Raven Cycle fic: "Let Us Now Praise Dangerous Men," R, Niall Lynch/ Colin Greenmantle
Summary: Greenmantle had already decided to have Niall Lynch killed in the messiest and most painful way imaginable, but he didn't mention that when Lynch asked to see his etchings.
Notes:
For darkrosaleen.
Warning for mention of non-graphic underage/ incest/ noncon
GLENDOWER
These signs have mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living, clipp'd in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out that is but woman's son
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art
And hold me pace in deep experiments.
Henry IV, part i
If Niall Lynch has only one thing going for him-- and really, Niall Lynch has only the one thing going for him-- it’s that he’s fantastic in bed. Greenmantle lies on the floor, watching him dress, and hopes that now that Lynch is finished he’ll fuck off and die instead of hanging around talking.
Greenmantle hasn’t ever gone in for post-coital confidences. It’s one of the things he likes best about Piper, the way she believes sex should begin and end with the act itself. Lynch isn’t a cuddler, at least; Greenmantle is going to have bruises in some interesting places and while he doesn’t regret them-- at least not yet, not with the end of the orgasm still fading and the feeling mostly missing from his legs-- he doesn’t really want Lynch curled against his back either.
“My sons are at school at one of your sort of places,” Lynch is saying, and Greenmantle closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. “Brick and ivy and soft boys who grow up to be soft men and never do an honest day’s work with their hands. Confucius and Plato and rowing before breakfast.” The soft Irish lilt under the sneer, the one Greenmantle found so intriguing when he heard it across a crowded room, makes him want to have Lynch deported back to Belfast now.
“Latin and Greek and school ties,” Lynch says. Greenmantle’s own hands are still tied behind his back with the cord from the curtains, but not so tightly that it hurts-- not yet. “And salmon colored trousers. They’ll be rich men, my boys, they’ll know the right people. But they won’t be soft. Not like you,” he says, and Greenmantle opens his eyes to see that Niall Lynch is standing over him. “You let me fuck your wife and your arse and if you’d had a daughter I’d have fucked her as well.”
“No one lets Piper do anything,” Greenmantle objects, but Lynch isn’t listening. This close, Greenmantle can see the trail of dark hair disappearing into the unfastened waist of his jeans, the big scarred boxer’s hands, knuckles a little swollen, that were the thing that drew him in in the first place. Lynch was right, the people he knew, the right people, had soft clean hands that were no good at all for pinning someone down and screwing them until their legs stopped working.
“My Declan was twelve years old when I broke his nose the first time,” Lynch says, leaning down to touch Greenmantle. His arms are nice, too, actually, muscled in a way that has nothing to do with Crossfit and possibly everything to do with beating wealthy dilettantes like Greenmantle to death in the bedrooms of their own houses on the Cape. “Got right up and hit me back, with the blood running down his face so he could hardly see.”
He rolls Greenmantle over, like a farmer rolling over a hog he’s just slaughtered, or possibly a dockworker with a sack of whatever dockworkers sling-- not, admittedly, Greenmantle’s forte. When he presses his knee into the small of Greenmantle’s back, unbelievably Greenmantle’s dick twitches a little, even though his brain can’t imagine moving.
But Lynch is just untying his hands. Which is just as well. Greenmantle’s already got rug burn and probably splinters from being half on and half off the Oriental rug, and another round would almost certainly put him in the hospital. “Declan and my younger boy both, they can take a beating or a fucking like a man. None of the squealing I got from you.” He rubs Greenmantle’s wrists with a gentleness that belied his words, but Greenmantle is too distracted to notice.
He’s thinking of children with Lynch’s arrogant dark eyes and cool sneer, boys who have been taught obedience and violence at Niall Lynch’s knee. If he were a better man he would want to save them, to show them beauty and kindness and rainbows and kittens. But like Niall Lynch, Greenmantle is a bad man, albeit one with a slightly shinier veneer of civilization-- and all he wants is to fuck Lynch’s brave bold boys.
He props himself up on his elbows and watches Lynch dress, but he’s thinking about how it would look, Lynch bending the boys over a desk and beating them with his belt, Lynch sweaty and stripped to the waist teaching them to throw roundhouse punches-- Greenmantle is a little vague on bareknuckle boxing-- Lynch throwing them down in the straw and slamming into them until they screamed despite their fierceness.
That easily he’s hard again, thinking of Lynch with his sons the way he’d been with Greenmantle himself, holding their wrists behind their backs, binding them, maybe, with a string or a bridle- rein. Holding them down with his weight. The whole thing had had the inevitablity, the language and violence of rape-- but Greenmantle had begged for it, from the beginning, begged and pleaded and cried for Lynch to be rougher, harder, faster, for every bruise and bite and thrust.
Greenmantle thinks uncomfortably of what Piper had said when they’d first met Lynch, months ago, when he’d been introduced to them as a man who could work miracles and get anything you could imagine for the right price: that Lynch was entirely too much Greenmantle’s type and that he was bound to let him get away with far too much on the faint hope Lynch would fuck him raw.
As, of course, Greenmantle had. And Lynch had begun by cheating him and ended with screwing him; Piper is going to be furious, or worse, amused. He watches Lynch slide into his black t-shirt, admiring the ripple of muscle, the edge of a dark blue tattoo he hadn’t noticed before on Lynch’s bicep. He can’t quite make out what it is: from one angle it looks like a tower, and from another a bird, but as Lynch reaches for his jacket he thinks it looks like a sword and shield. He blinks, but by then it’s too late; Lynch is dressed and checking his phone.
When he sees Greenmantle looking, Lynch stops in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Princess, we can do it again another time,” he says. “I like that you cry. Declan and Ronan could be bleeding to death and they wouldn’t so much as whimper. And when I fucked your wife she talked about her manicure the whole time.” He smiles, beautiful and dangerous, and adds, “Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”
Greenmantle thinks about all the things he’ll probably steal on the way out, but can’t muster the energy to get up. He has a man he’ll send after Lynch, and it won’t even be hard, because Niall Lynch was dumb enough or cocky enough to give Greenmantle his real name. He wants to have Lynch killed, no matter how good in bed the man was, and he always gets what he wants.
Notes:
For darkrosaleen.
Warning for mention of non-graphic underage/ incest/ noncon
GLENDOWER
These signs have mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living, clipp'd in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out that is but woman's son
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art
And hold me pace in deep experiments.
Henry IV, part i
If Niall Lynch has only one thing going for him-- and really, Niall Lynch has only the one thing going for him-- it’s that he’s fantastic in bed. Greenmantle lies on the floor, watching him dress, and hopes that now that Lynch is finished he’ll fuck off and die instead of hanging around talking.
Greenmantle hasn’t ever gone in for post-coital confidences. It’s one of the things he likes best about Piper, the way she believes sex should begin and end with the act itself. Lynch isn’t a cuddler, at least; Greenmantle is going to have bruises in some interesting places and while he doesn’t regret them-- at least not yet, not with the end of the orgasm still fading and the feeling mostly missing from his legs-- he doesn’t really want Lynch curled against his back either.
“My sons are at school at one of your sort of places,” Lynch is saying, and Greenmantle closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. “Brick and ivy and soft boys who grow up to be soft men and never do an honest day’s work with their hands. Confucius and Plato and rowing before breakfast.” The soft Irish lilt under the sneer, the one Greenmantle found so intriguing when he heard it across a crowded room, makes him want to have Lynch deported back to Belfast now.
“Latin and Greek and school ties,” Lynch says. Greenmantle’s own hands are still tied behind his back with the cord from the curtains, but not so tightly that it hurts-- not yet. “And salmon colored trousers. They’ll be rich men, my boys, they’ll know the right people. But they won’t be soft. Not like you,” he says, and Greenmantle opens his eyes to see that Niall Lynch is standing over him. “You let me fuck your wife and your arse and if you’d had a daughter I’d have fucked her as well.”
“No one lets Piper do anything,” Greenmantle objects, but Lynch isn’t listening. This close, Greenmantle can see the trail of dark hair disappearing into the unfastened waist of his jeans, the big scarred boxer’s hands, knuckles a little swollen, that were the thing that drew him in in the first place. Lynch was right, the people he knew, the right people, had soft clean hands that were no good at all for pinning someone down and screwing them until their legs stopped working.
“My Declan was twelve years old when I broke his nose the first time,” Lynch says, leaning down to touch Greenmantle. His arms are nice, too, actually, muscled in a way that has nothing to do with Crossfit and possibly everything to do with beating wealthy dilettantes like Greenmantle to death in the bedrooms of their own houses on the Cape. “Got right up and hit me back, with the blood running down his face so he could hardly see.”
He rolls Greenmantle over, like a farmer rolling over a hog he’s just slaughtered, or possibly a dockworker with a sack of whatever dockworkers sling-- not, admittedly, Greenmantle’s forte. When he presses his knee into the small of Greenmantle’s back, unbelievably Greenmantle’s dick twitches a little, even though his brain can’t imagine moving.
But Lynch is just untying his hands. Which is just as well. Greenmantle’s already got rug burn and probably splinters from being half on and half off the Oriental rug, and another round would almost certainly put him in the hospital. “Declan and my younger boy both, they can take a beating or a fucking like a man. None of the squealing I got from you.” He rubs Greenmantle’s wrists with a gentleness that belied his words, but Greenmantle is too distracted to notice.
He’s thinking of children with Lynch’s arrogant dark eyes and cool sneer, boys who have been taught obedience and violence at Niall Lynch’s knee. If he were a better man he would want to save them, to show them beauty and kindness and rainbows and kittens. But like Niall Lynch, Greenmantle is a bad man, albeit one with a slightly shinier veneer of civilization-- and all he wants is to fuck Lynch’s brave bold boys.
He props himself up on his elbows and watches Lynch dress, but he’s thinking about how it would look, Lynch bending the boys over a desk and beating them with his belt, Lynch sweaty and stripped to the waist teaching them to throw roundhouse punches-- Greenmantle is a little vague on bareknuckle boxing-- Lynch throwing them down in the straw and slamming into them until they screamed despite their fierceness.
That easily he’s hard again, thinking of Lynch with his sons the way he’d been with Greenmantle himself, holding their wrists behind their backs, binding them, maybe, with a string or a bridle- rein. Holding them down with his weight. The whole thing had had the inevitablity, the language and violence of rape-- but Greenmantle had begged for it, from the beginning, begged and pleaded and cried for Lynch to be rougher, harder, faster, for every bruise and bite and thrust.
Greenmantle thinks uncomfortably of what Piper had said when they’d first met Lynch, months ago, when he’d been introduced to them as a man who could work miracles and get anything you could imagine for the right price: that Lynch was entirely too much Greenmantle’s type and that he was bound to let him get away with far too much on the faint hope Lynch would fuck him raw.
As, of course, Greenmantle had. And Lynch had begun by cheating him and ended with screwing him; Piper is going to be furious, or worse, amused. He watches Lynch slide into his black t-shirt, admiring the ripple of muscle, the edge of a dark blue tattoo he hadn’t noticed before on Lynch’s bicep. He can’t quite make out what it is: from one angle it looks like a tower, and from another a bird, but as Lynch reaches for his jacket he thinks it looks like a sword and shield. He blinks, but by then it’s too late; Lynch is dressed and checking his phone.
When he sees Greenmantle looking, Lynch stops in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Princess, we can do it again another time,” he says. “I like that you cry. Declan and Ronan could be bleeding to death and they wouldn’t so much as whimper. And when I fucked your wife she talked about her manicure the whole time.” He smiles, beautiful and dangerous, and adds, “Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”
Greenmantle thinks about all the things he’ll probably steal on the way out, but can’t muster the energy to get up. He has a man he’ll send after Lynch, and it won’t even be hard, because Niall Lynch was dumb enough or cocky enough to give Greenmantle his real name. He wants to have Lynch killed, no matter how good in bed the man was, and he always gets what he wants.