…I’d love a portrait of you like that, just like that…”

“I can draw,” Blake said, somewhat drowsily. “I’m not good at self-portraits, though.” They both knew he could indeed draw, and decently well; his journals always held maps and sketches, some of which had made it into the published memoirs. “I could try to sketch the two of you. I’m not bad at it.”

“You’re good at it,” Cam said, “which you know, the way you are with storytelling, and mathematics, so don’t you be telling us you’re only not bad,” and fed him more, lazily, not a scolding. Blake, being praised, practically purred.

The fire leapt, cozy. The room filled up with heat, and life, and a low-level simmering sort of want, amber and pooling, not urgent. Suffused by tea, and the scents of oat-cakes, and honey, and a bit of bread and ham; nothing heavy, because Cam did have plans, but he’d wanted his boys to eat and rest. Orders, as it were. Taking care.

Blake’s shoulder was warm against his leg, and Blake’s smile was real and contented at being there. And Ash looked up from the Gothic novel to say, “Oh, no, that’s not at all how translation works; you can’t just look at an ancient parchment and get poetry out of it; some of us spend years on a single word, I don’t care if it’s important for the mystery!” The indignation was real and vivid and perfect, and Blake’s snort of amusement was just right, and abruptly Cam found himself wanting to laugh at the sharp clean shock of being here and present and alive.

He said, “You realize there’s a haunted well and a six-fingered ghost, if you’re wanting realism?” while still inexplicably perched on the edge of laughter.

“Oh, I know,” Ash said. “Ghosts I can handle. But translation is my actual profession, and they’re getting it wrong.” He sounded so insulted that Cam just gave up and let the merriment win, shaking with it.

The evening danced, elated. The rain skipped and pattered. The fire crackled.

Cam ran fingers through Blake’s hair, pleasantly aware of his own arousal, his growing want. His pretty partners, in his home. He could do such delightful things with them; and his fingers tugged, hard enough that Blake whimpered.

Cam looked down at him. Blake, prick plainly stiff with want, whispered, “Yes, please.”

“You mentioned a few toys, earlier. Ropes, that cane.” He looped a wave of thick dark hair around a finger, played with the silk of it. “Might be in the mood for that, I’m thinking.”

Blake’s exhale came exhilarated and hushed with need. “Yes. Please.”

Cam looked over. “Ashley. You want to learn some things, aye? So we’ll be doing that.”

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