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Post by Connor Morrison on May 11, 2021 19:15:15 GMT
It had been far too long, Connor was realising now, since the last time he and Hippolyte had indulged in this. Opportunities were scant, unfortunately — approaching the wrong man could have dire consequences, after all, and few men were open enough about their proclivities that it was ever a safe bet. The last time they had found a suitable man had been two years ago, in Paris. Feisty fellow, fond of talking back — not that he'd been able to do much of that once they were through with him.
Granville was shaping up to be a good deal more compliant. Connor had no complaints to make about that; as much of a pleasure as it was to tame a bit of a brat, there was all sorts of fun to have with a submissive man. He would be lying if he said it didn't boost his ego a little, as well.
Keeping one hand on the front of the artist's trousers, he slipped his free hand around to lazily palm the man's backside as he turned his head to watch Hippolyte. He had been with Granville on enough occasions to know that the man kept an impressive stock of implements in that drawer. "What do you think, Hippolyte?" He dragged his hand upwards a little until he could slip two fingers beneath the back of Granville's waistband, pressing lightly against his skin over the fabric of his shirttails. "Shall we restrain him? Pity to gag him, I think — he makes such pretty little moans." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 17, 2021 1:54:46 GMT
Up the stairs, over the threshold, and into the realm of privacy. As soon as the door was shut and locked behind the three of them, Connor relaxed marginally. It was not quite as much privacy as his own home would have afforded them — they could still, after all, hear the sounds of revelry from below, making it rather impossible to forget that they were not entirely alone — but the barrier of four walls gave some sense of isolation, at least. That was enough for Connor, at least for this evening. In the morning, he was likely to fret over whether anyone had seen them go upstairs, whether they had made enough noise to be heard, whether anyone had taken too much notice of them in the corridor, and a thousand other worries — but those were concerns were, for now, dim enough to dismiss.
Whereas his demeanour and Hippolyte's had relaxed, however, Henry's seemed to have grown more tense. Why that was, Connor was not certain. Not cold feet, hopefully; after how easy it had been to rile the man up downstairs, it would be a damned shame if he backed out now.
For a moment or two, the poor fellow looked entirely lost; then, all at once, he began to remove his shirt to toss it aside. Cold feet was the least of the concern, then, evidently. Henry seemed to have swung from the opposite end of the spectrum that Connor expected: instead of backing out, the artist seemed to be intent on getting this over with as soon as possible.
Just as disappointing, if not more.
Sucking in a hissing breath through his teeth, Connor clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Dear God, is there a fire? Look at you, stripping like a virgin on wedding night." He stalked closer to hook two fingers in Henry's waistband, which he used to yank the man flush against him. "How I want you is obedient, Granville, and I do not recall instructing you to bare yourself. I have told our dear Dr. Barthélemy what an obedient man you are; I shall not be pleased if you prove me wrong. Do you intend to behave or do you not?" |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 16, 2021 17:41:33 GMT
Connor hesitated a moment, uncertain. This would be far from the first time that he'd indulged himself with a man from one of these parties, but whenever possible, he liked to conduct those indulgences elsewhere; here, there was too much risk, even if everyone was here to sin in some way or another. If the wrong person saw the wrong thing, it would mean a damn lot more than their reputations on the line. Even in his wine-scrambled mind, Connor was keenly aware of that.
It seemed that both Hippolyte and Henry were insistent on staying, however — and Connor supposed, grudgingly, that three men abruptly leaving in the same carriage might very well arouse more suspicion than three men going up the stairs. As long as they locked the door and kept quiet, few people here would care enough to pay them any mind. Half the guests were so drunk or so high that they would scarce remember their own names in the morning, in any case.
Upstairs it was, then. Grinning lopsidedly, he pressed a little closer, thumbed the button beneath his hand one more time, then withdrew with a sharp pat to the artist's hip. "On you go, then. Show us the way. There's a good lad."
Once he had stepped away from Henry and allowed the man to turn away to lead them up the stairs, Connor paused a moment to slide his hand onto the small of Hippolyte's back. He was not entirely sure why he did it, really; it was stupid, to seek him out with such an innocent gesture at a time like this, but the act was a matter of instinct. He smoothed over whatever nonsense that was by using the leverage to pull himself against Hippolyte for a moment, the same lopsided grin still plastered on his lips. "Worth the wait, hm? I have had him before — you will not believe the things he can do with his tongue." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 15, 2021 15:29:54 GMT
Ah, there was his man. As pleasant and as inviting as Hippolyte's expression had been with Henry, there was something fresh that blossomed there at the sight of Connor, something that Connor was pleased to say that only he ever seemed to bring about. It was not quite tenderness, but it was something like it. That placated him a little, for now. Whatever fleeting bonds Hippolyte might make with men like Granville, there was some part of him reserved for Connor alone.
He made no attempt to hide the eagerness with which he leaned his head into Hippolyte's touch. They had not been parted for very long this evening, but in his drunken state, Connor had admittedly been missing Hippolyte's company. No doubt Hippolyte had been missing his, too, in those stuffy drawing rooms with those stuffy rich men and their stuffy conversation. If they had been alone, Connor might have made some teasing remark on that.
Ah, but they had something else — someone else — demanding both of their attention. It was incredibly amusing, to see how easy it was to rile Henry up. Connor was aware, of course, of the man's high sex drive; more than once, he had enjoyed toying with that on his own. With the double attention of himself and Hippolyte, however, the poor artist was positively reduced to a quivering mess.
It made Connor want to be a little bolder than he usually allowed himself to be at these parties. Under normal circumstances, he would have whisked Henry away somewhere more private without delay, but at present, he was not inclined to be so hasty. "Oh, I don't know." With his gaze still locked on Hippolyte, he trailed his hand deliberately down to toy with a button of Henry's fall front. "We have not yet decided what to do with you, have we? What do you think, Hippolyte — do you think he can stand the wait of a carriage ride? Think of the fun we could have with him at home." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 14, 2021 15:52:25 GMT
Connor was, to put things mildly, just a little drunk. Normally, he had to keep enough of his wits about him to ensure that he could get himself home through the streets of London with his dignity more or less intact; tonight, however, he had the benefit of Hippolyte's company, and if he overindulged a bit... well, he had a shoulder to lean on. As long as he kept himself from getting embarrassingly drunk, he would be fine. He knew his limits well enough to ensure that.
Even through his haze of drunkenness and the low babble of conversation throughout the house, a familiar voice managed to penetrate Connor's ears. He would know it anywhere, of course: that deep, lightly-accented tone, always confident, always eloquent. It was about time Hippolyte showed up. With a lazy, decadent smile, he rose from his lounge and went seeking that voice.
He had not quite expected to find Hippolyte in the company of the party's host. Judging by their focus on a nearby statue, they were discussing art — and judging by Hippolyte's suggestive hand on that statue, art was not all they were discussing. That sight should have stirred some arousal in him, and to some extent, it did. With that arousal, however, came an entirely unwelcome companion: jealousy.
It was hardly as though he expected Hippolyte to remain celibate outside their evenings together. By God, even he didn't: he'd enjoyed the carnal company of the very man standing beside Hippolyte more than once. And yet, as illogical as the feeling was, he found himself absolutely despising the thought of Hippolyte bestowing such charming, lusty smiles on Granville. Certainly, the two of them found pleasures with other partners when distance parted them, but they were in the same city now. He was supposed to warm Hippolyte's bed, not the first handsome man or pretty woman the Frenchman came across.
But the jealousy was easy enough to rationalise without confronting what it really might imply. After all, were two fine men going to to enjoy each other's company without Connor enjoying it as well? With more boldness than he usually dared to show at these parties, the Scotsman approached the two at the statue and looped his arm around Granville's waist from behind. "Found our host, I see," he purred, locking eyes with Hippolyte over the artist's shoulder. "Pretty little plaything, isn't he?" |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 10, 2021 5:04:16 GMT
If anyone had asked Connor to list his flaws, repression would not have numbered among them. If anything, he considered himself somewhat of a libertine; when he wanted pleasure, he knew where to seek it, and he rarely restrained himself from the pursuit. In his mind, repression was the sort of thing that kept lawyers shackled to their desks and academics shut away in libraries. Indeed, on that vein, he might have been more inclined to call Anwyl repressed than himself, considering how uptight and reserved the man tended to be.
And yet, whether he would apply the word to himself or not, repressing was one of the things Connor arguably did best. He might indulge in whatever fleeting passion crossed his mind, and he might (and did) call that freedom, but that all remained surface level. Anything that went deeper than a passing fancy terrified him.
Therein lay the problem. When his connection with Hippolyte had been limited to sex and nothing more, it had been easy enough to indulge in the whims of the moment and push them out of mind once Hippolyte's carriage had clattered its way past Edinburgh's city limits. They had always fit well together, undoubtedly, and they had always enjoyed each other's company both in the bedroom and in the bustling medical community, but it never had to mean more than that.
The prospect of Paris had not frightened him, at first. After all, the position was ideal: better pay, better access to anatomical study, a thriving community, and at least a dozen other enticements that Connor would have been a fool to pass up. And he would have been lying to himself if he denied that the thought of having Hippolyte near at hand did not add another enticement. The thought of having his man no more than a carriage ride away, whenever he desired company, had intoxicated him with its heady promise.
Now, the uncertainty had begun to set in. Questions began to squirm, unwelcome, at the back of Connor's mind. With the two of them so close, what would that make them? He abhorred the term 'lovers,' but that was the word that kept intruding in his thoughts. It made him feel pathetic, like he had lowered himself to the station of mistresses who might grovel for scraps of attention. Close proximity to Hippolyte might satisfy certain, basic cravings, but it brought far more considerations than Connor was willing to dwell on.
So, back to that old familiar friend: repression. Even without Connor's conscious command, his mind knew what to do. Crush it down, shut it away, leave it for another time — never mind if that time ever came. Sex was easy. Sex provided a neat, convenient distraction. Sex, he could do.
Meeting Hippolyte's crooked grin with one of his own, Connor pushed up a hand to shove against the Frenchman's shoulder to knock him on his back. With his palms planted on Hippolyte's chest, he straddled his hips, rocked deliberately back, and sighed.
"Satisfy me, then." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 8, 2021 15:40:10 GMT
Connor hardly thought Hippolyte could still be capable of surprising him, given how intimately he knew the man. He derived some amount of satisfaction, in fact, from how well he believed himself to know Hippolyte; the rest of the world knew the skillful, confident surgeon or the poised and elegant man of society, but Connor knew facets of him that went beyond those archetypes. He quite enjoyed the thought that he knew more about Hippolyte than anyone else.
Evidently, he did not know everything.
Logically, he supposed this news should not have shocked him quite so much as it did. Hippolyte seemed to have no end to his societal connections, even in England — it was not so odd at all that he might know one of the most prominent noble families of London. Knowing that fact on a rational level, however, did not stop him from staring open-mouthed between Benedict and Hippolyte as though both of them had just sprouted second heads.
When he finally found his voice again, he raised a hand to flick a finger back and forth from the Englishman to the Frenchman and asked, "I beg your pardon, but you two know each other?" Stupid question, as both of them had just very plainly indicated that this was the case, but Connor was still recovering from the shock. |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 7, 2021 23:22:49 GMT
Tag: bunny Thread: Conversations by Candlelight Notes: N/AConnor paused to give the request a moment of consideration, letting his gaze rake over Granville's body as he did so. The artist did look wonderfully undone like this, with his shirt hanging unabashedly open and his braces hanging down from his hips. It had been easy for them to come together, the first time — by the time Granville had made his intentions apparent, Connor had been so high on the atmosphere of the party and so drunk on the free-flowing wine that he had not bothered to second guess the decision to lean into that greedy hand on his thigh. Henry Granville was many things, but subtle was not one of them. After that first time, Connor had taken greater care; he had insisted, whenever he was lucid enough, on proper privacy, the better to ensure that they would not find themselves caught unawares. It was a bit of a hassle, certainly, but Granville made it worthwhile enough to put in the effort. By God, the things that man could do with his tongue.
Thanks to Connor's extended absence from London, it had been a damned long time since they'd had a chance to enjoy each other's company. That, alone, was enough to make the prospect dreadfully tempting. Lulled by his own tipsy state, Connor permitted himself the luxury of flexing his fingers thoughtfully against Granville's leg.
But the vague shreds of a conscience that the Scotsman still possessed gave him pause. He was not normally the reserved party in any situation like this, but it was plain enough that Granville was as distraught as he was drunk; even if the artist was not generally the sort to regret trysts like this, he very well might regret one he sought in this sort of state. With a soft, reluctant sigh, he moved his hand away from Granville's thigh to stroke it through the painter's curls. "Tempting, darling. Tempting. As much as I do relish the idea of enjoying your company tonight, I don't much fancy the prospect of you passing out drunk on my cock. Another night, Henry." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 7, 2021 15:57:21 GMT
ca non alt ernate universe ★ ★ ★ connor morrison's thread tracker |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 5, 2021 15:21:19 GMT
Tag: bunny Thread: Conversations by Candlelight Notes: N/AThe rational part of Connor — or the cruel part, call it what you please — was inclined to chastise Henry for his foolishness. The artist was right to say that he had taken a bloody gamble with Benedict, and a damned foolish one at that. Given the activities that Henry tended to get up to at these parties, he ought to have known better than to invite a man whose opinions he was unsure of; after all, if Benedict turned out to be a little less open-minded than Henry had presumed, it put more than just the painter in danger. Connor was thoroughly relieved that he had not yet hinted at his own tastes in front of Benedict.
And yet, he could not deny that he had picked up on some of the same hints that Henry had just mentioned. Benedict had certainly made no overt indications that he might be open to the attentions of men, but Connor had seen how the young fellow looked at Henry, and he would wager that there was a little more in that stare than just artistic admiration. It was not necessarily a wager on which he'd bet his own reputation, but it was enough to give him some hope that Benedict wouldn't turn away in complete disgust.
He bit down on the side of his tongue for a moment, sighed again, then reached out to pat Henry's knee. "I am sure all will be well." He was not entirely confident he was telling the truth, but given Henry's current state, Connor thought it better to simply reassure the man. "Besides, he could hardly try to ruin your reputation without ruining his own, hm? I'm certain he would not be keen to admit he's been at these parties. The man will hold his tongue." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 4, 2021 2:32:27 GMT
Tag: bunny Thread: Conversations by Candlelight Notes: N/AConnor listened in silence. He had gone very still at the first mention of Benedict's intrusion on Henry's... intimate activities with Alfred. He knew of the relationship between the two, of course; it would have been difficult for him not to know, given the amount of time that he and Henry had spent together. Granted, they did not exactly speak enough to call each other friends in any real sense — generally, when Connor and Henry found themselves in the sole company of each other, speaking was low on the list of priorities — but he had mentioned Alfred enough to assure Connor that his relationship with the man was an open one. Beyond that, Connor had not questioned the matter.
He could not deny, however, that the thought of anyone walking in on Henry and Alfred made him uneasy. The idea of being witnessed by anyone was always at the back of his mind, whenever he found himself seeking male company; as much as possible, he preferred to conduct any escapades outside of these parties themselves, as an extra layer of security, and even when he found himself caught up in the moment enough to risk a tryst or two in the Granville home, he spent half the encounter obsessively glancing at the door. He had never admitted that fear aloud to Henry, but he had no doubt that the man understood it, on some level, without Connor having to say anything.
The fact that the man who had walked in on Henry and Alfred turned out to be Benedict Bridgerton was surprising, to say the least. The mysteries continued to build around that man, it seemed. If Henry had not been in such a state of obvious distress, Connor might have laughed at the sheer irony of this whole situation — he had come to Henry intending to find out more about the second Bridgerton brother, and without even having to ask, he certainly had learned a hell of a lot more than he'd bargained for.
He was not altogether pleased to hear what Benedict's reaction had ultimately been. He supposed it must be a shocking thing for a man so green to walk in on something like that, but he could have at least done Henry the courtesy of staying long enough at the party to say that he would not out the poor fellow. He could hardly blame Henry for spiralling, after a mess like that. With a tight, quiet sigh, the Scotsman leaned aside to pick up the half-empty bottle of brandy and pour himself a large glass. This was not a conversation he intended to have while sober. Once he had swallowed a large mouthful, he leaned back to prop his weight on one hand. "... well." He couldn't quite think of what to say beyond that. "Do you want me to speak to him? I can put the fear of God into him, mark my words." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 3, 2021 19:58:24 GMT
The sight of Dr. Barthélemy was a welcome one indeed. The gentleman was always striking no matter what the setting or attire, but there was something about the formal attire of a ballroom that complimented his appearance like little else could. Connor could scarcely recall the last time he had seen the man in a ballroom — they must have attended a few balls during the Frenchman's visits to Edinburgh, when occasion called for it, but Connor was far more accustomed to seeing the man in the blood-stained apron of the operating theatre. This was a contrast indeed. Dr. Barthélemy never opted for quite as much opulence as his Scottish colleague, but his attire was of admirable cut and quality just the same.
Connor dipped into a light bow to greet the taller man, keeping his smile carefully measured and polite. He was, admittedly, rather pleased by the obvious curiosity slipping across the Frenchman's countenance; evidently, Benedict's presence had not gone unnoticed. Not that Connor had ever suspected it would, of course — nothing ever went over the head of Hippolyte Barthélemy.
When he rose from his bow, that smile was still fixed on his lips, albeit with a faintly more jovial hint beneath the politeness. Of course Barthélemy would comment on his affinity for dancing — even if he could not recall precisely which ball it was that they had attended last, he remembered well how earnestly Barthélemy had complimented his footwork. Quite the feather in his cap, that. "Well," he replied airily, "until someone tells those damned musicians to play something worth dancing to, I must find other ways of entertaining myself." Glancing over at Benedict, he motioned for the Englishman to come forward. "Come, Bridgerton, do not be coy. I should like you to meet my colleague, Dr. Barthélemy — the esteemed chef des travaux anatomiques at L'Ecole de Médecine. Barthélemy, this is Mr. Benedict Bridgerton." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 3, 2021 15:16:22 GMT
Whether he had wanted to admit it or not, there was a part in the back of Connor's mind that had known change would be hanging between them for this whole London season. There was no way it could not. If Connor had been sensible, he might have paused to consider the weight of this transition in their arrangement; after all, seeing a man for a handful of weeks per year was a far cry from settling permanently in the same city and in the same place of work, and he had never fully paused to consider what that might mean for whatever existed between them. Oh, Connor had certainly known that it would make things different, but he had never allowed himself to dwell seriously on the matter.
He could not stop his mind now from drifting uneasily towards that topic. In spite of his best attempts to push the thoughts away, they wriggled back to the forefront every time. It would not be so easy to avoid this casual intimacy, when they called the same city home. During their usual nights together, snatched greedily from whatever scant weeks they shared during Hippolyte's visits, it was simple enough to find an excuse to cut that intimacy short; there was always a lesson to prepare, a dinner party to attend, or a letter to write, and when there was not a convenient excuse already at hand, Connor never had difficulty making one up.
That would not be so in Paris. Hitherto, there had always been an established date of parting, when Connor would once more find himself alone — he only needed to push the complicated feelings off until that point. In Paris, there would be no such arrangement. There were only so many excuses that Connor could come up with to explain his perpetual slinking from Hippolyte's bed.
What unsettled Connor most, he realised, was not that he would have to extricate himself more often from this quiet intimacy, but that a part of him did not particularly want to. There was a part of him — a growing part, if he was honest — that wanted to bask in these moments instead of cutting them brutally short. It was pleasant, to lie here with Hippolyte's company, talking of nothing in particular, sharing a bed like any other lovers might. It frightened him, that desire. He had always taken comfort in the idea that he was not like the other men who shared his proclivities; he might enjoy the carnal company of men, but that was meaningless sex and nothing more. He was not like the soft-hearted fools who believed they could fall in love with a fellow man — that was mere feminine delusion, to which he was certainly immune.
He'd genuinely believed that, for a while.
But the slow drag of Hippolyte's gaze along his body provided a welcome distraction from those troubling thoughts. Connor knew the man well enough to know precisely what that look in his eyes meant, and he was more than happy to seize on that opportunity to return to the easy, mindless refuge that passion afforded. Fixing a languid smile on his lips, he lifted his hand and trailed it pointedly down his chest, stopping just short of the sheet draped over his hips. "Why, Monsieur le Docteur, I believe there is something else on your mind than gossip columns." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Apr 1, 2021 22:57:47 GMT
Tag: bunny Thread: Conversations by Candlelight Notes: N/AStaying behind to take care of someone after a party was not the sort of thing that was generally in Connor's nature. He could force a decent enough bedside manner when his duties as a surgeon required it, but concern was hardly the sort of thing that came naturally in a setting like this, especially when Connor ended most nights nearly as drunk as Henry was now. He hadn't come in here intending to check on Henry's well-being at all; he had only sought the man out to speak with him regarding the Bridgerton brother, after all, and he could hardly have predicted that he would find the artist in this state.
Now that he had, however, he was not entirely content to abandon the man without a second thought. Connor had been around drunk men and women enough to know the difference between someone who had overindulged for fun and someone who had overindulged for the sake of dulling misery. Henry was firmly in the latter category. It was curiosity that motivated Connor as much as any genuine concern: having never seen Henry in quite such a state before, he was rather intrigued to know what had put him there. Not, of course, that the concern itself was feigned — it was simply not the only motivator.
But Connor hid that curiosity well enough. With a brief, sympathetic pat to the painter's shoulder, the anatomist rose back to his feet, fetched a fresh glass and a carafe of water, then settled back down on the floor to fill the glass, which he then held out wordlessly for Henry to take. Given how much the Englishman had clearly drunk, water would not save him from a hangover entirely, but it would at least dull some of the symptoms that hit him in the morning. "That is not why I stayed," he replied mildly, "but I should consider myself a rather poor excuse for a doctor if I left you in this state. You clearly have something that has driven you to drink half your weight in brandy tonight." |
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Post by Connor Morrison on Mar 30, 2021 16:43:34 GMT
Tag: lennie3 Thread: Investigating Mr. Bridgerton Notes: N/AEven here, there were elements of concealment. Connor would have had no way of knowing which parts of Genevieve's identity remained a façade, nor would she have had any way of knowing the same about him — but while he might remain as ignorant of the specifics as anyone else here, Connor did not doubt that half the people in this house were still hiding some parts of themselves and fabricating others. It mattered less here than in the stark light of society, but appearances still counted for a good deal.
It was not often that Connor resented that in any conscious way. For the most part, he liked the game of pretend, and he certainly enjoyed putting an almost excessive effort into his own appearance. Every once in a while, however, the game grew exhausting. He could feel that exhaustion prickling at the back of his mind now, sending little trickles of bitterness through his veins.
He downed the rest of his drink. Not a perfect solution, but anything that dulled his brain was welcome at the moment. When he was bitter, he tended to get rather mean, and making an enemy of Delacroix would do him no favours. When he had swallowed the brandy, he raised his empty glass in a mock toast. "Well," he said, "here's to freedom, hm? I've kept you long enough — I'm sure Mr. Bridgerton will be missing your company." |
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