#aimé deverell

[johannestevans]

Request: somno?

Doing short requests (<1000w)!

Feel free to drop requests in the replies or into my askbox. If you’d like a leave a tip for your own request or someone else’s, my tip jar is here.

He’s not handsome like this, because Aimé is rarely ever handsome, but Jean-Pierre adores to look on him nonetheless, loves these moments where he comes in after Aimé’s been painting and drinking wine by the bottle, and he is able to find him fast asleep, snoring quietly.

Jean-Pierre undresses himself, drops the jumper of Aimé’s he’d been wearing onto the pile with the rest of his clothes, and then he slides forward.

Aimé had stripped naked to crawl into bed – last night it had been hot and humid, and sweat glistens on his skin, clings to the hair on his chest and on his belly, and now Jean-Pierre clings to him too, comes to straddle him. Aimé doesn’t stop snoring, his eyes staying heavily lidded as Jean-Pierre sets his hands on the swell of Aimé’s tits on each sides, brushing over his nipples with each thumb.

Aimé groans in his sleep, his head tilting to the side, and Jean-Pierre reaches down between his legs for Aimé’s cock and finds it half-hard already. He grips at it, squeezes and pulls, and Aimé’s moan is lower now, comes from deeper in his heavy breast as Jean works him carefully and gently to hardness before he sinks down atop him.

Aimé’s eyelids flutter, his snore abortive and stopping midway through, but he doesn’t stir properly just yet, his fingers twitching. Jean-Pierre sighs at the wonderful weight of Aimé’s prick inside him, at the wonderful sink of it into his cunt, at the wonderful heat of Aimé’s body beneath his.

“Wonderful,” Jean-Pierre voices the thought, and leans forward, rests his chest against Aimé’s, his muscle meeting the softer meat of Aimé’s broader, hairier chest, and then he lays his mouth over Aimé’s and kisses him, tastes the red wine that still clings to his lips. “Aimé,” he whispers in soft tones, and as he begins to grind himself down into Aimé’s lap, feeling the other man’s cock within him, feel it sink into him again and again, Aimé groans, grunts. “Aimé, are you awake?”

“Mm,” Aimé hums, his eyes fluttering open – as Jean-Pierre tugs Aimé’s hands up by the wrists to rest on his waist. At first, his hands just rest sleepily against his middle before he wakes up a bit more, and he grips at him. “Jean?”

Jean-Pierre sits down on him, takes Aimé to the root, and Aimé moans, looking up at him.

“How the fuck am I going to go back to having an alarm clock when you go back to work?” Aimé asks, his voice hoarse from sleep, and Jean-Pierre laughs.

“Worry about that later, Aimé,” Jean-Pierre advises him. “Worry about me for now.”

And he pulls Aimé’s hand to his cock.

[transbookoftheday]

Powder and Feathers by Johannes T. Evans

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God!

He’s tired of living it.

That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

---

Powder and Feathers is a dark romance featuring a complex relationship between an immortal several centuries the senior of his new boyfriend. Note warnings for manipulation, non-consensual body modification, twisted power dynamics, gaslighting, infidelity, consent issues, and BDSM vibes somewhat removed from the realms of SSC. There are multiple explicit sex scenes, many of them kinky.

The MC of this story is not explicitly labelled as such within the narrative, but I normally label him as in line with borderline personality disorder: he experiences delusions, severe mood swings, emotional dysregulation, and other painful episodes.

There are other potentially triggering topics throughout. Please use your best judgement and remember to take a step back from the work, temporarily or permanently, if you find any themes are too much for you to read about at this time.

[johannestevans]

I am happy to give free voucher codes for any of my works to queer and trans bloggers and reviewers always! No expectation of a positive review or even reviews at all if you're not inspired or not interested in reading all the way through.

I write a lot of short stories, erotica, romance, fantasy, horror, and many of these are free to read here on Tumblr or on my Ao3 as well.

If you'd like to get a voucher code for Smashwords, just DM me here on Tumblr, or you can drop me an email at contact@johannestevans.com

Powder and Feathers is my newest release, but these are my three main novels:

Powder and Feathers

DARK ROMANCE, CONTEMPORARY FANTASY, FALLEN ANGELS, TRANSMASC PROTAG, ALCOHOLIC PROTAG, BPD PROTAG, FOUND FAMILY, TRAUMA RECOVERY, RAPE RECOVERY, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, ROUGH SEX & KINK

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God!

He’s tired of living it.

That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on SmashWords

Heart of Stone

COZY ROMANCE, SLOWBURN, SLICE-OF-LIFE, PERIOD FANTASY, VAMPIRES, ADHD PROTAG, AUTISTIC PROTAG, VAMPIRE BITES, INTIMACY, EMPLOYER & EMPLOYEE

The year is 1764, and following a glowing recommendation from his last employer, Henry Coffey, vampire, takes on a new personal secretary: young Theophilus Essex. The man is quite unlike any secretary - or any man, for that matter - that Henry has ever met.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on SmashWords

Gerald Poole and the Pirates

NOVELLA, PERIOD ROMANCE, ROMCOM, THREESOME, KIDNAPPING, POWER DYNAMICS, ADHD PROTAG, AUTISTIC PROTAG, TEASING, HUMOUR

Gerald Poole, a young Englishman, is miserable when he is dispatched abroad aboard a naval vessel, and is reluctantly attended to by the cold and put-upon Lieutenant Jack Wicks - this tense relationship is interrupted and put under pressure when the two are kidnapped by pirates.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on Smashwords

I VANT TO READ YOUR BOOKS

Hey, fellow authors - particularly queer/trans authors- I need your help!

I'm looking for queer indie books to liveblog and review on this blog, and would love to read your stuff! Tragically, I am heinously broke and cannot pay for books right now- but I'd be willing to swap ARCs, leave an Amazon/Smashwords/Goodreads review, or anything else you're okay with.

Already on my list:

@thebibliosphere's Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites, which I started reading and loved but had to stop at the very well drawn depiction of a migraine

@plaguedocboi 's Quest for the Sea's Revenge.

[patricianandclerk]

thoughts about relationships: Aime & JP: very uncomfortable but in a good way like it’s interesting to read about, Aime & Asmodeus: I’m loving their longer conversations with each other also lmao at Asmodeus calling Aime out, Asmodeus & JP: don’t have too much to say other than ‘I emotionally manipulated another person again’ ‘I know’ Overall all of these different relationships are interesting for different reasons & im keen to read more : )

hdjdjdjdks Asmodeus and Jean-Pierre's entire relationship is just

but yessss, I'm so glad people are enjoying Aimé and Asmodeus' friendship, especially in contrast to the growing romantic relationship between Jean-Pierre and Aimé!

There's so much fun stuff to come and I'm extremely 👀 about it

[perfettamentechic]

6 agosto … “i nati oggi”

Happy Birthday by Perfettamente Chic #auguridicompleanno‬ #natioggi ‪#personaggipubblici‬ ‪#happybirthday #6agosto ‪#perfettamentechic

2001: Ty Simpkins, nome completo Ty Keegan Simpkins, attore statunitense, ha debuttato al cinema all’età di quattro anni, in un piccolo ruolo nel film La guerra dei mondi, i primi ruoli principali furono nei film Insidious e il suo sequel Insidious: Chapter 2, Iron Man 3, Jurassic World e Avengers: Endgame 1995: Amy Forsyth, attrice canadese, viene scelta per il ruolo di Ashley Fields nelle 2…

[johannestevans]

GORGEOUS

fanart of aimé and jean-pierre from @johannesevans ‘s powder and feathers, bc i love them dearly

[johannestevans]

Trans men and mascs in my books!

Powder and Feathers - Long Novel - Contemporary Fantasy / Dark Romance - $5.99

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God!

He’s tired of living it.

That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

On GoodReads / On the StoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy Elsewhere

Gellert's New Job - Novella - Contemporary Fantasy / Crime - $0.99

Gellert has worked as a business manager for the King family for nearly a decade when an error in judgement brings his employment to an abrupt end. Lucien Pike, a rival kingpin, employs his services instead.

On GoodReads / Buy on Amazon / Buy Elsewhere

Divine Bodies - Erotic Short - Medieval Fantasy / Erotica - $2.99

The god Freyr expects good work from his priests, but gives good rewards. In Medieval Norway, Esben, a trans man, is a devoted priest of the god Freyr, and as reward for his good service, Freyr administers testosterone hormonal treatment in a very magical and satisfying manner.

Featuring transness, divinity, magical HRT, size differences, come inflation, gangbangs, stomach bulges, come inflation, public humiliation, power dynamics, nature imagery, gender expression and embrace of gender identity as faith and worship!

On GoodReads / Buy on Amazon / Buy Elsewhere

The Lord of the Wood's Spring Bride - Novella - Fantasy / Romance - $0.99

Every spring, the Lord of the Wood is honoured with a bridal ceremony.

A trans dressmaker is embroiled in the strange schemes of a local deity, and he lets himself be carried away with the tide.

On GoodReads / Buy on Amazon / Buy Elsewhere

Ambitious Men - Novella - Contemporary Fantasy / Horror - $0.99 Archie had idolised Casper Hugo almost his entire life.

11.6k. Rated M. M/M. Deeply messed up fantasy-horror, wherein a man finds that his dream of taking over his hero’s restaurant is not to proceed as smoothly as he hoped.

On GoodReads / Buy on Amazon / Buy Elsewhere

Cold Comfort - Novella - Period Fiction / Crime - $0.99

Set in 1920s New Jersey. Nasty and violent.

Alvis Hunter, boss of a significant crime operation, steals a captive out from under a rival—Naham, a rabbi's son who immediately attempts to kill himself. In the aftermath, Alvis tries to keep him alive; Naham tries to find something worth living for.

On GoodReads / Buy on Smashwords

[johannestevans]

"Wait, you write books?"

Yeah, a few. So I have hundreds of short stories, serials, and essays available on my Medium and my Patreon, but I have several books out too!

Powder and Feathers

DARK ROMANCE, CONTEMPORARY FANTASY, FALLEN ANGELS, TRANSMASC PROTAG, ALCOHOLIC PROTAG, BPD PROTAG, FOUND FAMILY, TRAUMA RECOVERY, RAPE RECOVERY, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, ROUGH SEX & KINK

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God!

He’s tired of living it.

That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on SmashWords

Heart of Stone

COZY ROMANCE, SLOWBURN, SLICE-OF-LIFE, PERIOD FANTASY, VAMPIRES, ADHD PROTAG, AUTISTIC PROTAG, VAMPIRE BITES, INTIMACY, EMPLOYER & EMPLOYEE

The year is 1764, and following a glowing recommendation from his last employer, Henry Coffey, vampire, takes on a new personal secretary: young Theophilus Essex. The man is quite unlike any secretary - or any man, for that matter - that Henry has ever met.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on SmashWords

Gerald Poole and the Pirates

NOVELLA, PERIOD ROMANCE, ROMCOM, THREESOME, KIDNAPPING, POWER DYNAMICS, ADHD PROTAG, AUTISTIC PROTAG, TEASING, HUMOUR

Gerald Poole, a young Englishman, is miserable when he is dispatched abroad aboard a naval vessel, and is reluctantly attended to by the cold and put-upon Lieutenant Jack Wicks - this tense relationship is interrupted and put under pressure when the two are kidnapped by pirates.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on Smashwords

---

And again, if you're a book reviewer or blogger who is low/no income and would like me to send you voucher codes to get any of these for free, just reach out to me at contact@johannestevans.com

No expectation of a positive review and/or a deadline put on reviews!

[johannestevans]

for fans of gay transgender fallen angels having fuck-nasty relationships with humans, my new book powder and feathers is out now!

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God! He’s tired of living it. That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

Unbuttoning his overshirt and setting it aside, he felt for the vents in the back of his undershirt, and as he let free his wings, he watched Aimé’s face. As there had been the first time he’d seen them, there was awe painted across Aimé’s face, and Jean-Pierre’s hairs stood on end on the back of his neck, a pleasured blush passing over his cheeks, his chest. He liked very much to be looked at – he especially enjoyed to be looked at like this.

Aimé looked at Jean-Pierre’s wings with his eyes wide and softly lit, their different colours strangely illuminated by the fireside beside them, and his crooked lips were parted as his fingers roved over the golden curve of Jean-Pierre’s plumage, curled as his wings were on each side of his shoulder like a cowl. Aimé looked at him greedily, as though he was desperate to look his fill, as though he were hungry for more.

Jean-Pierre was content to be a meal for the eyes, when Aimé’s hands touched him so worshipfully.

“You really want to show off that badly?” Aimé asked, his tone wry. He had a voice well-made for wryness: his voice was husky, had a strange, crooning note to it that made Aimé sound somewhat older than he was, and distracted from the natural grate of his D4 accent. “What, people don’t look at you enough already, with how pretty you are? You need the wings out too?”

Jean-Pierre leaned forward, putting his chin on the heels of his palms, and he looked focusedly at Aimé, smiling as sweetly as he dared. “Tell me I’m pretty again,” he said softly.

buy here for £6.99

[johannestevans]

Powder and Feathers

Hey, do you like fucked up fallen angels?

Do you like even more fucked up fallen angels than the first fallen angel, who are transmasc manipulative French bastards who love to do both murder and assassination? In the mood for a dark romance, perhaps, where said angel fixates on just some guy and decides to bring him home and obsess over him forever? Do you like cats, also?

Do you like on and off toxic and supportive sibling relationships? Do you love complicated and completely hypocritical relationships with the Catholic Church? Do you love revolutionaries that tell lies?

Do you love cuckoldry and self esteem issues? Do you love when rape victims can't separate the sense of being seen as desirable from their sense of self? Do you love t r a u m a ?

Did you by any chance read Victor Hugo's Les Misérables and internalise way too much of it?

If the answer to any or all of the above is yes, I think you might really like my serial, Powder and Feathers, which is about all that shit and more, and you can read it online for free!

Rated E, M/M. WIP. It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short - thank God - but at least there's enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime. That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Read on Ao3 (free) / / Read on WorldAnvil (free) / / Read on Medium (paid)

First chapter here:

When the Great Fall happens, it happens all at once.

It does not feel like falling: instead, it is as if the very world comes up to meet it at speed, launched with impossible speed, and when its feet (feet! feet!) are struck from beneath by the awful ground, it screams. For the first time in its existence (for before now, it has never lived) the angel feels pain.

Many new experiences happen in one rush, in one singular moment: it fills lungs, which it never had before, and feels the cold air rush down a new throat to inflate them, feels it sting; it feels the desperate soak of the rain on its skin, trickling down its body and flattening the feathers of its wings; it screams, and it is chilled to find that the noise that comes forth is just that, just noise.

Corporeality cloaks its body in a new skin, made of flesh and bone and hair and blood, and it screams, and screams, and screams.

The rain comes down from the heavens in heavy, steel-grey sheets, buffeting its fresh skin, and it comes down so heavily and so hard that every drop stings. The new flesh is delicate, and the bruises ache as they bloom to the surface, staining the pale expanse: it is gasping, its two arms (two arms!) clutched about its naked chest (a chest, filled to the brim with treasures, two lungs, a heart, a heart!), and its two wings (blessed normality!) curve inward to shield it, even as it drops to its knees in the grass and the mud.

It is alone on the hillside, and it aches, for it has never been alone before: it has only ever been one amidst legions, one amidst an ordered unit, and here, in the grass, upon the earth, the loneliness takes its heart (a heart, though, really! what next? what next?) and cleaves it in two, pours salt into its veins, and its sobs are guttural and heaving, wrenched from its throat.

Time passes.

It has never experienced time before, time as a thing that moves, time as a river that washes over its shivering skin, and it has never experienced such cold as this, cold that eats beneath its flesh, burrows into its bones, the only bare semblance of warmth coming in the tears that eke out from beneath its eyelids, so hot on its cheeks it thinks it will burn, it will burn—

It does not burn.

Exhaustion overtakes it, and it falls still in the mud, the filth clinging sticky to its skin, forming as sludge in its feathers.

When the rain stops, and the sun rises, it does not stir.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

“Jean,” said a low voice, and Jean-Pierre stirred slightly, raising his head. His mouth was dry, and waking brought him once again to the sickening ebb and flow of the water beneath the damned vessel they were on. His sleep had been fitful, rolling over and over without any space to do so, and he’d barely been asleep for what seemed like a few heavy, black moments before he was being poked at. “Jean, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, sitting forward, and he felt Asmodeus’ hand cup his cheek as he tugged him forward, out of the awkward bunk Jean-Pierre had been crammed into. “Why did you wake me up?” He sounded tired and plaintive, he knew, but Asmodeus was not deterred: he met Jean-Pierre’s gaze and smiled. “I haven’t slept in—”

“We’re here,” Asmodeus said softly, and Jean-Pierre stumbled in his haste to get out of the bunk.

His clothes were rumpled and he was still in his shoes, falling over himself on unsteady feet, and as the ship rocked beneath their feet on the back of a small swell, he felt himself gag, and hid his mouth against the crook of his elbow.

“I have your case,” Asmodeus said. “Colm is already on deck.”

“He would be,” Jean-Pierre muttered, and Asmodeus clucked his tongue in disapproval, but still he smiled: he always smiled, did Jean-Pierre’s brother. Jean-Pierre thought at times that it was the coldest smile on Earth.

The journey from their cabin – a small recess upon the damnable ship where Jean-Pierre had spent the entirety of their journey from New York, staring into space and vomiting in turns – up to the ship’s upper deck was excruciating, and Jean-Pierre walked with a heavy haze of nausea wrapped around him like a cowl. His stomach was empty of anything but bile: therefore, it was only bile that he tipped down the side of the ship when he reached the deck’s side and vomited.

“Jean-Pierre,” said Asmodeus, but Colm was already behind him, and Jean-Pierre grunted as Colm put his arms around Jean-Pierre’s waist and tipped him over his shoulder, carrying him to the gangplank that led from the ship.

Perhaps he should have been embarrassed, but he wasn’t, not really: he fisted his hands in the fabric of Colm’s shirt and pressed his face against the hard flesh of his brother’s shoulder as Colm moved quickly with him. The nausea lingered even once they were settled on the safe, sturdy ground of the dock, and as they waited for Asmodeus to join them – Colm had swiftly bypassed a great queue of people, smiling and waving them down as he passed. They had been charmed by him. Traditionally, people were very charmed by Colm.

“Here,” Colm said softly, and pressed a bottle into Jean-Pierre’s hand, the plastic cool against his fingers and moist with condensation. Jean-Pierre drank from it heavily, half-collapsed as he was on top of Asmodeus’ antique chest, his knees up in line with his chin, and leaning into Colm’s side.

Colm was warm, heavy, solid, and Jean-Pierre leaned his sweated brow against the hard line of his waist without shame for the people that turned to glance at them as they passed on the dock. Asmodeus’ trunk was a huge thing, easily big enough for all three of them to sit on if they wanted to, but for now Jean-Pierre settled on it himself with Colm stood beside him, holding his own case – a leather case, vintage as Asmodeus’ own, though by decades instead of centuries.

They both seemed quite apart from Jean-Pierre’s own luggage, which was a cheap white plastic affair, and looked quite silly held in one of Asmodeus’ massive hands.

Asmodeus was tall, strapping, handsome: possessed of squared shoulders and a narrow waist, dark skin and finely-chiselled features, he rather resembled a model at the worst of times, but now, descending the gangplank from the ship in the Dublin sunshine, wearing a tight grey suit and a pink shirt open at the neck, he looked ever more so.

Jean-Pierre’s polypropylene suitcase could only detract so much.

“Feel better?” Colm asked softly.

“Mm,” Jean-Pierre hummed. “Just— hungry.”

“You’ve barely eaten in two weeks,” Colm murmured. “I’m not surprised you’re hungry. We’ll get something to eat before we go find the house.”

Jean-Pierre nodded his head, pressing his face into his hands, his elbows against his knees, and stayed like that as Asmodeus stepped toward them. No matter that he was on solid ground, he still felt very much like it was moving underneath him, and he wondered if the nausea would ever cease.

“Better?” asked Asmodeus, and he reached out to touch Jean-Pierre’s hair, touching it where it had come loose from its sweat-soaked bun. Jean-Pierre grunted a sound that was neither an affirmative or a negative, but took the elastic Asmodeus offered him, and reached up to tie it back. “You’re alright, Jean-Pierre. We’re here. No more sailing. Let’s go eat something.”

“I’ve no appetite,” Jean-Pierre mumbled.

“Here,” said Colm.

“Wait, no, don’t, you don’t have to—” Jean-Pierre exhaled a breath without meaning to as Colm brushed his knuckles against his cheek, and he felt the nausea, the unsteadiness, the desperate sickness, drain entirely from his body. With the next breath he took in, though still tired, he felt reenergised.

Colm looked quite pale.

“You needn’t have done that,” said Jean-Pierre. “I am no child, unable to withstand the weight of my own feeling.”

“You need to eat,” said Colm, green about his gills as he coughed against the back of his hand, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back the visible urge to vomit. “Let’s go.”

“There’s a taxi waiting for us,” said Asmodeus, smiling his cold smile, and Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but feel a desperate affection for both of his brothers as he stood to his feet, putting one arm on Colm’s shoulder and squeezing even while Asmodeus gestured toward him. “Take your luggage, will you? It doesn’t suit me.”

“I know,” Jean-Pierre murmured, smiling slightly despite himself, and he took the case Asmodeus pushed into his hands.

***

“What is it?”

“I found him out by the wheat field—”

“What is it?”

“He looked so… I couldn’t leave him, Maman, I couldn’t—"

The voices were heard through new ears, and the owner of them stayed very, very still, digesting the sound, the physicality, of all it now was. It could feel it: each sound exiting a throat, moving forth with a breath to fill its sails, and the sound expanding outward, stopping where it reached the dirt ground and the thickly padded hay, but bouncing where it hit the hard wood of the building wall. Sound: this was sound.

Sound, before now, had been but a theory, a concept: sound, now, was real.

Before now, a voice was a Voice, and such things as words came imparted heavy in the very mind, understanding instantaneous. Communication happened to other beings: angels Knew, for that was their purpose.

Now, it Knew nothing, and knew even less, and it heard the soft whimper that came from between its dry lips, hissing over its dry tongue. The sound was pathetic, lowly, and it tasted its shame, felt it ring within its body.

It lifts its head, feels the pain that suffuses its very form, and it exhales, staring forward.

“My God,” whispered the human before it, and it watched distantly as the human moved its hands, two fingers tracing a line from its forehead down to its chest, and then from shoulder to shoulder. What it meant, the angel could not possibly know, and it stared down at its own hand, which was caked with mud. The skin was red-raw beneath its blanket of muck, and the hand, as he regarded it, shivered.

“Come,” said the voice of the other one, which was lower, and it felt the touch against its cheek, and it cried out, keened. The touch was so warm, and more than that, it was the touch of life, a soul under that warm skin, a soul— “Oh, hey, hey,” the voice said, and it said it in the angel’s ear, for the angel was wrapped tight around its body, sobbing against the speaker’s chest.

“Jules—”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Jules said, and the angel desperately curled its wings around them, pressed its face closer to the breast of the one called Jules, but it was not the same: it was used to being in amongst the natural graces of a thousand angels, a hundred thousand, and this was but one human soul, just one. “He barely weighs anything,” he said, and when the angel felt the pang of sympathy, the new emotion all but knocked it down, its knees buckling. “Oh, hey,” Jules said, and his hands alighted firm on the angel’s waist, gripping it to keep it upright, draped as it was about his neck. “Alright, here…”

The angel didn’t let go as the human Jules gently pushed it backward, bringing it down to sit upon the hay again, and it heaved in gasps of air, feeling the instinct although the practice was new, and it looked, for the first time, at his face.

Jules was a human: a man, perhaps approaching thirty years of age. His cheeks were dusky and tanned with hard work in the sun, and his hair was long and messily cut, drawn back from his face, tied at his neck and put back behind his ears. His nose had been broken before, the angel thought: it had seen humans with crooked noses, like this one, but never from down here, beneath the firmament, only from Heaven.

It had never been to Earth before.

It reached up, touching Jules’ cheek with its palm, feeling the heat, feeling the regular flow of his blood in his veins, and it shuddered in an uncertain breath. Jules had deep brown eyes, and it could see in their depths concern, concern and sympathy, and curiosity… The emotions flooded over it like a wave, and it closed its own eyes, gripping tightly at Jules’ shoulder. Their bodies were flush together, and the angel could not stand to pull away, but it heard the noise of the other human, and it looked at her.

She was older, it thought. It saw in her face the same dusky skin, the same shape in the mouth, and it felt the similarity in her blood, and his blood. This was Jules’ mother…

It remembered the first of them, Eve, remembered her heavy with child, and holding the first of them against her breast…

It looked to Jules, and Jules smiled at it. It was a small smile, and it watched his lips curve up to form it.

It hesitated. It felt the face wrapped around it, felt it, and it forced its mouth to move, feeling the strange pull of unfamiliar muscles (muscles! muscles! it had never needed muscles before!), at its cheeks, at its lips…

Jules’ smile deepened, and his gaze came from the angel’s face to its wings, which are… They had feathers, now, and the wings sprouted from between its shoulder blades, expanding outward. It had never had feathers, or shoulders, before, never, it never… The feathers were a golden-brown, and Jules reached up, his fingers brushing against the soft down, and the angel gasped at the strange touch, the strange sensation.

“It could be dangerous,” the mother said. It could feel the anxiety radiating from her, and it leaned closer to the other, feeling his quiet confidence, his warmth. This emotion, this too was new: pleasure.

“I don’t think he is,” Jules said softly, fingers still brushing through the feathers, and the angel’s eyes fluttered closed, its face falling against the human’s breast once more, its nose pressed as tight as it could be against the rough wool of its vestments, its fingers gripping tightly at the fabric. “He’s just frightened, and scared. What happened?”

It didn’t respond, not until Jules’ fingers came away from its wing, and instead touched against its chin, pushing it up to look at him. It stared into Jules’ eyes, into his beseeching expression.

“Can you talk?” he asked quietly, not unkindly.

It had never talked before. It knew only the Word, knew instructions, had put forward messages, but it had never wrapped lips and teeth and a tongue about its speech, and made it audible. But the human Jules had asked it, and were it silent, that would be a lie, would it not? It could talk, it thought: it had a tongue, and lips, and a larynx, and a voice…

“Yes,” it said. The sound was soft and mellifluous, though slightly hoarse, and it made Jules smile again, wider this time. It liked that smile. It liked! Liked! “Fell,” it said. “Was…”

It trailed off.

To Fall was the great punishment: to Fall was to err, and be found judged.

“Did nothing,” it said, overtaken in its own perplexity.

Twin confusion radiated from Jules and the mother alike, and it closed its eyes, the emotion uncomfortable where it touched its consciousness.

“What are you?” Jules asked. His hand, once more, trailed through its feathers, pressing into the down this time, and it clung to him tightly, not daring to let go. His voice was full of wonder: so too was his heart, and the wonderment made it think of blessed creation. It kept its eyes closed, clutching all the harder at this human, at this man, at this soul. It felt such sorrow it could scarcely stand it, and it felt as if it weighed it down.

“Fallen,” it said again, its voice dull even to its own ears. “Fallen.”

"Oh," Jules said, as if he understood, although he could not, he mustn't: his hand curled in the angel's hair (hair? hair!), clutched at it, and drew it closer. He felt the angel's sorrow, it thought, and took such pity on it, such pity. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and the angel didn’t hear as he went on, talking to the woman, the mother, perhaps talking to the angel itself. It heard nothing but the slow beat of the heart beneath its ear, and without really meaning to, the tears a hot and sudden streak on its cheeks, it began to weep.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

“… a roast and a pint of milk,” said the waitress, who was named Rosetta, although she was wearing Sandra’s name badge ever since Sandra had gone to work in the med supply factory to keep guys from looking her up on Facebook, and set the plate and pint glass in front of Colm, who gave her a winning smile. She smiled back, even though she didn’t usually smile at men, didn’t really want to encourage them – she didn’t know why she felt like he was safe, why he was alright, but for some reason, she felt that he was.

Jean-Pierre reached up and rubbed carefully at the edge of his temple, trying to work away the threatening headache building there. Two weeks in a cruise ship’s cabin had left him isolated from people, who all felt their feelings so very loudly, so openly, and all at once, in a half-full restaurant in the early afternoon, it was overwhelming, now.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” Rosetta asked Jean-Pierre. “We do have other vegan options, if it’s that.”

Jean-Pierre looked at the rosiness in her cheeks, the set of her mouth, her wide eyes. He had evidently been looking at her for too long, because he felt the wave of uncertainty come from her, and then he heard Asmodeus say, as if through a wall of water, “He’s okay. Thank you, Miss.”

Rosetta nodded, walking back toward the till, and Jean-Pierre stared down at the fruit platter spread out in front of him on the table: melon, pineapple, strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, oranges, even a few pieces of starfruit.

“Do you think if I ask, they’ll have dragon fruit?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“We walked past twenty-two restaurants before we saw one with a fruit platter,” Asmodeus said mildly, taking a sip of his tea. “So I doubt it.”

Jean-Pierre picked up a piece of starfruit, putting it in his mouth and chewing, feeling the acid sweetness burst on his tongue, and although they both did their best to hide their relief, he could see some of the tension go out of Asmodeus’ shoulders, and see Colm’s clenched jaw relax.

“Vegan options,” Jean-Pierre said mildly.

“Dublin’s very cosmopolitan these days,” Colm murmured, giving him an easy smile, and Jean-Pierre smiled back before he focused himself on his food. The nausea had passed quickly, once Colm had taken it for himself, and he ate with gusto, albeit a gusto Jean-Pierre tried his best to tune out, as he did the slightly overpowering smell of the gravy.

Asmodeus had just ordered a salad, like he usually did when given the option, and Jean-Pierre watched him pick through for the cherry tomatoes, spearing them with his fork and dousing them in the vinaigrette before he ate them, one after the other, before he’d eat the rest.

Colm, on the other hand, ate from his plate in a clockwise motion, taking a morsel from each section as he went around it: a piece of beef, then some carrots, then broccoli, then potato, then Yorkshire pudding, then back to the beef… One could set a clock by the way Colm ate from his plate.

He felt the emotion swell in his chest, a deep and warm affection for the two men beside him. Colm said, in an idle tone, “We love you too, Jean.”

Jean-Pierre smiled, but his nose wrinkled as Colm picked up his pint glass and began swallowing down mouthful after mouthful of thick, white milk.

“I don’t know how you can do that,” Jean-Pierre muttered.

“We don’t all have your delicate constitution,” said Colm cheerfully.

Asmodeus reached out, plucking a grape from the side of Jean-Pierre’s platter.

“Hey!”

“It’s a sharing platter, Jean-Pierre,” rumbled Asmodeus, but as payment, he offered Jean-Pierre his fork, speared with the last of the cherry tomatoes, and Jean-Pierre laughed as he took it.

***

The angel shivered as Jules gently dragged the cloth over its skin, scrubbing at the flesh before he rinsed the cloth once more. The water was brown with muck by the time his work was complete, and he was swift about dragging the towel over its skin to dry it.

“Good that you didn’t get your feathers dirty,” he said quietly. The mother – Marguerite – had gone back inside, and they were alone inside a small hay barn. It could hear the sound of animals, now that it listened for them, and felt their signatures behind the wooden partition: two cows, each lain down to sleep for the night. “Are you in pain?”

“Do not know,” it said, because it was true.

Jules gave it a long, long look, and then he gently set the towel aside, reaching out and touching its feathers once more, absently, like he could scarcely stop himself. Immediately, it was forward again, in the human’s lap, its face buried in his neck, and it heard him sigh softly.

“Can you put these away?” he asked.

“Don’t understand,” it said.

“These,” Jules said, and his fingers carded through soft plumage on each side, making the angel sigh, its wings fluttering with quiet satisfaction. “Can you hide them?” It thought about this for some time. Hiding. Nothing hid, once upon a time: the animals of the world lived in harmony, and Eve and Adam hid nothing, for they had no shame.

So much had changed, since then, and yet for the angel, then and now were so recently just a matter of perspective, the direction in which one pointed one’s gaze.

Hide them.

It felt its wings, drawing them inward, folding against its back, and then, a little more. It was difficult to describe the sensation, precisely, but it felt them fold in tighter, inward, and then there was nothing, just a blank expanse of rain-bruised skin. Jules’ hands slid over the bare flesh, feeling the blades of its shoulders, the back of its neck, and it clutched all the tighter at him.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“No,” it said. “We don’t have names.”

“There are names,” Jules said slowly, cautiously. “Michael, Raphael, Gabriel…”

It was still. How to explain? Could it explain?

“Not…” It stopped. It had never been an individual before, and it felt as if it had been cleaved away from its natural place, strangely empty when it drew away from the human’s breast, and it did not want to draw away. “Not me,” it said. The very word felt like a blasphemy, but what more did blasphemy matter anymore?

It could not Fall a second time.

“You need one,” Jules said.

“Why?”

“Because everyone has a name.”

“Not… me.”

“You need to,” the human said, and he reached up, gently drawing his fingers through the angel’s hair. It leaned into the touch, its eyes fluttering closed once more, and it felt the thumb that gently played against its scalp, the warmth of hard-worked, calloused fingers, a scarred palm.

“Where… is this?” it asked.

“Outside Chartres,” the human said. “France. Did you fall from Heaven?”

It said nothing, but its fingers gripped, without its permission, tighter at the human’s blouse.

“What… year?” it asked. It knew how time worked, it thought. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, and days… into the rest. It knew them. But—

“1732,” Jules said. Once, it Knew. The dates coincided with events, and there were so many different calendars, so many different philosophies of time, but it used to know what events coincided with what dates, and yet its mind was but a blank expanse, so empty, cut off as it is from the body of knowledge of the Host. It Knew…

But it didn’t, anymore.

“You choose it,” it said.

“I can’t choose it,” Jules said, sounding almost scandalised, and it felt the shift in its face as its brow furrows of its own accord.

“Why not?”

“Because— Because it’s your name.” That stung. The your, in the singular, the dreadful singular, the individual: it was just one, now, instead of legion. How could this be natural, be normal, to be but one body, one mind, one… soul? A soul! What a dreadful thing to be cursed with!

“You name one another all the time,” it said tightly, wishing it could crawl into its own skin and be hidden there. “Heard about it. You give one another names, and assignations, and diminutives, even.”

Jules stared down at it, apparently struck dumb by this retort.  “But—”

“You say I need a name, but now you will not choose one. Make your decision one way or the other.” There is a moment’s pause, and then Jules let out a low, rich sound, breathless and quiet. It leaned back slightly to look at his face, at the smile dragging at his lips, at his teeth. It liked that sound: laughter, it was laughter. “You laugh at… me,” it said, feeling its lips twist into a frown.

“You’re stubborn as an ass,” Jules replied.

“Oh.”

“Jean,” he decided. “Or… No, Pierre. Or— I can’t choose. There are too many names, all of them too common!”

“Jean-Pierre,” it said.

“That’s too common.”

“You said needed a name.”

Jules sighed, and again, it felt that trickle of warm indulgence, of fondness, the emotion that played soft over its skin. It ached, it thought: it could feel the shift of bruises beneath the flesh, the blood seeping beneath the tender skin…

“As an ass,” he said again. “Alright, Jean-Pierre: that’s that. How old are you?”

It considered this question. “Debatable,” it said.

“How can it be debatable?”

“Humans debate,” it said.

Jules sighed, still smiling. “Yes, but they don’t debate age: age is a matter of facts, one way or the other. You are the age that you are.”

“Oh.”

“So, how old are you?”

“Unknown.”

Again, the laughter.

“How old do I… appear?” it asked.

“Late twenties,” Jules said, after a moment’s thought.

“Very well,” Jean-Pierre replied. “Then I am late twenties.”

“No,” Jules said. “You need to pick a year, and a date you were born.”

“Why?” it asked defeatedly, astonished by the petulance in its own voice. It had never felt like this before: quietly defiant and… annoyed. It was annoyed, irritated. There was a heaviness at its eyes, and even as it mused on the thought, it felt its mouth open unbidden, feels strange, thick air pass from its throat through its mouth. Immediately, it frowned in perplexity.

“That was a yawn,” Jules said.

“Am tired?”

“Yes, I expect so.”

“Oh.”

“Come,” Jules said, and Jean-Pierre disobeyed. Was this what disobedience felt like? It felt good. Perhaps it did deserve to Fall.

It lingered in the hay as Jules rose to his feet, and Jules frowned down at it, his eyebrows furrowing. It looked up at him, unmoving, its mouth set in a thin, loose line. “Fine,” Jules said, and then he bent, and lifted.

Jean-Pierre let out a noise of surprise as arms came beneath its legs and its back, lifting it with ease from the hay bale and taking it outside, into the stinging cold of the early morning air, still dark, still with moisture thick in it. The black night was beginning to give way to red on the horizon. It did not struggle, however, as Jules brought it under the low stoop and into another building that adjoined the first, a house – a cottage.

“Jules,” said Marguerite. “Wh— Oh.” She stared at Jean-Pierre for a long moment, her mouth fallen open, and it felt confusion, fear, uncertainty, and then a curious calm. It was as if it was all smoothed away in her mind, and it stared at her for a long moment, not entirely comprehending as she crossed her arms over her chest, and nodded toward the wooden slats to the edge of the room, where a dog, wiry and brown and thick with fur, tapped its tail against the sheepskin beneath it.

Jules carried the angel to the bed, putting it down there, and he reached for a blanket, throwing it over its body.

“No—” it protested as the human draws away, feeling the dreadful cold, the dreadful loneliness, of the cleaved-in-two feeling set into place again.

“Lie down,” Jules said, and he patted the wooden board beside the angel’s breast. The dog wriggled forward, curling against its side. It was not the same as Jules, but still, life burst beneath its skin, and Jean-Pierre came closer, wrapping one arm about the animal and pressing its nose against the back of its furry neck. It didn’t smell like Jules did, like sweat and hay and wheat. It smelled different: this was how dogs smelled. “This is Anicroche,” Jules said. “She’ll keep you warm.”

It held the dog, felt her tail wag against its calf beneath the blanket, felt her warmth, and it pressed its head against her fur, feeling its softness against his skin.

“Where are you going?” it asked miserably.

“To work,” Jules replied. “There is labour that needs completing.”

“For how long?”

“Would you know how long how long was, if I told you?”

It paused a moment. The hand touched its hair once more, and it sighed, not opening its eyes. “No,” it muttered.

“Soon,” Jules said, and stood to his feet. It felt him draw further away, heard him talk in hushed tones with Marguerite, felt the separation as the two souls exited the cottage, and went outside. The dog remained.

The dog’s heart beat faster than Jules’ had, and her mind was a flurry of short bursts of emotion: new thing, curious, love, warm, friend, food?, food want, new thing, warm, warm—

It sighed, and it felt the dog’s mind begin to slow as she wriggled close against its chest, seeking its warmth. The angel allowed it, and it felt the dog’s drowsiness, felt her mind drift and slow…

This was sleep.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

Jean-Pierre heard the click of the door as Colm stepped out from the café, and heard his growl of irritation. “Christ, Jean, how old are you?”

“As old as you are,” Jean-Pierre mumbled against Asmodeus’ neck. “To the day.”

“You’re seriously going to carry him the whole way?” Colm demanded.

“It doesn’t bother me,” said Asmodeus, his tone easy, smooth, and mild: Jean-Pierre’s legs were wrapped around his middle and his arms around his neck, and one of Asmodeus’ hand kept a steadying grip under Jean-Pierre’s thigh, keeping him in place as they walked along. “The house is scarce twenty minutes’ walk from here.”

“You spoil him,” snapped Colm.

“I spoil both of you,” was Asmodeus’ reply, and Jean-Pierre heard Colm’s sound of frustration, but did not feel the wave of it, because Asmodeus drowned it out.

Asmodeus was not like humans or other angels, nor like anyone else besides: he was a pit of lacking feeling, a great, black spot on what might be called the radar of Colm and Jean-Pierre’s empathies, and in this blackness, now, Jean-Pierre felt comfort beyond measure, for it drowned out the cacophony of the rest of the world.

Pressed against this nothingness, being as it was a void that Jean-Pierre called brother, and loved beyond measure, he slept.

Chapter Two on Ao3 (free)

Chapter Two on WorldAnvil (free)

Chapter Two on Medium (paid)

[johannestevans]

Powder and Feathers

DARK ROMANCE, CONTEMPORARY FANTASY, FALLEN ANGELS, TRANSMASC PROTAG, ALCOHOLIC PROTAG, BPD PROTAG, FOUND FAMILY, TRAUMA RECOVERY, RAPE RECOVERY, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, ROUGH SEX & KINK

Aimé Deverell, a depressed and lonely artist finishing up his degree in Dublin, watches the world go by, and paints it as it goes. Life is short, he thinks - and thank God!

He’s tired of living it.

That philosophy shatters like glass when his life is threatened by the beautiful Jean-Pierre, a Fallen angel.

Reviews on GoodReads / Reviews on TheStoryGraph / Buy on Amazon / Buy on SmashWords

Currently 50% off on Smashwords with promo code 53TKS!

[johannestevans]

I have added my ongoing serials to ScribbleHub, in case people read there!

Prophet's Cry

Erotic romance/drama, M/M infidelity leading to M/M/M where a boss doesn't realise that the man he's started seeing is the husband of the subordinate coworker he's been fucking over his desk. Rated E, 20k+. This has a Steddyhands flavour if that's your vibe.

Prophet Shulman, Administrative Secretary at the Middlesbrough branch of Friar Holdings, has been on the verge of divorce for the past twenty years, almost ever since he got married.

Shagging his boss might make him as bad as his husband, but what the Hell's the point in trying to be good anymore?

Meanwhile, Vance Vixen, recently emerged from his own divorce and also the closet, when not shagging his Admin Secretary in the stationery cupboard, begins a delicate romance with a bartender named Gideon Shulman.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / Medium

Powder and Feathers

Dark erotic romance between a highly manipulative Fallen angel and a depressed, lonely alcoholic of an artist, fantasy and magical elements throughout. Rated E M/M with some fucking around, lots of kink, possession, weird flavours of trauma around bodily autonomy & abuse recovery.

This is originally inspired by Les Misérables, but if you love the French nastiness of Lestat de Lioncourt, you might enjoy the same vibes in Jean-Pierre Delacroix. Ditto if you generally like fucky angel mythology.

It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short - thank God - but at least there's enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime.

That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

Rescue Dogs

Slice-of-life and trauma recovery with some fucked-up romance and fantasy on the side between an ex-knight of the realm and destined hero and his ex-PE teacher. M/M with that E rating. Age gap, teacher/student vibes, trauma recovery, etc - ex-hero and child of destiny tries to be a normal person.

If you like the vibes of post-war fucked-up Snarry, you'll vibe with this; if you like the fucked-up destiny dynamics in BBC Merlin, ditto. In general, if you like it when men identify a little bit too much with abused dogs, this is the story for you.

Cecil Hobbes, an ex-PE teacher disgraced and looked down on in his hometown, has a new partner: Sir Valorous King, a knight of the realm, once a child of prophecy, and Cecil’s stalker.

A few months into their relationship, Cecil finally convinces Valorous to see a therapist, on the condition that Cecil attend one himself.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

An Uncommon Betrothal

Period romance set in the 20th century interwar period between a disabled gentleman and his butler. Also E, also M/M. Lots of disability and chronic illness feelings here alongside a growing desire for and sense of queer community as a man begins for the first time to reach out and experiment with his sexuality whilst being disabled.

If you love Jeeves and Wooster or if you love more serious valet and butler vibes, such as Thomas plotlines in Downton Abbey, you'll vibe with this; if you're generally craving plots with disabled, fat, and neurodivergent men being very explicitly desiring, desirable, and desired, you'll like this!

Alexos Fox is of course quite sad when the long-time butler of his household, the man who all but raised him, retires. He is not at all prepared for the old man’s replacement: his exceedingly attractive and painfully tempting nephew, Harry Sutton.

Alexos, overcome with feelings that are simply too much to repress, tries his best to avoid him, but it seems that Mr Sutton has more than his employment on his mind as he attends his new employer with keen and concentrated focus.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

[johannestevans]

Powder and Feathers Updated!

Chapter Fifty-Four: Old Women just dropped.

It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short - thank God - but at least there's enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime. That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Read on Ao3 / / Read on Medium / / Read on WorldAnvil

[johannestevans]

ooh if you're still doing requests, something angry/possessive would be tasty

filling short-form requests for specific kinks Rated E, Jean-Pierre Delacroix/Aimé Deverell, 464w. JP and Aimé are the MCs of Powder and Feathers.

God bless crazy fucking angels.

Aimé can't help the laugh that comes out from his throat as Jean-Pierre crowds him out through the back door, making it slam against the brick a half-second before Aimé slams against the opposite wall, Jean-Pierre leaning down into his space.

"Stop fucking laughing," growls Jean, tangling his hand in Aimé's hair and hauling his head back before he goes teeth-first for his throat, dragging his mouth down until he reaches the juncture of Aimé's shoulder and he digs his teeth right in.

Aimé's laugh becomes a moan of pain, and he grinds his hips into Jean-Pierre's hand where it's squeezing him through his joggers.

"Fucking ridiculous," hisses Jean-Pierre. "How dare she look at you like that?"

"How dare she?" Aimé agrees, and he doesn't even try to touch l'ange back, just sits back against the wall and enjoys the rage misdirected at his body, feels the heat under his skin, feels his blood pulse eagerly, because fuck, is it something to be this wanted, this possessed, something to be this territorial over. "How dare that woman stand next to me at the bar, Jean, for all the world like she was thinking of getting a drink?"

"She touched you," hisses l'ange, fury flaring in his pretty blue eyes, and Aimé grunts at the cold air on his cock as Jean-Pierre drags his joggers down around his thighs, because there's frost on the ground and it's been threatening snow all week, and the air is fucking bitter, if not as bitter as Jean is right now. "She put her hand on your waist!"

"Pretty sure she didn't."

"Looked at you as though she was going to ride you right there, fucking whore."

"She asked me what time it was."

"She should have known you were spoken for," mutters Jean-Pierre, and Aimé can't help the way he chokes on air, the way his cock fucking pulses, at the way he digs his blunt fingernails into Aimé's thighs as he drops to his knees on the stone floor.

"Right, right," says Aimé breathlessly, looking down at Jean's face. "She should have known that the ugliest guy in the place belonged to the literal angel dispensing tracheotomy tips to the med students in the corner."

"She should have," Jean-Pierre maintains, and then squeezes Aimé's cock so tightly in one of his pretty hands that Aimé can't breathe, the pain making his head spin. "You are mine. Yes?"

"Yes, Jean, I'm fucking yours," Aimé says, as long-suffering about it as he can manage when all he can think about is his throbbing cock and the agonisingly beautiful rage writ on Jean-Pierre's features, and that's the last thing he can think at all before Jean lunges forward and swallows Aimé's cock down his throat.

[johannestevans]

most recent chapter of Powder and Feathers

[johannestevans]

the closest i will ever get to writing RPF:

“This is signed,” Aimé said, holding up the book. Jean-Pierre glanced to the wall, at the gap between his edition of La Légende des siècles and volume the second of Les Misérables.

“You think autographs are a novel premise?” he asked, and Aimé released a low, amused sound.

“He calls you,” he said, tapping one fingernail against the title page, where messy handwriting was scrawled all over, a far longer inscription than Jean-Pierre had needed or asked for, “sublime.”

“I’m sure he said a great many pleasant things about me,” Jean-Pierre said. “His signature graces several of the volumes I have attributed to him – and several more besides.”

“Jean,” Aimé said.

“Aimé,” said Jean.

There was a bright smile on Aimé’s closed lips, and a sort of sparkle in his eyes. “Did you sleep with Victor Hugo?”

“Wouldn’t you have?” Jean-Pierre asked, and Aimé fell back on the bed and laughed.