GOD DEVOURER

Marquess of Winchester. Woulds't thou like to live deliciously?

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

the feeling of warm sunshine on his skin reminded benji that he was alive. he closed his eyes, face upwards towards the heavens, soaking in brightness of the day. heaven knows he’d have to return inside where the shadows awaited him. at least this way benji could pretend that everything was still normal. that he was just a normal boy in the middle of a market, but he could feel augustus’ presence without even seeing him. it reminded benji that he could not stray too far. 

the harlot was surprised that augustus agreed. wide eyes watched the other man with caution. his words caused benji’s cheeks to burn bright red with embarrassment. “r-really?” benji asked, hopeful that he expected nothing in return. but augustus never gave anything for free. as augustus leaned forward, benji flinched, honeyed eyes looking at the ground. the blonde swallows. “hm? oh…thank you,” he murmurs, face turning a bit so that his lips brushed against the other’s cheek. 

benji’s focus returned to the various desserts. he settled for a small, golden pastry that had some sort of fruit jam. he took a bite and savored the sweet taste. it was everything he hoped it would be. he licked his lips and smiled, before offering a bite to augustus. “do you want a taste?” the boy asked with a tilt of his head. 

 a secret. what did benji keep to himself? he thought deeply of his response before leading the way to a different stall. “when…i was little….i wanted to be a bird.” he chuckles at the silly thought now. “i wanted more than anything to have wings to fly all over the world.” it seemed benji was all too grounded now. “does that count- as a secret, i mean?” 

He’s as pretty as Paris, Augustus thinks as the harlot extends the pastry to him, and cleverer than he knows. Offering no response, he simply leans forward with hunger in his eyes, making sure his lips and teeth graze lightly against Benji’s finger before taking a bite of the pastry with a small smirk. The inherent, unspoken sanctimony of the act is a true embodiment of the Marquess, forever reminding the world around him that he could rip them apart with teeth alone. 

“Delicious,” he responds at last, cold grey eyes fixed on his companion as if to challenge — do I mean the pastry or the meager taste of you? In truth, it’s not just the sight of Benji squirming that Augustus delights in — it’s the rise of his every reaction, the way he flinches and blushes and sinks back into himself in disappointment. “I’ll have my cooks prepare it for you upon our return,” he finds himself promising, the words yet another act of presumption, as the harlot leads the way to the next stall.

He listens for any sign of the secret he’s looking for. Was it travel you craved as a boy, or freedom? Augustus knows better than to ask the question aloud, unwilling to face the demon that is his own self-entitled possession; he’s too emboldened by the act of clawing at something that could never be his to consider himself a captor, and too addicted to the promise of power to let his little lamb go. “A child’s secret, but a secret nonetheless.” 

The stall is tucked away in a darker alleyway than the one before, though there is enough light to draw his eyes to a dark velvet ribbon with a small ringing bell charm threaded delicately in the middle. He tosses another small coinpurse to the seller, and takes the collar into his hands. Augustus is greedy, even when only in thought, and wants for little more than to claim Benji as his in the face of any curious Londoner with prying eyes — of which there is an infinity. “A little prize for my little pet. The first of many if you grant me the answers I seek,” he states, before gently spinning the boy around so he can tie the collar at the nape of Benji’s pale, slim neck. 

The simple act has brought their bodies far too close for propriety, and the Marquess takes advantage of the moment to whisper against Benji’s ear, “Tell me something you’ve never told a soul.” He turns the boy back around to face him, trapping him between the dark stone of the alley and himself as he admires the glint of gold just above the hollow between Benji’s delicate collarbones. “Tell me...something you know you shouldn’t.”

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

starter: @augustuspowell​

location: london streets

cobblestone streets damp from the morning’s rain caused mud to pile up where ever benji stepped. the streets were crowded like they usually were during midday, the noise of traders and shop owners selling their wares almost defeating. honeyed eyes took it all in, surveying each stall and table with interest. there was little money in his pocket so he had to be decisive on where to spend it. the blonde could not help but be drawn in by the sweet aroma of baked goods from a nearby table. the man behind the table was not as sweet as his product. benjamin gazed at the breads, muffins, tarts,and cakes with curiosity- especially the cakes. it was not often benjamin had desserts, though he’d always been fond of them. when the baker attempted to sell them, benji shook his head.“apologies…i do not have…the funds,” he murmured softly. he weighed his options before slowly turning towards the man besides him. benji swallowed, afraid to speak up.“gus….may i have a cake please?”

Their midday excursion had entwined itself into his little game, it seemed — or perhaps, Benji had devised a game of his own, staving off consequence and pain in favor of a few hours in the sun, purposefully in the public eye to keep Augustus’ madness at bay. He would oblige for a price, of course, indulging the boy by way of commoner’s intrigue, if only to see what terror he could strike up without the cover of night. Icy eyes follow as a baker’s stall calls to Benji, the boy’s golden curls illuminated in the sunlight as he marvels at the assortment of goods. It comes as no surprise that golden-hued treats attract honey-colored eyes, and Augustus can’t help but sigh disinterestedly as his companion fawns over the desserts — that is, until his ears pick up a whimper of trouble, a request for help he’s all too capable of assisting with. A self-satisfied smirk draws itself out along the line of his lips, and Augustus teases, “Well, well. Perhaps there are some things youth and beauty can’t buy.” There’s a slight sinister edge to the low of his voice, an inflection he intends for Benji alone to catch. “Very well,” he allows, reaching into his coat pocket to procure a small velvet pouch of coins. The satchel is pinched between thumb and forefinger, hesitating to be spent as Augustus ponders a moment for some possible exchange. He leans in to whisper, unwilling to let the baker in on his secret, “Let’s play a little game, shall we? You may have anything your heart desires within the bounds of this market, but you must tell me a secret of yours for each stall we visit.” Before the harlot can answer, Augustus hands the pouch to the seller, who nods to Benji to take whatever sweets he likes. “However virtuous or sinful, just...entertain me.”

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

it was never really quiet in a molly house. there were always multiple culls who spent their coin and the harlots that performed for them. there was always shouting in the streets and birds on benji’s window. but benji was used to all of that, so instead he focused on the other’s heartbeat. it was a soothing rhythm, the steady signs of life and spirit running through gus. benji sighed and lifted his head so that his chin rested against the other man’s chest. 

if he did not already feel somewhat at ease, perhaps benji would have caught the slight warning in the question. perhaps he’d see the future irony and all the pain that his answer would cause. “if you have not given me a reason not to trust you, gus” he answers. it was so startlingly simple. this gus fellow already deserved more respect than his other culls. he seemed to respect benji and treat him with kindness. it was the least benji could do to return the favor. gus avoids his eyes and benji can’t help but feel like he needed to see them again. he quietly traces patterns on gus’ bare chest as he listens to his solemn words. it was common for culls to express their doubts; usually the men that visited him were insecure in one aspect or another. pale fingers continue to draw invisible designs on the chaplain’s skin. he hums, considering gus’ words. the harlot smiles. it’s impossibly soft and seems out of place in the setting. “i could be awful, as well.” he pauses. “you never know,” the boy adds with shrug. “everyone sins, gus. you. me. everyone.” he licks his lips, wondering if he is even making sense. “that does not make us bad people.” benjamin sits up so he can run his fingers through gus’ hair. “if we are comparing the two of us, i would say the harlot is much worse. so you are in better shape than i.” he whispers with a smile. benji chews on his lip. it was something he didn’t like to think about too often. it seemed his whole life was a sin. where did that leave benji? at hell’s gate, he supposed. 

benji stares at gus with a certain fondness that he’s practiced over the years, though that does not mean that it’s entirely artificial. benji really cared about other people. as far as knew, all of his culls (whether awful or not) were his lovers- at least for the night.  

he’s taken aback but the other’s words. no one had ever really said anything like that to him before. what was benji besides a common whore? “i-” he stumbles over his words before dropping his eyes in embarrassment and bashfulness. he feel silly. “you cannot possibly mean that. i am…” benji doesn’t finish that sentence. what was he? he didn’t really quite himself, but he knew that he wasn’t worth someone like gus. he didn’t deserve him. gus’ touch is soft and gentle, something benji had not felt in quite some time. it was just a simple touch that me his heart swell. he did not know this man, but he knew to be wary of him. any man that made benji’s heart jump was worth the caution. 

benji’s spine hits the mattress and suddenly he staring up into gus’ beautiful blue eyes. he parts his lips and sighs. he smiles. “i do not wish to command you, nor anybody for that matter.” he is silent for a long time, mulling over the other’s words. “gus,” he says the name so easily. “if you could do me a favor, i would be indebted to you.” the harlot licks his lips as he attempts to form his thoughts. “as…you can see…i have…dealt with a lot of pain recently.” another pause. why was this so hard to ask for? “can you make feel good for once?” his words are softly spoken, falling from his pink lips with an air of hesitance. was it such a hard request? one of his hands rests over gus’. “please?” 

The boy before him, golden-haired and honey-eyed, is too alike the sun, and like any fool too eager to feel a beat of warmth, Augustus can’t help but stare straight at him for a little too long, eyes wide with a mix of hunger and surprise. It’s a dangerous little game he’s elected to play, accompanied by its own set of dangerous rules, of which the most important was to conduct every act as though he truly were infatuated with the boy. Love is, of course, the least practiced of his acts of artifice but, by Augustus’s calculations, Benji has already learned to breathe in Gus’s kind words as willingly and as easily as the scent of a flower. And so, he decides against further planning, thoughts drifting off instead to the precious pink of Benji’s lips, asking softly for a reprieve from all the pain. If Benji weren’t so impossibly beautiful, the ease with which the harlot had fallen for his little game and pled his pathetic little pleas, would be enough to get Augustus hard.

He imagines it must be difficult for Benji to request something so common to his own ears, and yet foreign to his tongue. The words fall from the boy’s lips like a prayer, soft and slow, as if seeking divine mercy, and the piety of it all stokes a certain hunger deep in Augustus’ belly. “You needn’t ever plead with me,” Gus whispers against Benji’s lips, the silk of his tone just barely offsetting the hunger in his gaze. He presses his lips to the side of Benji’s mouth, denying the harlot the satisfaction of a real kiss anytime the boy reaches for his lips, though he hopes his act of teasing passes off as a kind of awkward tenderness. One hand moves to tangle itself in Benji’s curls, and his tongue slides lightly against the bottom pout of the harlot’s lips, a mere tease of the true, deep kiss he’s yet to grant Benji. A knowing smirk forms as he feels the boy relaxing into his motions. Admittedly, he’s never quite been one for granting immediate pleasure, satisfaction, or reassurance of any kind, and so — more due to instinct than act —his teeth capture Benji’s bottom lip for the briefest of moments before catching himself. The slight bite is replaced by plush lips once more, their kiss intentionally brief and cut short by Augustus’ own inclination to move further south along Benji’s body.

Lips, teeth, and tongue elect to pay Benji’s perfect pout no mind, and instead, he quickly finds a favorite spot in the crook between his neck and shoulder, humming softly with pleasure as the sweet skin reddens under his ministrations. His hand moves down the pale expanse of Benji’s chest, tracing his ribs with a delicate touch he knows he won’t use again; it would take so little to simply break each and every single rib if he so chose, to simply crack open the boy’s ribcage and rip the fluttering heart out from within, if only to nail it up on the wall for everyone to see. His mouth follows soon after, tracing out another unpredictable path along Benji’s chest, teeth raking lightly against his right nipple before once more finding an immediate favorite spot near the dip of Benji’s hips. Greedily, his fingers knead at each bony jut as his mouth nears the object of his desire. Ever so wickedly, he stops nearly as soon as he starts, and balances on his knees as he shrugs off the remainder of the boy’s clothes.

Benji looked a fine sight like this, panting and needing and pliant and so much more wanton now that he was laid entirely bare. The sound of his breaths, heavy and wanting, and the evidence of his desire arouse Augustus more than he anticipates; there’s something wholly alluring about getting to see this Benji, one seemingly so at odds with his usual sweet, cherubic countenance — or, indeed, even the crying, battered boy Augustus had seen a time or two before now. It was not a won war, but it was a small victory, seeing what was behind the shroud, and he takes it eagerly as any conqueror would. Privately, he deems Benji deserving of a reward and lowers himself once more to finally meet the boy’s perfect pink pout with his own mouth. It’s a fervent collision of lips, teeth, and tongue, and Augustus pushes against him, desperate and hungry and still needing to know the boundaries of someone so beautiful, so breakable. He deepens the kiss and simultaneously slips his fingers around Benji’s cock, gripping and tugging his length firmly. When the harlot’s body reacts of its own accord, Augustus’s lips quirk upwards in a smirk once he knows with certainty to continue his ministrations. Admittedly, he’s not keen on how silent he’s been this whole time — any routine fuck would see Augustus far more dominant, perhaps even brutal — but there’s a certain desire-laden, innocent eagerness to his actions, half-frantic and half-deliberate; like a virgin given the opportunity to bed the person of their dreams, Gus has tried every trick he’s heard of, but in far too quick a succession to really make an impact — until now, of course, when Augustus takes over instead. Their eyes meet, forever a collision of ice and amber, before he kisses a quick path down Benji’s torso until his lips reach his cock.

The world’s turned slow now; it would do him no good to get the boy off quick and simply leave. No, Augustus knew better than that — he’d revere every inch of Benji’s body today at the expense of his own pleasure, because doing so meant he’d be one step closer to breaking it tomorrow. He eyes the harlot’s pretty cock with a glint of mischief as his hand moves to hold the base firmly, while his mouth moves in slow, deep strides, tongue lathering his cock in saliva. With each new response his actions elicit, he pulls his lips away, loosens his grip, and moves his tongue up and down the sides of his shaft, grazing the smooth skin as he inhales Benji’s intoxicating musk. Everything about him is tinged with sweetness, it seems, from his charming, bashful words, to the taste of his skin, and of course, the musky, delicious scent of his flesh — genuinely, Augustus can’t help but wonder what Benji’s cum will taste like on his tongue. His motions are languid, devilishly slow, the deliberate rhythm broken up only by sporadic acts of speed, if only to bring Benji close to his peak before ripping him away from it just as fast.

“Benji...” He starts, looking up at the harlot half expectantly, half innocently — as best he can manage with his tongue slowly moving up and away from Benji’s cock, saliva dribbling down his chin, and eyes slightly teary from repeatedly taking him in his throat. “Please come for me.” 

Augustus doesn’t even notice that he begins palming his own firm erection at the thought of Benji spilling into his mouth.

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

it’s surprising that benji still gets a little why when undressing in front of someone. he can’t help it. having other peoples’ eyes on him made him feel so vulnerable. the bright blue eyes of gus’, though beautiful, were just as intimidating. benji was all too familiar with his own appearance. the bruises that healed over time. he had grown accustomed to seeing them but he knew how jarring others may have found it. how ugly. he felt ugly. benji bit his lip and pushed those thoughts away. he had to keep his head clear for his cull’s sake. he could have a crisis later on his own time. as gus removed his own clothes, benji couldn’t help but examine the perfect, pale skin that was now revealed. he was certainly beautiful- far more than benji. he appeared soft and smooth, like he had never struggled for a meal in his life. lean and fit. benji was intrigued, honeyed eyes admiring the expanse of chest in front of him. he already feels more relaxed than he did when he first met with gus. you could never be too careful, not in benji/s line of work.

benji’s heard it all. compliments and insults were just as common to his ear. he sat on his knees, hands folded in his lap. he was waiting for instruction, ever obedient and mindful. “you’re awfully sweet to me, gus. i do not deserve it,” he murmurs, his soft voice only speaking the truth. still, he was smiling, his lips wide and little tongue poking out between his teeth. as a hand comes towards his face, he cannot help the smallest of flinches that takes place before he’s leaning into gus’ touch as if they were star-crossed lovers. his touch his soft his and benji finds himself enjoying. he stares at him then, really looking at him, wondering what kind of cull gus would be. whatever the answer, benji would be prepared. dark eyes fall to the man’s lips, his breath catching in anticipation. the molly boy manages to nod once or twice before their lips are connected. like usual, it sends butterflies into his stomach. benji had always adored kissing. it was one of the best parts of his job. it made it feel like…his culls actually cared for him…for a moment, anyway. benji leans forward as he kisses his back, lips moving softly against gus’. his small hands find gus’ shoulders, his skin warm under his touch. as the man shifts, benjamin tilts his head, his eyes looking towards the ceiling before fluttering closed. he sighs softly, an angelic sound. the tips of his fingers brush against the other’s silky hair. at their lips meet once again, benji’s hand shifts to gently cradle gus’ face. benji hums, pecking him lightly before shaking his head. “you think me beautiful?” he laughs, scrunching his nose as he did so. “perhaps you need to get your eyes looked at.” there’s a pause. benji is simply admiring gus’ features. the lightness of his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones. “thank you,” he murmurs, faint blush on his cheeks. he squeezes the other’s hand and lays down beside him, his head resting on gus’ chest. 

“midnight?” he asks, voice curious. “no…i quite like midnight. i do most of work in the dark hours of evening or the early mornings before the sun rises.” he pauses. “i have never been afraid of the dark.” no, it was the people who lurked in it who were far scarier. his eyebrows furrowed, taken slightly aback by the pure kindness this cull was showing. didn’t he want to fuck benji and get over with it? his fingers graze gus’ lips. “i do not think you could hurt me anymore than i have already experienced,” he whispered, eyes dropping momentarily before a smile is replaced on his face. 

I do not think you could hurt me anymore than I have already experienced.

That the phrase is whispered against his chest, near the part of him harboring the vacant muscle that should weep and wail at the boy’s words, is not lost on Augustus. He knows, as confidently as he’s ever known anything, that this is the closest Benji will ever get to his heart — no matter how deep under Gus’s skin the Marquess delved. To his ears, Benji’s words are something in between a promise and a sigh, and in stark contrast to the ideas already brewing in Augustus’s mind. As ever, there’s a delicate intimacy lacing together what a harlot believed and what a nobleman knew, and Augustus marvels at the dichotomy, eyes twinkling with a contented sense of mischief.

“You already think me worthy of your trust?” Gus murmurs with an air of innocent surprise before pressing a kiss to Benji’s temple. “I...I could be awful, you know,” he starts, tone light as ever, almost teasing. He’s testing the waters once again, seeing just how far his little act has carried him. “Chaplain or not, who’s to say I’m not a terrible man? I...” His brow furrows in an act of thought, as though he’s struggling to reveal a story that Augustus has already thoroughly planned. “I lie, and I steal, and I sin like no other.” The words are truth, though the intention and weight behind each are not more than smoke and mirrors. Gus stares up to the ceiling, feigning difficulty to meet Benji’s eyes out of fear and shame. “All far too regularly, too. I ask the nobles who attend church for extra donations and bring whatever they’ve given me to the hungry, the poor, those in need. I don’t know how else to help, to commit to my vows...” He admits it sheepishly, and his voice trails off into a sigh, and he returns his attention to Benji, lips pressed against his temple. “And then there’s this.”

He swallows, and stares at the molly boy longer than he means. Perhaps in a fairytale, Benji’s beauty alone would spare him from the fate Augustus devised for him, the angelic amber of his eyes and the cherubic pink of his cheeks deterring any harm from coming his way and simply enchanting the Marquess instead. But Augustus was no fairytale prince, and life was no child’s tale. It would end the same as any other story: in blood and poetry and a warning no one ever heeded.

“Benji, I don’t...want to be like your culls. I-I want to be more, even if I don’t have the words for it,” he whispers against his skin, voice carrying all manner of unspoken promises. In silence, his eyes implore Benji’s, searching for any shift in disposition, any sign of delight or, should his charms fail, repulsion. Temporarily lost in thought, his fingers absentmindedly trace the square edge of Benji’s jaw and the outline of his lips before returning to the curve of his neck and chest; Augustus isn’t sure when or how he learned to muster such tenderness, or if the simple softness of the boy has somehow dug up such warmth from one so cold. Still, the charade can only last for so long, and he leans in closer to Benji, close enough to feel the heat of the other’s breath on his skin, to say, “Tell me how to show you I mean it.”

It’s a dangerous request, one that offers Benji more power than Augustus would normally be willing to grant. Would he ask to be pleasured, or to pleasure Gus in turn? Would he ask for money, or for vengeance against a past cull, for something — anything, really — that granted a sense of catharsis for the violence brought to his body? Was he already too resigned to request little more than to bear the brunt of pain once again, to sign an unspoken pact in blood and bruise and sacrifice? Augustus repositions himself above Benji, eyes focused on the delicate curve of his perfect rosy lips, awaiting a response as he imagines tearing the moans and sobs from Benji’s lips with just the crook of his fingers. It’s only the semblance of self-restraint, still hanging overhead, that returns his gaze to Benji’s honey-colored eyes as he says, “I’m yours to command.”

Of course, what he’s really saying is simply an inversion of his true intent: Fear me. Obey me. Love me if you dare.

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

whenever benji meets with a cull, he does his best to prepare for anything.  to fulfill any fantasy the man may have. he never complains, never protests, he just does what he is told. if this cull wanted to sit besides him all night and talk, benji would gladly agree. “gus,” he repeats, a small smile playing on his lips. “i’m fond of your name. entirely more interesting than mine. benjamin,” he speaks, shrugging his shoulders with an amused gaze. “though you may call me benji if you’d like” or anything else, benji supposed. it had been a long time since benji had a cull who did not demand pleasure right away. it was refreshing, it gave him some time to breathe. he sits close to the man, their knees touching as benji faces him.  “you may,” he breathes, giving the holy man permission to undress him. the molly boy is still as gus unties his cravat, but he hesitates for a moment. “i hope my body is pleasing to you, sir” he mutters. he wouldn’t normally say something that, but he knows the green and yellow bruises along his skin may scare him away. it causes a certain insecurity within him. if he was not beautiful…then what was he? he slides his coat off his shoulders and sighs with a comfortable smile. “please do not fret over me, i am here to make you happy, gus” he tilted his head, a finger or two coming out to brush along the man’s cheek. benjamin decides to remove his shirt as well, folding it before setting it on the nearby table. 

he watches with curiosity as gus produces a book from his coat. it was surprising but that did not necessarily mean something bad. “no, no” he assures, shaking his head. “it was a wonderful idea. i am glad you visited me.” he means it genuinely like most things he says. dark eyes are focused on the other man as he speak, listening so intently with a charmed smile on his face. he did not know much of fairy tales and fables. his own childhood lacked the excitement of dragons and princesses, but it was nice to think about. benji laughs as gus does, adjusting so that he’s sitting up on his knees. his touch his soft and it is a remarkable difference than how he was he normal touched with greed, lust, and desperation. it brings a small pink hue to his cheeks, similar to the rouge he saved for special occasions. he flips his hand over and grasps gus’s fingers, gently. everything about his was gentle. “i am unworthy of your praise. it makes my heart swell and swoon,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. he was enjoying himself, simply indulging the man and talking to him. benji blows his hair out of his face before settling on gus once again. he laughed. it was sudden but bright sound. “my dear gus, the pain i feel is only temporary. it does not matter in the end.” he licks his lips and chews on his lip, deep in thought. “i…i…am fond of all sorts of things. i can scarcely name them all. i….i have been to st. paul’s and…if you climb the steps all the way to the top…you can see the most magnificant sunrise. i’ve always liked those.” 

For a flash of a moment, his gaze turns hungry as Benji’s clothes are stripped away from his lithe frame, revealing the bruises adorning the molly boy’s flesh. Green and yellow splotches discolor the milk and honey of his skin, jarring and haphazard in their placement, and somehow all the more scintillating for their asymmetry. Even without seeing the cull exact their brutality on the boy, Augustus would know exactly what kind of person had fucked Benji senseless — no matter their station, they were a mirror image to the Marquess’s true nature: painful for the sake of pleasure, harmful as a point of habit. The brightness of Benji’s little laugh pulls him out from his momentary reverie, and he quickly removes his jacket and linen top before tucking his knees under himself, matching Benji more exactly in selfish display. Gus’s lips twist lazily into a boyish grin as Benji talks about his love of the sunrise, all at once too intimate and too innocent — and, yet it’s this very dichotomy, this stark, sugary juxtaposition of pretense and sincerity that makes the game so inexorably delicious.

“You’re just as radiant as any sunrise I’ve ever seen,” Gus offers, the words drifting from his lips with the solemnity of a prayer. “Those are common words to your ears, I’m sure...” his voice trails off, eyes momentarily fixed on the perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips, until he meets his eyes at last, ice on amber once more. He inches closer to the boy, pulled into the gravity of what seems inevitable, and raises a gentle hand to brush against Benji’s cheek. The boy is smooth as a deity encased in marble, his flesh a mirror to the acts of his culls; Augustus longs for little more than to see if his kiss might shatter him whole, but the anticipation arouses greater interest than the reward. Their skin is mere breaths apart, and Gus whispers in continuation, “Perhaps, I can...show you how I mean.”  Half out of habit and half as part of the act, Augustus doesn’t ask for permission before he presses his lips to Benji’s own. Once more, it’s an exercise in restraint and in tenderness, the equal unfamiliarity of both cultivating Gus’s own sense of urgent, awkward fascination as his actions grow bolder, hands grazing Benji’s flesh in precursory exploration. His lips descend delicately to the sharp of his jawline and the bruises marking his neck, each kiss mapping out a constellation of injury until he returns his attention to the boy’s mouth once more, smiling lightly against his lips as their hands find each other. “You are beautiful, Benji. All of you. There isn’t a soul who could strip you of that.” Instead of the fluidity of plan, there is a halt, a tense heartbeat of pause; Augustus isn’t sure if the words are born from a place of feigned piety, or a challenge revealed to him from some secret corner of his mind. Are you too beautiful for even me to break, he wonders as his fingers stroke the silken marble of his skin. Augustus lies back on the bed, hand tugging lightly at Benji’s own in invitation to join him. 

“If it’s sunrises that cause you such happiness, could it be the fall of midnight that you fear?” He asks, tone light — happy, even, or as close as he could feign — and another lazy smile offers itself in the hopes it calms any worry the boy might have. “I only want to know so that I ensure I never hurt you, Benji,” he adds more seriously, raising the boy’s hand to his lips for one more kiss, the act committed only to further pledge his liar's promise. 

[augustuspowell]

dcllymcgregcr·:

dolly wasn’t too sure what was on offer there, as she stands and tries to decipher what he meant. of course he spoke plainly and to the point but each word seemed somewhat riddled behind his fancy tongue. dolly chews on her tongue, sucking on her teeth as she considers breaking into the freak market. with the thought of an extra penny in her purse dolly straightens her back and pushes her chest so her breasts stand out in comparison to her peers. “sounds like a bunch of lies or jest, but i’d be willin’!” dolly grins, exposing teeth that were a little wonky due to years of mistreatment to oral hygiene. little does she realise she’s about to give herself over to a world she couldn’t quite imagine. 

a world where augustus had the means to humiliate a peer, a world in which dolly should’ve been born into if it hadn’t been for the selfish means of her birth mother. she extends her hand to shake on it, an action she had watches emory do when making deals over girls and food. her tongue felt light in her mouth, the agreement coming with ease though later she’d find herself cradling her babe with the nagging sensation that she had just made a terrible mistake. but what mistake would come with more money? if she had the coin, she could get better dresses and slowly rake her way up to golden square to reach the likes of mercy and the other golden square girls. 

“how much will i be earnin’ by doing such things?” she asks bluntly, like a child asking if they’d get more candy if they said please. 

He knows that the circumstance of his birth has only ever assured his place in the world, a world far above the depths of society and far away from the business of harlots, liquor, and blackmail. And yet, it’s the world he’s both sought out and devised for himself, a point of pleasure and profession in equal measure. While most of his enjoyment is derived from the aftermath of his machinations, there’s a particular delight in the innocent hope of a harlot, their eyes set aglow at the (false) promise of getting a glimpse into Augustus’s world — let alone, turning a profit in concurrence.

At her question, his smile widens to allow a laugh, rumbly and hollow and bubbling up from deep within his chest. “A businesswoman, I see,” Augustus comments, the barest hint of pride belying the mock of his laugh. His gaze rests on her hand for a moment; he’s not wholly unwilling to shake on the matter, but he’s always loved to tease. The distance between them is narrowed as he leans in towards her, head lowered towards hers so that his words are heard by her ears alone, “More coin than you've ever seen in your life.” 

Truthfully, Augustus isn’t entirely blind as to what such an opportunity — no matter how degrading, humiliating, or uncomfortable it might be — could mean to a harlot of Russell Street longing for a better life; this knowledge, however, is met with a callous lack of care. She was a harlot, a woman in the business of being used and abused in exchange for coin, and Augustus was not the type to let an opportunity slip by. “Don’t worry your pretty head, little fox. I’ll see to the arrangements myself.”

[augustuspowell]

pckcs‌:

@augustuspowell

Peck dealt in flesh. That was an irrefutable fact. They also dealt in drugs; potions and poultices and balms and snuff. Poisons. But far beyond these two material things, the greatest thing Peck dealt in was intrigue.

They had built their humble, ramshackle, filthy empire on being unknowable. On treading the line between man and woman, blurring the boundaries between pleasure and pain, evaporating the divide between right and wrong. It was Peck’s bread and butter. It was what made them tick.

Having long been the master of it, it was rare that Peck found themselves out-done in the arena of mystery.

Their cloaked client had been dropping coin in their pocket for a long time. But it was not for any of Peck’s usual wares. He did not partake of cunt or cock. He did not savour the bite of a whip or the sting of a palm. Though Peck had been proud to serve him from their pharmacy, such transactions were not the basis of their relationship. And as for intrigue; well, he was rich in it himself.

Mr Winchester, as he called himself, came to Peck for something they had never really thought of selling before: the pleasure of looking. When he had first arrived on their doorstep, Peck had been lucky enough to have a crack in a wall through which he could peer. By his fifth visit, and the fifth payment, Peck had bored peep-holes in every single one of the rooms in their house. Ever so many visits later, the sounds of Peck’s whores grumbling about the drafts in winter was drowned by the music of coin falling into their hand.

Just as sweet as it always was, Peck could not help but rub the coins together as Mister Winchester deposited them, smiling at their glint. “I trust you found tonight satisfactory?” they asked, and offered him a cup of wine to take the place Winchester’s purse had once occupied.

He was fifteen when he realized that the pleasure of pain was a temptation too great to resist, that the manipulation and discoloration of the human body rivaled even the most sumptuous and vibrant silk gowns — no matter the person contained underneath. Silly roughhousing with one of the estate’s stableboys led to his first taste of pain-laced pleasure, and once their tryst concluded, he watched in keen fascination as bruises formed on his skin, marble suddenly blemished in shades of purple and blue, the fullness of his lips split in an imperfect scar just barely perceptible to this day. The unfair truth of the world saw the stableboy drawn and quartered for his ‘brutal attack’ while Augustus succeeded his father as Marquess of Winchester. The new title came with added scrutiny, and illicit deeds which resulted in blood and bruise were no longer acceptable in the sight of all the lords and ladies; those delights were reserved for shadow and secret, pursued only when he’d found his footing among like-minded nobles. 

His position within the nobility secured itself by his heart of darkness, it seemed, and his taste for the macabre increased not only with age, but with the desire to experience that which demanded itself erased in aristocracy’s stead. Augustus had stumbled upon the Domination House in a drunken stupor after a masqued ball, tossing a coinpurse towards the mysterious brothel-keeper as he demanded to watch them exercise their whip. For each subsequent visit, the mask and cloak stayed with him, even when the drink did not, and the intrigue he held for Peck increased with each visit to the brothel. From there, a relationship grew between the two masters of their crafts, bounded by whips and candlewax and coin.

“Satisfactory.” Augustus repeats the word Peck has offered him, his tone and shrouded countenance betraying nothing as he proceeds to drink from the glass. In truth, the release he achieved was the finest he’d had in days, perhaps weeks, his mind’s eye replacing the harlot and their cull with a vision of himself and the molly boy he’d recently taken an interest in. His eyes are darkened with the fresh satiety of lust as he surveys Peck, unknowable and all the more intriguing for it. Though they’ve only known each other in relation to coin and cloak, there’s an intimacy between them that dissipates the veil Augustus presents to those who tremble at the mere suggestion of violence. “We make a good pair, Peck. In all my searching, I don’t think I’ve ever met a single soul so amenable to my interests, let alone one so expertly talented. But, you must know... It’s rare for me not to become intimately acquainted with those who suit such predilections. What cost grants the pleasure of unraveling your mystery, darling Peck?”

[augustuspowell]

goldengrace-rosyemory·:

winnie had to keep herself from rolling her eyes - while she respected lord powell greatly, she found him rather…unsettling. and even for winnie, that was something. but his words rang true in her ears and all she could do was nod silently, using her glass as an excuse to remain silent while she drank. “that, i suppose.” there were other reasons but they would be of no interest to him, she was sure. she had stopped paying attention until he’d mentioned what was wanted, and she looked up at him with narrow eyes, sighing lightly. her first thought was mercy, and winnie became a bit defensive - as she would with any of her girls…of course. though mercy was anything but innocent, and definitely not docile - but with enough coin she was quite the actress, it seemed. “for a correct price, i’d be happy to be of service.” 

“For the correct girl, you’ll be happy to receive what you get,” Augustus replies, a clear, authoritative tone coloring the low timbre of his voice. He was testing his limits now, something not entirely foreign to the man nor his class; the aristocracy was made of those who broke the rules regularly, who pushed boundaries determined by man into expanses man seemingly couldn’t dream of, resting only until they were satisfied — and they never were. He knew, to those who were not afforded this luxury by the circumstance of their birth, they longed for it nonetheless. Augustus could only imagine that Winifred was the very same, and the notion lent itself to the belief that she was precisely the type of bawd he’d like to strike a deal with. He’d just have to get past all the courtesies first. “Even you understand that a simple farmer considers which of his daughters is prettiest in exchange for a rich man’s even prettier penny. All the while, the lord simply waits for the farmer’s response while another girl’s mouth is wrapped around his cock.” He offers a light laugh at his own joke, before continuing, “To be trite, dear Winifred, it’s you who is meant to entice me — not the other way around. And besides, a businessman never shakes on an agreement when he hasn’t seen the product. So, shall I come around on the morrow for you to introduce us? Or, of course, the two of you could always make an appearance at one of our famed manor parties. Whichever you think is likeliest to make the biggest impact.”

[augustuspowell]

mercilessbawd·:

arabella was not ashamed of her status, after being a harlot and a homeless child ‘bella knew better than to feel bad for what she had become. if anything, it was pride that made her stand taller, her spine straightening as augustus labels her for the crowd to hear, for the crowd to pick up on the name so they could check the betting board - not that anyone was to take her home that night.. apart from the baron. “this bawd is priceless,” she retorts, her nose jutting towards the ceiling as she stands her ground, the intricacy of the pattern on her dress a clear sign of how she held herself. the men weren’t the only gender to explore fortune through their clothes at the auction house that night. 

she stands still, almost un-moving as the marquess begins his terrible thread of words, leaving her shaken as he mentions her own softness for the man she had planned to go home with that night. there was little to unfreeze the blood that should’ve been pumping round her body - but the mere thought of someone uncovering her true nature left her uneasy and almost sickened as she steadies herself in her satin slippers. without a word, unable to strip her face from the mask she had built up after so many fearsome years, arabella takes his hand and allows the man to take her for a dance or two, her skirts skimming the floor as she hopes the baron wouldn’t see. the last thing she needed was his paranoia or his jest. “and why would you think you’re worthy of my price?” she asks, loud enough for only his ears to pick up as she dances with him beneath a chandelier. “what plans has the jester came up with tonight?” 

“Because your price doesn’t matter,” Augustus sneers in her ear as they start the dance, his words dripping with hunger and disdain in equal measure. There seems to be a mutual sense of contempt between the two of them, both players in a court of pawns, and he’s all too eager to know what it is that allows her spine to stand so straight, her chin tipped upwards not as an act of compensation, but as a display of pride. Though it wasn’t true for all, he’d learned over the years that the point of pride for most was also that which was dearest to their heart — their weak spots, as it were. And what one might consider weak was merely an avenue for exploitation to Augustus, the tools he could use to bend someone to his will. 

As per the dance, he grasps her hands, a bit too tightly, and they spend a moment close together as the small chamber group plays on, the rest of the dancers seemingly oblivious to the cold-blooded exchange between them. “Do you know what men like me — no, men like your Baron — say about price when we’re in our manors, playing cards, and drinking wine imported from Spain and Italy? We don’t say a thing. We just laugh.” He lets the words rest in her ears as he spins her, the steps of the dance pulling them apart momentarily. When they return to each other, he continues, “The price of luxury is never a concern to rich men. It’s the boring shit that they hate paying for. And a boring bawd is never the bawd who succeeds.” The dance separates them once more, each paired with another partner, though Augustus’s eyes refuse to leave the dark-haired beauty. His tendency towards chaos in the place of harmony makes him hope that Rowan, regardless of their friendship, is in attendance as he attempts to make the man’s beloved bawd squirm. 

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis·:

it was much easier to be obedient than to act out. any form of rebellion or revolution had been beaten out of benjamin at a young age. it was much easier on his mind and soul to just go along with whatever a cull wanted, so what if his body paid a price? that’s what the culls were paying for, right? and not all of his culls were wicked. in the end, they were all just men. just tired, lonely, men. it was always different and benji had learned a long time ago to be prepared for anything and everything. he didn’t speak up, not often anyway. he just held his anxiety inside where no one else could it. that’s how it was. benji provided them a service and whether he felt pleasure or pain, well, it was just part of the job. 

culls came to the molly house in nearly every disguise imaginable. it was something benji was used to by now, so he was not thrown off by the cloaked figure. he merely led the man to his bedroom, a simple room with table and two chairs, and a bed nearby. the molly boy closed the door behind him and faced his cull. “oh,” he murmured, surprised at the other’s words. he always seemed surprised by compliments despite how often he received them. “’thank you. that is very kind of you to say, sir” he murmured, voice gentle and smooth. the blonde laughs. it’s a happy sound full of genuine amusement. “i am no angel, i assure you” benji fusses, scrunching his nose up with humor. he assists in removing the cloak, folding it carefully behind one of the chairs. he examines the man in front of him, dark eyes floating over his features. “you are very handsome,” benji compliments earnestly. the more he converses with the man, the less tense he seems. “shush now, i am very pleased to be with a man like you” he promises, gaze somehow becoming softer. the request surprises him but at the same time, it does not. benji had spent plenty of time with culls that just wanted his company. “of course,” he smiles, leading the pious man to his bed. benji sits besides him and tilts his head. “is there a name you would like me to call you, sir?” he understood that not every cull wanted to be known by their given name. there’s a brief pause. “would you like me to keep on my clothes or shall i take them off for you?” 

“Gus,” he replies in a small voice. He’s always loathed that diminution of his given name, but he can’t resist the perceived symmetry the name shares with God’s own: three letters, one syllable, and equal in their capacity for inciting fear, causing pain, and administering justice by their own rules. Privately, he admits to himself that there’s a certain attraction at the idea of being akin to someone so feared he inspires love — or something close enough. The pause he’s granted lasts a little too long, though he aims for it to pass off as nervousness to the younger boy, and he continues, Gus’s voice taking over now, “The good book teaches us that...even the highest of the holy serve others. May I?” Long, nimble fingers move to untie Benji’s linen cravat before unbuttoning his silk waistcoat, and he helps the boy slide it off his shoulders and down to the bedsheets. Hoping his words further guide Benji into an ease to call his own, Gus murmurs, “I only hope for you to be comfortable — however that means. I imagine that such fanciful clothes become rather cumbersome after a while, but please, do be as you prefer.” He smiles, brighter than Augustus knew was possible of himself, and finds that it’s all too easy to smile at the boy; like sunshine, there’s a light to him, a warmth that Augustus doesn’t know how to replicate in full, but does know that he yearns to see it burn brighter and brighter before quelling it with the single press of his thumb. He thinks, for a moment, that should things go according to plan, he might even be able to do it with a kiss.

Augustus reaches into his inner jacket pocket to procure a book of poetry, though he sets it on the wood floorboards instead, abandoning his earlier plan without much hesitation. “I...I’m sorry if this isn’t what you expected,” Gus says gingerly. “I suppose, even still, a part of me believes the fairy tales of childhood — singing songs and reciting poetry to the aim of one’s affections, slaying the mythical beast so that you might get the chance to dance with them ‘til midnight comes.” Gus laughs, and Augustus thinks of the embarrassment of such innocence to bring a seemingly natural blush to his cheeks. His hand nears Benji’s own, and delicately, his index finger strokes the smooth skin of the molly boy’s hand. “I-I confess, I don’t know what to do when reality confronts you and y-you realize... There’s not a grand dragon or vile witch, there’s only...you, and the person you’re wholly captivated by.” Augustus realizes the forwardness of Gus’s admission, the earnestness that the boy might extrapolate from his words, but decides to press on, if only to see how well his little charade has worked. “Let’s...forget John Donne for a little while,” he says with a bashful tilt of his head and a small, eager smile. “Truly, I only intended for it to allow me the chance to hear you speak beautifully, but I now realize we could simply talk.” His hand reaches to gently brush back a curl fallen. “To cover even an inch of your face is sinful,” he teases lightly before returning his hand to Benji’s once more, continuing the gentle touches against the back of his hand. “Could we perhaps get to know each other? I...I’ve seen so much that causes you pain, I should only hope to know what pleases you instead.” 

[wewau]

literature:  —  dorian gray  { the picture of dorian gray, oscar wilde }

“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”

“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What then?”

[augustuspowell]

goldengrace-rosyemory‌:

“ale, piss. i suppose it all starts to taste the same when you’ve been in london as long as i have.” she replies almost dryly, becoming rather un-fond of the city she’d spent her entire life in. “but if you do not drink, then you are stuck in this…” she motioned to the air around them, shaking her head as if looking for the correct term, “pit of reality.” she settles on, giving a nod of thanks as her glass is refilled, and clinks it against augustus’s in cheers. “i’d think it smart to keep assumptions to yourself, mr. powell.” winnie teases with a chuckle and a shake of her head. “red, blonde, brown…they’re all the same to me now.”

“Lord Powell.” He corrects her as soon as the slip catches his ears, the words sharp with an austere edge he’d normally reserve for his more amateur business partners. His voice dips low in accordance with his posture, as he leans to ensure that his words are audible only to her in the secluded mansion’s parlor, “I’ll trust you to remember that, when you are in need of a hefty coinpurse or realize your house has one too many girls and need a way to get rid of her.” For a moment, his eyes, forever piercing in their ice-blue intensity, are not quite fixed on her, but somewhere past, searching the crowd for those he knows to be under her care. He finds the girl he’s looking for and returns his attention to the matter at hand. “If by ‘all the same’ you mean that each represents a coinpurse ripe for your taking, then I suppose I can’t disagree. Your girls are prizes to be won by the highest bidder, and I happen to know the highest of them all. The gods demand a doe this week. Brown of hair, with eyes to match. Innocent and meek, docile and sweet." He takes a sip from his crystal glass of wine before asking, "Can you fulfill their request?”

[augustuspowell]

ofcbenjis‌:

he woke up nervous. he didn’t normally wake up with an uneasiness in his stomach, but his insides were a bundle of nerves. benji dismissed it as excitement for the day ahead, but he knew deep inside that he couldn’t shake this feeling. the boy was never nervous to take culls, unless they turned out to be cruel or rough. the encounter with the demanding cull the previous night must have still weighed heavily on his mind. he tried to get the memory out of his head so that he could focus on the new day. it was a new day. 

benji heard of the man who had been observing him for awhile. he didn’t know how he was supposed to feel, but he pushed that away as he walked downstairs. he peeked his head around the corner first, hoping to get a glimpse of the man. benjamin ran his eyes across the man in question, making note of his long hair and intense eyes. with a gulp, benji appeared from the doorway and offered the man a soft smile. “good day, sir. i’m benji,” he greeted, his words soft and smooth. he held out his hand. “you can follow me.” @augustuspowell

Augustus had watched the young man for a while now, fascinated at his obedience, his lithe body succumbing to the pressures of those who treated porcelain with the delicacy of a pig, leaving him bruised and, at times, a little bloodied. He’d never once stepped in to assist, never once reported his mistreatment to his brothel-keeper — quite the opposite, the marquess had finished himself off at the very sight of the boy in all his pain and anguish, and left before cull or harlot took notice. Soon enough, he’d arrived at the idea that the boy might be his perfect little bird, chirping back to him what he might learn about the vicious culls Augustus could ‘supply’, his own secret weapon to bring about a nobleman’s end — wrapped up in white lace and silks, rosy-cheeked and far too pretty for his line of work.

He knew that, if treated with violence alone, the harlot wouldn’t obey him in the long-term, not in the way Augustus needed him to, and so the marquess took to the act of pretending. Wanting to appear as far from himself as possible, his clothes had been ripped from a layperson; truthfully, it wasn’t unheard of for members of the church to break their vows in a harlot house. A dark cloak shielded his profile from those who might know him from periphery alone, and he carried himself with the gait of someone taught to survive, rather than exist — not purposeful, simply present. He offers a small smile when greeted, but follows silently until they reach Benji’s room. “You’re very beautiful,” Augustus starts, his voice affected with a shyness foreign to his true nature. “I...I thought you an angel when I first saw you. That’s why it took me so long to...visit you properly.” He removes his cloak only, revealing the layperson’s clothing underneath. “I hope it doesn’t disturb you much, to be with a man like me. I only wish for us to...read poetry together, if that’s alright. I’ve never...” He smiles bashfully, letting Benji’s mind fill in the blanks he's deemed unfit for a man of the pious order. Ice blue eyes flit to the bed, and he asks, “Can I — can we sit there?”

[augustuspowell]

If you see a connection that your character would suit, but the spots are already filled, please message me! I’d love to work something out so we can write together! I’ll be adding to this list as...

[augustuspowell]

dcllymcgregcr‌:

dolly wasn’t a very good judge of character, her mind fickle when she becomes engrossed with the long locks that frame his fine face. a lion, she had called him - but the slick of his voice seemed to be twinned with something like a mouse or a rat. though she still acts as if he wanted her, pushing her chest out as she stands with a light directed against her copper waves. a harlot she was, a harlot she had been for just over five years - it was all she had known, the only experience to her pitiful life after a boring fifteen years that were coloured a shade of beige. being a harlot was her existence, it helped dolly to become the girl she was in that moment. independent(-ish), strong and bold. she had learned to fight, she had learned to read with the other girls who had came from better backgrounds.. augustus may have looked down at her as if she were the mud on the bottom of his boot but she was proud of herself - and that was all that mattered. 

the scenario he described had her in tangles, her brows knitting together as she tries to put a picture to his words. though russel street had it’s own very range of weirdos who liked to suck toes as if they were to die if they didn’t, she had yet to experience it. her mouth gawps open before she replies in her harsh tones. “y’want to suck on my tits?” she asks before she falls back into the character she had put on for the ball - a harlot who had slipped in at the right time in the right place. “that’s a strange one, but nah i ain’t - and i wouldn’t do that either! well, maybe for an extra few pennies but i’d need several cups of ale…” she finishes her answer with a slight slur as she thinks about it, pondering the idea of really doing something weird for someone she didn’t know. well - wasn’t spreading your legs for weirdos bad enough!? with a huff, her eyes return to the stranger who dressed as if he was a relation to the royal family. "d’you really ask the girls to do that?”

Augustus reads the change in her expression as clearly as the pages of a novel, the decided change in her tone flitting from feigned saccharine to harsh and incredulous. But when her demeanor colors back to its original state — flirtatious, chatty, talking of money with the keen business sense all the best harlots inevitably learned — he smiles. He smiles not because he believes her, but simply because he appreciates a good actress. Or, at least, an actress who tries. “You misunderstand my interest, little fox,” Augustus starts with a light laugh. “Forgive me for not being clear. I know of a nobleman's son who, like so many others, finds his wife boring, tired of a woman who can’t indulge him the way he likes.” There’s a slight pause before he continues; Augustus knew that only the most select harlots had the fortune of turning down opportunities, and doubted that the girl before him was currently so lucky. Whether that was due simply to circumstance, talent, or choice — he couldn’t know. 

“It’s been reported to me that his interests have...shifted ever so slightly since the birth of his bastard, though it's not the child he's grown love for. The boy's got quite a niche interest in girls like you, and would pay you rather handsomely should you delight him how he likes. Of course, you’d have no chance at becoming a kept woman, given that...” His hand gestures in the space between them, in vague reference to the fullness of her chest. “your condition isn’t permanent, even when a man’s interests might be. But at the very least, you would get the enjoyment of being able to call a rotten bastard a motherfucker like no other.” Augustus' eyes are sharp and steady as he reaches his last remark, mischief tugging the corners of his lips to a delicate, lopsided smirk. What he’s revealed so far isn’t strictly false, though his true intentions have, as always, remained within the confines of his mind: If the harlot took up his offer, he'd undoubtedly have fodder for blackmail; in Augustus' mind's eye, images of the son caught in a rather compromising situation by his straight-laced father swirl about, and he wonders — no, hopes — that he’s found the girl to bring about his rival’s undoing. “Of course, if you’re uninterested, I can always procure another madonna for him.”

[augustuspowell]

mercilessbawd‌:

arabella who had been clung to the baron as if she were in over her head, seemed lost when alone. she stood aside from the harlots who danced around in their costumes and make up - hands holding together as she observes with a glare as if she wished to turn them to stone. her eye is trained on one of the dancers, watching their feet move across the hall with such elegance it almost makes her smile - that is, till her thoughts are rudely interrupted. 

normally she’d scoff and turn her head, but arabella saw the event as a business meeting and it’d be rude to turn down a conversation from such a fine fellow ( plus, it’d be quite the occasion to have his coin purse in her golden square molly house ). a smile does not appear on her lips as she speaks from the corner of her mouth, refusing to face him as she holds her head high. “do i look like the woman who’d tell you all my secrets?” she snaps, lips slapping together before her head turns slowly to face the man. “i have boys and girls who’d willingly tell you what they desire, if that’s what your belly craves.” 

Augustus, for all his merciless proclivities and feigned adherence to the rules assigned to his class, was a man who operated largely on whim and advantage. That is to say, that which interested him was often that which could prove fortuitous in circumstance. He considers her question with a tight-lipped smile, amused by the stoicism she presented when all others around her seemed to delve into hedonistic revelry. “You look like a bawd, Miss Staunton. And every bawd has her price.” Only her head has turned to face him — and this excites him, the promise of challenge amongst a group who rarely presented such. Selfishly, he maneuvers himself in between her and the previous object of her gaze, as though silently demanding she turned her attention toward him and only him, if she dared. 

“More than that, however, every bawd has her own desires — you’d be a fool not to have a hunger, for yourself, for your house. It must be more than the sighs and screams of a pleasure house that keep you going.” His smile evolves into a lopsided smirk, baring his teeth just a little as he continues on, words laced with a hint of teasing. “Then again, perhaps mystery plays to your favor. Surely, there must be some intrigue to keep the Baron on his toes.” Augustus decides that he’s tested the waters enough for now, and instead glances about the room in search of the man in question. Unsuccessful, he turns his head back to the bawd, an inkling of a ploy come into view with the hopes it might drag out her Baron from the shadows — or, better yet, more of her true nature. “Dance with me, Miss Staunton. The world deserves to see you put on display by someone worthy of you...and your price.”

[augustuspowell]

dcllymcgregcr·:

dolly couldn’t believe her luck to be THERE of all evenings. rumours were flying about, on who was going to have money and who would be picked. a rumour of a prince was the talk of her lips, but nothing compared to the beauty of the harlots. they were draped in all sorts of fabrics, with make up to make them appear as serene beauties you’d find in fairy-tales. dolly liked to think she came straight from one of the books she had learned to read from a few years back - a red-headed starlet who’s eaten by wolves due to her negligence.

her mouth hangs open, ready to drink and eat as her bosoms dare to fall over her corset’s front - the dress was too tight for her post-baby body but she wasn’t one to complain. she liked the attention, and bathed in their light as she found boys, men and girls staring at the size of them.

her attention is once again swayed as the man approaches her, a man with fluffy golden locks that frame such a beautiful face. she almost stops in her path, holding her breath as he talks about something other than money. he was the first man to do so - but she couldn’t quite grasp the concept. “i’m normally five shillings sir, and i do a better job than the whores on golden square! i promise on me heart,” she crosses over her chest with her finger, laughing before she pouts her reddened lips ( the colouring due to a mixture of wine and rouge ). “i’d give me self up for a man like you! you look like a lion, ready to pounce - would you be willing to dig your thick claw into me, sir?”

For a moment, he’s accosted by the bright cheer in her voice when she announces her sexual prowess, and the effort — woefully misplaced, given his own personal fascinations — brings a bemused, pitying look to his countenance. “I’m surprised a charmer such as yourself hasn’t already found company in the arms of a gentleman by this point in the evening.” It’s a statement spoken calmly, betraying no emotion. Privately, however, he means it with just a hint of sarcasm, even though it’s not a complete lie. He imagined the drunker ones amongst the attendees wouldn’t care if she was the chatty sort or not, and might even welcome it. But the others, those charged with the plight of the aristocracy, with their masks of refinement hiding away the animals underneath — the ones worth chatting up — would almost certainly want for a quieter girl, one who sounded only when the pleasure (or pain, if the cull was inattentive enough) of the encounter grew too big for her little bones.

Before he speaks once more, Augustus’ eyes narrow on the red of her pout, and he raises a leather-gloved finger to touch on her bottom lightly. “No lions for you tonight, little fox.” A wicked smile turns up the corners of his lips, as his hand returns to its natural place, arms crossed on his chest as the length of his body leans on the marble column. Briefly, he gazes at the fullness of her own chest, her bosom signifying the blessing and burden of motherhood. The wicked smile grows. “Unlike the others in attendance here, I care about what it is you have to say. Tell me, is there anyone here who’s visited you because they wished you to act as their mother, sucked on your teat as though they were a babe?” The question, undoubtedly bold, is asked as casually as if one was wondering about the weather, though his gaze implores her to go along with his little game.