Fandom: The Lost World
Pairing: R/M (Roxton/Malone)
Series/Sequels: No thanks, got some.
Rating: FRAO . . . sorta? Kinda?
Summary: Lord John Roxton, after Ned Malone left the tree house to “find himself” . . .
Notes: Didn’t use any.
Warnings: Don’t walk there, the floor’s wet! Oh, sorry. A full grown man missing the hell out of his heart’s desire . . . another man. If this type of material’s offensive to you, then you shouldn’t be here in the first place! So leave, now! Naww, Just keep reading this blog until you read all about the slash and have become used to it and gay-reality no longer bothers you.
Disclaimer: Ain’t got me no claims, dagnabit! ‘Cept maybe the story line, ‘cause the book b’longs t’Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and th’show’s done by Coote/Hayes. URL: Ain’t got none’a that neither!
My first impulse was to grab a backpack, my guns and hell off after him. But, listening to the others talk about him, how he’d grown up . . . then to read and listen to his penned farewell . . . I did my best to curb that first impulse I’d had. But, Lord, it was difficult . . .
I did my best to remember that he was a grown man. No longer the brash young man I met that night in the pub, before this all began . . . He looked so . . . young and beautiful, so . . . so . . . alone. Lost.
And that’s what drew me in . . .
For all his book learning and knowledge, he was still an innocent young man. Wide eyed . . . beautiful . . . the kind of lover any man would be proud to call beloved . . . To him, the world was still a wonderful place . . .
How little I’d known about him . . .
But, then we’d just met . . . or had been about to . . . to hopefully do what many men in the pub were hoping to do with him. And, he chose me, to allow me to sit with him at his small lonely table . . .
I recall a past conversation about his times during the Great War. Of seeing the war from high above, from a hot air balloon . . . and now, I wish I could take back my own brash words and the boastful tone I took . . . when I told him that until he’d been in battle, seeing friends and comrades falling, dying . . . he’d never truly know or understand what real war was like . . .
Then, to my horror, that he’d known war. Seen it in all its bloody reality . . . but, still he wasn’t able to understand it. He’d lost no friends. No companions or comrades. But, strangers. Strangers who mocked him and laughed at him . . . then died for him. Men he’d barely met. Had never known before. How could they let themselves be killed so he could live? How could they die for someone they didn’t know? A total stranger. A callow youth . . . and they’d shown him what war was like. The horror of its reality. The mindless violence . . . the willful killing . . . the willful dying . . .
And, he couldn’t understand any of it . . . Even as he willfully killed other men himself. With weapons, with his bare hands . . .
Oh, Ned Malone knew war . . .
I recall, as we drank and spoke of the Great War, the others left us alone. Drifted away, busied themselves elsewhere, with other things, so we could talk in private, of things only we would know. Things only we could . . .
It was much like that first night we met, back in London. . .
“May I join you?” I mildly startled him. His bright blue eyes flashed a momentary annoyance as he came to himself and looked up at me. The minor displeasure quickly vanished and was replaced by kindness and welcome. I still don’t know if the welcome was for me or the bottle I was carrying. But, no matter, I had the envy of the gathered men to please me. I was seated where they wanted to be. “Roxton, at your service. John Roxton.” Once comfortable, I extended my hand.
“Malone.” He took my hand in friendship and I was impressed with the way he looked when he smiled, “Edward Malone, though I prefer to be called Ned.”
“Ned, it is then.” I smiled and after a moment, came to realize that I still held his hand in greeting, though now, I think that I held it in something more.
We sat and visited. Shared our lives the way strangers did. He was a reporter, who’d grown up on the streets of New York. Raised by free-thinking parents who taught him to love the written word, but wanted him to become a priest . . . thus his escape to the streets. And I, an adventurer, of noble birth and lineage, haunted by the ghost of a painful accident and not feeling worthy of my title and name . . .
We drifted into the foggy night and walked nowhere, yet everywhere as we spoke of nothing and everything. I recall the thrill of anticipation in my chest and gut that I was going to bed this young American. Knew that we were going to share intimacies . . . That I would feel his flesh on my flesh, have his lips touch mine . . . that I would . . . Big Ben tolled the hour and realization of time came.
My hotel was just around the corner and I invited him up for a nightcap. To my delight, he accepted. A gentle drizzle had begun and the bourbon would take off the chill . . . ~~~oO0Oo~~~
“Can we walk?” He asked me. I don’t think he wanted the others to hear what we had to say. I smiled and with a simple gesture, we were off. It was and still is so natural to gather our weapons when we go out, that neither of us seemed to notice that we did so before we entered the elevator.
Once on the ground, we headed off in no particular direction. We just wanted to walk. We spoke of things that only men scarred by battle can know. Memories. Nightmares. Knowledge of me gone forever. Faces frozen in time. We held hands. Our shoulders touched and softly brushed against each other. It was as if we didn’t need to speak. We were together. We had each other. Safe with one another and that was all we needed.
Soon, in silence, we found ourselves on the cliffs over the small grotto where the safe pool was, where we’d bathe or swim or . . .
The soft rumble of the muffled thunder echoed thru the drizzle outside and the bourbon was as warming as the fireplace we sat beside. He’d point out a photograph and I’d tell him a story of it. Pictures of me in Africa, other pictures of me, this time in India or of several of me back at Roxton Manor . . .
Finally, I asked him about his sadness . . . the cloud of loneliness that seemed to follow him.
He had planned to get married, but had a slight problem. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to. He was sure that he loved the girl. Reasonably sure. But, not definitely sure and the odd thing was she didn’t see him as a heroic type of man and truth be told, he didn’t see himself as that kind of man. And that was she wanted a heroic man. A man she could look up to and adore, to live in his reflected glory.
Sounded like a silly girl to me, with a silly girl’s dreams.
I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need that kind of a woman. From what he’d told me of her, I knew that if they married, there would only be grief borne of such a union . . . then, he shocked me by his admission . . .
He wasn’t sure, but he thought that maybe he wanted to be with a heroic man. Or just a man, period.
“I . . . Mr. Malone . . . Edward . . .” I set down my glass to stand before the chair he sat in, “. . . Ned . . .”
“Oh God . . .” he covered his face, “You probably hate me now . . . I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never told anyone that . . . I think I’d better leave . . .”
“No . . .” I took his glass and set it beside mine. He looked up at me. Not a little fear and uncertainty in his crystal-cut blue eyes, “I . . . had planned on seducing you tonight . . .”
“S . . . seduce me . . . ?” A hard swallow, “But, why . . . ? I’m just . . .”
“Beautiful. A man to treasure.” I caressed his cheek, “But, now, I don’t think I should . . .”
“No . . .” Nervous, he stood up with a little fear in his blue eyes, his breath, like the bourbon, warmed me. I could feel the heat of him, he was so close to me, “I . . . I want to . . . I need you to . . .”
His unsure hands slid under my coat and up my chest, almost afraid that I would make him stop . . . Then, I reached for him . . . Pulled him closer, enfolding him in my arms . . .
We shared a kiss . . .
The soft cries of the night birds . . . the chirp of insects here and there . . . to this background music, his hands undressed me with the tenderness and care that only an experienced lover could.
He lifted the braces from my shoulders and dropped them to my sides. He kissed me gently as he tugged my shirt from my trousers and pulled the shirt off of my body. His hands caressed my chest, while his lips traced the line of my collarbone. With experienced fingers, he undid the buttons of my trousers . . .
His warm lips grazed mine. He kissed and tasted my flesh as he uncovered my body. He slowly loved me as never before. It was almost as if he were worshipping my body with his every touch . . .
Soon, I was naked before him as he loved me . . . then we were laying upon the banks of the safe pool. I don’t remember when or how he had removed his clothing, but we lay there, naked. Loving. Touching. Sharing.
I was his to command. He owned me body and soul . . . yet, he only wanted to make love to me. To gave me pleasure. I wanted him to touch me. To love me . . . and he did . . . with a gentleness that made me come alive. He gave me such love that I knew I’d remember it for the rest of my life . . . it filled me with such desire and emotion, that I wanted to die of it . . . Then, then . . . it came upon me. Silently. Suddenly. Like a hunting beast in the night, stalking its prey . . .
I gasped. Shocked. Engulfed as my essence filled his loving mouth . . .
I gently took him by the hand and led him into my bedchamber, this handsome young man questioning himself and his sexuality . . .
I remember the uncertainty with which he submitted to my touch. He seemed almost . . . afraid. But, he wasn’t. His trembling was merely anticipation. His eyes told me that he wanted this. He wanted to feel another man on his skin. He wanted to know a man’s love. He just didn’t know what to do . . .
I slid my hands under his coat, my fingers dusting against his vest as I slid my hands under the lapels of his coat, my hands traveling over his shoulders as I removed his outer garment. I walked him slowly backwards, directing him towards my bedchambers. His eyes never left mine as we walked.
Once in my bedchamber, I draped his coat over an armchair beside the door. As we shared small kisses, then deeper ones . . . his hands gently holding my forearms as I undressed him. I unbuttoned his vest, undid his necktie then his shirt. The vest joined the jacket and I unhitched his braces and they fell to the floor.
He lifted his head, tilting back to expose his neck to my kisses.
He didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on. We could’ve been in the middle of Piccadilly Square, at noon, for all he cared.
I tugged his shirt from his trousers, sneaking my hands under the cloth to caress the soft skin beneath. He softly moaned as my hands glided along his sides and lifted his undershirt and pulled it over his blonde head. Casting aside his undergarment, I tasted the salts of his flesh . . . of his chest and his small pink nipples. He shuddered and sighed and remembered why I often turned to the touch of other men . . . but, he was different from the others. He was new to this . . . a virgin if you will . . . my young willing American . . .
I still recall that first taste of his submission to my touch . . . his soft mewling sounds . . . his breathy gasps as I carried him to the heights of what a man could do for anoth – –
“John?” Damn and blast! Marguerite . . . No, somehow, I know that she only wants to comfort me. Why, I don’t know. I also know that she can’t know what Neddy-boy means to me.
Her eyes aren’t the blue of Ned’s eyes. And though her kisses are sweet . . . they aren’t the filled with the delicious heated taste of Malone’s shared moments . . . I know I’ve played at becoming her lover . . . a husband and wife . . . but, she is too much her own woman. I never really had a future with her, though we both play at the I-think-I-could-love-you-game . . . I can, but I won’t consummate whatever relationship we have, even though my title demands a son to carry on my family line . . . I mean, I will have a son, just not here, on the Plateau. It would be too dangerous for a pregnant woman. Pregnant, the journey back to England and civilization could kill her. We must never . . . at least until London . . .
But, she’s not Ned . . .
She could never replace Ned . . . it would feel too much a betrayal . . .
I turn back to the night. I close my eyes and easily recall the scent of his flesh after the loving . . . or, fresh from a swim . . . The touch of his skin on mine . . .
Marguerite rested her head on my shoulder, trying to comfort me, though she didn’t know why I needed comforting.
I exhaled softly as a lonely tear carved a wound down my cheek and across my heart . . .
~~~FINIS . . . ?~~~