#A PROPER WATERY LAD

[dxsole]

Okay so, I have a Flight Rising account and that isn't the important bit actually but all I need you guys to know is that they just dropped a new dragon breed so I'm gonna be off the rails for the next 72 hours

[themidnightcrimson]

69. | e. olsen

summary: in which a playful argument with lizzie turns into some of the best sex of your life.

warnings: oral (r giving and receiving), face fucking, lots of wetness, this is one of the most sinful things i’ve written, i’m never getting into heaven after this and neither are you

this post is for 18+ only. minors: do not interact.

masterlist.

Dinner had been amazing. Lizzie made a new recipe that she had been wanting to make for a while but hadn't the time to, and after eating, the two of you found yourselves on the couch watching Peaky Blinders. You both binge-watched the show together while you were in lockdown in Richmond, and now you were rewatching the entire thing just because you both loved it that much.

"I can totally do the Brummie accent, babe," you told Lizzie fervently. "We've had this argument so many times before!"

"No, you do more of a Cockney accent, babe," Lizzie gently argued with you. "It's a great accent, but it's just not Brummie."

"Shut up and watch," you said, setting your drink down on the table and pausing the show for a moment. You stood up from the nest of blankets and Lizzie's legs, grabbing a couch pillow and setting it on top of your head to resemble a cap.

Lizzie started to break out into a smile at how silly you looked, having to hold her finger across her lips and just watch you put on this show with a sparkle in her green eyes.

Grabbing a pen that was sitting across a planner on the coffee table, you held it between your thumb and pointer finger, pretending to take a quick drag from a cigarette like Tommy Shelby always does. Drawing from your acting skills, you gave that cold, empty glare of Tommy's, holding your cigarette-turned-pen out and gesturing it as you gruffly spoke, "By the order... of the Peaky fookin' Blinders." You paused for dramatic effect, then glanced back to Lizzie excitedly to see what she thought of it.

To your dismay, she was fully covering her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking in silent laughter as she watched you stand before her with a pillow on your head and a pen in your hand. "Lizzie!" you exclaimed, which caused her dam of giggles to break entirely. She leaned forward on the couch as her uncontrollable chuckles filled the air, and you couldn't help but give a few giggles at how amused she was by you.

Leaning back up and taking a deep breath, her face blushed and eyes watery from laughing so hard, Lizzie wiped the tear from her eye and said in a restrained laugh, "You know what, babe—it's great."

Scowling through your smile, you took the pillow from your head and chunked it at her, and she caught it at her stomach with a huff, still giving the last of the giggles she had been trying to hold down during your little reenactment. You followed the pillow, landing on top of Lizzie and straddling her, both of you grabbing onto the pillow.

"You're so rude, you know that?" you pouted, but you couldn't help but melt at how adorable she looked. Her short blonde hair, soft and fluffy, was sprawled over the back of the couch. Her pink lips were spread wide in a genuine grin, and her eyes, moist from laughing, glimmered under the lamplight.

"No worries, darling. You're a proper Shelby lad if I've ever seen one," she said in a spot-on Brummie accent as she lazily patted your shoulder, which only made you pout harder.

"Shut up," you playfully whispered, leaning down to her and pushing your lips against hers to get her to stop mocking you. She giggled into the kiss, her lips carving into a smile against yours.

Eventually, as you continued kissing her, your stomach resting on the pillow over hers, you felt her hand crawl up the back of your neck and tangle in your hair. The kiss deepened as Lizzie nudged your lips open with her tongue, and your mouth eased open for her. Her tongue slid into your mouth, sliding over yours as you both tasted each other. Her grip on your hair, soft at first, tightened as the kiss grew sloppy and passionate. You could feel Lizzie's breath fan faster and warmer across your upper lip.

Reaching to the pillow between your bodies, Lizzie slid it out and tossed it to the floor, welcoming you against her warm body with her arm wrapping around you and pulling you closer onto her. You rested your weight on her, letting your legs tangle together. You had one knee resting between Lizzie's legs, but her knee was also between yours, and you felt it shift upwards to press into you. You had both changed into your pajamas already, with you wearing only a large shirt and underwear, and Lizzie wearing the same but with shorts. Your smooth legs glided together as she bucked her knee up to you.

Humming into the kiss, you started to grind down on the knee she was offering to you, feeling that lovely friction through your underwear. Lizzie could feel a hint of moisture on her bare leg where you were grinding, but her thoughts went elsewhere when, due to your movements, your knee also was pressing into her.

Lizzie bucked her hips up to catch your knee, adjusting so that the both of you were perfectly positioned around one another. You rolled your hips upwards, pushing your knee between Lizzie's legs and causing her to moan into your mouth. Your hips rolled back downwards, and you echoed her moan with one of your own. You both felt hot against one another, your bodies boiling with unexpected desire.

You barely noticed Lizzie grabbing at the thin fabric of your panties and tugging them downwards until they were caught, and you lifted your hips momentarily to let her slide them down far enough so that you were fully exposed. She quickly grabbed your hips and pulled them hard against her knee, your bare pussy grinding against her skin and leaving a trail of wetness on her thigh.

Lizzie broke from the kiss to mumble, "Fuck," in a breathy tone. Wanting to feel her wetness on you as well, you leaned up and took the stretchy hem of her shorts and tugged them off her legs, along with her panties. Returning your knee between hers, you felt just how warm and wet she was, and it made you moan. You stayed sitting up, grinding yourself against her thigh and letting your thigh grind against her. You watched as Lizzie, face flustered, moaned and closed her eyes, one hand on your hip guiding you and the other on the back of your thigh between hers, pushing it harder against herself as she bucked her hips against yours.

You stayed like that for a moment, in pure blissful pleasure, until Lizzie tapped your thigh to snap you out of your hot, pleasured state. "Turn around, " she told you, her chest heaving up and down from how turned on she was. Her eyes were dark and pulsating, and you hesitated under their stare for a moment before turning around as she said, slightly confused.

You went to straddle her thigh again, assuming she wanted to watch you ride her thigh from behind, but she grabbed your hips to stop you. "On my face, baby," she gruffly told you, and the idea in her head clicked in yours.

Maneuvering yourself backwards until you were hovering right over her face, you leaned down until your elbows hit the couch and found your face right between her legs. Lizzie slid her arms around your thighs, locking you in her hold. You both took a moment to adjust until you were perfectly aligned, and you bent Lizzie's knees upwards to give you better access.

"You're so wet, baby," Lizzie hummed, and you felt her blow hot breath onto your pussy which made you shiver.

"So are you," you told her, a tremble in your voice from how much you anticipated what was going to transpire. You turned your head and kissed the soft inner parts of her thighs, trailing your mouth downwards as your kisses got sloppier. Lizzie hesitated for a moment, letting you get started before she touched you.

You gave a soft kiss to her clit, feeling her tremble beneath you, and then you started to kitten lick her. It was different, being upside down, but you knew exactly what Lizzie liked. As you started to lap at her wet pussy, indulging in her sweet taste, you were caught off guard by her tongue entering you all at once.

Your lips froze right on her clit as you felt Lizzie start to jam her tongue in and out of your hole before breaking to lick a slow line from your clit all the way up. You trembled and moaned, the vibrations causing Lizzie to jerk slightly beneath you. Remembering that you wanted to please her just as much as she was pleasing you, you returned your mouth to her clit and began sucking on it, switching between that and dragging your tongue down her entirety to slip it inside her entrance. Lizzie was incredibly wet for you and only getting wetter, and as you tried to focus on eating her out, your head bobbing up and down between her legs, her juices began to drip onto the couch. Each time she let out a soft moan, it went right against your core and caused you to moan, so that you were both just moaning messes desperately lapping at each other.

Lizzie was going slow at first, enjoying what you were giving her until she felt the strong urge to give to you. So, grabbing your ass cheeks, she spread them open so that your pussy, wet and reddened, opened up wider for her. She dug her tongue deeper than ever inside you, swirling it around your walls that immediately clenched for her. Her fingertips were gripping your ass so hard that it was already bruising, and the cry you let out at the wonderful sensation forced you to break your mouth from her pussy.

You gave a lazy lick to her clit before giving up, your face red hot from all the humidity as you rested it against her cool inner thigh. You could feel her wetness coating the entire lower half of your face as you got lost in the pleasure she was giving you, feeling so light as if you were going to float away. It was made worse when Lizzie started to lap hard and fast at you, focusing on your clit which made your hips jerk over her face. Then, you felt her press a long digit inside you, and the fireworks that were already swirling behind your eyelids became too much to focus.

"Lizzie," you whined, starting to grind your hips against her mouth and finger. Her tongue and lips felt so amazing, not to mention her hooked finger curling deep inside you. It was all too much for you to remember to return the favor, until you felt Lizzie's hand reach down to the back of your head and push it downwards. Your face was pushed back between her legs, and you opened your mouth around her pussy and tried to pleasure her, but Lizzie's merciless pace was sending you into a spiral. You whined against her pussy, squirming your hips over her as you started to come close.

Lizze pushed your head harder to signal you to lick her, and her hips were bucking up towards your mouth, but all you could do was sloppily drag your tongue around her clit as she ravished your pussy from the other end of the couch.

When you felt her add another finger suddenly, jutting them deep inside you as she sucked on your clit, you couldn't stop from cumming. You could barely breathe, unable to move with her hand keeping your head firmly planted between her thighs as you orgasmed, moaning loudly from between her thighs as your entire body tensed, hips desperately rolling against Lizzie's mouth.

You felt that you nearly went blind from how hard you came, falling limp over Lizzie as you felt her fingers leave you. She let you lay there for a moment before gently pushing you forward, releasing her thighs from around your face to signal you to get up.

Slowly, you crawled forward to the other end of the couch then turned around on your back, your legs trembling from your climax as you caught your breath. As you glanced down to Lizzie, you watched her sit up and was shocked at the sight of her. Her face was rosy red from all the heat, her hair was disheveled, and her mouth was glistening with a mixture of your cum and her saliva. You noticed that the juices had even rolled down to her neck, and you glanced down between your legs to see that your wetness had soaked your own inner thighs. You hadn't even realized how wet you had gotten from not only your own juices but also Lizzie’s spit.

Lizzie must have been short of breath for a while when you were grinding on her face as you came, because she was still panting as she used the inside of her shirt to wipe all the liquids from her mouth, including the sweat that had accumulated on her forehead. It looked like she had just done a workout, and you were extremely turned on by the sight of it but also slightly disappointed in yourself.

"No fair, you used fingers," you playfully mumbled, and Lizzie just smirked at you as she wiped her neck, watching you where you sat against the arm of the couch. "I'm sorry," you said in a quieter tone. "I wanted to make you cum, too, but I—"

"Don't worry, babe," Lizzie said, and she suddenly grabbed you by your ankles and yanked you down until your head was lying flat on the couch seat. You gasped from the shock, looking down at her and watching her slowly straddle her way up your body. "I am going to cum."

Warmth flashed through your body at the darkened look in her eyes as she mounted your face, leaning forward to hold herself up with one hand on the arm of the couch. With her other hand, she caressed the side of your face as she lowered herself onto your mouth. You opened for her, grabbing the back of her thighs as she started to grind on your mouth, being sure to swivel herself around to coat your entire lower face in her wetness.

"It's okay baby, I prefer fucking your face anyways," she mumbled, picking up the pace with her hips. Your tongue started to ache as you desperately tried to move it against her, but she reached down and grabbed your jaw, holding it still so she could fuck your face as she wanted to. "Mmm, fuck, baby," Lizzie moaned, her head falling back. She was already halfway there from the progress you had made on her earlier, so it wasn't long before she was falling apart over you, sloppily thrusting against your mouth as her juices dripped down your throat.

After her moans had gloriously filled the air, Lizzie crawled off your face, allowing you to breathe again. Now, it was your face completely covered in wetness, and Lizzie grinned at the sight of it as she settled between her legs, wrapping her arms around your torso and holding you against her.

"I think we both need a shower now," Lizzie whispered, to which you blushed and agreed with a nod. Lizzie leaned forward to your neck, pressing a few kisses there that led up to your ear, "And maybe you can finish me off again when we get there."

[felassanis]

Legacy Of The Sparrow WIP - Reaver x F!Sparrow

This is a WIP of a full story I am planning on making. So please lemme know what you think! I am refraining from posting it to AO3 in case I need to make any alterations as I map out the chapters.

Reaver tries and fails to understand just exactly what about “Until I return to kill you and take back what's rightfully mine,” had been lost in translation. 

He was rather certain his feelings on the matter were made quite clear. In print nevertheless! How could anyone expect him to be more clearer than that?! It was as if they were begging to have their heads blown all over the walls, honestly!

Reaver even thought it an improvement on the wallpaper. Considering it was not his wallpaper in the first place.

They couldn't just contend with squatting in his Bloodstone Manor. Oh no, they had also stripped it of any trace of Reaver’s personality. Taking it upon themselves to completely refurbish the manor as they saw fit. And in their rampant warpath his oil paintings had been pulled from the walls. His collection of titillating contraptions…gone! Tossed and burned with his old sex chamber switched into a bloody office. 

They’d even done away with Reaver’s Rear Passage. Blocking the entrance with thick, hard, concrete…Seriously. Not every manor had a secret escape tunnel. They must lead awfully dreadful lives to never see the usefulness of one.

“No, this won’t do at all,” He mumbles to himself.

Blowing smoke from the barrel of Dragonstomper, Reaver steps over a row of bodies casually. Only slightly fretting what the spilled blood pouring from between their eyes would do to his floorboards. He wondered briefly, in a spurt of awareness, if anyone would miss the throuple. Only to then realise he didn’t care. In fact, there were far more pressing issues….

On his trip back from Samarkand, he’d lost all the wealth he’d accumulated from the distant, barbaric land of sand. His ship The Reaver unfortunately lost her battle to Albion’s sharp and twisted coasts on the trip home. His beloved finally finding her watery grave after many long years at last. And with it, Reaver’s reapings from Samarkand.

Now he’s found his second beloved abused, mutilated, and tortured in rampant bright colours and shackled by domesticity. Oh well, at least he still has his vault. No one in Albion could crack the code to his belly of riches that lay beneath Bloodstone Manor.

“Reaver, sir!” 

The bald man who appeared suddenly from nowhere had made him flinch. Something so undeniably humiliating that Reaver nearly put a bullet in him right then and there to save face. And he damn well would have, were it not the scout he had sent out earlier. 

“M’sorry sir! I-I just had news! The news you wanted me to get for ‘yer!” 

Now here was some village missing its idiot. The man holds his hands up in a delayed reaction as Dragonstomper glares at him with one big, deep, black eye. And as tempting as it was to pull the divine trigger…he was one of the few fools left from Reaver’s old crew who hadn’t been snatched by the wilds of Samarkand or died in the subsequent shipwreck.

“Well? Quickly now lad! Before I completely do away with the notion of ‘don’t shoot the messenger’,” 

“Well, I know we ‘ant been back from Samarkand long. But shit’s changed, sir. Some o’ the locals heard the gunshots, sir. Before stuff got prim ‘n proper, people might’ve joined in innit? Bit ‘o fun, bit o’ target practice like for the kiddies. Not these lot. Mighty fearful they were. They’ve gone ‘an told on you, sir,” He explains quickly.  

“Told on me?”  Reaver keens in interest. Tasting the question on his tongue like sugar. “My, and whom have they told on me to, I wonder? A teacher? The guards? Oh I'm unequivocally shivering in my breeches…” 

He could do with the target practice after all this. Keen to let out his frustrations on the populace stupid enough to come after him.

“No, sir. They’ve gon’ and told the Queen,” 

Reaver blinks. “Since when was there a bloody Queen?” 

--------

“Your form is sloppy. Any pisspot who remembers he has legs could kick your weight out from under you,”

Walter relents his picky point with another strike of the blade. Hurtling towards her at such a hard, unwavering speed that she barely has time to use the side of her blade to throw him off as he rams. 

Stunned, she teters backwards. Barely staying on her feet as Walter flicks the blade to his side pompously. Circling her with a cocky smile that curls under his brown moustache.

“Embarrassing for a queen,”

She lets out an undignified huff. “I’ll show you embarrassing,”

Walter comes bounding towards her like a bull, sword like horns, as he darts. Rather than exert unnecessary energy, Sparrow extends her hand outwards. Her palm directed at Walter. With a sudden gust of force, the propulsion of her Will fizzles into reality. Sending him flying back like an insect caught in a vengeful wind and with it, his sword clattering to the ground.

Walter rises to his feet, smile completely wiped off his face. “I said no magic!"

“There are no rules in battle, dear Walter,” 

“Not in writing. But dirty tactics and cheap tricks aren’t honourable,” He picks up his sword, aiming the tip towards her in accusation. “Troops look up to their leader. To find her throwing dirt in an opponent's eye to win is hardly inspirational,”

Sparrow shrugs. The act of exerting Will was hardly cheap tactics in her eyes. With a wave of her hand, she could conjure a frightening row of swords with the ease of breath. Aim them true, and her enemies would become human pincushions before they landed a single hit. Lightning and fire bowed to her whim. The very earth would bend and break if she wanted it, cowering under her might. What was cheap about that? It was hardly comparable to throwing dirt in someone’s eye.

But Walter had always been very by the book. He’d sooner lose a battle than win by tricks and wit. She supposed there was a fairness in that, something to admire. But it also felt short sighted. She could not have relied on Lucien Fairfax to prepare honourable tactics back when. Doing so would have seen her dead. As it saw so many others dead.

“My apologies, Walter,” She nods to her old friend. Perhaps it was unfair to exert Will over someone who was not a Hero. “Would you like to knock me off my feet again? I know you love it when I fall underneath you,”

Her tease is not lost on him, as evident by the hook in his brow. “Always saying what’s on your mind, eh lass?”

“I don’t say everything that’s on my mind. You’d be blushing to your toes if I said everything I’m thinking of,”

He lets out a roar of laughter at that, which makes her smile. He could be very serious when he wanted to be, too serious. The job of being her bodyguard had all but sapped the humour out of him. She wished nothing more that behind closed doors, he’d drop the dutiful act and be Walter Beck again. Like they were in the old days.

When Walter starts to pace towards her something clutches her chest, winding it tightly into a knot of anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, her teasing had struck a chord. Finally. His eyes hold something close to courage, something closer to need. Desire…

Only for it to be wounded when he stops a foot from her.

He looks like he wants to say something. His mouth hangs open, before closing promptly. 

“Come, your highness. Your council will be waiting in the throne room,”

She deflates, disappointed. But hardly surprised.

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” 

She sheathes her sword, shoving into her belt roughly like a careless punch. Side by side the two of them make their way through Castle Fairfax in silence, arriving at the doors to the throne room also as such. Where her council awaited, and where her day was about to be ruined.

Outside the hall's doors is Jasper. An elderly man, trussed up in a buttoned up suit with slicked back hair white as snow. He spots the duo, quickly checking that his collar was in top shape as if she’d care. In his hand is a red velvet cushion holding her crown.

“Your majesty,” The butler takes a bow, holding the cushion perfectly poised as he bends.

“Jassy,” She replies, taking hold of the crown and nestling it quickly on her head.

They enter the hall alongside the thundering cascade of the large oak doors being swung open by Walter, who urgently holds the door aside for his queen. The room is cast into an immediate hush, eyes trailing towards the lithe frame of Sparrow. Twinkling like the sockets of skulls. Crimson banners bearing Sparrow’s sigil drape from the ceiling, matching the elongated carpet that flowed across the marble floor towards her throne…

With a deep breath that blows up her lungs, Sparrow walks down the centre of the hall with practised grace. Though her throne rubbed her in all the wrong places, and the crown wrapped around her temples like a wreath plucked from thorns that provoked a headache, she would never show it. She could feign grace, feign poise and manners, things she had never embraced in her heart truly. It was all an act, a mask, a barricade to deflect the staring and hushed whispers that descended upon her court. She flaunted this facade for five years, it came naturally to her now.

All she had to consciously not trip over this damn carpet.

As she ascends to her throne and settles her bony arse in the stone seat. The first noble wastes no time in taking the stand.

“Your Majesty, Queen Sparrow,” 

She recognised the noble. An older man who went by Cotton Filly; befitting of his name was a head of greyish curls that fell to his shoulders like cobwebs. He was built similarly to a doll made fashioned from clay that had been pulled and stretched by a meaner older brother. Sometimes it baffled her that answering to her authority meant taking such…pissants seriously.

As the man spills his drivels, her eyes begin to wander. In a room filled to the brim with people there was comfort that amongst the sea of faces at least one was known to her. 

Searching for his gaze, she finally catches Walter Beck’s eyes. Who watches her from afar at his post at the other end of the hall. He can read her better than anyone and knows she’d rather be anywhere else. Alas, all he can just about offer is a sympathetic look.

“The current climate of the region is appealing to you to find a suitable husband. Someone of good standing who understands what it means to be a leader. And who can provide a strong and capable heir to rule in your stead when you are gone,"

Her eye twitches irritably as she is taken out of her distraction. It was one thing to hear rants about lowering the taxes for the rich or about rebuilding roads. But when they butted their noses into her private affairs. It was a little too much. And hit a sore spot…

“And as I’ve stated before, Mr Filly. I have no need of an extra mouth to feed in my household,” She tells him flatly. “I’ve enough feeding you lot as it is,”

Mr Filly, unphased by her answer, continues. “Your highness. There are many in your kingdom who would see a lone queen as fragile…vulnerable even. And more view it as a challenge. The people worry that without an heir, your…ahem, generous rule may be cut short. If that happens we will be left struggling without a guiding hand. I implore you, to reinstate the confidence in your people, find a husband,”

“And I implore you to return to your queen with concerns that actually matter to the fate of the realm. The question of who I have or don’t have under my bed sheets will not dictate Albion’s safety,” 

She could see the thinly veiled attempt at control on his part, of him trying to rein her in like a loose pup. He dressed his words up as pragmatism of course, but deep down she knew his blood boiled at the sight of her on the throne. His posture stiffened, and his lips pressed firmly into a thin line.

Years ago the only way she would have ever seen the inside of Castle Fairfax was through an unattended window, or being dragged to the royal dungeons by the guards for stealing bread from a stall. But now the lowest of commoners had committed a noble’s worst nightmare to reality… and ascended to royalty.

She was not Lucien Fairfax. And the nobles of Bowerstone detested it.

She had no status. No regard for the nobility. And no patience. She was an unnatural force of change in the once sturdy and structural hierarchy. And like most, change scared them to death. 

Sparrow had no intention of coddling them like Lucien had done. She’d force this change down their throats till they either swallowed or choked. As long as they kept in line, this feigned politeness between them and her would continue. 

Mr Filly pulls a face. “The dwellers are a solitary people. They’d rather live in the woods than with the rest of us in civilization. And that is their right. Many wonder though, if the burden of the crown is too heavy for someone used to going at it…alone, in matters,”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with the weight of my crown,”

“We are simply worried that should you perish without a husband or an heir-”

“Your worry is touching,” She snaps. “No, really. I’m moved to tears,” She strikes a finger across her dry cheek.

Once again his face scrunches. Like he had tasted something bitter in the air. “Your highness it is the responsibility of royalty to marry and continue their bloodline. And since you claim to be royalty, I feel it is my duty as a member of your court to remind you of this,”

Before Sparrow can attest to that, the doors to the throne room burst open. A set of guards painfully out of breath rush into the hall which erupts in gossip and outrage.

A strangled cry rises from Cotton Filly as Sparrow stands from the throne. “What is the meaning of this interruption?! How dare-”

“Oh do be quiet!” Sparrow descends the stairs that prop her throne up. Pushing past Filly as she attends to the two guards, who remove their helmets in respect.

Walter appears, taking quickly to her side as he addresses the men. “Figgins, Smithy! What in blazes are you doing here, lads?! You were stationed all the way in Bloodstone!”

Figgins, the much younger of the duo, wipes his face clean of sweat as he gasps. “Sorry, Walter, sir. But we have an urgent distress call from Bloodstone,”

“Distress…hah,” Smithy grunts with a weak, sickly smile. “It’s a bloody massacre is what it is…he even got the chickens, poor things…”

“Chickens? Wha-just tell us what is going on, lad!” Walter shouts.

“It started with the Billberry family, they were butchered in their own home. Shot dead like..like…” Figgins answers, growing nervous as Walter seems to tower over him.

Something lights up in Sparrow’s head then like a march to a wick. A pang of familiarity scratches at her mind over the uttered last name.

“The Billberrys…the Billberrys…” She tastes the name on her tongue.

Walter eyes her. “They’re the ones you sold Bloodstone Manor to, M’lady. Shame, they were a kind bunch of souls,”

Then it hits her. A sick cackle in the back of her mind, a voice rich in tone and smooth like velvet. Yet as sharp as any blade. A man as unpredicatble as a bomb. A walking time capsule that should have been buried and left buried. Rum and smoke and sea salt…

At first, she simply refused to believe the first thing that came to mind. She shook the memories like apples from a tree, daring to stomp on the fruits of her past…but she knew, deep down, she knew what this meant. There was but one man who could be responsible for something like this. Only one sadistic enough.

As ever living up to his name. Reaver had returned…..

[renee-writer]

What If It Were Brian Chapter Twenty -seven

AO3

To call it a perilous journey would be an understatement. Brian must have some fresh air and movement. To that end, each night of the week’s trip to the docks, his parents hold their breaths as Murtagh and Fergus supervise his hour of exercise.  It is mainly walking around the forest or flatland, being as quiet as he is all the rest of the time.

 

Claire frets that such stillness will lead to problems for him. A five year old boy is supposed to be loud and rambunctious. A week of such stillness can’t be good for him. Not that they have any choice.

 

Murtagh drives the team hard. They need to get to the docks as quickly as they can. Fergus keeps his eyes open for any approaching Redcoats. This is most important when his little brother is out and when they need breaks to use the privy.

 

They are blessed for the longest time. It isn’t until the fifth day, a day from the docks, that he spots any. His family is safely ducked away in the wagon.

 

“Riders approaching from the northwest. Redcoats.” He says loud enough for both Murtagh and Jamie to hear. Both utter barely perceived curses.

 

Claire holds Brian tight against her. He buries his head in her bosom and is perfectly still. Jamie holds his dirk in his hand, prepared to defend his family.

 

“Hello,” the nasally sound of a London accent, invades their ears, “where are you off too in such a hurry?”

 

“We’ve a boat to catch. The lad be an orphan. I am taking him to the colonies where he may start a new life.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Claudel.” He knows not to give his adopted name, “monsieur.” Very good, Jamie thinks. He thickened his French accent, removing any trace of Scotland from it.

 

“Claudel what?”

 

Fergus shrugs. “God alone knows. My Madre was a whore, monsieur . It could be anyone who could give me a surname.”

 

“I found the wee bastard stealing. Brought him into my home to give him a trace of morals. Now, I hope to give him a good start in his adult life. I do as I can.”

 

“Well,” A different voice, Jamie notes. So at least two of them, “that was quite Christian of you. You didn’t take his hand. That is the proper punishment for a thief.”

 

“Sir, he wouldn’t have been as useful to me in farming with only one hand.”

 

“That is true.” Jamie hears one of them walk around the wagon. He tightens his grip on the knife, “Quite a lot of cargo for just you two.”

 

“Well sir, we plan to sell some, as well as the wagon and team of horses, to help us get settled in the colonies. Must make sure we have an ample amount to pay our taxes.”

 

They all hold their breaths as both Redcoats walk fully around the wagon. Claire almost stops breathing when one of them places his hand on the chest that fully hides them.

 

“Quite a lovely chest you have here. It will fetch a fair price at market. Don’t let those thieves down at the docks cheat you now.”

 

“No sir, I won’t .”

 

“Very good then. God be with you both.” They dip their hats to Murtagh and Fergus and ride off. Murtagh has to stop the shaking of his hands before he can take the reigns back up.

 

“Mama, papa, Brian, are you well?” Fergus asks after swallowing the lump of terror that was lodged in his throat.

 

“Aye son. You did excellent.” Jamie answers. Claire is shaking to much to. Brian sits up and grins.

 

“You are like superman, both of you.” Claire let’s out a watery laugh.

 

“Murtagh, get us to the docks. Once on board Brian can tell you the story of Superman.”

 

“Aye.” He takes up the reigns and the team starts a fast trot.

[storiesbydtcecil]

Keeping Up With The Kuchikis (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/245932377-keeping-up-with-the-kuchikis?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=theanimeloverxfiles&wp_originator=5SKc4ifAvMMDPzUqMnBDSYwSGqrk6pA2HvSS%2B5ccLLlkuBaibtoo9A8%2FVsd%2FUosI91FSE1upUg7xo6zKTP%2FO2CRSuoRG1xmOejvQzkWjwcPf9O3yUzjYaf3ZXKwqW1FU 

Chapter 6 - Oil On Troubled Waters

Directly after the healers shut the door behind them and before he shattered it, Kaito checks his reflection in the polished mirror he had set up in a lone corner of his chambers, close to an open window. He had acquired the coveted item at great expense from the World of the Living. A one-of-a-kind item found in the Seireitei as far as he knew to date. Unlike what other nobles had in their residence, this full-length mirror is made from melted sand, found exclusively in the World of the Living, and compressed into a perfectly reflective surface. One can see their image down to the most minute details.

By the light of day streaming through the open window, Kaito sees that his left eye is purple, watery, puffy, and swollen shut. He was not prepared for the rest of what else the mirror has to say.

The chief physician told him about the damages, but seeing himself in the mirror, it was as if he was looking at a distorted image, like that of a stranger with his body only it has a disfigured face. His bottom lip is split open, needing reiatsu sutures to close the wound. This will allow the capillaries under the dermis to heal completely.

According to the physician, with each impact against his body, the sharpness of Byakuya's spiritual pressure penetrated Kaito's skin, rupturing the network of nerves and spiritual flow wherever a blow landed. If proper precautions are not observed, the injuries may become crippling. He can lose his eye! The muscles under his jaw might not heal completely, resulting in permanent facial paralysis caused by inflamed nerves.

Kaito's chest heaved rapidly, and hot air flared from his nostrils, causing discomfort to him in unique ways, making him experience exquisite pain from just breathing. The first jolt that dances in facial muscles forced Kaito to steady his physical reactions instantly while his thoughts grow increasingly riled.

That bastard! Look what he's done to my face!

He wanted to yell in frustration and righteous anger. He needed an outlet to vent, someone to strike out at. Yet, at this moment, he was alone in his chambers. All that seems accomplishable for Kaito right now is to wait. Bake in his fury, husband his grudge and wait for the opportune moment to make his next play. That's how he'll triumph over Byakuya Kuchiki. That's how Kaito will break that boy, more so than how he was the last time.

Kaito respects Byakuya's office as Head of the Clan and has freely offered his best council to the lad since he was a mere pup. Performing his duties for Clan and Head with the diligence and dignity befitting the temperament of a senior member of the Kuchiki Cadet Branches for centuries. However;

I never liked the brat from day one.

If it wasn't for Byakuya's accident of birth and had fate progressed with its cards as it did, then Kaito would, by default, be the Head of the Clan right now.

Sōjun Kuchiki, Byakuya's father, was never in the best health to take over the clan; everyone knew it. But because he was Ginrei's son, he was selected anyway to take up the mantle of his patrimony. Yet, even if he hadn't been fatally stabbed in the stomach that day in battle, he wouldn't have lasted long as the head of the clan, not with his constitution. The responsibilities and the lifestyle are too great for him to handle. It was happen-stance that he managed to breed on his wife to beget Byakuya, the little pest!

The one who dared to raise his hand against me? An Elder advisor! Never in the history of the Great Houses has such action taken place. The humiliation is too profound, too much for me to fathom.

With little motivation, pain explodes under his skin. The tiniest movements of a facial muscle send a network of receptors skipping to react across Kaito Kuchiki's face with excruciating enthusiasm.

It hurts! Thirteen hells! It hurts so.

The healers from the clan had done what they could for him. However skilled their techniques, the pain stubbornly persisted.

Useless! Garbage, the lot of them. Kaito thought, vehement rage impotently boils through his spirit. Their incompetence sickens him. Disgust for their lacking disturbs the core of his soul. Why didn't the retainers of his household fetch Captain Unohana of Squad Four to tend to his wounds personally? That wench, though of low birth, is the best healer in the entire Seireitei. Nine hells! He is a Kuchiki by all that is right, and it would be a boon to the silly woman's repertoire to count his name among her clientele.

Kaito couldn't speak without disturbing the slow healing process left in his facial muscles to knit themselves back together before Byakuya reacted so strongly to his words. If he could but manage that basic command over his mouth as he had thousands of times before, he would be spitting mad, yelling at his servants and his son, Kalon, for allowing him to bear this pain when better aid is available yet not acquired. Money is no obstacle, so why not get him the best possible care there is?

Kaito's ability to speak was taken long before the healer catered to his wounds because the first punch Byakuya landed dislocated his jaw. Kaito could tell that much from feeling something in the lower part of his face give way under the force of the younger Kuchiki's angry thrust.

It only went downhill from there as Byakuya wasn't half done with him yet.

The next blow broke his nose in two places. Kaito tried to raise his hands to block, only to be viciously thrown to the hardwood floor, hurting his right shoulder and upper back when his body's momentum came to a sharp halt. Kaito recalls Byakuya's face as he pounced on top of his body, fisting the collar of his robes and getting a good grip on the material- making damn sure his prey could not escape. Kaito looked up into the younger man's face with what he hoped was defiance painted on his wrinkled one, but there was no denying his fear, regardless of his bravado. He felt an unwanted shiver come over his being, invading and corrupting his spirit as Byakuya closed his fingers into a fist over him, then hauled it back to his ear. The young man's angled, lean muscular arm was cocked and tense like a trebuchet about to launch its burden down on him. And launched it did but not before Kaito bore witness to what is underneath that famous mask of calm and impassivity worn by the 28th Head of the Kuchiki Clan all these years. And what he saw was pure, unbridled malice. A rictus of rage cast a shadow over the younger Kuchiki's features. The steady grey gaze that resided in Byakuya's eyes for centuries was now alive with indignity, eyelids drawn back to almost bulging. Kaito could make out the thin-red-forked veins at the corner of each eye- a stark contrast to the white of the man's corneas. Byakuya's teeth were clenched tightly; lips peeled back as though at any moment he might snarl down at Kaito with saliva drooling from his mouth as from an animal's muzzle.

That was Kaito's last sight as Byakuya hurled his fist again, where it landed in his left eye. The blow felt like it could knock him unconscious. A'last, fortune favored him not, and it would be at the end of this ordeal that darkness comes to take him. Anger had the Kuchiki Head in its grips, and on instinct, Kaito shuts his eyes as he weathers the raining punches assaulting his person.

The beating didn't last long, no more than a minute or less but the damage is significant. At one point, Kaito tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth before a hot, stinging sensation radiated through his tongue. The healing treatments revealed that he'd accidentally bit off a chunk of his tongue. This must have happened when Kaito reflexively locked his teeth in place as he took hit after punishing hit. The healers had to stitch the piece back on.

Whether Byakuya Kuchiki was hauled off of him by others in the meeting hall or the man lifted himself off of his own volition, Kaito couldn't tell; he couldn't see anything. What he did perceive was the deafening quiet that permeated the meeting hall after the cries for 'forgiveness' died down.

Every part of his face felt stiff now that the assault was over. The natural regenerative system in his body was kicking in, and swelling is the first sign of its work.

His eyelids couldn't respond to the simple stigma of 'open'. Kaito thought he might have blacked out several times because the next thing he knew, he was being gently lifted from the floor and carried to the exit. A cool breeze kissed his stinging, swelling flesh, a slight, fleeting salve against the heat of his wounds as he exited the meeting hall. The Patriarchal leader had no idea when he arrived at his manor or by what means his transportation had been. Neither was he aware of when the healers began their work in earnest.

The Chief Physician gave him details of his injuries and how long it would take to make a full recovery as protocol demands before bowing his head and leaving the room in a hurry. Possibly, the man sensed the low-key disturbing spiritual pressure boiling under the surface the more he carried on with his assessment.

Six days! Kaito thought in complete bewilderment. Six days of this humiliation and agony? It's unforgivable! Who does that fucking brat believe that he is?! Raising his hand against an Elder Advisor? The brazen cheek is more than I will stand for!

It is an outrage! A disgrace and denigration to the name of Kuchiki to have its head behave without honor, and for what?! A common-born dead wench and her whore of a sister?

It is no secret that Rukia's lover resides in the World of the Living. The entire Seireitei witnessed his brash and fool-hardy actions two years ago to save the wretched girl's pathetic life. Disgusting! Slumming with a human, is there a lower level of shame achievable?

At least by marrying her off in this manner, the slut can scrape up the scraps of whatever dignity she might have had off the floor of wherever she spilled her commoner's virgin blood and serve the clan by producing an heir.

Rukia should be washing my feet and drinking the water in gratitude for this opportunity. Yet, when I announced the council's collective decision, the little bitch's face reddened as if she understood the fundamentals of propriety or chastity. The mere concept of Rukia knowing any of these is uproarious.

Kaito had only one reason for selecting Rukia over every possible candidate (and there is no end to those). Her adoption creates the perfect play for the council to maneuver Byakuya into action.

For years, the council had tried every avenue to get the head of the clan out of his rut and pick someone from the best and brightest of the noble shirts to be his new wife. Yet Byakuya persists with his stubbornness.

Kaito couldn't see what was so special about Hisanna for Byakuya to mourn his dead wife as if he'd lost a limb! She wasn't even that pretty. She had a commoner's face, could barely walk without assistance, and was pale with sickness three-quarters of the time and coughing up blood all over the place. If Kaito had known things would have been this severe with Byakuya, he wouldn't have 'assisted' Hisanna's illness with its work. He didn't have to do much. The worthless creature had one foot in the grave without his help. If he hadn't intervened, then Hisanna could have lived a few more years, perhaps, but what would have been the point?

According to Kaito's sources, Byakuya couldn't be physically intimate with his wife often because of her illness and weak constitution. The sickly wench even failed as a woman, so what was the point of her existence? None that Kaito could see would have benefited the clan's progress.

I've been a member of the Elder Council for centuries, long before the best part of that little shit ran down his mother's crack and stained the sheets when his father finally manned up and used her for what he married her for. I've been a loyal and faithful supporter of my clan, following the traditions and keeping the Kuchiki noble bloodline pure, unlike Byakuya, who married a commoner and then had nothing to show for the disgrace he brought into the noble house of Kuchiki. I spoke nothing but the truth because someone had to, and this milksop repays my council with violence?! Unforgivable!

Kaito's anger flows into his spiritual reiatsu like a river of lava, consuming his calm. Then he could contain the pressure no longer, releasing it into the room, letting it float up and out from him. Freed, it sat in the air, making it grow laden and then threatening as the substance became unbreathable. For any lesser souls close by, his spiritual pressure will be choking. Kaito felt a few servants collapse a couple of paces away from his chambers; their mundane errands interrupted because their spirits were being crushed by his. He feels their strength leaking out of them as their knees buckle under them in his presence, under the stain. A few were able to withstand his reiatsu rain, and if he wasn't so upset and in agony, he might have arched a brow in challenge.

Kaito's spiritual pressure set the pitcher of water on the nightstand, dancing wildly on its perch, jiggling its contents dangerously as the room shook. The tatami mats came undone and uprooted from their place on the floor. The full-length polished mirror, occupying a corner of his bed chambers; the luxury imported from the World of the Living at great expense (not to mention a heavy bribe to the officials just to get it through the Donghai), spider-webbed under the weight of his spiritual pressure.

This injustice that Byakuya has done to me will be avenged thrice over.

It did nothing to quell the storm of reiatsu statically raining all over his bed chambers; cracking the thick walls and shattering glass to recall a moment during his procedure while the Chief Physician had him under a numbing spell to nullify the pain. Kaito can still feel the eerie sensation as the healers reset his jawbone back in place, fitting it back into his face like a piece of a puzzle. Disturbing enough, true; undeniably so. Yet, what won the arguments hands down in Kaito's ordeal was the feeling of his flesh knitting itself back together under his right eye (spared the most vicious of the pummelling) as the healing spell mitigated the damaged flesh enough for him to see out of it. Now that had a special skin-crawling disgust about it. Imagine what felt like the feet of a thousand tiny vermin marching under the skin's surface and being completely helpless to do anything about it.

The disgusting pleas on his behalf played next in his memories as his spiritual pressure spiraled and spat sparks around his chambers, echoing down the corridors and halls ways of his manor, increasing its influential circumference by a mile.

Most of the voices who were begging Byakuya to calm down were only doing so because it was the civilized thing to do, not strictly for his sake.

Forgiveness? Is that all the lickspittle cowards could say? Are their backbones missing?

Kaito expected outrage in the wake of the beating of an Elder, cries of injustice even among his rivals. Yet, only the beginning summer songs of the cicadas had something to say when all settled in the meeting hall. Kaito would wager that many crying for mercy secretly enjoyed the show as Byakuya brutalized him, savoring his humiliation.

Very well then.

It was a few more minutes before the room stabilized as Kaito's spiritual pressure released the area from its invisible fists. He needed to focus on the plans, set in motion from the little pantomime Byakuya put on in the meeting hall, with Kaito playing the main character.

He'll continue to play his role as Elder Advisor, without a doubt.

Byakuya, for all his power and influence as the head of the clan Kuchiki, cannot easily depose Kaito of his position without serious opposition from the members of the council and the noble community at large.

Kaito will, of course, stay vigilant with his image. Image is everything for a noble.

Wisdom dictates that I show humility, and reflection for my actions after my punishment was dealt out by the head of the clan with such rapacious ferocity. So I will do so, Byakuya Kuchiki. I will do so.

Byakuya will be keeping an even closer eye on Kaito now, more so than his spies made it their business to do.

The brat believes his little network of spies is unknown to everyone, but I'm not easily fooled. As if I wouldn't notice how Ginrei, that sly fox, through his connections with Yoruichi Shihoin, former Commander of the Stealth Force, had procured them from the cream of the crop from Squad Two back then while she was still the Captain. Of course, he had negotiated and solicited favors from other houses to procure elites from their private police for Byakuya before he knew how to wipe his ass. Hate the little shit. He has everything, yet he doesn't do anything with what he has. Byakuya Kuchiki, your existence irritates me.

Byakuya's physical attributes seemed to have been formed by a God with a love for aesthetics. The combination of Sōjun's dominant features and Byakuya's mother's beauty created a rich specimen of a soul. As a result of his rigorous training as a member of the Goeti 13, Byakuya's body is well-honed and muscled; Kaito's face can testify to the power in the younger Kuchiki's arm. Yet Byakuya, generously blessed as he is (Kaito would go as far as to say that the young man is quite dishy), was sexually a schmuck until he was married to the sickly commoner who took his virginity, barely. And women of noble-bearing were throwing themselves at him. Still are throwing themselves at him, and he is still a sexual schmuck; celibate is the adept description for the boy. What a waste!

In his younger days, if Kaito had a tenth of Byakuya's looks or physique, he would've taken full advantage of them. Women are easy targets when wealth and prestige are involved. Ready to disrobe you or be disrobed with a few flashes of silver or the promise of a meal, in cases with common whores or lesser house sluts.

Kaito wagers that Byakuya could have been born dirt poor with his looks, and women would still flock in droves around him like senseless geese.

During the deliberations, the council surmised that Byakuya will fight them on their decision for him to marry his adoptive sister. Kaito couldn't comprehend what Byakuya's problem is. If Rukia was his blood sister, then his refusal would make more sense. But she's nothing to him, only a legal relative.

Byakuya fought their avid opposition to him marrying Hisanna tooth and nail until the council relented when he threatened to elope to the World of the Living, which would have broken thousands of years of Kuchiki tradition in his selfishness. An act such as the elopement of the head of the clan would have brought shame by the wagon loads to the Kuchiki Clan's doorstep. Just like then, he's going to put up a fight now. Senseless and selfish as always. Byakuya cares nothing for Rukia. Everyone knows this! Even those blockheads in the Gotei 13 understands this. Byakuya made that clear when he refused to lift a finger to circumvent Rukia's execution two years ago and fought her lover in a battle of the century with the intent to kill her himself once he was victorious. Arrogant of the 28th Head, especially when the Ryoka broke his sword and wounded him severally after making a proper idiot of him. If he wasn't a human, Kaito would have rewarded the boy his weight in gold just for that.

If Byakuya knew how to do anything, he knew how to fight, and he will fight the council at every step. This time, however, he will not win.

Someone's spiritual pressure was purposefully turning their intent in his direction. A spy, perhaps? Kaito's grown used to Byakuya meddling in his branch's affairs, but could there be others with the same shallow thinking? What can they hope to gain from spying on a beaten-down old man? Is it Ginrei this time?

The crows' feet wrinkles deepen around Kaito's eyes, and discomfort spreads throughout his face from his habit of narrowing his eyes in suspicion. His left eye dribbled a salty tear down his cheek. Kaito dapped at it gently with a blue-silken handkerchief he kept in the pocket of his robes as all gentleman of the noble class does.

Spy to your heart's content little spies, report back to your spiders, and them to their spymasters under their different guises. Gather all the information you require. I will be the last one laughing.

Kalon Kuchiki was coming towards his chambers, Kaito's son and heir. His steps are sure; his spiritual reiatsu exudes confidence.

My son comes to see his father in his hour of vulnerability and disgrace. Kaito's thoughts were calm with an underlined thread of vitriol.

"Father," Kalon's voice announced at the door of his chambers, "I'm entering."

Kaito felt grateful that he wasn't lying down, resting as the physician instructed him as his son walk into his chambers.

Kalon Kuchiki is a tall, handsome young man with light brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and broad shoulders- a gift from his father. He has the Kuchiki Clan's angular face, a family resemblance undeniable to any member of the nobility with his proud, straight patrician nose, a gift from that mother of his.

Kaito eyed his son coming into the room proper, with posture erect, noble bearing oozing from his every pore, looking at the uncanny image of himself at three hundred years old. Fresh, white, healthy skin. Timeless, ageless youth flowing through every little vein. Kalon's strong-tender voice was much like Kaito's in his youth, too.

This is what comes from having children. The little devil sucked everything of myself that I had. My son stands before me like a ghost of my former self as a mockery. The bastard became me before time drew its lines across my face with its fingers. Down my neck with its claws and on the back of my hands. Unsatisfied with my skin, it invades my bones. My hair, once black, and cascading over my shoulders like a dark waterfall, is peppered with so much white it is rare these days to find a black strand among them. It's also making a steady strategic retreat from my wrinkled forehead slowly but progressively each year. So many lines age me.

A dull green eye turned to look into his son's bright ones, one at a time.

Hateful, this creature before me, though he is my son. My blood. My heir.

Kaito let his right hand hang loose at his side an instant before he flash-stepped in front of Kalon, his open palm traveling in an upward arc towards his son's face, who towers head and shoulders over him.

The slap echoed down the corridors, and anyone within earshot would have heard the instant Kaito's palm connected with the skin of Kalon's face proper.

Kalon gasped out of shock, looking at his father with a mixture of emotions playing across his face as he held his stinging cheek.

Kaito exhales softly, his one eye measuring his son's attitude emotionlessly.

"Fa-Fa-Father?" Kalon's green eyes brimming with tears, darted back and forth. "What? What have I done to warrant this from you?"

Kaito debated whether he should slap the young man again. He relented momentarily, choosing his words carefully before electing to speak. Something so effortless before today is now a painful chore. His voice was quiet and strained when he tried to use it with his stitched tongue. Kaito could feel the stitches resisting the motion to form words over it. His lips also were hesitant to move at his command. He clenches his teeth before beckoning his son to come closer.

Kalon didn't move. The memory of the slap is stingingly alive in his cheek, and fear's taught him caution. Frustrated, Kaito grabbed the collar of his son's robes, much as Byakuya did to him earlier, then dragged him down to eye-level. An inch separated his face from his son's so that when he spoke, his hot, sterilized breath washed over Kalon's face, and his words were clear between them.

"Your weakness," Kaito whispers as he looks at the tears in his son's eyes, his voice without emotion, "disgusts me. If you were not my heir, I would have sold you to the lowest household in the nobility as a servant without a name centuries ago." He watches as the blood drains from Kalon's face. A servant is bad enough. A servant without a name is worth less than a commoner. They might as well be in slavery.

Kalon swallowed thickly, setting his Adam's apple bobbing. His reiatsu stinks of fear.

"How could you allow," Kaito indicated his face with the back of his fingers, "this to happen to me?"

Kalon's confusion doubled, his green eyes about to pop from their sockets, "Father, I couldn't have known..."

Whatever he was about to say died when a backhand stopped the words from climbing out of his throat.

"I'm not referring to what that arrogant fucking brat did to me, you fool!" Kaito gasped, the task of talking becoming more daunting by the minute. "I'm referring to the healers. You got subpar healers to tend to me, my son? Do you think me unworthy of the best?"

"No, father!" Kalon protested. "The situation was urgent,"

"Urgent? Since that was the case, you should have made all arrangements with haste; send a hell butterfly to the office of Squad Four and have Captain Unohana get her ass over here and attend to me, personally. Why was that not done, my son?"

"We," Kalon's breath hitched in his throat.

"Speak up quick, you worthless creature, speak!"

"We didn't need the gossip, father," Kalon blurted out. "I thought to keep much of what happened to you secret from the noble community."

"Thirteen fucking hell, Kalon! You are a fool." Kaito sneered. "You think the noble community does not know every detail because you got the healers from the clan to attend to my wounds?! They will have every tiny-tasty morsel of gossip to sample at my expense because of my stupid son's naive decision at a critical moment.

A spark of indignity lit Kalon's green gaze, and Kaito saw more of himself in the boy at that moment than he was used to seeing. Usually, it was that wretched wench of a mother that Kalon reminded him of more than anything in his mannerisms.

Oh, and what is this? Kaito thought curiously.

"I am a diplomate, not a healer, father." Kalon's voice matched his father's tempo and pitch, a soft, whispering menace. "When I rushed to see you, I carried every possible help at my disposal at the time." Kalon's hand forces the material of his robes out of Kaito's grip, "I came here not for your gratitude or your criticism on the quality of the help you so desperately needed in your emergency."

Kaito lifts his chin gesturing for his son to continue. An unspoken, 'then why are you here?' said with a lifting of the chin. Kaito knew Kalon much as how his son understood him.

"Ascertaining the state of your injuries now that healer had done their work and are seeking their fee," Kalon answered, rising from where his father had dragged him down to his level. He rubs his thumb over the area where his father had slapped him the first time, a thoughtful expression painting his features. Kaito detested that look. It reminded him of his former wife. "I can see you are in peak condition if that slap is any measure."

Peak condition?!

"Get that look off your face. It reminds me of your bitch of a mother," Kaito spat.

"And am I to be blamed for my genealogy every time we see other? Did I tell you to lay with my mother? Oh, and did you also complain this much while you were between her legs? Did you question her incessantly what the child will look like or what its mannerisms will be after it's born? I can't imagine that type of talk being healthy for the mood. No wonder mother acquired a quiet servant to attend to her needs after I was born."

Kaito raised his hand again to deliver another punishment blow, "Why you insolent-"

"Insolent? Kalon raised a brow, giving a pointed look at his father's face. The young man scoffed. "Yes, well, I suppose my lineage cannot be denied, though you were relentless to do so during my first century. As you can see, blood follows blood, does it not?"

Kaito's hand had paused on its third jaunt to Kalon's face. His son glances at his father's boney hand frozen in mid-arc. "What's the matter, father? No longer committed to the cause of punishing me for my insolence? Given the reaction of my dear cousin to your 'insolence' I would say that I am my father's son, wouldn't you agree?"

Kaito reinforces the momentum he'd put into the swing of his hand as he lets his son have the answer to his impertinent question. But Kalon flash-stepped to the other side of the room, leaving his father's arm swiping at nothing.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't take out your frustrations on me under a thinly-veiled subterfuge such as 'subpar emergency health services," Kalon said, arms folded over his chest.

Kalon had flashed-stepped in the corner where the mirror once stood. Green eyes roamed over the mess now occupying the space. He clucked his tongue at the shattered mirror fragments on the floor, then raised an eyebrow at his father. "My cousin must have gotten to you properly for the great Kaito Kuchiki to lose his calm to such a degree." He grinned at Kaito shamelessly. "I'll endeavor to beg for his forgiveness on your behalf over tea two afternoons from today."

"Get. Out. You. Snake," Kaito struggles to form words. The pain and the healing technique were at war in his face each time he attempted to speak more than two words.

"Very well then," Kalon said, moving around the obstacle course of uprooted tatami mats. "A servant will be here within the hour with pain medicine from the physician- taken with a meal. I inturned have instructed the chef to liquify your dinner. Yum! I'm sure you'll love the menu."

You sound like a feeble-minded human. Kaito thought detestably.

Kalon's left-hand pauses on the screen door just as he was about to pry it open. Facing his father's back, Kalon spoke a few lines of a tanka.

"The Bamboo Shoot observes from the forest floor the Oak standing tall against the north winds,

Nourished by time's embrace, the shoot learns the songs of the wind. It knows how to dance now and sways even in the fiercest of storms,

Bent it may become for a moment by a transient gust, it will always spring back to its original form.

While indifference remains Oak's enemy clad in alliance."

Kalon opens the screen door, then exited before pulling it shut behind him.

Kaito had not moved from his place among the upheaved mats. His son believes he is clever and irreplaceable because he's the heir. Byakuya thinks he's untouchable. They should both be careful. Should this old Oak fall, anyone beneath it will get crushed in its wake.

All these little shoots should be wary of forest fires though they are on the banks of deep rivers.

[hb-writes]

The Council

Inspired by the lovely @cecii22me​’s ask. I switched Clara’s age to fifteen and didn’t do “reactions” exactly because the nagging idea of John calling a boys-only family meeting to address the problem wouldn’t leave me be. 

Summary: From the Little Lady Blinder universe and set in 1923. The boy’s reaction to fifteen-year-old Clara Shelby being friends with the Watery Lane boys. 

Characters Featured: Clara Shelby (Shelby!Sister), Arthur Shelby, Tommy Shelby, John Shelby, Finn Shelby, Michael Gray, Isiah Jesus

-----

“Clara!”

John leaned out the door to number six, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, arms folded across his chest as he watched his sister. She was out there in the lane with Finn, Isiah, and the boys, the only girl left after John had sent his own daughter home. 

His Sarah was at that age where she was eager to test out a handful of identities, and being that she was surrounded by willful Shelby women, it had started giving John pause to let the girl blindly copy after her Aunt Clara, or after Aunt Ada too, for that matter, because though his oldest girl was only eleven, she’d already started asking for lipstick like her aunties wore.

John had actually told Clara to come in at the same time he sent Sarah home, but here she still was, laughing and hollering with the boys, blatantly ignoring John’s solicitations.

Clara had always passed her time with more boys than girls, had grown up surrounded by the men in the shop and with her twin and Isiah for best friends. It really shouldn’t have been a surprise to any of them that as Clara grew she would still prefer to pass her time with the boys, or as happened even more often, to pass her time with no one at all aside from family.

In nearly four years, she’d made only one friend at the all-girls school Tommy sent her to. She’d kept that relationship confined to the school building and the halls of Arrow House. When Clara was on the lane, her company was family, the Blinders, and the handful of boys her twin regularly went around with.

Polly had told John to leave it when he’d first raised the issue, told him there was no harm in Clara being friends with the boys, but John grew hot with annoyance each time he saw her surrounded by the group, boiling a bit every time he saw the lads hanging off her every word with their wide smiles, sinister ones John assumed, growing as they watched his sister’s red-painted lips form each melodious syllable.

And then there was the daily clamoring of the junior peaky boys offering to fetch her from school and accompany wherever it was she needed to be that afternoon, back to Watery Lane, or over to Tommy’s office in the Bull Ring, or to one of the factories, or all the way out to Warwickshire. There was never trouble finding a volunteer.

John huffed, shouting again. “Oi! Clara!”

“Christ, John. What the fuck is it?” Clara turned towards her brother, the whole group did, but Clara was the only one who looked eager for his rebuttal.

They’d been snapping at each other for weeks, John encouraged on by her behavior and his assumptions, Clara encouraged on by John being a belligerent, controlling imbecile. 

“I told you to get the fuck in the house.“

Clara met his eye, heaving a little shrug of her shoulders. "And we’ve decided to come in when Tommy gets here.”

We. John caught the revision, the sentiment that if Finn was allowed out, so was she. If Finn didn’t have to come inside to wait for John’s ever so urgent family meeting to start, neither did she.

“You lot can come in now, then.”

“I’m in the middle of a story,” she answered although the other boys were already showing signs of dispersal, shuffling off like shy wounded animals, all except Finn and Isiah.

Clara rolled her eyes at the triumphant grin on John’s face as the boys mumbled their farewells.

“Looks like story time’s over.” John reached out to guide his sister towards the house but she pulled away before he got a proper grip.

“I’m going for a walk, then,” she said, putting a few steps between them.

“We’re having a fucking meeting!” John shouted.

“And if I’m not there when it fucking starts, you can yell at me then. I’ll not listen to your stupid mouth now.”

Clara glanced at Finn and Isiah as she started to walk away. John had already turned to them, no doubt about to insist someone accompany her, but Clara shouted loud enough for all of Watery Lane to hear. “And I don’t need a goddamn chaperone to take a turn about the block!”

Clara finally slowed her pace after turning the corner and she tucked herself there against the brick façade to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the dawdling inhale and exhale calm her as the chill of the brick reached her skin through her sweater.

John was, in the very plainest language Clara could assign to it, getting on her every last nerve as of late. He’d become the frequent source of her frustration, the cause of her perpetually clenched fists and tense shoulders. 

Every day it was some new comment about her hanging around the boys, some new scheme to play keep-away with her as the object of interest. She’d been sequestered to his office to go through the books with him twice in a week, been sent over to help Esme with the kids though she needed not a stitch of assistance, and John had picked her up from school a few afternoons as well, the two of them passing the ride across town in near silence.

“What are you doing?”

Clara kept her eyes closed, taking another breath before opening them and meeting Tommy’s eye. 

“Meditating.”

Tommy raised his eyebrow.

"John’s driving me up a fucking wall.”

Clara shut her eyes again, focused again on her breathing while Tommy watched.

“I imagine he’s not the only one driving.”

“I didn’t do anything, Tommy,” she answered, opening her eyes again. “And I’m not allowed to drive, remember? None of you will fucking teach me.”

Tommy snorted and held out his handkerchief.

“What's–”

“To wipe that lipstick off your mouth.”

Clara shook her head and tried to hand it back to him, having no intention of following his order, but Tommy occupied his hands by pulling the cigarette case from his pocket.

“It’s got your lips talking like you’re twice your age.”

“Ada got to—”

“Your sister didn’t wear lipstick at your age or talk like that and if she tells you differently, she’s only trying to get you in trouble.”

Tommy knew it drove John a bit mad, the shift in their youngest sister’s image, the sudden interest in rouge and heeled shoes and more stylish clothes, but Tommy wasn’t much bothered by it. He had already been through one sister’s adolescence and he was still convinced that Clara’s could be comparatively simple as opposed to whatever they had gone through with Ada. If slightly shorter dresses and a bit of nail varnish and lip stain were to be the worst of it, he would willingly concede Clara those things. 

And he conceded because Clara still told him things, because Tommy, despite his sister being of a certain typically unbearable age, still felt he knew his Clara’s mind and understood her heart. So Tommy asking her to wipe off the lip stain wasn’t about him controlling her sense of expression, and it wasn’t about him not wanting her to wear it in front of the boys.

He’d let Clara wear it when she wanted, found that not fighting her on it let her settle into a habit of wearing it mostly just for special occasions. It wasn’t something she often tried out on Wednesday afternoons on Watery Lane. That bit of rebellion was John’s doing because she was feeling enticed to push his buttons, urged on by his disproportionate reactions, but Tommy wasn’t worried about his sister and boys. He just didn’t like his sister getting too big for herself, didn’t want her thinking that a layer of red and a few cleverly placed curse words made her an adult.

“Go on,” he said, settling a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he lit it.

Clara rolled her eyes, but she did as she was told, wiping the red away.

“You’re not allowed to wear it at school anyhow.”

“I put it on after,” she answered.

Tommy nodded, taking back the handkerchief and guiding her towards the shop.

“Can’t see why you’d need to wear it on Watery Lane unle—”

“Do you know what all of this is about?” she interrupted. “This urgent meeting John’s called?”

“You, I imagine,” Tommy answered, holding the door open for her.

Clara stopped, turning to him just before she crossed the threshold. “Me?”

Tommy nodded, a hand on her back to shepherd her through. “He’s complained about you four times in half as many weeks.”

“He’s complained about me?” Clara said. “He’s been bloody intolerable! Insufferable!”

“Complained of you and your lipstick and your four-inch heels and your smart mouth. Must be giving him flashbacks to our Ada.” Tommy smirked at her disbelief. “You think you’re innocent?”

“I think I haven’t done anything wrong and John’s being—”

Tommy placed an arm around her shoulders, steering her through the house and toward the shop. “Let’s just hear our brother out and—”

Clara turned to fight him. “No, Tommy, this isn’t fai—”

“Ah, look who’s here, our guest of honor!” Arthur boomed. “Come in, sister.”

Clara turned to face the room at Arthur’s shouting. It was just the boys, just Arthur, John, Finn, and Michael, an empty seat just in front of where they stood or leaned against the desks, the empty shop behind them.

“Where is everyone?”

“This is everyone,” John answered, pushing off the desk to come to her side. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair.

“I think I’d rather stand.”

John chewed on his toothpick, staring at his sister, both of their arms folded over their chests, the space between them shrinking as John stepped forward.

“Why can’t you do a single thing you’re told lately?”

“Because there’s no reason to do the things you’re telling me.”

“John, if she wants to stand, let her stand,” Tommy said as he leaned against the wooden beam behind him.

“Fine,” John answered, giving his sister another look and bumping her shoulder as he moved to the shop doors which he quickly pulled closed, securing the lock.

Clara glanced at Tommy, his shoulders heaving a deep breath before meeting his sister’s eye for a moment. 

“Unfucking believable,” she muttered to herself. “Right, so I don’t want to sit, but I think I will have some of that whiskey the rest of you are enjoying,” she said, nodding towards Arthur, Michael, and the bottle of whiskey sat between them.

Clara took two steps forward and Tommy pulled her back, settling her into the chair she had refused just seconds before.

“Enough,” Tommy said. 

Clara crossed her legs, folding her arms once again. “You know, it’s awfully convenient for you lot to call this meeting when Aunt Polly’s away.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Convenient is certainly one word for it.”

Both John and Clara sent him a glare. In all honesty, Clara wasn’t entirely sure where her aunt would’ve fallen in, wasn’t sure where Michael and Finn fell in on things either.

“And you two didn’t fucking tell me,” she said, shifting her glance between Michael and Finn. “Also convenient.” 

“Finn didn’t know,” Arthur said. “Sweetheart, if you'll—”

“Don’t you even dare sweetheart me, Arthur. This is—”

Michael chuckled, pulling Clara’s attention again.

“It’s not fucking funny, Michael.”

“It’s a bit funny.”

“This is an ambush,” she answered, “when I haven’t even done anything worth being ambushed for.” 

Tommy cleared his throat. "John, let’s get this over with, eh? We’re expected back for dinner at a decent hour.”

“Right,” John said, brushing his thumb along the side of his mouth. “Well, Clara, you—”

“I what, John?” she asked. “What exactly have I done wrong?”

“If you keep your mouth shut for a fucking second, I’ll tell you,” he answered. “Christ, Tommy. How do you deal with it?”

“Not like this,” she answered, “not by treating me like some fucking—”

“Like a child?” Tommy interrupted, a shift evident in his tone. “No, not unless you’re acting like one. Let John say his piece and you’ll have your turn, alright?”

Clara took a deep breath. She didn’t like it, but since Tommy had finally intervened properly, she didn’t feel she had much of a choice. And it wasn’t exactly the truth anyway because Tommy still frequently treated her like a child, summoning her to his office for lectures when the whim struck, but he never invited the others in for the event.

“Fine, say whatever it is you have to say, John.”

“For one, I don’t like the tone you’ve been—”

“It’s mutual,” she answered.

“What?”

“I don’t particularly like your tone with me lately, either. It’s fuc—”

Tommy rubbed his temple. It wasn’t his meeting. He had no intention of delivering John’s speech to their sister, no intention of reining in the girl any more than he already had, but that word was starting to grate on him, hypocritical as it was. He supposed it was because the word exasperated Grace a bit, because it seemed so incorrectly placed when Clara tried to use it within the walls of Arrow House or at the company offices or at school. He was so used to getting after her for it, it almost didn’t matter that they were in the betting shop, that the word was part of common discourse there. So, Tommy said her name, needing nothing more than that and the accompanying look to get his point across, her rolling eyes serving as acceptance.

“Clara, what John’s trying to say is…”

Her eyes flicked to Arthur and he stumbled in his words.

“…we’re just getting a bit concerned about all the uh…attention you’re getting from the boys on the lane, and all the extra time you’re spending with them.”

Clara blinked a few times, her head tilted as she processed his words. “You’ve called a family meeting because I have some friends who are boys?”

“That’s all the friends you’ve got. Boys.”

“I’ve got female friends.”

“Right, a handful of women twice your age and a pack of boys who hang off your every word while you stand out on the lane in that red lipst—” John had intended on pointing out the evidence, not noticing she’d already wiped it away until it was too late, so he pivoted. “And Lizzie and your sisters-in-law don’t count as friends. You’ve got no proper friends your own age and you’re too old to be playing around with the boys in the lane.”

“What the hell are you on about?” she asked.

“Martha was your age when…" John’s words dwindled to nothing as Clara’s face grew red, her cheeks hot with mortification and anger and embarrassment. 

"She was my age when you played around with her in the lane, you mean?” she asked.

Arthur spit out his whiskey and both Michael and Finn hid their smiles, but John didn’t smile or laugh. His face just grew red and Clara smirked, feeling a minute shift in the conversation.

“See John, Clara already knows. Doesn’t need any talk about what boys are after,” Michael said. 

Clara’s mouth fell open. "What? No, I certainly do not need that. And if I did have a need, I wouldn’t want it from any of you,” she answered.

It was another sentiment that wasn’t exactly true because Clara had already had talks with Tommy, had discussed with him expectations about her and boys. And she’d spoken with Finn and Michael, too, from time to time, seeing as they were something of her steadfast confidants in any matters she’d like to keep hidden from the older brothers or Aunt Polly or even Ada. But Clara had no interest in being lectured by John or Arthur on the subject of boys and sex, not when she’d never done more than kiss a boy.  

“And I don’t even like them like that,” she offered.

"Well, they like you,” John said.

"No, they do not. I’ve known them all since we were kids.”

“Some of them do,” Finn said.

Her twin’s first words felt like a betrayal, just as Michael’s had. They were supposed to be on her side, and most often were, but his words felt accusatory given the context. 

“What? Who?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter who,” John interrupted. “All that matters is you’re too friendly with them, too trusting.”

“Too trusting?” Clara repeated. 

“Naive,” John corrected. 

Arthur cleared his throat. “Listen, Clara. We just want to make sure when we settle you down, it’s with a nice boy and—”

“When you settle me down with a nice boy? I’m only fifteen, Arthur! And I won’t need your assistance if I decide—" 

"Right, I think what Arthur’s trying to say is that you should be focusing on school and work for now. There’s time for boys later,” Michael offered. 

"I think I’m plenty focused on both of those things, Michael.”

Michael raised his hands in a forfeit, settling back in the chair. 

“No, Michael, what we’re trying to say is that she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, acting like that with them,” John said. 

“We just don’t want you getting any unwanted attention, sweetheart,” Arthur offered. “Don’t want you in over your head.”

Tommy could see his sister simmering again, could see this meeting would have no end if they continued like this, so he stepped forward. 

“Clara knows what to do if there’s a boy giving her unwanted attention.”

Clara looked at him. “Yeah, I’ll kick his fucking arse,” she said, raising her arms as she gestured to her brothers and cousin. “Like you boys taught me.”

“Yeah, and if it’s wanted attention?” John grumbled. 

“She knows what to do then, too,” Tommy answered. “Isn’t that right, Clara?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, a quick huff exiting her lips just after. “I have to bring the poor soul round for the most excruciating lunch in history with this council of oafs and hope he’ll stick around afterward." 

-----

Read more Little Lady Blinder stories here.

[commander-diomika]

(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 5 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, literal background Barnes/Carter Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2500 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Pining, oh there's yearning in this one lads,

Summary: With the quarantine cell still under construction, it's not quite as soundproof as it ought to be.

It was remarkably easy to keep busy in the business of saving the world. Wilde made it his mission to get to know every face in town, and in turn have them know him, and like him. He made friends easily, the locals charmed by this tall man with his fluent Japanese and endless supply of entertaining stories. For the sake of the job - not just his own lingering fear - he was meeting every person on the island and building a solid network of people who would let him know the moment a new face appeared. The wider his web, the less he found himself reaching for the scar on his face.

Zolf won people over not by charming them, but by helping them. The gruff dwarf at the inn became known as someone the locals could go to when someone fell and broke something, or to use magic to help Stone Shape the stumps of houses that were slipping into sodden earth.

He also worked on supply lines. Trade was still relatively lively, but he and Wilde were in the market for more esoteric items than bread and booze. They needed adamantine for the cell, they needed anti magic equipment, and it was certain Barnes and Carter were going to return having depleted the stock of healing potions they’d taken. Strangely enough there wasn't a steady supply of any of those items on the island.

As much as Zolf wouldn’t admit it, Wilde smoothed the way when it came to trading. He charmed the locals and when Zolf appeared with increasingly obscure demands, he was seen as a friend by association. Zolf knew he wouldn’t have achieved that so quickly.

They both oversaw changes to the inn. Many rooms were separated with nothing but thin paper walls on slides, making the whole space quite modular. Wilde sequestered one of the few solid, seemingly defensible rooms on the ground floor and turned it into an office-cum-sitting room. Before their gentle takeover it had probably been a private dining room for special, or at least rich, guests. Zolf took the time to install a proper bed frame in his room, since his legs made climbing down to the floor-level futon bedding difficult.

On another continent, sentient creatures went wrong, turned on their loved ones, fought, died. Cities were turned and abandoned, and storms ravaged places that had never seen more than a light drizzle. But even knowing that elsewhere things were coming apart at the seams, there was a touch of peace in their little corner of it. For a few weeks they slipped into a routine.

Zolf rose in the mornings before Wilde, wordlessly depositing a coffee in front of the bleary man when he appeared. In the evenings that Wilde wasn’t out liaising they took to Wilde’s sitting room and read, or drank, or talked. Frequently about the mission of course, but there was only so much hashing and rehashing they could do. When things got too heavy, or nothing had changed, topics wandered. Zolf’s stories from the navy. How Wilde became a journalist. Small things. Easy things when they both just needed to put it down for a while.

Wilde would never do something so gauche as ask for forgiveness, or understanding, but some days when he reported another success, it sounded like I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.

Some days when Zolf poured coffee into Wilde’s mug it looked like you don’t have to apologise.

And on the rare mornings when some watery sunshine peeked through the clouds, as Zolf practiced in the yard with his glaive, Wilde followed to idly spectate over the paper and his breakfast, and the action felt like I don’t know why but it’s easier to be around you than not.

Barnes and Carter returned in good enough spirits and got started on their isolation in the mostly-complete cell. As soon as they returned, Zolf felt himself get itchy for action and movement again. He couldn’t even scratch the itch by properly debriefing the returnees yet; the newest information from Curie posited a hive-mind connection between those infected by the blue veins. Still, this was just the way it had to be. Zolf tried to soothe his agitation. Things were just going to move slow for now. He only had to look at Wilde’s scar to help quiet any feelings of angst. A little bit of frustration was something he could cope with if it meant what befell Wilde never, ever happened again.

Four nights after Barnes and Carter returned, Zolf sat in front of the fire attempting to read the Dwarvish tome Wilde had picked up in Damascus. It wasn’t exactly riveting stuff, and his Dwarvish was rusty, but he promised he’d at least make a dent in it. Wilde came in fresh from the bath, his hair wet and wearing the yukata he’d been gifted by one of the locals. As he passed the back of Zolf’s chair, Wilde placed a hand on one of Zolf’s shoulders and leant over to inspect the page.

This close, Zolf could smell him. There was a soft, flowery note that Zolf couldn’t identify, probably whatever he washed his hair with. And then there was the warm, familiar smell of the man himself. Zolf kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

Pointing with his other hand, Wilde spoke. “This character here- the translation guide I was using didn’t even have it. Brought the whole lot to a screeching halt. How are you getting on with it?”

Zolf, nose full of Wilde’s scent and nearness, opened his mouth to reply. “I – er, it’s fine. It’s an older script but I can read it- don’ quite understand what they’re gettin’ at, but, er.” He looked over to Wilde’s face again, profile lined in firelight. His face was so close that Zolf could lean and place a kiss on the man’s unscarred cheek, if he chose.

Wilde glanced up from the book. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before Wilde straightened, letting go of Zolf’s shoulder with a small squeeze.

“Wonderful. Let me know if anything useful comes up, will you?”

Zolf simply grunted in reply, still feeling off-kilter. This wasn’t the first time Wilde had touched him like that. As Wilde started to settle into life at the inn, started to feel a little safer, some of that old comfort was returning. Zolf didn’t mind the touching. He got the feeling Wilde was lonely. He was probably used to a lot more physical contact than he was getting now. For all he had been ingratiating himself with the locals, it was clear as day Wilde couldn’t trust them. If Zolf was the only person Wilde could reach out to…

Zolf shook his head a little and tried to focus back on the text. Wilde collected his own evening reading material, some piece of Japanese fiction, and settled in the other chair. The silence, but for the ever-present sound of rain, was comfortable enough. Their new lot in life involved a lot of waiting, and they were both doing their best to try and make peace with that.

Time passed and Zolf, already struggling to focus on the dull history book, realised he’d read the same sentence three times over. Some essential part of his mind had shifted, noting a change in the soundscape. Previously, there had been nothing but the rain and slight crackle of fire, but now there was a new element in the mix.

Zolf stared blankly at the page, listening hard. It was… conversation? Perhaps, but the innkeeper and his wife had rooms all the way on the other side of the building, and Zolf couldn’t usually hear them. It was… the wind? No, for all it was raining, it was the usual dreary patter, no strong winds to explain the slow rhythm or hint of a moan in those sounds.

Zolf’s heart beat slowly. One, two, three… and suddenly he knew what he was hearing.

Zolf looked up from his book to see if Wilde had noticed. Obviously, whatever he was reading was much more riveting than Zolf’s dry historical facts, because he was still engrossed in his book. Despite his close attention to the pages, Wilde could sense Zolf’s regard. Without Zolf even clearing his throat, he looked up.

“What?” he asked mildly to Zolf’s raised eyebrows.

“You hear tha’?” Either it had gotten louder, or Zolf’s ears had adjusted to picking out rhythmic moans and whimpers.

Wilde slipped a finger in his book to mark his place, cocking his head. With his attention drawn, he contextualised the new sound quickly (much faster than Zolf) and his eyebrows started climbing. When the brows couldn’t get any higher, he straightened in his seat and placed a hand delicately on his chest in feigned shock. “Well, we didsay that Barnes would look out for him, but that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Zolf tried not to roll his eyes.

“And we knew that Howard would struggle with the isolation period,” Wilde continued, voice artificially prim. “I’m glad they’ve found a way to pass the time.”

Zolf’s efforts to not roll his eyes failed, then he glanced around, puzzled. “How is the sound even…?”

Wilde’s eyes were bright; his expression screaming this was the most fun he’d had in weeks. “The trapdoor. The one in the Teal Sitting Room. It’s still under construction, so…”

“So, sound is travellin’ through it.” Zolf finished the thought, voice level despite the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks.

Barnes and Carter were slowly increasing in volume. Zolf could finally make out the timbre of Carter’s voice specifically, though he’d never heard him make those noises before.

“I didn’t know that Barnes had it in him,” Wilde murmured. “Or, had it in Carter, specifically.” With that puerile comment, Wilde moved. He folded the corner of a page to mark his place and stood, checking the ties on his yukata as he did.

“Where are you going?” Zolf hissed.

Wilde smiled wickedly. “Why, to the Teal Room, of course.”

“Wilde!” Zolf said, flushing angrily. He was trying to formulate a scolding regarding privacy and eavesdropping, but the scoundrel had already stridden off. Zolf’s thighs tensed and relaxed as he went to stand then aborted the movement, debating with himself. Carter voiced a particularly sharp cry and Zolf decided that anything was better than sitting here by himself.

I’m just gonna stop Wilde from doin’ anything inappropriate, he told himself as he stood and followed.

Inside the room, Wilde leant against the doorframe, body languid as if he attended a mere dinner party. There was a tarp covering a half-constructed hole in the centre of the room. When Zolf came to hover beside him in the doorway, any lingering mystery about what was happening downstairs was dispelled.

“Fuck, James, please,”Carter sounded utterly desperate. This close, Zolf could even hear the slow rasp of movement, skin-on-skin. Barnes’ voice was harder to make out, as he responded with something quiet and urgent. There was a breath, then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Carter making a choked noise that pulsed straight from Zolf’s ear to his crotch.

Wilde was delighted. He looked sidelong at Zolf and mouthed the word “James?” wrapping his lips around it in impish joy, as though first names were the controversial thing about this situation.

There was a grunt from downstairs that was undoubtedly Barnes

Wilde spoke sotto voce, keeping his voice under the sound of the rain. “I knew he’d be the strong and silent type.”

Zolf didn’t reply. He didn’t know where to even start. He would hate to be overheard like this, but there was something thrilling about it. Fuck, Wilde’s a bad influence on me. He knew he should leave, just walk away, but…

The pace downstairs changed. What had previously sounded like a languorous tease picked up energy. Carter literally wailed as the thump of a cot knocking against a wall started up, one, twice, three times, continuing, not rushed but steady. Carter’s whine cut off in a muffled ermf and Zolf could see in his mind’s eye, agonisingly clear, the way that Barnes had just put his hand over Carter’s mouth.

Zolf’s eyes had been locked, unseeing, on the rough tarp, but at Carter’s stifled moan, he looked up at Wilde. He was gazing back, and Zolf was shocked to see something hungry in those eyes. Mere moments ago, the energy from Wilde had been lewd and juvenile. Something had shifted.

Wilde’s scent was still in Zolf’s nose and suddenly the image in his mind changed.

His hand, hooked behind one of Wilde’s knees, pushing it up toward his chest… fucking him open fluidly, pace keeping time with the rhythmic thudding from below. Wilde’s face flushed cheek to cheek, eyes half lidded, awash with the pleasure of it.

Zolf shut his eyes, hard, hot with shame. When he opened them, Wilde was still staring him down, a touch of that imagined flush now true in his cheeks. There was something knowing in his expression as well, as though he could see straight into Zolf’s mind and the images that lay within.

They had been so in tune with each other lately, after all.

Wilde’s mouth worked as if he was seeking words, but he was interrupted. “Heavens above, James, faster please, I’m going to-”

Wilde sucked his breath in hard as Carter came. The words died on his lips and he half-shoved past Zolf to leave the room, taking long strides and disappearing down the corridor.

Zolf stumbled. If the two men downstairs were in any state to be paying attention to their surroundings, they would have heard Zolf’s clumsy footsteps, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He went to follow, but by the time he’d caught up to Wilde, the bedroom door was shut.

There was no lock. It was only a barrier in that it was one that Wilde chose to put up. Zolf wasn’t about to go barging in where he wasn’t wanted. He lifted a hand to knock. Paused. What exactly was he here to say? To tell Wilde off? To apologise? To say, Look at me like that again, I’ll be ready this time? He lowered his hand.

Later that night in bed, for the first time in months, Zolf found himself firming a spit-slick hand around his cock, breath unsteady. He kept his mind cautiously blank. Every time he was tempted to dwell on the sound of Carter’s whimper, or Barnes’ low rasp, or that ravenouslook in Wilde’s eyes, he drew himself back to sensation alone, pleasure coiling in his gut. He certainly wasn’t thinking of Wilde’s hand on his shoulder, the relaxed set of his body as he listened to Barnes and Carter fuck downstairs, the salacious delight in his eyes.

Zolf pumped his fist faster, definitely not thinking of the thud of the cot against the cell wall downstairs as his hips rolled and breath hitched. Hanging on to awareness by a thread, he remembered the thin walls, and bit his lip to stifle his groan as he came.

His eyes closed, he listened to his hammering heart, breathing slowly. It had been a very strange night. From the buzzing post-orgasm haze, a thought emerged, unbidden.

Lavender. Lavender was what Wilde’s soap had smelled of.

[writefinch]

Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.

[the-wretched-and-joyful]

Exiled Hearts

Harrison Osterfield x reader (GOT!au) | Word count: 4.9K | Warning: Implied smut.

A/N: Firstly, the whole work is dedicated to Riya AKA @fanficparker​ . Girl you are one of the best person in this entire world and I have no idea how to explain how much your words encourage me to keep on writing. I have spoken to you about this au, but at that point I had no idea if I’ll be able to do it. But throughout this entire piece I kept remembering all the encouraging words you have said to me, and the end result is this monster fic. I hope you like it, it’s something new I’m trying and I don’t know how much I’ve succeeded in imbibing that sense of longing and yearning for past I’ve felt whenever I’ve indulged in this world myself.

P.s: Some names and places are taken from the book such as Essos, Volantis, Vale, Valeria and free cities and I claim no rights for them. They are only used here to provide context and proper description. If you find any other names here from the original book, then the credits to them goes to the original author of GOT.

Check out me Masterlist!

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The sea town hadn’t changed at all.

As the ship anchors near the port and the usual hubbub of porters and beggars and tradesmen and passengers take over the ship, Harrison collects his only pack of clothes and slips out of his small cabin. The journey was not something he enjoyed, but it was something he had to endure.

He had to.

“Is there a place I can get a horse around here?” he asks the captain, handing him a leather pouch full of 15 dragons.

“A horse, eh?” the captain puffs on his long thin pipe and eyes Harrison up and down, “where you headed boy?”

He took a deep breath before answering the question, “Where I’m headed is my own business, all I need is a horse.”

The old captain grunted, or maybe laughed. Either ways he made a weird sound before pointing towards a vague direction on the east side of the dock, “you’ll find Malver’s stable that way. The price is bloody high, but his horses are better than the rest in this shitty port town.”

Harrison bid his thanks and leaves the captain, walking in the general direction of the east side of the port, trying not to bump with every other person. The port town smelled of a hundred things at once. The exotic spices from the Essos, the stench of sailors who have not washed during their long voyage, the underlining stench of the city’s bowels. But underneath it all, there lied the smell of ocean, the salt, the spray.

It was you.

He had to bargain for the horse, old Malver asks for too steep a price. But in the end he won, and walked out with a nice chestnut horse. She was not huge, but she will do nicely.

Harrison’s mind, now not preoccupied by the thoughts of drowning and dying a watery death moved on to the reason why he was really there.

The old city and port of Whitmore was not something he had forgotten in his long years of exile. He still remembered the days he spent as a boy playing in the streets with his friends. Karren, Dyk, Mores, they were all lost now. Some to drunken squabbles in old taverns, and some in the black hands of sea plague. He was the only one left, a man of twenty and five, living well beyond most people his age do.

The cacophony of the port and the city gave way to quiet buzz of the market as his horse crossed it. The old tavern of Greasy Bears was still standing. He paused for a moment, looking at the ages old sign, before getting off of his horse. Why not have a drink before starting the real journey?

The inside of it was still the same. The floors stained with spit, ale and blood, strewn with sawdust, the ceiling darkened with smoke and soot, and the tables and benches looking worse for wear.

“Aye, lad, what will you have?” the tavern keeper greeted Harrison jovially, his cheeks red, as if he was tasting his wears himself.

“Just a cup of ale,” He nodded at the man, sitting down on one of the empty tables. The drink was brought to him promptly, and taking the advantage of the lack of rush inside the tavern, the red cheeked man also sat down with Harrison.

“So,” the man almost bellowed, “where are you off to? It’s nice to see new faces around! All the old people and old faces get boring after years.”

Harrison quietly drank his ale, turning in his head whether he should really tell him who he is, but then thought against it. “I’m here from Volantis. Been there for trade quite a while, now I’m just travelling.” He smiles at the man.

“Travelling, eh! Ah, you young ladies, walking on the wind…” The man sighs, with a faraway look in his eyes, “Aye, I used to be a lad once, with dreams of travelling, and seeing the old ruins of Valeria. Now even those dreams are blurry…” he sighs again, then looks at Harrison, “But why are you travelling to old Whitmore?”

“I’m heading to the old castle, heard a lot of great stories about it,” He says cautiously, keeping a close eye on the man’s face.

“Old castle?” the man pales at the mention of the castle. He looks around them before leaning closer to Harrison, “That’s where the witch lives!”

“The witch?” Harrison tries to play it off as a joke, with a light smile playing on his lips.

“Aye, the witch! The ones who saw her say that she got hair like red fire, and it’s so long it trails after her. She is also mad, laughing and singing and dancing all day without stopping!” The man, despite being burly, shakes his shoulder in fear. “they say that she cursed the Osterfield house. The day she married to the older son Darrion, he was struck by a fever. Died within a fortnight. Old lord died of grief. So did the younger son…”

“Who said the younger son died?” Harrison interrupts the man before he could continue.

“The whole town knew! There were messengers, aye!” the man widens his eye in attempts to make Harrison believe the tale.

“What about Lady Osterfield?”

“She disappeared!” The man shrugs, “Some say she went to her brother’s keep in Barrowlands, some say she was killed by the witch. Either ways, that evil woman destroyed the house Osterfield.”

“Where did the woman even come from?” Harrison was almost done with his drink, and started to get the coins out to pay for it.

“They say Vale! But I say she came from the seven hells!” the man accepts the coins, and stands up with Harrison, “I say, don’t go near that castle. They say she kills any man she puts her eye on! Such a fine young lad you are, it will be a pity if you die in the witch’s hands.”

Harrison nodded, his lips once again quirking up in a half smile. Bidding his goodbyes to the tavern keep, he walked outside, and started to prepare his horse for the long ride.

»»————-　✼　————-««

The ride was slow and bumpy, but had a certain gentle rhythm to it. It was unlike the rough shakes of the ship, and was gentle enough to make Harrison sleepy. And the more sleepy he got, the more his mind started to cast himself back in the days of past, when he was only a boy of ten and six, and you first came to the castle.

The tavern keep was right. You were from the Vale. Harrison was not previously aware of the fact that the ruthless mountain range could hide such a beautiful flower. Yours was not an important family, the house Ambergard was fairly new compared to his own, but the tales of your beauty had reached far and wide along the realm. And his father was one of the first ones who didn’t consider it to be false, and asked for your hand in marriage, for his older son, Darrion.

But when you came, everything was turned upside down. You and Harrison both being closer in age, became fast friends. He would join you during your walks and prayers, and you would join and cheer for him during his sparring practice. However, as you both grew older, your friendship changed, and became something else.

The night was deep, and even the guards around the tower were in deep sleep. Taking advantage of this Harrison quietly slipped inside, and took the roundabout stairs all the way to the top, where your chambers were.

He knocked on the door once, and then with pause knocked twice again. The door opened with a creek and soon enough he was inside.

“Good thing I sent the septa to sleep in her own chambers tonight!” you whispered once he let your lips go from his own, still very much wrapped in his arms.

“I hate Septa Merion!” He makes a face that makes you giggle loudly. “Shhh, do you want us to get caught?” He pulls you away from the door, towards the bed.

“It’ll be a terrible, terrible thing if we get caught!” You free yourself from his embrace and take a seat on the bed, “Oh the shame I’ll face! Imagine the ridicule; they’ll call me a whore!”

“Shut up, you’re not that” he stood in front of her, taking her face and tilting it up gently, “you’re the most amazing lady I’ve ever met!”

“Do you say this to everyone?” you smile coyly, before hitting his shoulder.

“Ow, that hurt! What do you mean?”

“The cook’s daughter! Have you not noticed her? Eyeing you up and down like you’re a delicious glazed piece of ham?” you huffed and get up from the bed, leaving him standing there, quite baffled.

“The cook’s daughter? Glazed ham?” he turns and walks towards you, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, “If I’m to be a glazed ham for anyone, it’ll be for you, and no one else.”

You scoff at his declaration, but hold onto his hands nonetheless. Taking advantage, he buries his face in your neck, placing kisses like a hungry man.

“But how long?” You ask quietly, distracting him from his ministrations. Turning around in his arms, you once again face him, putting your hands on his chest, “How long do we continue to meet in secret like this?”

He looked at your distressed face for a moment, and then leaned in for a kiss. He knew not how to answer this question. You were betrothed to his older brother, the heir. With him you will get a life of luxury. The best he would be able to do, as a younger son of a middling lord was to get knighthood, and maybe join the household guard of some greater house. It was not a life he wanted to give you, but the pull was undeniable.

“Why do you never answer my question?” You ask once they end the kiss, their foreheads still leaning against each other, “why do you never answer?”

“Because I only get a few moments with you every night! I don’t want to waste them in questions and answers!” he pulls you towards the bed, “come on, it’s almost dawn…”

You take your hand out of his, and start undoing the back of your dress. Soon enough they fall into the mindless haze of affection that made them feel like the moments passing between them are too many, but at the same time too few.

It was somewhere around afternoon when the silhouette of the castle became visible in the far-east. He still had a day’s ride in front of him, and he wanted to go on. But he couldn’t ride anymore without falling off of his horse. And even the horse needed to rest.

So he decided to take a break from continuous riding, and spend a night at the inn near the crossroads at Bellerfort. It was a small fort, held by the house of Oakfield. He had spent many nights there with his friends, and he wondered if any of them were still there.

If any of them would still recognize him.

The inn had changed in the years he had been away. In the past there were only a few rooms, and a stable. But now it had more rooms, a dining hall, and a bigger stable.

The owner had changed too, Harrison discovered when getting a room. The old lady with white hair who usually sat with her knitting work behind the table was not anymore. It was now Corrine, who sat behind the owner’s table, and he recognized Harrison within moments.

“By heavens! Is that really you?” Corrine got up and walked round the table to embrace Harrison like the old friend they were, “Harri is that really you?”

“It is I!” Harrison laughed, unable to keep a straight face at the look of wonder his friend was giving him, “what happened to your hair?”

“ah, bugger my hair!” Corrine laughed out loud, “Gods I cannot believe you came back! Reckoned you’ll be back when your old father was dead!”

“I just learned of his demise, I knew that Darrion was gone, but not my father,” Harrison shoulders his pack, looking around at the crowded inn, “I’m heading towards the old castle. Just needed a room for the night.”

“Yes,” Corrine moved promptly, signaling Harrison to follow him. He took him up to the first floor of the inn, all the way to the end of the corridor and opened a door. “This is one of our finest rooms.” He moves across the room and straightens the bed linens, “Get some rest, and you’re having supper with me and my family. No protests on that! I want to hear what you’ve been doing all these years!”

Harrison nodded quietly. In truth he was feeling overwhelmed at seeing one of his closest friends once again. When he left his home, he knew in his heart that he will never see the familiar faces again.

Corrine leaves him alone to tend to some business. Alone in a comfortable room for the very first time in a long while, Harrison looked around, before putting down his belongings on the wooden floor near the fireplace, and opened the window.

There it was.

Like a phantom rising from nothing, the castle stood as a small silhouette against the dim blue sky. The dilapidated state of it was prominent, even from such distance. But that’s where you were, if the tavern keep was not wrong. That’s where you still are, waiting for him.

»»————-　✼　————-««

“So there she was, right there in the market square, looking for turnips. And I go up to the vegetable seller, get a few turnips and pretend to sell them just so I could speak to her!” Corrine lets out a bellowing laugh, much to his wife, Lysa’s embarrassment, “Tell you what, this woman made me struggle a lot, but in the end I got her hand!” He takes her hands and kisses them. “That’s enough about us, tell me, where were you all this time?”

Harrison was smiling at his friend all this time, feeling a certain pride and envy simultaneously. Pride because out of all of them, Corrine was the least likely to settle down with a wife and a family of his own. And envy, because it could’ve been him.

“Not much.” He takes a drink out of his cup, “Roamed the free cities for a while, worked for a silk merchant. He was very kind, paid well.” He leaned back on his chair, “And nothing much.”

“Nothing much? Why I’ve heard the women in the free cities are as loose as they can be!” Corrine leaned down and whispered, but received a smack on his shoulder by Lysa nonetheless, “What? I’m just saying what I heard from the guests!”

“They are. Free cities have a very liberal point of view when it comes to these things,” Harrison said with a smile, “But I never indulged.”

The rest of the dinner went well, with both friends sharing stories with each other, Harrison telling Lysa about how they used to hold bets on when Corrine is going to be beat up to death. In brief, both friends reveled in the fact that they were seeing each other again even after thinking that they will meet in the afterlife.

Seeing his old friend made Harrison feel like maybe, he would succeed in his own mission as well. He didn’t know how it will go, he had no idea if you were still alive, and if those tales from the tavern owner were just myths. But seeing his old friend gave him hope, that maybe, maybe he will once again see another familiar face very soon.

He was lost in the reverie when someone knocked on the door. It turned out to be Corrine, with a pitcher and two glasses in his hands.

“Reckoned we can have one drink before going to sleep?” he shrugged, before coming into the room and taking a seat on the chair and table placed near the window.

They both drank in silence for a bit before Corrine broke it “What made you come back?”

“You know why I am back!” Harrison replied fast.

Corrine nodded his head, refilling both goblets with wine, “What are you going to do? Once you find her?”

“Take her away I think,” He looked at the fire burning merrily in the fireplace. In all honestly he had not thought of what he was going to do when he finds her. “I’ve never thought of an after. Just thought about seeing her again, and that’s all.”

“I thought you’d be back years ago, when your father passed,” Corrine said solemnly. “Aad you come back at that time, our town wouldn’t have fallen Prey to Morren the butcher!”

“I didn’t know about his death,” Harrison confessed again, “I heard of my brother’s death few months after it happened, in Volantis. There was a trader travelling from Whitmore who told me. But is it true that they sent messengers informing that I had died as well?”

Corrine nods his head, “Yes. Your lord father sent in people spreading this misinformation, saying that your ship drowned. Suppose he was too grief stricken.”

“He was not grief stricken, he just hated me after what I did.” He looks at his empty goblet before getting up and going to stand near the window. “Tell me, Corrine, is she still there?”

“If what the wanderers say is true, then yes, she is still there. Old Rog comes to the market every week to get food and supplies for himself, think he is the one who kept the woman alive all these years!” Corrine leans back on and sighs deeply, “They say she roams around the northern towers of the castle, the part where…”

“Where my chambers were,” He looks at the dark shadow of his old home, where all his memories are.

Harrison stood in front of the window for quite a long time, even after Corrin left, bidding him night. He didn’t know what he was looking for, a sign of life, a flicker of candle light, anything. But he found nothing. Being so close to his home once again, all he could think of is the day he was exiled, supposedly forever by his father.

“you have the most exquisite skin I’ve ever seen!” Harrison traces a pattern from your collarbone to the top of your breast, then goes back again and traces the same pattern. You were too comfortable to try to make sense of what he was writing on your skin. So in reply you just chuckled.

“Do I now?” You move closer to him, wrapping your arms around his frame. “Do tell me about what other exquisite features I have!”

“Oh there are so many!” he smiled as his trailing finger travelled to your jaw, and then to your lips, “You have the most beautiful lips in the world. Sure even the queen doesn’t have such beautiful lips.” He kisses you once, twice, and then thrice, softly, before tracing his way your throat. “Your neck, is the most graceful neck I’ve seen. I just want to spend my days kissing them and making sure that the whole world knows you’re mine.”

“Stop it!” You giggle at the way his hair tickles your chin when he leans down to kiss your neck. but that laughter soon becomes a gasp when he flips you on your back and hovers over you.

“If we trail down from the neck…” his wandering fingers travel straight down from your neck to the valley between your breast, “I think these are my second favorite features on you…”

“Wait why second?” the heat from the fireplace, his weight above you, and your previous activities had muddled your brain a little, “What’s first!”

His lips quirked up in a crooked smile as he started to crawl down, “How about I show you what my first favorite is…?”

You had no idea of time or day or the fact that it was almost dawn. So lost in each other, that you didn’t even notice that you both forgot the rule to keep it quiet and the fact that it had attracted the attention of Septa Merion, who always woke at the crack of dawn.

The sudden rattling knock on the door broke both of you out of the trance. But before you could get decent or separate, Septa walked in.

The rest was somewhat of a blur to Harrison. He remembered his father’s face, almost blue with anger. His brother’s expression of betrayal at both of them. He realized that Darrion, in his own way had loved you. He remembered his mother, pleading with his father as the old lord banished him from Whitmore.

And he remembered you, pleading with his father to let him stay. You cried and begged, promising that you’ll be forever loyal to Darrion, and never even set your eyes on him. But the old Lord had turned his face in disgust. You had pleaded with Darrion too, but he left you. Harrison was escorted out of the castle on that very day with the threat that if he ever returned, he will be put to death.

The wedding however, was still going to happen. His father didn’t want to offend the proud houses of Vale, even if their daughter deemed it alright to have an illicit affair with the younger brother of her betrothed.

They went through a hasty wedding ceremony, with no pomp and no splendor that was planned previously. Harrison heard of the wedding before he left. And then after months, he heard of his brother’s death. His heart wanted to come back, but he knew.

He would only bring you more pain.

But after so many years, he couldn’t do it anymore. He had to come back, and he had to see you. He had to know that he did the right thing by being away. He had to know that you were happy.

Harrison was ready to ride out as the dawn broke. If everything went well, he will be at the castle by midday. However, another surprise waited for him at the stable.

“Lysa told me that you’ll be gone at the earliest! That woman just knows people!” Corrine chuckles, and then hands Harrison a leather satchel, “Some food and wine for the road.”

“Thank you!” Harrison smiled at his friend, and then hugged him tight.

“This is not the last time you’re seeing me! You’re coming back with her on your way back right?” Corrine patted his friend on his back before separating. “You have to stay at least a week before you leave this town forever!”

“Who says I’m going to leave forever?” Harrison asks, preparing his horse for the ride.

“Something tells me that you would not stay in a place where you faced such cruelty. And you should go, leave this place, and go somewhere to start anew.” Corrine smiled, and then embraced his friend once again, “Now go, or you’ll be late.”

The sun had just begun to rise as he rode away from the inn towards his old home. For so many years he had only dreamt of this day, when he finally came back to confront his father. But now that he was going back he knew that there will be no one to confront. The old halls lie cold and bereft; the gardens dead and empty. Winter was almost here, and there was a slight nip at the wind.

His calculations were accurate. Just as the pale heatless sun reached the mid sky, he had reached the outside bridge that made a way into the castle across the moat. Hearing the sound of horse hooves on the dry ground, old Rog got out of his warm hut and stood at the door.

“Lord Harrison,” He almost cried at the sight of the man who climbed down from the horse, “so many years, so many…” Rog now kneeled on the ground at the overwhelming feel of seeing someone from the house he had served loyally for so long. “It has been so many years!”

“it has, and yet, you are still the same!” Harrison too was almost crying at the familiar face of the man, who had defended him in almost all of his boyhood crimes. He had rode with old Rog during hunts, trained with the man. Rog was also the man who sneaked him your last letter as he was about to get on the ship and leave.

Old Rog was still crying quietly at the lost day, but quickly recovered when Harrison pulled him upright and brought him in for an embrace.

“She waits for you,” Rog says quietly, “she is still here waiting for you! Almost went mad and killed the guards when your mother tried to take her to the Barrowlands.” He walked inside his house and picked up the keys to the gate. Coming back he hands Harrison the keys, “She waits for you!”

Harrison uttered a quiet thanks to rog before walking towards the old and worn castle gates. Northern side of the castle, his old chambers.

The castle had become a habitat for all animals but human beings. The main hall was broken and full of weeds and smaller saplings, taking back their land. The seat of lord was nothing but a stone hump now. The stairs were still somewhat usable. His destination in the castle was still livable. The northern tower was smaller in height, and farther away from the main thoroughfare of the castle. But had bigger living quarters. As he entered the tower and started going up the stairs, he could hear a lilting voice travelling in the air.

It was you!

He hastened his pace, but half way up the voice ceased. Climbing the stairs as fast as he could, he came out to the main sitting room in the tower, but saw no one. Room after room he looked. All rooms were empty, except for his own, where it seemed like someone was living. He finally went up to the roof, and his breath got caught in his throat.

There you were, standing a few feet away from him. Your hands were folded behind your back, hair tied loosely. It had been years since he last saw you, but your beauty had not dimmed at all.

“I woke up this morning with a dream,” Your voice reached him, and broke his reverie, “I woke up with your name on my lips. Was it the old gods or the new ones I don’t know. But I knew that today will finally be the day you’ll come.”

He crossed the distance between them in a few steps and wrapped his arms around her in a bone crushing embrace. He didn’t realize he had started to cry, and she too was trying hard not to cry.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” The tone of quiet accusation, born out of love and hurt was clear in your voice. But rather than answering her he kissed you. He kissed you for all the years he was unable to see you, unable to hear you laugh, unable to touch you. He kissed you for all the years that were taken away from you two, and he kissed you like he was never going to let you go.

“So many years, and yet you still don’t answer my questions!” You let out a teary laugh, your hands touching his cheeks and his hair to make sure he was really there, and not a fragment of your imagination that had plagued you all these years. The phantom like imagination of yours had made you think that he was right there with you at times. seeing him standing in the doorways, or on the roof. Sometimes you were sure that you were going mad. But this time you were not imagining anything. This time he was really here.

“Come with me,” he pulls you by hand towards the door that led downstairs.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere! There’s no need for us to stay in a place like this, we can go to the free cities, or some other part of the continent. We can finally be together, live our lives side by side. Let us have what we were denied all those years ago!”

For a moment you paused, because everything he had said seemed so surreal. Could you really have it? Have him like you had dreamed since the first day he kissed you in front of the Gods? Was it another cruel trick of the gods? Making you happy then stripping you off of all you had?

It was almost as if Harrison could read your mind, “This is not a trick. Not anymore. We can finally be together, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop us anymore.” He took hold of your face, “I’m not letting you go, ever!”

Slowly you nod your head. And as you and Harrison rode out of the castle near evening fall, you prayed to the gods to be merciful to you two this time. you prayed for happiness. And you prayed to be with him until the end of time.

Tagging some mutuals:

@simranfangirl​ | @marvel-moviesfan​  | @just-haz-things​  | @marvelhoesworld @theamazingtomholland​​ @tombob2005​​ @harrisonloveposts​​ @purpleskiesstorm​​ @a-darneddarling​​ @hjoficrecs​​ @badhollandfluff​​ @lovedreamandwish​​ @spidey-reids-2003​​ @hazforpresident​​ @duskholland​​ @serendipitous-amor​​ @peterparkoure​​ @saintlavrents​​ @sleepybesson​​ @the-panwitch​​ @alrightythenbabe​​ @god-knows-what-am-i-doing​​ @parkerpeter24​​ @starlight-starks​​ @sweethearhaz

[oh-theres-a-woman]

Flowers in a Peaked Cap; Part One

A/N: Heres to attempt two at writing this author’s note… Let’s just say, I haven’t perfected the art of saving drafts. Note to self to actually find out how to make the draft before losing three solid paragraphs of rambling about the story… Sophie Points; Nil. Laptop/Internet Points; One. Welp, honestly internet and laptop have won a hell of a lot more than that. Just don’t remember how many times I’ve lost work because of not quite understanding how to post on here…. Safe to say I’m still a noob. 

Any hoot! Enough rambling about that stuff. 

After posting the first piece to this story; in the very very early hours of this morning. I couldn’t help but feel the massive urge to continue and work on the more of Tillie’s little adventure. It made me want to think about her as a person outside the relatives that we already know. What this girl’s goals are and ambitions. Unlike the rest of her family, I think she has a relatable amount of vulnerability and anxieties that are more from society’s working in the 1920s compared to her brothers; Arthur, Thomas and John that all suffer war-related mental illness and scars.   

Actively she’s a romantic escapist that wants to make her brothers and aunt proud. Making a name for herself in the means of writing and exploring the tales that are brewed from the memories of old days. 

In the progression of this story, I want to be able to explore the growth in Tillie as a young woman. The stepping out of her brothers’ shadows and coming into her own. Growing into a more confident young woman that could be from meeting new people like in this chapter and moving away from her fears. 

I do see romance in this story, something like and full of all the trend first experience one faces at one stage or another. In terms of smut, I’d think it’s lighter and would be something that is worked towards. Tillie to me doesn’t seem rather lust-driven. So, it’ll happen if it does, and if not; its simply because Tillie Shelby isn’t interested in that sort of thing. 

Important note; I’ll be working on organising the Taglist a little more throughout my next few posts. Please notify me if you’re interested in anything specifically and want tags there or if you mind just being on the general tag list and included in every story I post. Thank you!!!  

Requested By; @csigeoblue​

Parts; [ Prologue ] 

Taglist; @zodiyack​, @itsfrancisneptun​, @amys-small-world​, @fandom-fucking-shit​, @hesagod-notyet​, @hinagiku0​, @dylanlover24​, @amirahiddleston​, @a-dorky-book-keeper​, @theamuz​, @csigeoblue​, @smallheathgangsters​, @beautycinders 

Word Count; 1400

Watery Lane wasn’t the play that supported the wild fantasy’s of Tillie Shelby, but the little bookshop that was filled with many hopefuls or lads that were born a little more well off collectively grouped together. Reading the stories they wrote. This gathering was apparently one that caught the attention of the paper since the known publishers and well-off lads from another book club around England had found themselves doing a sort of travel for their source material. 

Since the profile of this club of prolific writers had taken interest in the area of Small Heath and its inhabitants. Inviting upstart writers or aspiring tellers to come and meet them. So, onward the youngest Shelby strolled until she pulled open the door of the quaint little bookshop. The signal of her arrival was the sound of her kitten heels and the ringing of the bell on the door. Doe-like blue eyes that were like the crystal-clarity of the purest of water found themselves settling on a group of well-dressed gentlemen.  Her eyes flicker between some faces she knew of Small Heath, most of them being the arseholes she went to school with and thought themselves privy to a better life. 

It wasn’t that Tillie didn’t believe they weren’t welcome to it. Mostly, it was the way they treated people in order to get there the young woman didn’t quite agree with. She was rather foolish coming to her though since her brother’s had a very vision about how the Shelby family should be seen. Their measures to getting things done with it were also less than admirable. Perhaps, it was the fact that Billy Bronson, James Fitz and Joe Gilbert made hers and Finn’s school life a living hell one way or another. But, it also made it seem extremely unfair to talk to their older brothers about what happened. Since most knew better than to fuck with the kin of the Peaky Blinders. 

Plooms of cigarette smoke clouded in the air, filling the bookstore with a spiced herbal infusion and rippled tailored sticks of tobacco. Moving her gaze from the lads she knew; to the new arrivals. The youngest of the Shelby mob offered a little smile. “Is there room for one more?” Tillie finally spoke up, pulling her book that contained the novel she had poured hours and hours over. Smiling hopefully. Arms hugging the expensive leather made book that her brothers banded together in the hopes for a lovely birthday present in the days before the war. 

Hoping that she’d fill in with various things she enjoyed to draw, but instead, Tillie hadn’t touched it until she was old enough to respect things. Asking Aunt Pol to help her keep in a safe place until then. Scraps of paper were best for sketches in any case. 

Eyes ever hopeful looked at the posher sort, some seemed wary until a certain collared lad smiled and offered a little nod then the place he’d been sitting. Away from the boys that seemed to make life a little more bothersome. “Thank you,” she whispered, settling down in the seat. Resting the book down on her lap before looking to the other lads who straightened their composure.

“We were all about to introduce ourselves since we’ve never travelled outside of London for such a meeting before. Yet, it seemed like a brilliant idea when bought up. Birmingham seemed like the best place, so raw and thrilling. Small Heath alone.” Spoke finally a lad in a handsome waist-coat, the colouring of coal, stiff collar and matching suit made her think of it being something her brother; Tom would wear. Only on the best occasions, or when he was dressing-to-impress. Unlike Thomas, this lad had handsome hazel eyes, the slightest tan to his skin like he enjoyed the frolicking on the beach. His name was Walter, but everyone called him, Walt. 

“Even the presence of criminal activity and organisations like the Peaky Blinders, it does make the area a prize for writing. Wouldn’t you agree, lads,” spoke up for eccentric Norman, who took delight in the thing that only made Tillie smile in a measure of great awkwardness. The name seemed to follow her everywhere she went, and there was a measure of awkwardness for that.  “Sorry, miss, I didn’t quite mean to be so rude, it’s just you don’t seem the sort to know much on that end, too kind and pretty, huh?” Norm covered himself for any form of rudeness that could have been interpreted. 

Only causing a polite little lowering of her head, as her hands wrapped anxiously around her book’s spine. Before relaxing at the conversation drifting off elsewhere. Sobering to the notion that the following cough from Joe Gilbert had goosebumps appearing on her arms. Causing a vast amount of discomfort in the young woman. Tillie traded glances with the nicer of the Londoner’s; Robert. Whom quickly coughed to get things back on track. 

“In any case, back to the introductions. We shouldn’t dwell too long on the story topics if we’ve lacked the proper course of introduction. Shall I start?” Robert spoke up, settled against set up for the purpose of meetings. “My name is Robert Augustine, myself and these other gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the others in the group of London lads. 

“Are from a collective of young men that wish to write and publish arts. Never before have we had a lady join us, but surely in this modern world we’d be able to welcome the bright minds of femininity amongst us. After all, lady authors are blooming into the publishing world more and more with each generation.” His words seemed to still the anxiousness within her soul at the agreement of his other companions. Looking forward to seeing a hand extended to her, Robert allowed her to stand. The mix of coarseness and softness met between the two palms meet. 

Holding her book, Tillie looked down smiling a little at her feet. Hugging her book to her chest, like it was the most precious thing to her. That was… Because it truly was the thing that held so much value to her heart. Her right hand still gently in the hold of the Londoner, cheeks lightly warming. “I’m Tillie Shelby, and I like to write about my brothers, their stories before the war. When we were kids,” she lit up sweetly talking of her brothers. Her hand and Robert’s naturally finding it parting, before he settled in his spot by the desk. Arms folding at his chest with a little smile. 

“Would you be willing to share any of those stories?” Robert asked in a light voice. Tillie could only think of one response. 

“Would I ever,” she beamed with a presence that seemed to warm the room and the quiet little shop around them. Settling down into her seat once more, she didn’t think about when the others were introducing themselves. Instead, she found herself lost within stories. The more whimsical tales of lads that laughed and partied. Or the ones that filled with a warmth that made her think of the family that suppressed or lost who they were before the war. Among them, none had known those woes and horrors. 

They’d seen things happen on the outside. Felt the absence of a brother, father, uncle or grandfather that either died or lost what kept to their memory that their younger-selves recalled. Tillie was young then. Merely a baby in some regard. But she couldn’t ever forget the days of laughter, wherein night terrors; her heroes would just come up and curl into the undersized cot she called a bed. Soothing their fingers along with the softness of infant or child hairs–that had yet to understand dryness or damage. 

When business didn’t entirely rule the Shelby family but happened in the background. Those were her tales. The tales of rawness and loss from a different scene. Where her brothers; the men who took over the role of an absent father, became; fathers, uncles, older brothers and best friends. And… Pol became the only mother she ever knew and remembered. Her voice spoke of the volumes to family values and how terrible things broke people. Yet, she never uttered their names aloud. 

Only recording them within her mind when she read the tales that meant something to one of her brothers. Art. Tom. John.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 01

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, allusion to anxiety

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Next chapter

Masterlist

There is nothing quite like visiting a bookshop on a rainy autumn day, walking the pavements that will soon deepen in their shade of grey as the scarlet and burnt orange leaves will be decorated with tiny watery crystals. The fierce wind preludes to the sorrow of the gloomy clouds overhead, the chill creeping beneath the navy trenchcoat cooling the little skin bared by a simple ink black V-neck shirt. Caffeinated bordeaux sneakers hasten their step when leaving the district ruled by busy city life and entering the artisans district on the east side of town, where the boroughs are ruled by artists, individual shops, cafés and independent bookstores that each have their own vibe.

For a while now, a specific one has yet to be visited, intending to drop by ever since that long walk that lead through many a cobblestone street lined with brownstone houses and not a single business anywhere in sight. Except for Paper Souls, a hidden gem tucked away at the edge of the area where homes and commerce just meet and have resulted in a small store disguised as a proper worker’s house. As can be judged from the window display, the shop sells both well-known titles alongside more obscure ones, bound in editions fresh from the press and those having lived a ready life on someone’s shelves.

A second before the first tears of the heavens fall and make their presence known by ticking against the window, the bookstore is entered with a low sigh of delight. Nothing comes remotely close to the distinct scent of books, this specific combination of mustiness and ink laced with the fragrance of the weather outside and perfumes of customers. Or, in this case, solely the owner’s.

Here and there, a rumour about the man ruling the paper kingdom has been picked up and it is safe to say not all have been positive. A subject that has been frequently touched upon, oft causing more of a stir than the overall intimidating attitude, are the differently coloured eyes. One brown like hazelnuts at the end of the year and the other as blue as the ocean far outside the harbour.

The ones belonging to long blonde locks with dark roots looking up from the current read behind the counter and which are briefly met with a polite nod and casual greeting. At least one aspect of the groundless gossip is true because the disgruntled stoicism on the handsome face acknowledging the professional meaningless acquaintance silently makes the heart race and constricts the throat. It awakens the need to run and hide somewhere among the chestnut shelves, become a character in a tale so as to vanish and thus avoid upsetting the clerk by merely being present. Which might be the biggest problem, considering today’s goal of staying inside and spend it as is habitually done.

Don’t be silly. Just find a book and settle down somewhere to read a few pages. As long as you’re quiet, nothing’s gonna happen.

Thus, mayhaps repeating the self-chastisement once or twice, the creaking worn floorboards are walked upon as ghostlike as possible though every step makes the Body cringe due to the loudness disturbing the silence. 

And him.

The young man whose gaze is momentarily met before fleeing to the vintage couch in an incline with a gorgeous Penguin hardcover copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, which has been found in the poetry section across from the counter. Breath was held while standing on the tips of the toes while reaching for the thin volume on one of the highest shelves, hoping to not attract attention and refusing to use one of the nearby dark-wooden stools to climb atop because such acrobatics would likely not sit well with the person causing the hairs at the back of the neck to stand on edge.

A sigh of relief cannot be helped when loosening the buttons of the trenchcoat and tossing it over the arm rest before snuggling up in the corner of the sofa. Finally a moment devoid of stress, a chance to be carried off by the works of a beloved poet and artist embodying the truth of childhood and adulthood.

But being brought back all too soon from criticism on the corrupt Catholic Church by the oppressive presence of loose ripped jeans which are perceived just above the edge of the mustard cover. Despite being barely able to gather the courage to look away from the page, lashes nevertheless look up to hands tucked into denim pockets and non-matching irises peering down. Curiously, though it is also alarming, the gaze from above is awkward as if unsettled by the mere presence of a well-meaning bookworm which confirms the assumption about being a nuisance.

Although, the paradoxically misplaced inquiry spoken in a husky voice undermines the deduction. The lowering of broad shoulders does too, allowing personal defenses to waver a bit in the pursuit of kindness. ‘’How do you like your coffee?’’

Bewildered yet finding no clear reason for the kind question in the stoicism of two-toned locks, the simple reflex of asking for a repeat is acted upon with a sheepish tongue that does not know what to make of the situation. ‘’Sorry, what?’’

‘’Coffee. How do you drink yours?’’ A gruff slightly chubby thumb points toward the door, the glass decorated with autumnal tears. ‘’It might be raining, but I still need caffeine. Figured I might as well buy you something too. So, what should I get?’’

What do I do? Do I accept the offer? I mean, he offered it, but declining would still be polite. Then again, it’s free coffee.

‘’Oh, uhm, that’s very sweet of you.’’ The bundle is put down in the lap, flabbergasted shy hands tucked between the thighs while trying to stay as small as possible. It is a silly instinct, but the closeness of the intimidating bookshop clerk calls for it. Moreover, the deep slightly hoarse tone that sounds both as if still recovering from something and being exhausted with the world does not make matters better. 

However, albeit for a split second that is not credible enough, little will-o-the-wisps illuminate the entrancing wildness of an ocean and hazelnut forest as a quicksilver smile flashes over roseate lips. A beautiful fleeting sight which might never have arisen from the solemnity resting like a mask on the youth’s face.

A daydream.

Indeed, surely that is what it must have been. What other reason could there be to show a sign of being pleased with someone who does not feel particularly welcome and at ease in this paper kingdom?

Led astray by the unfocused train of thought, distracted by what may or may not have been witnessed, the actual answer comes out on a mumble. All the while boldly looking back, wondering. ‘’An iced vanilla latte... would be nice.’’

Acknowledging the order with a mere low rumble similar to a wolf’s, the clerk sets off on a caffeinated journey and leaves an affected soul behind. 

While still being highly uncomfortable with the lad’s presence, the thought of what just happened and the offer of a drink that was not in the slightest reluctant imprints a warm impression on a racing heart. Yet, before any ungrounded fantasies arise, the poetry bundle is quickly picked up again and later exchanged for a thick volume of Keats’s poetry that has been picked up in a rush to seemingly have never moved from the leather couch. To not leave a single trace of chaos which might trigger the wrath of the bookshop keeper and perhaps end up in being drenched by cold coffee. 

All the fear is evidently in vain because, when being once again engrossed by poetry, the ghost of a touch over the cheekbone breaks the spell. As if awakening from a dream, the suggestion of the outstretched cold drink passes unnoticed. Instead, it is replaced by a look at ripped jeans beneath a loose tartan blazer, resulting in the novel discovery of a little gem embedded in the right nostril. 

The rattle of ice entrapped in plastic fully awakens the senses as well as the sharp rustle of a paper bag bearing the logo shaped like an apple out of which a bite has been taken. ‘’Here. It’s on me. Don’t think anything of it, I just don’t want you to get dehydrated or hungry.’’

‘’Right.’’ With trembling hands expecting to have the food carelessly thrown into the lap and drink pushed into the palm, the surprising meal is accepted. Without the slightest sign of pushing. ‘’Still, thanks.’’

Once again, a beastly grunt is all that is received in return before checkered trainers retreat to the front of the establishment. Strangely, they soon return with the current read which was enjoyed behind the counter alongside the cold brew that was picked up to battle the fatigue that noticeably laces demeanour. Because, when sinking back into the sofa after having been gestured at to scoot over and haphazardly making room, lashes flutter shut for longer than a mere blink. Notwithstanding, they are awake enough to notice the shift in reading. ‘’Keats?’’

‘’Uh, yes. He’s one of my favorites alongside Blake, Donne and, on occasion, Wordsworth.’’ Personal enthusiasm takes over when mentioning the last poet with whom there is a love-hate relationship, erasing any anguish at being close to the keeper of the kingdom and thus making it possible to ignore the few centimeters of space between bodies. ‘’Even though he’s basically a fraud by turning his sister’s experiences into poetry. It makes one wonder whether he had any talent to come up with something himself. Now, I do believe some of his works are genuinely his, but not all. Sorry, I’ll- I’ll shut up.’’

Questioning chestnut and water reintroduce the silence disturbed by autumnal rain accompanied by howling winds, stretching out over the empty streets. Nobody likes a blathering fool, least of all the stoic who surprisingly has decided to join one’s company. 

Or, so was the original thought that is now nullified by a sliver of a smile and something inaudible smokily mumbled beneath breath. There is no courage to inquire about what was said nor ask for a reason for being evidently entertained, simply rapidly picking up the volume again to resume reading with an overheated, ashamed mind.

Here and there, however, sneaky peeks are thrown in the direction of bleached locks thoroughly enjoying Dante’s Inferno, a work that has been on the to-be-read list for the longest time and somehow has never been crossed off.

Come on, you can do it. Ask him how it is, whether he likes Dante. Don’t be a marshmallow. Okay, one, two... fuck.

‘’How’s Keats?’’ Beating the barely daring tongue to it, the young man interrupts the hardly focused enjoyment of poetry that maybe lasted about fifteen minutes.

‘’Good.’’ More wants to be added to the opinion, but cannot be shaped nor voiced due to the bafflement at seeing sincere interest pierce through an unwavering expression. On the other hand, another unnameable sentiment underlines attitude too, floating ever so slightly beneath the surface. 

‘’You haven’t touched your food.’’ Lips slightly pout when glancing at the paper bag that rests on the trenchcoat that had hastily been draped over the other arm rest when bleached locks sat down, colourful irises dimming. 

Worry.

Why does it affect him? What does it matter if I eat or not?

To hopefully grant a bit of reassurance, an absent-minded promise is made before diving back into the misery of a nightingale. ‘’I’ll eat in a bit. Just one more poem.’’

As fast as lightning, the volume flies from hapless palms and the scent of books mingled with musky mint suddenly leans over to grab the purchased treat, fingertips pressing against the side of the thigh. Every muscle tenses up at the new form of intimacy, inwardly praying for the tartan blazer to return to his place as soon as possible. ‘’No, it’s already two o’clock and I’m sure you had breakfast early. You should eat. Where’s your coffee?’’

A trembling finger points to the untouched iced vanilla latte on the floor, put just in front of the sofa. Hands rise even higher when the bookshop keeper’s heartbeat and heated broad chest can be temporarily felt when slightly chubby digits lean over to grab the plastic cup. ‘’I’m not…’’

‘’What?’’ Clearly not understanding the need to keep looking away, unsteadily focusing on the sides of the nearest bookshelf, the question comes out agitated as the retrieved items are pushed forward, unmistakably intended to be taken. The shift in behaviour is as little comprehensible as the likely appearance of warm rosy cheeks going paired with a fist pressing on the lips, tongue-tied.

Mentally chastising oneself for the awkward display, courage is forcibly gathered to face the puzzled grumpy young man and answer with a whisper. ‘’I’m not comfortable eating in public.’’

‘’We’re not in public.’’

‘’Or with people I don’t know.’’

This revelation is clearly unexpected, eyes widening when reluctantly elaborating on an irrational fear with folded hands tucked between the thighs. For a second, there is nothing but an uncomfortable hush in which the worst outcome is vividly painted in the mind. Fortunately and oddly, it is broken as the stoic’s attitude shifts to something that has not been witnessed before and which goes against any rumour floating around town. 

A gentle smile plays around the corners of the mouth as the tense grip on the food and drink loosens, gently putting the rustling bag in the lap and a warm palm grabbing one hand to place the lukewarm cup in it. ‘’There. I’m Jaebeom, JB for short. Now, can you please eat something? And I promise I won’t judge you.’’

‘’Shouldn’t- Shouldn’t you eat something too? You look like you could use some energy.’’ Up close, the fatigue has become visibly noticeable outside the moment of sitting down and closing eyes for a little bit longer than would suffice for a blink. Affected by the niceness of the gentle acquaintance and thoughtfulness, the croissant in the bag is torn in half to offer a part to the current company. ‘’How about we share this?’’

‘’You don’t have to.’’ A low breathy chuckle rolls forth at the gesture, strangely elating the heart and stirring up a storm of butterflies in the stomach. Again, the same unintelligible phrase that was muttered under breath earlier seems to be repeated.

A penny for your thoughts. What did you say?

Putting aside curiosity to not prematurely cross any boundaries of politeness, what wants to be asked is suppressed and reformed into a request for sharing. After all, the lack of energy outlined by vague dark circles beneath non-matching irises is truly a cause for concern. ‘’Please? I don’t have that big of an appetite.’’

With a resigning sigh, the offer is accepted. Much to the strange delight of the soul who still is not entirely trusting of the bookshop keeper yet already has the mental defenses down a little bit more than before. ‘’Alright, if you insist.’’

What follows is an absolutely adorable though also surprising scenario as the pastry is enjoyed in one bite, the food disappearing without any trouble. Nibbling on the other half, staring cannot be helped as a sip of coldbrew is enjoyed to wash the treat down. However, the unintended impolite mannerism, of course, cannot pass under the radar. Hence is why dark brows furrow in puzzlement when remarking upon being a point of attention. ‘’What?’’

‘’Nothing. You just…’’ a moment is taken to try and find the right word yet failing to think of one which accurately describes the eating manner, ‘’you just wolfed that down.’’

‘’Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I can be a bit, well, unmannered at times.’’ The gaze focusing on the iced black coffee adds to the sorrowful side profile, unwillingly nostalgic, but unapproachable for comfort. ‘’I try not to be. I’m trying to, no, never mind.’’ Another sip. ‘’Forget it. Just eat and stay as long as you like.’’

‘’Jaebeom?’’ In a reflex, after swiftly wiping fatty fingertips on the coarse paper napkin, the bookshop keeper is grabbed by the sleeve as he tries to move away. Alarmed by the sudden bold move, non-matching irises briefly flare with an odd mixture of fear and annoyance before seemingly realizing something and thus calming down. All this goes hidden behind a badly enacted tolerating low hum. ‘’Can you, I mean, only if you don’t mind, could you... could you stay here? For a little while? At least sit down for a few more minutes. I promise I won’t stare as I did and actually read.’’

‘’You want me to... stay?’’ Dark brows furrow in a strange confusion, uncomprehending of the normal request. Although, perhaps it is not so casual seeing as it needs to be thought about. ‘’Stay? Here?’’

‘’If you don’t mind? I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I really didn’t mean to.’’

‘’You didn’t. I should be the one apologizing for being so distant.’’

‘’I don’t blame you. You barely know me.’’

‘’I don’t know you.’’ The observation hits hard, the sternness of the reply crucifying the heart and constricting the throat. How odd a fact should have this result. Withal, the misplaced hurt is a little soothed by the promise that follows. ‘’I’ll stay. But I’ll be closing in about two hours.’’

And thus, for one hour and a half, the paper kingdom falls quiet. Solely the tinkering tears of heaven decorating the glass of the windows, howling winds stirring the richly warm leaves into dance and occasional wandering lonely umbrella break the silence. Inside, the only noise to disrupt the hush is the turn of a page or sniffle that may or may not prelude to a cold. 

However, all tranquil beauty knows an end for Time always runs out. Henceforth, it is at half past four that a light tap goes paired with the barely audible comment “you have to go”. Likely due to the aftermath of being pulled from a world of poetic Nature into gloomy Reality, there is a wrong perception of Jaebeom’s voice. Surely, the sorrowful reluctance is imagined.

As you said, you don’t know me.

The mere thought pains Body and Soul when grabbing the navy trenchcoat off of the faux leather arm rest, stepping towards the bookshelf where Keats was found and the exit afterwards. No chance of wandering a little longer between the books is given, the clerk following closely behind and unconsciously guiding feet towards the entrance.

‘’Y/N? Will you, uh…’’ Restless trembling palms hover in the air like two bent paws failing to illustrate something, a rosy flush spread over the cheeks, ‘’Can I put your jacket on? I mean, let me help you put your jacket on. That’s how you say it, right?’’

With an affirming hum, big palms with slightly chubby digits are allowed to help dress into the piece of clothing.

Glide over the side of the neck when collecting hair to make it flow over the collar instead of being tucked beneath it, leaving a trail of goosebumps and sharpening breath. 

All the while maintaining eye contact, both our faces distorting with timidity. It is then that glances are haphazardly thrown around the empty store to avoid each other for a second wherein composure is hopefully found. 

And it would appear that the buff tall blonde youth is the first to do so, speech matter-of-factly when voicing an unspoken suggestion while holding on to the upper arms. ‘’I haven’t even asked your name.’’

Bashfully, the answer is uttered in a proper vis-á-vis with entrancing two-toned irises though the urge to bolt out the door remains. Nevertheless, the rapid loss of contact is disliked, JB realizing how the intimacy might come across when glancing at the fingertips digging into fabric, almost begging to stay. ‘’It’s Y/N.’’

The instinct to flee is lessened by the step forward thoughtfully repeating the name, carefully feeling out the syllables as if comprehending a siren’s song. ‘’I had a good time, Y/N.’’

‘’Me too.’’ It is true because, despite the distance that was endeavoured to be closed with food, reading and shallow conversation, the time spent together was actually quite enjoyable. Notwithstanding, too much of the clerk remains unknown to say whether all has been out of politeness or if any sincere trust has been shown.

‘’Even though you’re still scared of me?’’

‘’I’m not!’’ A sigh rolls off the tongue at the sight of a smug grin on roseate lips knowing better than to lie about genuine sentiments. ‘You’re just... just kinda intimidating.’

‘’Kinda? To me it seems like a whole lot more than ‘just kinda’. You almost seem eager to go even though you were hesitating earlier.’’ Bright hazelnut and the summer sea are overcast by lonely grief putting on the airs of suppressed rage, painfully re-establishing and enhancing the distance that was briefly shortened with a step backwards. ‘’To get away from me. Make up your mind.’’

‘’Yes, I’m intimidated by you. A lot.’’ The renewed cold emptiness is warily bridged, planning out the words to say to not make matters worse. ‘’And, to be honest, I don’t want to go. Still, it’s because you intimidate me I might seem uneasy and glad to go, but I can assure you I’m not. I really had a good time. We might not have talked a lot, but I still had a splendid afternoon. With you. And for that, I’m grateful. I’m sorry I confuse you, make you feel awkward because of my behaviour.’’

The waterfall of a confession catches the bookshop keeper off guard, but also manages to make tense broad shoulders lower their defenses as colourful eyes calm down. Digits rise from the pockets of loose ripped jeans to envelop the upper arms once more, this time rubbing them reassuringly and let the personal walls crumble too. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me nor apologize. Look, we’ll talk about this another time. For now, you have to go and I have to close the shop. Get home safely and don’t catch a cold.’

‘’You too.’’ 

‘’Don’t worry. I won’t.’’

With a last nod and gentle smile relieved at the prospect of good health, warm palms are stepped away from.

The watery autumn chill cools the heat from being seen off by blonde locks.

I couldn’t get sick even if I wanted to.

When the enchanting scent of summer citrus, autumnal blackberries and juicy peaches has faded, the two volumes that were touched by it are picked from the shelves without a clear understanding of why. Neither is there a sense of comprehension when it comes to the sheer curiosity about what it is that the adorable shy doe so likes about these specific poets. Notwithstanding, both books are picked up and put on the counter alongside the current read to take upstairs after sweeping and properly closing the shop.

Which does not take long, soon after already stumbling up the metal stairs to the apartment above the establishment with a famished stomach and tense muscles, watching the oppressive concrete clouds slightly give way to the lilac dusk before heading inside. Fortunately, dinner has been prepared in advance so the various side dishes solely need to be warmed up in the microwave just like the rice in the cooker. The hair dye job, however, will have to wait until tomorrow. That is, if it is remembered like the face of the local historian who seems awfully fascinated by the affliction distorting identity.

Shedding off the weight of the day, clothes are removed and tossed on the couch to be replaced by the bathrobe that was put there in the morning after yet another long night filled with amnesia. Afterwards, bare feet trod to the kitchen to retrieve the cold dishes from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave to heat up. 

It’s getting late, but at least there’s still some time to read. Funny how my last thought is of you.

Just as the melancholic thought arises over a big bowl of bibimbap accompanied by William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, the screen of the phone on the counter lights up after a brief buzz. When getting up to check, the message appears to be from the supernatural scholar.

“Good luck tonight. I’ll be at your place around 7. Hopefully, you’ll be yourself again. If not, I’ll wait outside. Jinyoung.”

As always, the text is signed with the young man’s name to help ease the recovery of ever-fading memory. Even after living around three years among humans again, the ability to recall actual names alongside how to enact civilized behaviour remains hard.

And becomes more difficult with every passing day.

For now, I want to try. I want to speak to you at least one more time and explain myself. Part ways on good terms, let you know what I am.

A smile cannot be helped at the sight of the bowl next to the mustard poetry bundle, vividly re-imagining how it was held by small hands on the faux leather sofa this afternoon. 

How those same tiny digits tore off half of the croissant without hesitation and offered it to an animal, nibbling adorably on theirs while endeavouring to put on a human act and failing due to the hunger always preceding hell.

But a fantasy never lasts.

Time never stops. 

It solely ticks.

Runs out.

Hopefully, I’ll remember you.

And the moon cannot be sworn by for She cannot stay away nor remain the same. 

That night, the name of the bookish fawn is the last powerful word to recall before losing a grip on the world in the cold dark illuminated by artificial light. 

Naked and shackled beneath the concrete ground.

Hoping for a memory. 

Y/N.

[feckin-zicons]

Squids, Dancing, and Dirty thoughts... Not necessarily in that order or all at once.

Apparently people like this? I am more confused than Liam is in this chapter. Which you know, makes sense bc this character only exists in my head, but also doesn’t at all bc I have no idea what goes on in there most of the time. Anyway this is for Zayn, Oxford commas, @stanmedusa who pointed out Zayn was also an Oxford comma stan, @redyellowberry, and their anon to started this mess. Also please imagine Zayn with his current blue hair, but also with his long Aladdin hair bc that’s what I’ve been doing and oh holy gods do I need that to happen. Please. Hair gods make it happen I’m begging

Same warnings as ever its 4AM, this is much longer than planned, and I have no interest in editing, making it sound coherent, or good. No, I don’t know about the squids either.

Parts 1&2 here

Liam would like to point out while he's not a stranger to feeling confused, he's still having trouble pinpointing how exactly he got to be Dance Mistress Irina Alinova's personal bitch. 

Ever since he accidentally interrupted one of the dance practises while looking for a missing prop for Director Corden, more and more of them started disappearing only to show up in the basement. No one else was interested in facing the Dance Mistresses' wrath, but Liam didn't mind the yelling. As long as Mistress Alinova didn't start throwing things, he figured he was safe enough. After all, it gave him the chance to see the blue haired ballerino again.  

Zayn Malik, the god in mortal form, the prima ballerino, the prettiest man Liam had ever seen, who had no idea who Liam even was. 

Liam had it bad. 

Liam had it so bad.

Liam had it so bad he tripped over thin air, spilled hot coffee over himself, and walked into a door when he thought he saw him at a Costas with Louis. The man he saw wasn't Zayn, thank fuck, but the entire sequence of events did give Louis more ammunition to tease him with. Stupid pretty boys with long blue hair and piercings sent from hell just to ruin Liam's life. Yeah, he was a goner. 

Louis dragged out the whole sorry story after Liam texted him about spiking his lunch and laughed himself sick knowing just how much of a mess Liam became around people he was interested in. They still didn't talk about Danielle. Which was a good thing considering the end of that relationship had Liam pretty much swearing off women for the rest of his life. No pussy was worth that mess. Dick though? Liam was willing to take that chance on Zayn, even if asking Harry didn't give him much information. 

According to Harry, Zayn had been around for a few years but mostly kept to himself or the other dancers. There was something about him throwing a fit a few weeks before Liam showed up. Upset about being forced to learn the choreography for Winston's show when it was just going to fail on opening night like it always did. 

Liam thought he had a point, considering. He didn't know what bananas, ballet, and really bad rapping had to do with King James VI but didn't want to voice that in front of the man playing the gay king. No one dared fire Zayn, considering he kept the whole theatre afloat, but it also didn't make many actors happy with him. Especially not Mizz Wendy Williams, who played Marie Antoinette in the play. Again, Liam had a lot of questions he didn't dare ask out loud. It's not like he was ever good at history, so it was entirely possible the two lived in the same time period. Or it was some sort of allegory that went over his head like the aristocrats wearing banana suits did. 

Louis always found his stories about his placement hilarious, but even that one had him wondering if there wasn't some sort of gas leak in their apartment. It wouldn't have been the first time, or the second. Most likely, it was the theatre that was growing some sort of mold that caused insanity if breathed in. Some of the things Liam had been forced to clean in the past few weeks were unspeakable. 

But even that probably couldn't explain Zayn Malik. Nothing could explain that sort of beauty and talent. Or those hands... and thighs... and fingers. Ung. Liam would love to get up close and personal with all of him.  

Either way, Liam had just been cleaning the mirrors in the practice room, humming along to Brandy and Monica on the radio, wondering if Niall was actually going to come down and help him instead of hiding away like a coward. Again. By the second verse, he'd given up trying not to sing along, not expecting anyone to come by. It was late, the dancer's practise long over, and Winston left screaming over an hour ago. Liam would have done a recce and skipped out on the last half hour if one of the managers wasn't sticking around still. Piers Morgan, an absolute cunt who treated the lads on probation like hardened criminals, and he was the prison warden. Despite, you know, most of the lads on summary probation, and Liam’s arson charge being the most serious crime out of all of them. 

Anyway, the last thing he's expecting is for anyone to come in while he's singing about the boy being his, rolling his body to the beat. Which is probably how he ends up tripping over himself when he notices Zayn leaning up against the open door, watching him. Watching him, in bright, tight, teal dance tights (were dance tights usually blue? They should be) that looked nice with his hair and complimented the gold tones of his skin. The skin he could see a lot of. Because he was shirtless. Because he was shirtless and had a lot more tattoos than Liam realized. Tattoos Liam wanted to bite. Not hard enough to make a mark or anything, that would be sacrilegious, but enough to make him make a sound. God, Liam hoped he was a moaner. Not that he thought he had a chance with Zayn or anything, but it would be a shame if Zayn was the type that stayed quiet during sex. 

Except he wasn't being quiet now, he was talking. And Liam was staring at him, like an idiot, not paying attention. Because he was an idiot. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, why did this always happen to him? 

"Er, what?" Liam asked, desperately hoping he didn't sound as stupid as he felt right then, which was pretty fucking stupid. He probably looked even stupider than he felt and ruined his chances at ever-

"I asked if you were almost done? Was planning on practising more tonight," Zayn answered him. 

Zayn, Zayn Fucking Malik, answered him, and he was still staring at him like an idiot. Shit Liam say something.

"Pretty" 

Not that you idiot.

"What?" Zayn asked, looking confused and adorable.

Oh god, he was precious. Was that a smile? Was he smiling at him? Liam? Oh no.

"Pretty much, I meant. Pretty much done," Liam replied, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. "Just one more mirror, and I'll be out of your way."

There, those were words, sentences even. Now all he had to do was act normal and finish cleaning. Easy. 

"So, Brandy and Monica, right? You like R'n'B then?" Zayn asked him, walking into the room with a heavy dance bag, setting it off to the side.

Liam felt himself flushing as he turned back around to finish cleaning the mirror so Zayn wouldn't see.  "Yeah," he answered, trying not to peek at Zayn bending over as he rifled through his belongings. 

Those legs, Fuck. Liam wondered what it'd feel like to have them around his- 

"I didn't expect that," Zayn said, drawing Liam out of his filthy thoughts, and making him turn back around.

"What?"

"No, I- I didn't mean it in a bad way or anything. I guess I just expected you to listen to more rock?" 

Liam was pretty sure he missed half of the conversation somewhere. Was Zayn blushing? He was so pretty. Wow. 

"No, I like everything," he replied dumbly. They were still talking about music, right? That would make sense. Why was Zayn talking to him again? God, Liam couldn't handle this. "Do you like it? The music, I mean."

"Yeah, grew up listening to ‘em. My older sister was obsessed with Monica. So... Who's your favourite artist?" 

"Artist? Oh uh, I've been listening to a lot of Post Malone? How about you? What do you- who do you listen to?" 

"Post Malone's sick, mate. I like most music I guess, but I've been listening to a lot of The Weekend."

"Have you heard his new album?"

"Yeah, it's sick! Do you-" Zayn was cut off by Niall running in out of breath. The bright orange tee that labelled him as one of the community service workers was wet and stained black. Actually.. all of him was soaked and stained black. Was that ink?

"Hey, Payno, are you done yet because we have a situation upstairs," Niall gasped out, hands on his knees, looking like he'd just seen his life flash before his eyes. 

"What the hell happened to you?" 

"There's a squid stick in the toilet." 

"There's a what?"

"A Squid! A giant fucking squid in the toilet!" 

Liam blinked in confusion, trying to wrap his head around why there would be a squid anywhere near the theatre let alone one of the toilets. Did Corden want live animals in his show now? Or Winston. It could be either of them. 

"Why do you need me?" he asked. "I don't know anything about squids."

Niall sounded like he was at the end of his rope when he replied, "You know something about plumbing at least!" 

"Not a lot! Enough to keep the water on at home, but I'm not a plumber." 

"Doesn't matter, we need your help, Ashtons gone to find some butter," Niall said, stomping back around, leaving behind a trail of watery black ink. "We'll meet you upstairs when you're done."

"Wait, what do you need butter for?!" Liam called after him but didn't get a reply. Butter? How was butter going to help?

A muffled giggle distracted Liam from his thoughts, and he was abruptly reminded Zayn was still in the room. Zayn, might as well be a god, was in the room, and Liam was just talking about squids in toilets.

Why him?

"I guess I should go see what they need help with?" Liam tried to say without sounding... Well, he wasn't sure what the proper response was in this situation or how to react to it. 

Zayn smiled at him, and oh. How was it possible he looked even more attractive now? 

Liam thinks Zayn said something about the other lads needing him and it sounding urgent, but really, Liam was in a daze until he also got a face full of ink... From another squid in an entirely different toilet. 

What the fuck.

Louis was never going to let him live this down. 

Really? Squids???

[matrixaffiliate]

Prefix

New Story! FFN and AO3

Being a godfather can be complicated, especially when you're Harry Potter, but thankfully his godson is always ready to set him straight. Hinny family fluff piece. One-shot. Rated T.   Happy Birthday Meg! @thisismegz birthday is this week and this little fic is for her! Love you darling, and all the wonderful ideas you share with me! Thank you!  

Prefix

Harry set another balloon up on the ceiling with his wand and turned to survey the front room again.

"It looks fine, love," Ginny called from the kitchen.

"Says the woman who has been putting final touches on Teddy's cake for the last thirty minutes," Harry called back.

"Well, I'm done now so you should be too," Ginny grinned as she levitated the cake into the room and onto the table.

"I suppose I have to be," Harry looked up at the clock, "Andy should be here any minute with Teddy and the boys."

"And that means that Teddy's friends will be here in the next twenty minutes." Ginny set a cooling charm on the drinks.

Harry shoved his hand into his hair, "Do you think this was a good idea?"

"A birthday party?" Ginny tilted her head at him.

"Just, having it here instead of at Andy's?" Harry sighed and shook his head.

"Hey," Ginny wrapped her arms around his middle, "Remus and Tonks made you Teddy's godfather because they knew they could count on you to treat him like your own. And his home is our home, right?"

Harry pulled her closer and swallowed the lump in his throat further down.

"You're right, I just…" He trailed off.

"I know," Ginny rested her head on his shoulder.

Teddy was ten years old, today. Nearly ten years ago Remus asked Harry to be godfather. Nearly ten years ago Remus and Tonks would leave their son and never make it back to him.

Harry and Ginny had three children of their own now, the youngest of whom was sleeping in her room, but Harry felt guilty whenever he considered Teddy his own. Harry's feelings about the whole situation were complicated. He worried about taking more from Andy than she had already lost. He worried about erasing the importance of Remus and Tonks from Teddy's life by trying too hard to be the father figure in Teddy's life. And he worried most of all that he wasn't doing right by Teddy. That he was only going to make things worse for this fellow orphan.

But before he could rehash all these concerns with Ginny for the millionth time, the fireplace burned green and the birthday boy tumbled out of the grate, hands tightly gripping Jamie and Al.

"Is Lily awake yet?" Teddy pulled Al up from the floor as he stood before helping Jamie to stand.

"Not yet, dear," Ginny laughed as Andromeda stepped gracefully out of the fireplace.

"You two have outdone yourselves," Andy smiled as she looked around the room. "This looks wonderful."

Harry ruffled Teddy's hair and smiled, "It's not every day one turns ten."

"Daddy," Jamie pulled on his leg, "Can Teddy play the video game with us until his friends get here?"

"Sure thing, mate." Harry nodded the cheering boys towards the Muggle-room.

Andy sighed, "I can't believe that one more year and then we'll send him off to Hogwarts."

Harry felt his hand in his hair and took a deep breath.

"How did we get here?" He chuckled and grinned at Ginny. "I still feel like the kid that snuck around at the Burrow with you."

"Oh, you'll always feel like that," Andy chuckled. "I still feel like the girl that sat in the back of an automobile for the first time with Ted and felt like the biggest rebel in the Wizarding World."

Ginny grinned, "Little did you know that your cousin would be on a mission to take your title."

Harry laughed as the stories of Sirius that Andy had told them came to mind.

"He was more worthy of the title than I was in the end," Andy smiled.

And then the doorbell rang and the circus began. Harry both loved it and felt like they were insane. Within about five minutes they had nine ten-year-old boys, Victoire, and his two boys running through the house like the world was on fire - and they had started it.

"Why is there a girl here?"

Harry spun around from where he was to defend his niece's presence at Teddy's party only to see Ginny advancing on the unsuspecting boy. But she never got to say her piece.

"Vicky's my best friend," Teddy pulled Vic into a one-armed hug. "And she has really good control over her magic already. Show them, Vicky, make those bright blue flowers."

And suddenly Victoire was the coolest one at the party.

Harry shared a smile with Ginny as relief washed over both of them.

When Lily woke up, Ginny brought her down to join the party, but the minute Teddy saw Lily he asked to hold her.

"You like to hold the baby?" A different little boy asked as Teddy started explaining to Lily the game that was being played.

"Of course, I do," Teddy smiled, "she's my sister."

Teddy kept Lily with him until she'd had enough and wanted to eat.

The boys ran and played choosing to play games in the back garden for a time. Harry volunteered to be the adult to go out into the damp weather, and that was when it started.

"Hey, Teddy's dad," one of the boys ran up to him. "Can you help me? My shoelace is knotted and I can't get it undone."

Harry's brain stopped. Mechanically he undid the knot and even tied the boy's shoelace, but inside he was panicking. What was he supposed to do? Should he correct the child? Would that embarrass Teddy? Would it be better to pull Teddy aside and ask what he wanted? Was Teddy telling the kids Harry was his dad?

It all felt overwhelming.

Then another of the boys ran up. "Teddy's dad, where's the loo?"

Harry took a deep breath and directed the boy back inside. Why was this happening? What was he supposed to do? Why was there not a book or something that Hermione could throw at him about how to be a proper godfather to a child who was orphaned because you couldn't defeat a crazed murder with a world domination complex fast enough?

"Teddy's dad, what time is it?"

Harry thought he might scream.

And then Ginny was there.

"Why don't you lot all come inside and we'll have Teddy open presents?"

Harry could have kissed her. It was hard enough seeing how fast Teddy was growing up and knowing that Jamie and Al and even tiny Lily would follow suit, let alone adding these awful mixed-up feelings about the ten-year anniversary of the end of the war and now being called Teddy's dad.

"Teddy's mum, have him open mine first!"

Harry looked up and caught Ginny's eye. She looked about as floored as Harry had felt the first time one of the boys called him in the same fashion.

They both turned to look at Teddy.

Teddy smiled and reached out for the present. Ginny handed it to him with a watery smile.

"Oh wait," Teddy paused and turned to Andy, "can I hold Lily? I want to show her how to unwrap a present."

Andy handed over Lily and shared a long look with Harry and Ginny. She smiled encouragingly at them and Harry determined that as much as he didn't want to, they really did need to address this. But the birthday and the party came first, and so they finished up the last hour with presents and a trip to the Muggle room where Teddy introduced all his friends to video games.

It flew by and in a blink everyone was back home, Bill picking up Vicky last and leaving the Potter-Lupin-Tonks family to sort out their insanity.

"Did you have a good party, Teddy?" Ginny asked as Teddy showed Jamie how to use one of the presents.

"This was awesome! Thank you!" Teddy grinned before trying to lure Lily over to him with her blanket.

"Mate," Harry waved the last of the rubbish to the bin, "we noticed that you didn't correct your friends when they called us your mum and dad."

Teddy scooped Lily up and gave her a hug, "Yeah, it's easier."

Harry's heart clenched, and he wasn't sure which emotion within him was going to win out.

"What do you mean, love?" Andy put a hand on Teddy's shoulder.

Teddy changed his hair color and made Lily giggle.

"Well, I mean, I guess they're sort of right. Some of the lads know that you two are my godparents, not my parents, but I guess, well..." He frowned.

"Think it through," Ginny smiled, "there's no rush."

Teddy nodded and his hair slowly shifted back to its regular brown. Then he looked at Harry.

"You once told me that you were going to try and be as good as my dad."

Harry nodded, finding that pesky lump in his throat trying to climb higher.

"And, well," Teddy paused again, "I guess that I don't correct them because you are as good as my parents. They can't be here, but you can, and so, I guess, I guess that it's not worth correcting them because they're not wrong."

"Well said, Teddy," Andromeda smiled at them as she squeezed Teddy's shoulder.

Harry moved to the floor and wrapped Teddy in his arms, quickly feeling Ginny there with him.

Lily immediately took advantage of the proximity to steal his glasses.

But Harry didn't mind at that moment. Because this amazing boy had managed to settle the anxiety that Harry had been feeling all day with the simplicity that can only come from a child. Remus and Tonks weren't here, no matter how much Harry wanted to change that, and he owed it to them to be there for Teddy in every way he could.

And that included being the godfather that Teddy needed, the kind that let him choose when to worry about the prefix, and when not to.

[robron-ficlets]

Title: let me down slowly

Author: @kayceecruz​

Summary: Robert and Aaron meet in a completely different way.

Written for Robron Week 2020 Day 1: first meeting/meet-cute. Sentence prompt: "Need to put a name to perfection? Allow me to introduce myself.”

Link to AO3

“Need to put a name to perfection? Allow me to introduce myself.” 

Robert tries not to roll his eyes and glances at the bloke in the seat next to his. His drink is dangling from his fingers as his grip tightens and honestly, this is why he hates bars. This has been going on for the better part of an hour and really, he needs to give it up at this point.  Robert’s been watching him get told off for most of the time the man has been trying and it was not what he’d wanted when he’d walked in here tonight.

All Robert wants is to drink away his loneliness and this was what he got for not just doing that at his new flat. 

The woman the guy had been talking to, gives him a withering look and then shakes her head, leaving her seat and heading out the door. 

Robert snorts into his drink and then on his other side, he hears someone laugh out loud and say, “You can’t pull to save your life, Adam, just admit it.”

Robert turns his head to agree with that assessment and then his gaze meets warm, blue eyes and he feels a little struck. His chest feels tight, his insides glowing a little and he hasn’t felt something like that in a long time. The other man smirks and Robert couldn’t help but smile back, laughs a little. 

“I can!” 

Robert keeps his eyes on the other man, watches as his smirk turns into a real smile, a little blinding, and he gulps hard, swallows something down. Then, that gaze turns back to him and he keeps his act together, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“Alright, fine, let’s ask him. He’s been sitting here as long as me watching you be an idiot for however long it’s been.” 

Robert opens his mouth and says “Nearly an hour.” 

The man points at Robert. “See? He’s been keeping time, Adam.” 

Someone taps Robert on the shoulder and he turns to look toward the failing idiot - Adam, he supposes - and stares waiting for whatever it is he wants. 

“So, you saying, mate, that Aaron over there, is right?” 

Aaron. 

Robert leans back, glances quickly at Aaron, then shrugs, finishing his drink. “I think your mate, Aaron, was being pretty kind, actually. You’re bloody awful at this.I mean, seriously, it was painful to have to listen to. Please never do it again.” 

Aaron laughs and Robert can’t help but grin at him. 

“Was that too much?”, he asks and Aaron shakes his head.

“He deserves it.” 

“Oi! I’m your best mate, you know.” 

“Yes, I know.” Aaron sounds put upon and Robert does laugh out loud at that. 

He wasn’t there to meet anyone. That - he and Ben had just finished and that had been on the tail end of the disaster that was Chrissie and him. He hadn’t moved back home for any other reason then to lick his wounds and get his shit together. 

That was the last thing he wanted, to meet someone. Someone like Aaron who made him laugh and his stomach flip and his blood sing. 

Aaron is still watching him and Robert knows - knows - that he isn’t going to do what he should and walk away, 

He sticks his hand out. “Robert. Sugden.” 

Aaron nods, his eyes widening a little, takes Robert’s hand in his warm clasp. “Aaron. Dingle.”

Robert freezes for a moment and then starts laughing because of course he is. 

That’s how Robert met Aaron. 

-- 

It could’ve  ended there. 

It should have. 

Robert should have tried right then and there to get Aaron into bed. 

Before he’d found out all the ways Aaron was way too good for someone like Robert.

Before he’d walked out of his new flat at Jacob’s End and found that Aaron lived just down the street. Before he met and liked his gobby little sister, Liv. Before his sister stuck her nose in and told him all the ways Aaron was the bravest person she’d ever met. All the ways he’d survived and still managed to stay this grumpy, loving,  stupidly kind lad. 

But he hadn’t wanted to -- he’d wanted more when he took his number. He thought maybe a date or two before they ended up shagging. 

Now. 

Aaron was his friend. His proper friend. Months down the line and the only person Robert wanted to talk to when something good or bad or awful or stupid happened was Aaron. Every time that Aaron went out with Adam (who was behaving himself now that he thought he had a chance with Victoria) or Ryan or anyone else, Robert would hole up in his flat and not think about it too hard. 

Andy calls him on it, one day when Robert was glaring a hole in the back of some random doctor Aaron was kinda seeing. 

“You ever gonna tell him or what?” 

Robert frowns, pulls his gaze to his brother, “You what?” 

Andy sighs. “You love him, idiot. Tell him.” 

Robert doesn’t bother to disagree. He’d told his family as soon as he’d set foot back in the village that he was bisexual. That he’d just ended a relationship with a man. That he’d been engaged to a woman before that. 

He is still surprised that Andy noticed, though. 

“He doesn’t feel - he doesn’t think of me like that.” He stops at Andy’s snort, turns to him in confusion and then looks away when Andy’s face falls. Robert hates that look. 

“Rob, you aren’t kidding, are you?” 

He doesn’t answer and before Andy can say anything Diane and Vic show up. Family dinner starts but Robert can feel Andy’s gaze on him through most of the meal. 

-- --

“I like Alex.” 

Robert’s pencil stops moving and he glances at Liv. They’d been trying to deal with Geometry for her upcoming Maths test. He isn’t sure how they segued here. 

“That’s - yeah, I knew that. He’s a nice bloke.” 

Liv nods. “I like him but you know - I love you.”

Robert’s heart melts a little and his chest tightens even more than it normally does. He keeps so much inside that it hurts too much. 

He leans in, meets her eyes and smiles. “I love you, too, Trouble.” 

She smiles a little then sighs. “He -- just -- you mean a lot to Aaron, Rob.” 

Robert nods, looks away. “We’re best mates.” 

Liv groans, slams her books and Robert tries to stop her but she pushes his hand away. “Stop being stupid, Rob. Please. Just -- tell him, okay? Because it’s hurting - just tell him.” 

He watches her leave before he drops his head with a thud on the table. 

-- --

Robert rubs his hand against the back of his neck. He shouldn’t have listened to Jimmy and Nicola. Blind dates were the worst. That had been two hours of hell and when he’d slept off his boredom and disappointment and hollowness, he’d tell them both off. 

He steps out of the taxi, thanks Pete and pays him, before walking slowly down the path to his home. He smiles at that. It does feel that way now. Like home. This village is home because everything he loves is here. Even if he can’t have it like he’d like to, it’s all here. 

His steps falter when he notices a shadowy figure sitting at his stoop. He recognizes that puffy coat, smiles as he picks up speed. 

Aaron stands up when he hears Robert coming and this time Robert stops flat out. 

Aaron looks done in, eyes a little red and his shoulders are tight and when he looks at Robert, his face does the same, tightens. 

“What’s happened? You alright?”

Aaron lets out a humorless laugh. “No. I’m not.” 

“Aaron, what’s going on?” 

Aaron shakes his head, motions to the door and Robert understands he doesn’t want to talk out where anyone that is up can listen in. Their village is full of nosy neighbors. 

Robert nods, brushes past Aaron, pausing when his friend takes a step back, before opening his door. He takes his coat off, throws it on the cushy chair that he bought for Liv to do her homework in when she visits him. 

He turns to see Aaron standing in the doorway, his eyes looking around the flat, like it’s the first and not the hundredths time he has seen it. 

“Aaron, you’re worrying me. I don’t know-” 

“How was your date?” Aaron spits it out and Robert is thrown but he answers quickly. 

“It was fine.” 

Aaron looks about to say something when Robert speaks again, ‘“You know what? No, it was boring. I wasn’t interested. Hadn’t even wanted to go on it to begin with but since everyone keeps telling me I need to date then -” 

Aaron straightens. “Everyone who?” 

Robert throws his hands up in the air. “Everyone who knows me, Aaron. Come on.” 

Aaron bites his lip and then says, “Alex and I are done.” 

Robert blinks slowly. That explains it, then. Aaron being upset. 

“Aaron, I’m sorry, mate. Is there - can I do something?” 

Aaron glares at him and he points at Robert. “Yes, you can. Just tell me, Robert! Ask me. Stop pushing me away. I thought that maybe -” Aaron breathes in deep, hands on his hips and he pins Robert down with his gaze. “Say it. Tell me so I know I’m not alone in this. Say it so I can say it back and we can do this. Properly.” 

Robert is speechless for a moment but then he lets out a long breath. “Aaron, I’m not good-” 

Aaron shakes his head, takes a step forward that makes Robert take one back and he points at him again. “Don’t you dare tell me you aren’t good enough, Sugden. Don’t do it. Because you are more than enough. Just let me love you, you idiot! Stop fighting me and we can start what we should have ages ago.” 

Robert takes two long strides and he’s in Aaron’s space. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t let his mind talk him out of this. He takes Aaron face in his hands and kisses him, hauls him up a little, holds on and kisses and kisses and kisses until they have to break part to breath. Aaron’s forehead touches his and his smile is a little watery. 

“Took you long enough. Now say it.” 

Robert laughs softly. “You are bossy.”

“Robert.” 

“I love you.” 

Aaron sighs. “Finally.” He pulls back, his arms twining around Robert’s neck. “You had me dating a boring doctor, Robert. You made me watch you go out on dates.” 

Robert looks at him softly. “I’m -- wait, you dating Alex because -” 

“Yes,” Aaron said, rolling his eyes. “Because I thought I couldn’t have you but then you were so upset about it, I knew. I thought I needed to let you come to me but - yeah, that’s never worked with you so.” 

“So when I went out on a date, you got angry and waited at my door to tell me off and demand I tell you how I felt?” 

Aaron looks sheepish but then he shrugs, leans into Robert and kisses his jaw. “Yeah, well if I waited for you.” 

Robert kisses him back, pulls him closer and starts to walk them toward his bedroom. “How long -- I mean, since when did you?” 

Aaron stops them both and stares up at Robert. “Are you -- Robert, you damn well know how long.” 

Robert doesn’t. He knows how long he’s felt this way but Aaron is a different story. 

Aaron glares at him, trying not to laugh. “You know how that whole night Adam was being an idiot at the bar, hitting on every girl sitting next to you?” 

Robert frowns and nods. “Yeah?” 

“He isn’t actually that terrible. He was trying to get your attention for me.” 

Robert’s eyes grow wide and his mouth hangs open. “Wait. That - that whole thing was so you could --” 

“So I could pull you, yes, it was. But then you got weird, I mean you are weird, and then I fell for ya and here we are. Cause you are stupid.” 

Aaron laughs at Robert’s expression then kisses it off his face and pulls him toward the room. “Now, come on and let’s do what we should have been doing if you weren’t such an idiot.” 

Robert grins and follows Aaron without hesitation.

[wistfulcynic]

Drink the Wild Air (4/?)

IN WHICH We learn more about Lieutenant William Jones, and the ship he is now a part of, and MYSTERY IS FORESHADOWED.

SUMMARY: Once upon a time a princess fell in love with a pirate. This is their story.

A Captain Duckling high-seas adventure tale in which princesses are kidnapped (OR ARE THEY), sea battles are fought, SWASH is BUCKLED and CASTLES are STORMED.

(also EVIL is VANQUISHED and FAMILIES are REUNITED)

For @thisonesatellite​ (who is somehow more delightful in person than over the internet,) @ohmightydevviepuu​ who is the best cheerleader, and @katie-dub​ who is always the loveliest. 

@darkcolinodonorgasm​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @teamhook​ @stahlop​​ @mariakov81​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @shireness-says​ @snidgetsafan​ @xarandomdreamx @winterbaby89​​ @jennjenn615​ @facesiousbutton82​​

(please do say if you would like a tag or if you would like not a tag)

(Also on AO3) (Tumblr: Part One | Part Two | Part Three)

PART THE THIRD: LIEUTENANT WILLIAM JONES:

Lieutenant William Jones concluded, after some consideration, that he was not especially surprised to learn that life on a pirate ship was not so very different from life on a ship in service of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. A ship was a ship, after all; the same tasks needed to be performed to keep her afloat, the same command structure had to be enforced, and even the mission goals were not terribly dissimilar. The line between plunder and conquest was a very fine one, comprising delicate questions of politics in which Lt Jones took no interest. All he wanted was to sail and to see the world, and the company he kept whilst doing so mattered little. 

There were some aspects of his new pirate’s life that did surprise him. The ship they sailed was an exceptionally fine one, with impossible speed and manoeuvrability which he soon deduced could only be the result of enchantment. Once going she could maintain her momentum even without wind, and after a few weeks’ careful observation of how her captain handled her, the lieutenant began to wonder if the crew was in fact necessary at all. 

Captain Jones kept his ship in pristine order and condition, and commanded the crew with military-grade discipline. So far as he had ever considered the question, Lt Jones imagined pirates to be an unruly lot, unwashed and obstreperous and prepared at any moment to mutiny. Instead they —or at least those on the crew of the Jolly Roger— were meticulous and tidy and their respect for their captain showed in every action they took. 

There was quite a lot of carousing, however. 

And yet the only thing that truly astonished the young lieutenant was the princess. Quite apart from the extraordinary fact of a princess sailing with pirates at all, it was obvious from his earliest days among the crew that they loved her nearly as much as their captain did, and there was never any muttering about the bad luck of having a woman on board or any challenge to her authority or her place on the ship. She knew each member of the crew by name, and greeted them with a warm smile and and jest that was as effective at keeping discipline as the captain’s more traditional approach. And while Lt Jones believed that the princess’s warmth and interest were genuine, he also saw the strategy behind her actions. She needed this ship and its crew for something, some purpose far outside the usual purview of a pirate ship, and the best way to ensure the crew’s cooperation in unusual or trying circumstances would be to win their loyalty. 

~

His first few weeks aboard the ship were spent in the infirmary, definitely a surprising experience for the young lieutenant. Infirmaries on naval vessels were grim places where the stench of blood and rotting flesh was infused into the very walls and men were as like to die of disease as of any injury sustained in battle. The infirmary aboard the Jolly Roger was, by contrast, utterly pristine, with cots covered in clean linen and instruments crafted of gleaming metal and air that carried a sharp, astringent odour, not wholly pleasant but compared to the putrefaction the lieutenant was accustomed to, vastly to be preferred. It was run with an iron fist and an air of benign insanity by a man who introduced himself as “Whale” and did not amputate Lt Jones’s leg. 

Lt Jones, who had already resigned himself to the loss of his limb, found he was almost disappointed. He’d been rather enjoying the notion of himself as a proper peg-legged pirate. But Whale informed him, with a grin that exposed rather more teeth than seemed appropriate for a human head, that there was no need to waste a perfectly useful and very well-formed body part, and proceeded to hand Lt Jones a rag soaked in liquid and wafting fumes with the same pungent aroma that permeated the air and instructed him to hold it to his face. This he did, hesitantly at first and then with greater enthusiasm as the edges of his vision blurred pleasantly and his body went numb, and he he began to fancy he was floating. 

He watched with detached curiosity as Whale deftly reset the crushed bone in his leg, secured it within a splint constructed of thin and flexible slats of wood then wrapped the whole affair up with strips of fine linen dipped in a substance that looked like wet clay, watery and pale grey, mottled with specks of green. After twenty-four hours this clay had dried to form a remarkably solid and resilient cast, and Whale’s pallid face wore a pleased expression as he rapped his knuckles up and down the length of it. 

“Hmm, yes,” he said, nodding in approval and flashing a grin that raised goose pimples on Lt Jones’s arms. “That will do nicely.” 

 From the infirmary’s supply closet he produced a selection of wooden crutches, which he proceeded to measure against the lieutenant’s back until he found the one best suited to his height. This he instructed Lt Jones to use to take daily exercise on the decks, along with a regimen of lifting, bending and stretching designed to keep his muscles strong and limber and his joints flexible. Lt Jones followed these instructions to the letter and after a week or so Whale permitted him to spend several hours a day performing menial tasks alongside the crew, provided they did not result in getting his cast wet. The remainder of each day he spent in the infirmary, resting and drinking cups of bitter tea at regular intervals under Whale’s glittering and watchful eyes.

After several weeks of this routine Whale pronounced that the time had come to remove the cast. He began by making a fissure down the length of it with a hammer and a tiny chisel, then gripped it tightly on either side and wrenched the whole thing apart into two equal pieces like the shell of a walnut, revealing a perfectly healed and unscarred leg within. 

Lt Jones stared at it. “But— how?” he stammered. 

“Healing herbs in the clay,” said Whale. “Among other things.�� He gave the empty teacup in Lt Jones’s hand a significant glance and grinned his jovial, manic grin, and Lt Jones reflected that perhaps the prospect of leaving the infirmary, hopefully for good, was not at all a bad thing. 

Once Whale had swabbed the clinging bits of clay from his leg with a clean linen cloth dipped in another mysterious solution, Lt Jones stood from his cot and gingerly put weight on his newly healed limb. Finding it as hale and whole and sturdy as ever, he began to walk around the room, at first cautiously then with more confidence, even capping his tour by dancing a little jig. 

“Excellent,” said Whale, his pale eyes glinting. “I’ll have to remember that formulation. Most, most excellent.” 

At that moment there was a knock on the door and the quartermaster’s mate appeared, holding a stack of fresh and neatly folded clothes for Lt Jones plus his own shoes, cleaned and shined. Gratefully abandoning the split trousers and single slipper he had worn for the duration of his convalescence, Lt Jones dressed quickly and followed the quartermaster’s mate, a man called Teynte, to the crew’s quarters where he found waiting for him his own bunk, sea chest, and leather flask. 

“Bunk t’ sleep, chest t’ keep, and flask t’ drink, said Teynte cheerfully.

Lt Jones sniffed the flask dubiously. “Drink what?” he asked. 

“Grog, o’ course,” said Teynte. “The cap’n’s right generous wi’ it.” 

“Grog? You mean rum.” 

“Aye, rum ’tis, along wi’ lemons and a touch o’ sugar. Ye’d best drink it, Navy lad, it keeps ye healthy, so it do. There be times, weeks on end as can be, when we sees no food but fish and ship’s biscuit, ye’ll be grateful fer a spot o’ grog then t’ stave off th’ scurvy.” 

“Hmmm,” said Lt Jones. “I see your point.” Scurvy was rampant in the Queen’s Navy and he had witnessed with his own eyes the suffering it caused. Raising the flask first in toast to Teynte’s good health and then to his lips he took a cautious sip. The liquid was sharp and burned down his throat, but it was not altogether unpleasant. He sipped again, more generously. “I believe I could get used to this,” he said with a grin. 

“Haha! We’ll make a pirate o’ ye yet, laddie!” cried Teynte with a clap to his back that nearly sent him reeling. “Reckon the princess be right about ye.” 

~

Lieutenant Jones had of course noticed—it hadn’t taken him long—that he was the object of particular scrutiny from both the princess and the captain. More than once he had felt their eyes upon him as he did his daily exercise on the deck, and each had—separately and, he suspected, without the other’s knowledge— stopped in to see him in the infirmary, with overly casual airs and subtle but pointed questions concerning the progress of his recovery. 

A month or so after he had fully taken up his duties aboard the ship he began to get an inkling of the purpose behind their interest. The day was a bright and sunny one, freshened by a cool, salty breeze that bore a hint of spice, and Princess Emma and Captain Jones were up on deck for one of their regular sparring sessions. The crew, though they mostly succeeded in appearing to keep their attention on their tasks, watched closely, Lt Jones among them. A very active and hotly contested betting pool on the outcomes of these sessions flourished below decks; although they nearly always ended in a draw, as Smee informed Lt Jones, the crew held out hope that some day one of the two of them would actually manage to defeat the other. And on that halcyon day one of the crew would make a killing off it. 

A pirate’s life indeed. 

Lt Jones could not help thinking that today was likely not that day. In swordplay as indeed in most things the combatants were remarkably well matched, with the captain’s greater height and strength balanced perfectly by the princess’s speed and precision. What amused him more than any speculation over who—if anyone—might win was the way they sparred with words as well as with blades, taunts and innuendoes flying fast and thick as they feinted, thrust, and parried. When the match ended—in a draw, of course—both participants were panting and dripping sweat, and eyeing each other in a way that made Lt Jones long for some shore leave. 

However on that morning rather than ushering the princess to their cabin and bolting the door behind them, Captain Jones approached his lieutenant of the same name, and offered the younger Jones his blade. 

“Care to have a go, lad?” he asked, with a quirked eyebrow and a small grin.

“Against the princess?” stammered Lt Jones. 

“Aye.” The captain’s grin widened. “Think you can handle her?” 

“Er… no, if I’m honest.” 

Captain Jones laughed. “That is the correct answer, my boy. Try anyway. Show us what you’ve got.” 

Lt Jones stared at the man, searching his face for any sign of trickery. When he detected none he cautiously accepted the proffered sword and gave it an experimental swing. Though far from an expert in sword design he could tell instantly that the balance of the blade and the hilt was perfect, the result of expert craftsmanship. He swung it again, trying to get a feel for it. Princess Emma stood watching him with an amused expression and casual posture, though it did not escape his notice that she stood on the balls of her feet with her shoulders back, prepared at any moment to spring into action. 

“Ready to go, Lieutenant?” she asked. 

He bowed. “When you are, Your Highness.” 

She attacked first, leaping smoothly into the exact move he had expected her to make, with such a speed and skill that he was only barely able to parry it. Their blades met with a clang of metal and he felt the vibrations all the way up his arm. Her slender appearance was deceptive, he realised; she was far stronger than he’d thought, with a skill that could only come from many years of training under the tutelage of a master. He was in way, way over his head. 

On the strength of that realisation, he altered his strategy. This was not a fight he could win, not through skill at any rate, but he might be able to bring it to a draw. She was tired from her earlier sparring with the captain, but he was fresh, and if he could just avert a killing blow he might be able to outlast her. 

He concentrated on deflecting her attacks, holding her off but never moving in himself, never giving her the opportunity to dart in around him as he swung his sword arm as he had seen her do to the captain. He danced around the deck, forcing her to chase him as she advanced, defending, defending, defending until finally she held up her sword. 

“All right,” she said. “I’m calling it. It’s a draw.” 

Her next words were quiet, drowned out by the cheers of the crew. They were for his ears alone. “A draw in this case means you won,” she said. “Well played.”

“Well played indeed,” said Captain Jones, clapping him on the back. “You’re quite a clever lad, aren’t you?” 

“I like to think so, sir.” 

“And one with a sound instinct for survival.” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent.” Captain Jones squeezed his shoulder. “Excellent.” A look passed between him and the princess, one Lt Jones could not decipher. “Well, now you’ve had your fun, Lieutenant, I’m afraid it’s back to work for you!” 

“Aye, sir!” 

The captain turned away and put his arm around the princess’s shoulders. Hers slipped around his waist and they headed off to their cabin together. 

~

Three weeks later, Lt Jones received a message summoning him to the captain’s quarters. He presented himself to Mr Smee, who was standing guard outside the door and gave it a sharp knock on his behalf, and was bade enter by a curt ‘Yes’ from within. Smee opened the door to reveal the captain sitting at his desk with maps and documents strewn out around him, and the princess standing at his side with her hand on his shoulder. 

“Ah, young Jones,” said the captain. “Right on time. Come in and shut the door behind you.” 

[paradisecost]

When Philip steps into the cabin, he's struck by the expression on The Captain's face. It's not one he's ever seen before, and it's so alien to him that for a frightening moment, he doesn't recognise them. The stress is so palpable that Philip suddenly tears up without meaning to, a visceral *panic* taking over him before he can grab a hold of it and squash it down. "Amelia...?" // >:3

"Oh--Philip, lad, what's wrong?" They laugh in that shaky, watery sort of way that people trying not to cry do, crossing the cabin instantly to pull Philip into a tight hug. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost- I'm fine, son. A wee bit stretched thin, that's all." Drawing back, they keep their hands on Philip's shoulders to get a proper look at him; it's a relief, actually, to have something else to worry about for a moment. "You're too sweet for your own good, I keep telling you. C'mere."

 //@coming-xf-age // mobile tbt