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Give me your rentboys, your whores, your not quite monogamous masses yearning to. Well. You know.

Location: A room. Of some sort.
Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.

Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.

"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"

"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"

"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."

"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.

The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."

"I think you give yourself too much credit," said Seth

"You're here, aren't you?" pointed out the Saint.

Seth looked blank, then settled down to pout for a bit.

The Saint waited patiently, toying a bit with his top hat brim.


May. 24th, 2007 04:39 am (UTC)
((Heh. But he does call everybody that, or everybody who qualifies. We're not certain, yet, if Julian qualifies.))

Sev laughed and leaned forward to kiss Pasha, suddenly demanding and forceful. "You want something, Süßchen?" he asked, teasing him, and stroked his cock harder through the cloth. Sev looked down at the reclining Saint, running a hand down the boy's bare chest to hook his fingers in the waist of his pants and tug meaningfully. "The Saint here says he's very good at giving people what they want," he told Pasha, and leaned forward again to lick at his neck, biting down gently at the skin for a moment. "So what do you want?" he murmured.


holmes, oscar, byron, nineteenth century
The Byronic Cravat

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