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joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it, never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core.

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can.

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel.

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more.

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has.

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine.

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.”

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.”

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do.

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it.

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you.

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length.

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay.

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.”

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket.

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink.

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale.

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers.

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week.

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context.

You shake your head, no.

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort.

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!”

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch.

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through.

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket.

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder.

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late.

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb.

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor.

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin.

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway.

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern.

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all.

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait.

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life.

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand.

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved.

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up.

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb.

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers.

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday.

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer.

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side.

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down.

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs.

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now.

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?”

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?”

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat.

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw.

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep.

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths.

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs.

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.”

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist.

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life.

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop.

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel.

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind…being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning.

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

#joel x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction

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amazingcreek · 20 days ago

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rapid fire oathbound thoughts:

holy shit we got queer bree AND transfem zoe. is anyone in this book series straight? no? good.

natasia kane my beloveddddd you are such a bad parent but such a proud mom

Nick and Bree on the roof?!?!? I haven't seen anyone mention this and it's making me crazyyyyyyyy

also one bed, yes ma'am there's only one bed ty mrs. deonn

William having a crush on Lark and Lark having a crush on William and neither of them ~actually~ addressing it is so frustrating I can't even

LARK CALLING WILL SWEETHEART ugh my heart

bring. back. Alice.

sel's "got you" IS FROM THEIR FIRST INTERACTION. BUT ALSO A PREY THING. GODDAMNIT

Zoe was so real for forgiving Bree after learning all this had been less than a year. like yeah ok that's too much in too little to expect normal communication

Mariah and valec's opinions on the whole "powerhouse" and "point of our spear" thing is soooooo good. I love nuance tracy deonn take my money

nick talking about sel constantlyyyyyyy. oh my god these two are gonna kill me. "please tell sel that when we find him" "sel would draw and quarter me" UGH

NICK HOLDING EVERYONE ACCOUNTABLE. truly that moment at his council hearing when he says we must name them when Bree is here AND when she isn't is just. yeah. go him. AND THEN the perspective of William checking himself and going "oh shit I have NOT been doing as much as I thought" was so good. tracy you're a literal wizard and changing the world thank you.

valec calling the merlins cops. fuck yeah they are. tbh doing a whole analysis on merlins abuse of aether users/experimenting on Black bodies would be so good. maybe I'll write a paper who knows

valec and zoe. make them come back

bree knowing she's loved as she meets everyone, not being able to love them back in the same way because of her memories, BUT choosing to love and support them regardless is just like gorgeous. the amount of hugs she just accepts and goes, yeah I need this, even when she can't do the same in return is perfect

the ending. the ending. hooooollyyyyy shit the ending. "a king, a knight, and a prince" AHHHHHHHH. selwyn kane you can do no wrong in my eyes but oh my god. I am so scared someone hold me

ALSO after reading the ending going back through the book and seeing that there are several places where Bree and Nick are talking about sel and HE is the one calling her bloodmark. oh em gee.

this is not comprehensive and I'll probably think of more but yeah. how're we doing gang?

#oathbound spoilers #oathbound #tracy deonn #bree matthews #selwyn kane #nick davis #legendborn cycle #william scitterson #bloodmarked

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damneddamsy · 6 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

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boyswillbebutch · 1 year ago

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i am. so tired rn <-his ass should be sleeping but shshshsh- BUT YEAH!!! literally the entire episode when daisy was in the buried i was dying (POSITIVELY HOLY FUCK DAISY CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!!!) the fact that they learn to get along but not like they tolerate eachother just they slot togheter like puzzle pieces after their coma/coffin time- with jon trying to figure out stuff for himself and daisy sometimes and daisy needing company with her just sitting in the background of his statments *throws a chair and dies*

THEY ARE SO IN A QPR I GET YOU I SEE YOU!!! to me to me they are <333 AND WHEN DAISY APOLOGISED I NEARLY CRIED?? LIKE YIPEE ik i said this before but Character Development MY BELOVED <333

hihihi hello i have fallen into your inbox to ask for any jondaisy thoughts you have :]] (i love literally all tma ships- jmart, basira x daisy etc etc rhdhdhdh) JONDASIY!!! i haven’t finished season four yet but i’m close to finishing it so no spoilers just in caseee

AUGHHH HI LARK. JONDAISY MY LOVES WHO I AM NORMAL ABOUT. a lot of my (at least angsty) thoughts abt them revolve around s5 but WHATEVER

im ALWAYS drawn to characters whove been through crazy fucked up shit together (like the teens!!) that nobody would get if they havent been through it themselves. for them its the eye shit and the buried- daisy definitely seeks out company after being stuck alone in the buried for literal months, and jon is kind of her only option. i think they grow close as gradually basically everyone leaves them- martin getting lonely-ed, melanie splitting her time between georgie and therapy, and basira always off killing people. they have both been seperated from the world for months (coma, coffin) and when they came back, everything was different, and they adjust to that together. i love the idea of daisy just sitting jons office while he works, subjecting him to the Archers, and just finding each other after losing basira and martin. i think of them as a qpr but i will devour literally any content of them becauee theyre SO UNDERRATEDDDD

#wheres my daisira. my jondaisy. my helanie. PLEASE #anyway ty for the ask lark :3333 im rlly normal abt them #<-PREVVV #REALLL #HELAINE #you are opening my eyes to new wolds jay thank you so so much #also daisy. like. *bites the walls*#she is such!!! a good character in writing to me since she starts out with unknown reasons and you learn about them but then due to her #being trapped with her thoughts for ages means she had time to reflect #oh my god #also the ‘new’ daisy after the coffin i’m so happy for her she’s figuring stuff out (I’M WORRIED WHAT’LL HAPPEN TO HER JAY)#SHE’S LITERALLY ‘i’m not a violent dog. i don’t know why i bite’ except she does know why she bites and regrets it #and she is a violent dog but yeahhagsgs #also she’s so pretty <-this is an audio podcast character lark oh my lord/hj #HER VOICEEEEE *fades into the lesbian flag* yyeeeah #anyways anyways #if you ever want to talk tma with someone uhhh i am here!! may not know much about s5 (i am so worried/pos) but i will gladlyyy talk about #ships and characters <333 #DEAR LORD i just realised how many thoughts about them i have uh oh apologies for the ramble

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m1ckeyb3rry · 9 months ago

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Hello! Recently read your latest Rin piece and fell in love with your writing style :)

If you’re up for it, could I request childhood friends with Hiori? Sorry it’s a little vague, but I love the direction you’ve taken other pieces and wanted to leave the details up to you! My only suggestion on a detail would be maybe sprinkling in some light angst about his parents/backstory.

Thank you for considering!

Synopsis: You spend the years of your youth with Yo Hiori, in a field that’s almost lonely as the two of you.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Hiori x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k

Content Warnings: childhood friends, hiori is vaguely suicidal and also vaguely homicidal, uhh i feel like i know nothing about him as a character so popping that sexy little ooc warning in there jic, open ending, lots of #nature, almost the entire story takes place in a field so idk, hiori is like. madly in love w reader but he’s nonchalant abt it

A/N: thank you so much anon that means a lot!! cherry tree rin and y/n are so silly (<- affectionate) i’m glad you enjoyed that fic 💖 one thing about me i love a good childhood friends to lovers trope especially with angst…hiori is another character i haven’t written a ton for so i hope i interpreted him correctly and that you like what i decided to do with your prompt!! ty for requesting 🫶🏻

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

The field across from your house was melancholic and desolate, an acre or so of rolling green that bled into trees at the edges. Although by all rights it should’ve been considered a picturesque place, no amount of beauty could take away from the abandoned atmosphere which had long ago settled over the land.

According to your parents, there had been plans for a grand mansion to be built in that location, but before drafts for its construction could be drawn up, the owner had died. The son who had inherited it had no use for the plot, but neither could he be brought to sell the place of his father’s dreams, so the land had sat empty and unused for years upon years.

People thought the area was cursed, and the general consensus was that it ought to be avoided, but your parents did not believe in things like curses and bad luck and whatnot, so they told you it was fine if you wanted to play there. You were a lonely child, prone to wandering off on your own anyways, and you supposed they must’ve reasoned to themselves that it’d be easier if you were close enough that you could run home should something happen.

You would sit in the middle of the field, far from any prying eyes, and you’d admire the blooming plants beneath your feet. It was not just grass — there were a million and one varieties of things growing in that wild place, and you would run your fingers along their leaves, doing your best not to frighten the animals and insects which called that field their home.

They grew accustomed to you with time, and instead of shying away, they invited you into their own world. The squirrels and chipmunks would dash out from their trees to scuttle around your feet and splayed hands, while the dormice would peek out of their burrows without fear, nibbling on whatever seeds they had gathered before settling in for the day. The larks would warble to you, and if you were in a particularly cheery mood, you’d whistle back to them, trying to imitate their melodies but always falling a little short.

The third time you went to the field, you found that someone had arrived before you. For a moment, you thought that he must be a ghost, for he stood in such stark contrast to everything you had come to know that there was no other reasonable explanation for it. He was spindly and pale like a skeleton, and his shaggy hair and eyes were the color of winter, such an unnatural shade compared to the viridian he was surrounded by.

You were contemplating running away when he turned around, his eyes widening when he saw you. In his hands was a soccer ball, and resting on the soccer ball was a large white butterfly, its lazily flapping wings shimmering like a whisper in the sunlight.

You were both silent for a moment, a soft breeze rustling through the field and sounding like a song that urged you towards him despite your misgivings. Tentatively, he held the ball out towards you, but the motion startled the butterfly, which abruptly took to the air, fluttering away before either of you could react.

“Who are you?” you said.

“Yo Hiori,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Y/N L/N,” you said. “I live in the house across the street.”

“We’re neighbors, then,” he said. “My house is a few doors down from yours. Do you come here often?”

“Yes,” you said. “Do you?”

He shook his head ruefully. “This is the first time. My parents think I’m practicing soccer right now.”

“You shouldn’t do that here,” you said, frowning at the thought of him kicking up dirt and slamming a ball around carelessly through your sanctuary. “Go somewhere else if you want to play something so reckless.”

“I don’t,” he said. You furrowed your brow. “Don’t want to practice soccer, I mean.”

“I see,” you said. “Well, this is a good place to run to if that’s the case. No one will come looking for you here.”

“Is that the truth?” he said. “Really?”

“Really,” you said. “Everyone thinks it’s cursed, but in truth, I think that that just means it’s blessed.”

“Ah,” Hiori said. “But do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?” you said.

“If I keep coming here,” he said. “When I want to run away.”

“It doesn’t belong to me. I suppose you could say I belong to it, but that’s neither here nor there. No, I can’t stop you, so why would I mind?” you said.

“Are you some sort of woodland fairy?” he said. You laughed aloud.

“I wish. Are you a ghost?” you said. He shook his head.

“Nope,” he said.

“Then I guess our claims to this place are equal,” you said. “Anyways, as long as you don’t disturb it too much, I won’t be angry. I’ll do the same for you, don’t worry.”

“I don’t care what you do to it,” he said. “I just want to go somewhere that’s quiet and I can be left alone.”

This much you could understand, and you thought that perhaps Hiori would grow to be an exception to your loneliness, or an addition to it. Not a cure, because that did not exist, but a person who could relish in his own solitude and share in that inexplicable sensation which was your greatest joy.

You never saw him anywhere but in that field. You weren’t sure if he even existed outside of its context, or if he was like the dormice and the larks, a skittish creature who made his home in those grassy divots and only appeared to greet you before running back off to hide once you were gone.

At first, he was even more reserved than the animals had been. Neither of you spoke, but somehow, it happened that you were always in the same place at the same time, and eventually, little by little, the two of you became dependent on one another’s presence. Your life before meeting Hiori was pale and lifeless in comparison to your life after, and the first time you both spoke as friends instead of strangers, you thought to yourself that you could never go back to the way you had previously been.

No longer did you whistle at birds and play with squirrels; instead, you sat across from Hiori and listened to him explain things like soccer and video games. You were not particularly interested in either of these subjects, but as long as it was Hiori, you didn’t mind hearing about them. It was the cadence of his voice you were concerned with, the rise and fall of his words, the soft inflections of each syllable.

You had never had a friend before. It was a personal choice rather than a failing; every person who tried to engage with you was met with the same disdain, for you found no appeal in any such clumsy attempts at camaraderie. In your childish mind, friendship ought to be hard-won and delicately kept, and so it remained that of all the people in the world, Hiori was the only one whose honest company you could prefer.

He was a forlorn and low-spirited boy, the winter to your bursting summer, but his coldness was the inviting sort, like a dusting of snow on a cluster of berries or frost on a forgotten bird’s nest. It did not ward you away but drew you in, your breath fogging in the air as you lay beside him and listened to him ramble on and on about whatever topics struck his fancy.

Sometimes he was prone to muteness, and on those occasions you took it upon yourself to intertwine your fingers with his, pulling him along behind you and naming every plant and tree and flower you passed by, greeting the tittering chipmunks and the cooing larks and the peeping rabbits. He would not say anything, but you knew he was listening, for he would smile slightly whenever you pointed at something he found particularly pleasing.

Every day, he would bring the soccer ball with him. He refused to put it down, but neither did he play with it or even acknowledge its existence; you sensed it vexed him, that it was the source or a symptom of the gloomy undercurrent which ran through his life, but he could not let it go, just like he could never truly be happy in any way that lasted.

“Y/N,” he said once, when you and he were lying on your backs in the grass and watching the clouds drift by. “If you could be any other creature, what would you be?”

“I don’t know,” you said, considering the question seriously. “Maybe a songbird. What about you?”

“I’d be one of those,” he said, pointing at a butterfly floating past. It was a common variety, nondescript and plain and white, but somehow made more beautiful by the ubiquity of its kind.

“Why?” you said.

“I’d live a short but carefree life, and then I would die before anyone could demand anything from me,” he said, smiling slightly and closing his eyes. “Plus, if I could be something as small and pretty as a butterfly in our meadow, then I would be able to spend my entire existence resting on your finger.”

Your meadow. You weren’t sure when it had gone from being a place you visited to a place you owned, but yes, the shift had definitely occurred. You and Hiori loved it, and so it was yours by that right alone. You reached out your hand, setting it on his heart and then closing your own eyes in a mirror of his position.

“I wouldn’t prefer that,” you said. Something cool and soft curled over your fingers; you knew without looking that it was Hiori’s own hand, which would always come to rest against yours like a magnet.

“Hm,” he said.

“I’d get used to you being there,” you explained. “And then one day you’d vanish and I’d be alone again.”

“Would you miss me?” he said.

“Very much,” you said.

“Nobody else would,” he admitted, though he still spoke in an even monotone. “I’d be replaced quickly. Someone just as talented or even better would take my place, and then it’d be like I was never there in the first place.”

“I’d miss you,” you insisted. “I don’t care about talent. You’re someone who’s irreplaceable to me.”

“I see,” he said. “Then I guess, if not a butterfly, I would also want to be a songbird. Like you.”

“We could fly around the world together,” you said.

“Yes,” he said. “The countries I’ve seen in my video games…we could go to them. If we were birds, we could.”

“Maybe we still can,” you said.

“We can’t,” he said. “My parents would never let me.”

“What about when we’re adults? They can’t tell you what to do then, so we can leave them behind and travel wherever we want,” you said.

“It’s a nice dream,” he said.

“Hold onto it,” you said. “That’s the only way it can ever come true.”

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”

Even as you and Hiori became older and made friends outside of one another, there was a sort of solace which only he could provide you and which in turn only you could provide him, so neither of you ever outgrew that field. The moment you got home from school, you’d drop your bag on the counter and run there as fast as you could, hoping to see him before he had to leave for soccer practice. And every time, without fail, he’d be there, waiting where he always was, his small smile widening when he saw you racing towards him.

The contents of your conversations changed, moving from games and plants to complaining about schoolwork and updating one another about your respective social lives and dramas — he went to a private academy for soccer, while you attended the public school that most kids your age went to — but the familiarity never diminished. If anything, it only increased, as any inhibitions you had had in your youths gradually fell away.

“Hiori! You’ll never believe it,” you said, moving his abandoned soccer ball aside and sitting across from him. He did not look up from the pieces of grass he was braiding together, but he nodded to indicate he was listening. “Remember those two guys I was telling you about?”

“The ones who had a crush on the same girl?” he said.

“Yup, those two,” you said. “They finally got into a fistfight over her! It was crazy.”

“Who won?” he said.

“The principal, because he broke up the brawl and suspended them both,” you said. “Thereby ruining their brief romance-novel-moment entirely.”

“That’s a pity,” he said with a snort. “I can’t imagine what possessed them to do something as stupid as beating each other up on school grounds.”

“Love makes people crazy,” you said dramatically, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead and collapsing backwards into the dirt. “You’ll understand when you feel it yourself, silly Hiori.”

“Huh?” he said.

“I mean, one day, you’ll fall madly in love with someone, and then you’ll be inclined to beat another person up for them,” you said.

“What if I already have?” he said. You shot up with a gasp.

“And you didn’t tell me? Who is it? Who, who? You can’t hide stuff like that!” you said.

“It was only a hypothetical,” he said. “There isn’t anyone. What about you? Are you madly in love with someone?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I am, but at the moment, I don’t find myself able to even tolerate any of the boys I go to school with! They’re all disgusting, immature, and insensitive. Just looking at them is enough to make me gag, so forget about falling in love!” you said.

“That sucks,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll be single forever,” you said. “I’ll live alone, with pets and a porch swing and a backyard just like this field, somewhere faraway where no one can find me.”

“What about me?” he said, taking your wrist and tying the braided grass around it like a bracelet.

“Well, I’ll tell you where I am, of course,” you said. “You’re the only one I would want as a visitor.”

“I’ll come every day,” he said.

“At that point, you might as well just live there with me,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’d save you the time spent traveling back and forth.”

“Would you like me to?” he said. “I thought the point was for you to be alone.”

“If it’s you, then it wouldn’t be so bad,” you said. “Being with you is even better than being alone.”

The sun hit Hiori at the exact moment that he grinned at you, and in the back of your mind, where things were understood but not known, you recognized that of all the beings in that lovely place, he was far and away the loveliest.

A distant and rumbling thunder portended a storm on the day you learned who Hiori really was. He never went to the field if it was raining — there was no excuse for him to escape his home, and so, though you did not much mind the weather, you tended to keep to your room on those days as well. Today, though, the rain was still only a blot on the horizon, which meant you would have a precious few minutes with him before it began to pour and you had to leave again.

“Hey, Hiori,” you said. In an uncharacteristic move, he wasn’t holding onto the soccer ball; instead, it was on the ground, his foot resting atop it, his head bowed towards it and his hands balled into fists at his sides. He glanced up at you, and you were surprised to see that there was a dead, hollow quality to his eyes, which, though always placid and still, were never this shade of dark and dreary. “Is everything okay?”

“Have you ever wanted to kill someone?” he said.

“No,” you said immediately, taken aback. “Have you?”

“No,” he said. “Yes. I’m not sure. I don’t want to do it, but somehow, I want my parents to die.”

Another crack of thunder. You approached Hiori slowly, like he was a deer that would leap away the instant you were close enough to touch him. But he was not a deer, and he stayed preternaturally immobile, his harsh panting the only signal that he was a person and not a statue.

“Do you mean that?” you said when you were near enough to him that you could’ve embraced him if you wanted. “Is that really how you feel, Hiori?”

“Yes,” he said vehemently. “Yes, I mean it more than anything. Everything would be better if they would just die and leave me alone.”

He drew his leg back and slammed it into the ball. It streaked through the field, leaving a muddy rut in its wake, tearing up the grass and the flowers before crashing into a tree with a groan. You stared at the path of devastation it had wrought, wondering how such an innocent object could create such havoc, how such a simple act could have such irreversible consequences.

“That’s what soccer is,” he said when he had caught his breath and noticed your silence. “A tiring game you play to ruin yourself.”

“I thought you liked playing soccer,” you said. “You always told me how good you were at it.”

“Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I like it,” he said. “I hate it almost as much as I hate the people that make me play it.”

“Then why do you keep going?” you said. “Why don’t you quit?”

“Because I have to,” he said. “My parents gave birth to me so that I could play soccer and be the best at it. That’s the only role I know how to conform to, so how can I do anything but accept it?”

You wrapped one arm and then the other around his torso, leaning your temple against the dip of his collarbone, turning your back to the blight he had caused and holding onto him as lightning split the sky.

“Don’t ruin yourself,” you said. “Don’t betray who you are because other people tell you to. If you don’t want to play soccer, then don’t. Quit and leave it behind. Maybe everyone else will mock you, but would it be enough if I didn’t? If I alone swore not to think any less of you, then would you be able to do it?”

“No,” he said. Something dripped onto your head, and you thought it had started raining early until you realized that Hiori’s voice was catching on nothing, his heart beating as fast as a mouse’s. “No, it wouldn’t be enough. I have to play soccer.”

“Why?” you said.

“My parents,” he said. “If I don’t play soccer — no, if I’m not good at soccer, they’ll divorce. They’ll divorce and it’ll be my fault, so I have to keep doing it, because no matter how much I hate them, I can’t be — I can’t be the reason that they — that anything bad happens to them.”

The droplets came in quicker succession, but with a final clap of thunder, the sky opened to let the rain out, blurring the line between his tears and the natural precipitation which would’ve occurred whether or not you were there.

You didn’t know what to say to him, so you opted to say nothing, pressing into him for as long as you could before you both had to go, leaving one another behind as you were always forced to. Now, though, there was a proof of your existence in the shape of that ugly gash that his soccer ball had torn into the field, an alteration which was directly a consequence of your actions. In a season or two, it would be grown over, but for the time being, it cheered you to think that the world could no longer avoid acknowledging you, acknowledging that you and Hiori were real, that you were alive and belonged.

In your second year of high school, a boy in your class came up to you, stopped you in the hallway in front of everyone and thrust a bouquet of supermarket flowers into your hands. He asked you to read the attached card, and you obliged, though you had a feeling you already knew what it said.

As you had predicted, it was an invitation to have lunch with him sometime. His cheeks were red and his smile was wide as he waited for you to say yes, but all you could think of when you looked at him was Hiori. How would he feel about this turn of events? Would he be amused or jealous or unfazed entirely? Would it even matter to him? Why were you thinking of him at a time like this?

No, that last question was one you knew the answer to already. The reason why you were thinking of Hiori was the same reason you still went to that field to see him, even though you were far too old to play with mice and birds and clovers now. It was the same reason that you recoiled from any other boy who tried to talk to you — because they were not him, they could never be him. It was because — it was because —

Much to the consternation of the audience you had unwillingly gathered, you handed the card and flowers back to the boy, shaking your head as politely as you could. There was a demand for an explanation on the tip of his tongue, but you left before he could make it. The explanation was not one you wanted to share, so you covered your ears with your hands to drown out the insults he shouted after you and strode away before he could say anything worse.

Hiori was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, so it was no surprise that he was waiting for you where he always was. Today, though, you did not bother with formalities or welcomes or lighthearted questions. You paid no mind to his antsy demeanor, instead catching his hands between your own and squeezing them.

“Y/N—”

“Hiori—”

You both called out each other’s names at the same time, with the same urgency, though there was a layer of despair when he said Y/N, just as there was pleading infused into the way you murmured Hiori.

“You first,” he said, though he looked over your shoulder, staring towards the road instead of at you. “Quickly.”

“Okay,” you said. “A boy asked me out.”

“Oh,” he said, and when his gaze slid onto you, you noticed that for the first time, there was something flaring to life in the blank depths of his irises, a veritable maelstrom of unreadable emotions twisting together and blending into something entirely other than the stillness you had come to expect from him. “What did you say?”

“I refused,” you said. “I couldn’t date him, not in good conscience. Not when I like — not when there’s someone else.”

“Someone else?” he said. “Y/N, please hurry.”

“What’s the matter?” you said, letting go of his hands so that you could instead hold his face. “Hiori, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you in trouble with your soccer team? Is that stupid crow boy causing you problems?”

“What? No, no, Karasu’s not done anything worse than usual. It’s my parents, I think they’re growing suspicious of me, I’m afraid they’ll—”

“It’s you,” you said, cutting him short, his haste rubbing off on you. You weren’t sure whether it was his anxiety or your own or some sort of divine premonition, but you suddenly felt an impending doom, as if you had to speak at that exact instant or give up the chance to ever say it again. “Hiori, you’re the reason I said no. It’s because I like you.”

Hiori, who had carved his way into your heart on the very first day you met, who was fond of butterflies and songbirds, who was bashful like winter and gentle like dusk. How could you help it? Of course you liked him. That boy who had reached into the lonely chasm of your soul and ripped it out, turned it into something lighter and warmer and whole…how could you help falling for him?

“Me?” he said in disbelief. “But—”

“So this is where you go, Yo,” a stern voice said. Hiori inhaled sharply, and then he yanked away from you, shoving you behind him, though it was far too late. You knew who had finally found the two of you, and furthermore, there was no way she hadn’t seen you. “This doesn’t look like practicing soccer. How much time have you been wasting in this dump, with this fool of a girl?”

You peered around Hiori’s back, holding onto the hem of his shirt. Fear constricted your throat when you saw a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to him standing before you, her hands on her hips, a dour expression on her face. Whatever had been sparkling in Hiori at your confession had abruptly disappeared, replaced by an even more severe version of himself.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We just met recently.”

“Not a big deal? Think about how much better at soccer you would be if you actually spent this time practicing instead of messing around! A few minutes every day is the difference between starting for a team and being a substitute, because a few minutes every day turns to hours every week, which turns into days lost every month! You should be ashamed of yourself,” his mother said, marching over and grabbing him by the collar, wrenching him away from you. “From now on, I’ll be supervising your additional practice time. As for you, young lady…don’t even think of coming near him again. He doesn’t need distractions like you getting in the way of his ultimate goal.”

“His ultimate goal?” you said, your audacity surprising even yourself. Without Hiori’s shadow to hide you, you were entirely naked and exposed, but somehow, you found the strength in you to speak up. “What, of being the world’s best soccer player? Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe he doesn’t want that anymore, if he ever did?”

His mother scowled at you. “You are a poison of the worst sort, if you have him doubting what he’s been aiming for since he was young. Stay away from my son. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She dragged Hiori away before either of you could manage so much as a goodbye. It was the first time since you had met him that you found yourself alone in that field, which suddenly felt so vast that you finally understood why people thought it to be cursed. It had to be, because why else would it have given you Hiori and then taken him away with such a swiftness that it left you reeling?

For a week, you continued to go to the field, just in case he would magically be there, but it was a foregone conclusion that he would not be. Still, you waited, and though the larks sang their songs and the dormice chittered at you sweetly, nothing could set your spirits right when Hiori remained missing.

On the eighth day you spent without him, you didn’t even bother with the field. Instead, you knocked on every door of every house in your small neighborhood, continuing on until the one who answered was the same woman who had stolen Hiori from you.

She remembered you, her expression turning sour at your appearance, like you had shoved a lemon into her mouth. Shockingly, though, she did not slam the door in your face. She only cleared her throat before speaking in the most abrasive voice you had ever had the misfortune of hearing.

“What is it?” she said.

“Hiori — Yo, is he around? I just want to see him one last time. I’ll leave him alone after that if you refuse to budge, but at least let me say goodbye. I won’t ever distract him again if you give me that chance,” you said.

“If I gave you even the slightest leeway, you’d pounce upon it, won’t you? I’m not so daft. I’m sure that, if I let you in now, you’d never leave. In the end, though, it’s irrelevant. Yo’s gone,” she said.

“Gone?” you said. “What do you mean?”

“He’s participating in a soccer training camp called Blue Lock,” his mother said. “The way they raise their players is what his father and I been trying to impress upon him from the start, so we’re glad he made the choice himself to go. Now, he can focus on his own self-improvement instead of brief dalliances that would never last.”

Hiori was gone. There was a deep ache in you, and those words were its source, yet nonetheless, for him, you could only muster up pride. He had finally done it. He had flown somewhere free of the burdens his parents placed on him; to be sure, it was defined by the soccer he despised, but nonetheless he had made the decision to do it on his own. It belonged to him, and he had spent so long without anything to his name but a deserted green that you laughed as you sobbed, leaving him behind for good.

A long time passed before you saw him again, though you watched all of his matches on TV. He had become someone different and yet still familiar while in the Blue Lock program — he was sharper now, sharper and quicker, his eyes constantly burning in the same way they had on the day he had left you. Most notably, you thought that that childish love for soccer which he had had and then lost had blossomed again, now into a stable, unshakeable passion which no one, not even his parents, could take from him.

You had probably also changed, though of course it was harder to recognize it in yourself than in another person. But you were not so sparing with your offers of friendship anymore, and neither were you harsh to every boy who approached you. With Hiori gone, the only reservations you had were feeble and pointless, so you stopped saying no quite as often.

Nothing ever came of these school-type romances. Inevitably, you’d walk home and your eyes would stray to the spot where you had spent so much of your childhood with Hiori, whereupon you would pull out your phone and send a formulaic apology message. Sorry, but it’s not working. There’s nothing wrong with you, but I don’t think we’re a good match for each other. Thanks for taking me out. I really appreciate it.

The longer it became, the less frequently you thought about him. He turned into a memory, fuzzy around the edges with nostalgia and tinged with gold. He was someone you claimed to know around those with a more vested interest in soccer, but deep inside, you had accepted that your path had diverged from his a long time ago. You and Hiori weren’t meant to sit beside one another for eternity; he had been there when you needed him, but it was time for you to stand on your own, as he was clearly doing all of the way over in Blue Lock.

“I can’t believe you’ve finally graduated high school!” your mother said, sniffing as she took a million photos of you standing awkwardly, your diploma in your hands, your gown hanging loosely on your body and the pins holding up your cap jabbing into your scalp. “We’re so proud of you, dear.”

“Next stop, Tokyo!” your father said, swiping at the tears which rolled shamelessly down his cheeks.

You had been accepted into the University of Tokyo, and at the end of the summer, you would move into your own apartment, leagues away from everything you had known for your entire life. It was exciting, but it was also terrifying, because the thought of being all alone in the bustling metropolis still made you break into a cold sweat.

Now that you had officially graduated, it all seemed so much more real. Going to Tokyo, attending university, getting a job and supporting yourself…these were not dreams of a distant future but immediate and pressing concerns that weighed on you.

Once you became a university student and then an adult proper, you visited home less and less. You hardly had the time, and anyways there wasn’t much to do in that town, so instead your parents would take trips up to visit you when they missed you terribly — which was often. They would update you on the happenings of your neighbors, and you would take them to your favorite restaurants and attractions, like they were foreign tourists coming to the country for the first time.

“You know, they finally finished construction on that plot across from our house,” your mother said to you on one such visit, taking a sip of bubble tea to punctuate the outrageous statement. There were streaks of gray in her hair now, and far more lines on her face than there had been when you were younger, but she wore the signs of age with grace and dignity, so that they were weapons instead of faults.

“You never told me someone bought it,” you said. So that was that, then; the last remnants of your tender friendship with a boy you had not spoken to in years was all but destroyed now. It belonged to another person, who would make their own memories on the land, and the thought of two other people standing where you and Hiori once had caused a lump to arise in your throat. It was as much grief for the idyllic days of your childhood as it was for your former best friend. Both were lost to you now, and both you mourned in equal measure, though you knew no amount of crying would ever bring them back.

Perhaps there had been a window of time in which you might’ve been able to reconnect with Hiori, but the idea hadn’t crossed your mind until it was far too late, and you supposed it must’ve been the same for him. Or maybe he had, upon joining Blue Lock and becoming an international celebrity, forgotten about you entirely. It was a possibility, and no matter how much it stung, it was one you did not resent him for.

“Yes, it was a while ago. Apparently, he lived in the area when he was younger, but he left to pursue some athletic career? Anyways, now that he’s rich, he wanted to invest in some property close to home, so as soon as the previous owner died, he swooped in and bought the entire field up. You know, considering how much money he has, the house is downright quaint in its design,” your mother said, shaking her head. She had a penchant for gossip, and you could not count on two hands the amount of days you both had spent giggling with each other about silly, inconsequential matters. This, though, crossed the line — it wasn’t dumb gossip but legitimate news.

“Athletic career? Do you…do you happen to remember what sport?” you said.

“No idea,” your mother said. “Why?”

“Was it soccer?” you said. She choked on a pearl of boba. Absently, you leaned over and slapped her on the back to help dislodge it. She coughed and dabbed at her face with a napkin before nodding.

“Ah, yes, that sounds familiar!” she said. “I think that might be it.”

“I’m going to take the next few days off and visit you guys,” you said. It was a spur of the moment decision, but you could afford it, and something told you that what you would find would be far more valuable than another day at your boring, if not well-paying, job.

“Really? That’s wonderful! You’ll love how things have changed. The place has really come to life in the past couple of years,” she said.

The train ride home from Tokyo was just over two hours, and it ran through a familiar countryside, which you watched for the entire journey, smiling slightly whenever you rushed by a landmark you recognized. By the end, however, it seemed every sight was a landmark of some sort — not the nationally important ones, but the type that was personally significant. The many little places you had visited when you were young…even now, you recollected them with startling clarity.

Your father was delighted that you had returned home with your mother, and the whole house smelled like his cooking when you walked in through the front door. He must’ve begun preparing as soon as you had mentioned that you were coming back for a bit, and the grumble of your stomach warned you that you would regret it if you did not hold off on your investigation until after dinner.

You sat in the same chair you had once sat in and ate the same food you had once eaten. It was your favorite as a little girl, and your father served it to you personally, his lower lip trembling as he ladled two portions onto your plate instead of one. Hardly even a month had passed since he had seen you last, but he had always been an emotional man, bawling like a child at every reunion and separation alike.

The sun was setting when you excused yourself, placing your dishes in the sink and ducking outside under the pretense of needing a walk to digest your food. Well, it was only half a pretense — your father truly had fed you until you thought your stomach might split open, as was characteristic of his affection. You really did need to walk around so that your insides could settle, but more importantly than that, you wanted to confirm the theory which had been brewing in your mind since your mother had brought it up.

As she had said, there was a brand new house across from yours. It was nothing like the grand mansion that the original owner must’ve intended to sit on the land; it had a winsome yet unassuming charm to it, and it only took up about half of the field, while the rest of it had been left entirely alone, still green and wild like you recalled it to be. You were sure that if you looked close enough, you would find the dormice and the squirrels and the chipmunks and the larks exactly where you had left them as well, but you did not have the time nor the patience for that at present.

When you climbed the porch steps, you noticed that to the left of the door was a cushioned swing, atop which a tortoiseshell cat was dozing. At the sound of your footsteps, she opened one champagne-colored eye, but she did not seem to regard you as worthy of her attention, for she promptly closed it and returned to her rest.

Your fingers hesitated on the doorbell, resting on the button, too scared to press down. You didn’t know what you had to be afraid of, but for some reason, you were nervous, a pit forming in your stomach as you deliberated over what to do. Before you could make up your mind, the cat meowed at someone in greeting, jumping off of the swing with a light thud.

Spinning around, you saw that the owner of the house was standing at the bottom of the steps, the cat rubbing against his legs as he beamed up at you. Any lingering doubts of yours dissipated into nothingness at the instant you once again made eye contact with Yo Hiori; like a reflex, the corners of your mouth curved upwards in a fond greeting.

Like always, in his hands was a soccer ball, though more prominent than the ball itself was the butterfly which lay on it in repose. Its white wings were thin and quivering, but curiously, when Hiori held the ball out to you, it did not fly off, instead remaining stationary, waiting for you to reach out and take it.

#hiori x reader #hiori x y/n #hiori x you #hiori yo #bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock #childhood friends #reader insert #m1ckeyb3rry milestone #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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johannestevans · 20 days ago

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A Bite of Rope: Part I

Kink fiction. An ex-soldier who can’t sleep one night follows a coworker to somewhere unexpected.

Rated E. Cis M/M. Set in 1950s London.

An ex-soldier, Arthur “Kuhn” Conrad, now a debt collector of sorts for a corrupt company, can’t sleep one night, and as he’s walking the streets, sees a coworker — on a whim, he follows, and ends up in an underground club. The older man, Ignatius Kasovitz, likes to tie people up, it seems, and Kuhn finds he wants to try being tied up, if it’s Kasovitz doing the tying.

CWs for continuous references to World War II and the Shoah — Kuhn is a veteran, Kasovitz is Jewish; various homophobic & transphobic language, particularly from Kuhn; trauma; violence. This one will be kink-focused over sex itself, with Kuhn being somewhere on the ace spectrum.

This won't be a long serial, only two or three parts. Please remember to comment and let me know what you think!

Read on Patreon / / Read on Medium / / Read on Ao3.

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It’s a dry, hot night, and Kuhn can’t sleep. It’s past ten at night and there’s no work for him to be getting on with, and being as it’s a Friday, most of the quieter pubs around him are not so quiet tonight, so he walks. No one fucking bothers him – he’s recognised here and there, by the sort of scum who’d recognise like for like, but it’s mostly not recognition that keeps people from coming near him.

He's told he has a dangerous air, no matter that he’s on the small side. He’s not scrawny, after all, not anymore – he’s square, and he’s got hard angles, but at the shoulders and the jaw, not at the elbows or the show of bone – and he has a fierce, rapid pace when he moves.

Doctor Lark, who heads up the office, says that any man who knows dogs can often see from afar the sort of dog that will bite at the drop of a hat, the sort of dog that won’t stop short at a nick but will savage you deeply. Kuhn doesn’t know anything about dogs at all – he likes cats, personally – but Lark says you can see a dog that will rip your guts out based on how its eyes cast about, how it draws back its lips and shows its teeth, how it lunges, how it ducks or lifts its head as it runs toward you.

“You look like a feral fucking dog, Kuhn,” Lark had said, and patted him very hard on the back, sending a percussive thump through his ribcage. Kuhn doesn’t like to be touched much, but the way Lark does it has never bothered him, short and abortive as it is, and always very hard instead of feigning softness. “You look fucking rabid, from afar, and worse, up close. Too much white in your eyes.”

Kuhn turns a corner and stares straight forward, knowing his eyes look dead even before a few young women on a night out blanch at facing him and hurriedly cross the road. That fills him with no especial pleasure, but a pleased hum settles low in his gut when a minute later a big man in a duffle coat, drunk and a little unstable on his feet, does the exact same thing, albeit more subtly.

He's not walking anywhere in particular. He’s just walking – stalking, but stalking the way a man does it, moving forward all angry, not like an animal does it. He’s not hunting for anything…

Until he is.

Kuhn recognises Ignatius Kasovitz from damn near two streets away, even though he’s nothing more than a tall blur in the distance. Kuhn recognises his gait as much as he does his height, the smooth and long-legged stride that sets Kasovitz well-aside from all the girls in the secretarial pool, and all the other men, too.

He doesn’t like Kasovitz, but that’s what makes him an easy target to tail, Kuhn thinks. He’s not following the old man because he’s really interested in where he lives, because he wants to sit and talk with him, or even because he wants to use any information against him, blackmail him with where he’s been at night, or where he’s going.

It’s none of that. He just follows Kasovitz because he recognises him, and he’s someone that doesn’t matter.

He follows Kasovitz out of Soho proper, and he wonders at first if Kasovitz is going to go as far as one of the popular cottages, one of the greens where inverts like him pay a shilling or two to the ex-soldiers selling themselves as gigolos, but instead, Kasovitz trails down one street and then another, then descends a set of steps behind an iron railing.

Kuhn comes to the edge of the railing and looks down the steps, then trails in pursuit. Down here, out of the view of the main street, he can see people milling about – more queers like Kasowitz, queers and sapphics and that sort, different people done up for a night out, smoking cigarettes, laughing with each other. It’s just a bit too crowded for enough people to notice Kuhn and part around him, and he’s glad he’s wearing his hat – he blends in well enough with the shorter faggots and the littler dykes.

All these fucking freaks lined up in their dresses and suits and jewellery, trading cigarettes and compacts of coke – is this what they fought a fucking war for?

He can’t hear the music from inside whatever club this is from out here in this draughty corridor underneath the eaves of the shops upstairs, but the noise around him is still digging under his skin like splinters, like gritted sand in a hard wind, like sparks off the fire. Three mincing cunts done up like girls – two of them are in wigs, the other one, that might be his own fucking curls – are giggling and laughing with each other; he can hear the wet, messy sound of two women necking even though they’re in a shadow and he can’t actually see them; two men are playing a game of slapsies, and whenever one of them gets a hit in, the other one grabs at his arse or his thigh.

He’s irritable from not having slept yet, but at the same time, it’s the irritability that’s not letting him sleep. There’s a burn and prickle under his skin – it’s the dry heat of the night, he thinks, and how it’s making him sweat, how it feels uncomfortably light whilst still being nasty in its temperature. His skin, slicked with sweat, doesn’t feel as though it fits him. It hasn’t felt as if it fits him for a long, long time.

“You alright, love?” asks a skinny homo who must be eighty or ninety, walking past Kuhn with a stick. He’s wearing a silk scarf around his neck. “You want to get some water down you – you do look a bit peaked, if I do say so myself.”

“Yessir,” Kuhn mutters, because no matter that the man is decades too old to be hobbling out to some degenerate club like this, he had it beaten into him very young to respect his elders, and he can’t spit out any insult that comes to mind.

Kuhn is a criminal himself, no matter that he has a fucking office and a desk and a lot of bullshit paperwork to get on with in the course of the day. Doctor Lark is bent; the office is bent; all his coworkers are bent, and when Kuhn isn’t doing paperwork and bribes and occasionally being impressed at the new ways their engineers come up with to smuggle guns or blow or cash, he’s roughing up whoever doesn’t pay them.

He's not this sort of criminal, no, but—

Still.

Kuhn follows after the old man, trying to look around him into the club – the big door is closed, and a hulking bulldyke stands in front of it, her arms crossed over her big, square chest that her suit barely fucking contains. When she draws back a slightly hairy upper lip in a snarl, Kuhn doesn’t have it in him not to draw his own teeth back.

Bad dogs, both of them.

“Christine,” says Kasovitz suddenly a second later – the door is open, the old man is hobbling through where Kasovitz is holding the door open for him, and Kasovitz is standing at the big lesbian’s shoulder. She’s holding Kuhn half a foot off the fucking ground, pinned up against the wall, but at Kasovitz’ gentle scolding, she sets him down again. “Let him through, dear. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Behave,” Christine growls down at him, and Kuhn scoffs at her – she raises her hand as if to smack him one, but before she can land the blow, Kasovitz has tugged Kuhn forward by one of the open bits of his looser coat pockets, moved him whilst making barely any contact with him at all.

Kasovitz used to be a clown.

Kuhn doesn’t know how long he’d been a clerk at Croft & Co. before they merged with Werner & Associates, but he knows he was never a fucking soldier, not in the Great War or the one after, no matter that he’s fifty-six or something like it. The fuck sort of exemption is that, being a fucking clown? The fuck was he doing, when men like Kuhn were getting shot at, raked over wire, bombed to smithereens – juggling? Dancing on a wire, jumping off the trapeze, riding fucking elephants?

It’s an open secret, what he is, that he’s a pansy, an invert, at work. It’s illegal, sure, but that doesn’t mean anything at WC – and Hell, isn’t it fucking right, that a homo like him should work at a company now named after a fucking lavatory? – and that it’s disgusting doesn’t mean much more. It grates on Kuhn, that people at work joke about it and that the old prick takes it in his stride, laughs along, even makes his own jokes about being a Wilde type.

He’s not in one of the pastel suits he wears to work, with old-fashioned tailoring and uncomfortably modern cloth, and not in his circus get-up either – there’s pictures of him on his desk at work, of him with his family in the circus – but in a set of trousers, a jumper, a tie. He looks naked, in a way, dressed down. As big a man as he is, heavy in the chest and shoulders with long, loping legs, it feels to Kuhn for a moment that a jumper almost shouldn’t fit him.

As Kuhn follows after Kasovitz, he steels himself for the coming touch, for Kasovitz to touch him properly this time – his shoulder, the back of his neck, his waist, get ready to lunge back at him, no matter that he’s a big, heavy prick. The touch doesn’t come.

Coiled energy prickles under Kuhn’s skin, built up with nowhere to go, awaiting the provocation of Kasovitz perving on him.

“Gonna ask me to buy you a drink, are you, pansy?” Kuhn asks in a sharp undertone, provoking the provocation so that he doesn’t have to have it swinging over his head.

“I don’t drink,” Kasovitz says. “But cheers for the offer.”

Kuhn blinks, and he realises in the moment that he isn’t talking the way he does at the office, that he sounds a lot less like Kuhn himself, all of a sudden – he doesn’t sound like a Londoner at all, but a Manc, a Scouser, maybe.

Before Kuhn can snap that it wasn’t an offer, he doesn’t swing that way and even if he did, he’s pretty sure he could get a younger, prettier model than a fucking has-been cunt in his fifties – respect for one’s elders does not extend to clowns – Kasovitz has picked up a length of coiled rope from a nearby table and stepped away from him.

This speakeasy used to be a public bomb shelter, Kuhn thinks – it’s a sort of tunnel, long and windowless, with rounded walls, but it makes a more than decent basement establishment. There’s a long bar, tables and booths about, small stages throughout. The music travels well here inside the place, but there’s no live band – it’s just a battered old gramophone in the corner, some antique thing instead of a newer record player.

Kuhn suddenly finds himself rooted to the spot as if he’s stepped in tar, his shoes sticking to the word boards beneath him as he follows Kasovitz with his eyes up onto the small stage, and his breath gets stuck somewhere inside him too. Ascending two steps up onto the platform, Kasovitz has gone from uncoiling the rope to trussing up a pretty girl.

No.

No, not a girl – she’s Kuhn’s age or a bit younger, forty, at the eldest. She’s got her eyes closed and her lips are faintly smiling, and she’s stripped down to just a slip and her stockings, her dress and cardigan folded on the edge of the stage, as she leans forward and into Kasovitz’ hands. His long fingers make the rope move fast, make it look alive, serpentine, as it coils around her body. She’s the same height as Kuhn, maybe even taller than he is in her little kitten heels, and Kasovitz is like a giant in front of her, leaning forward to press the rope between her little tits.

Kuhn still isn’t breathing. His chest is aching a bit, distantly, from his lungs not inflating or letting out – he’s held his breath in the bath before, tempted himself with oblivion, but this pain isn’t quite like that. It has softer edges, somehow, and a sweeter taste.

“Lean back,” Kasovitz instructs.

Kuhn was hypnotised once, before the war, before anything. He was fourteen and at a birthday party – Haverford Grey’s, he’s dead, now, was gutted and left hanging from a tree by a grey and dismal battlefield, and Kuhn can still hear the wind whistling and the branch creaking as he swings one way and the other – was a hypnotist.

Harmless stuff.

Keep an eye on the watch, watch it swing, watch the pendulum go one way and then the other, and then he was sweet and easy and standing on a cloud, and all his friends were laughing because apparently he’d done a good ballerina’s twirl, and he’d laughed too, because he’d just felt so relaxed. He hasn’t thought of that birthday party since he saw Have’s corpse swinging and thought of the pendulum swing of the hypnotist’s watch – he hasn’t thought of the calm and the sweet buzz and ease he’d felt for much, much longer. He feels a ghost of that calm down, his head tipping back slightly. Kuhn’s chin raises, his centre of gravity easing a few degrees backwards in response to an order that isn’t meant for him – he’s starting to feel the slightest bit dizzy, but luckily, Kasovitz tells his girl, “Breathe in,” and Kuhn does at the same time she does, feels blessed relief.

He stares, mystified, in a waking dream, as Kasovitz supports his trussed-up girl under her belly and lifts her up like he might his fucking briefcase, tied up like a handbag, her arms and legs behind her, above her, and she’s swinging too. She looks so… peaceful.

She laughs softly as Kasovitz pulls the rope through another one of the rings of a sort of hangman’s frame over the stage, one Kuhn hadn’t noticed a moment ago, and Kuhn watches as she’s eased out of his hold – and fucking Hell, he was holding her in one hand, balancing her in one hand – and made to purely suspend from the frame. Her legs are back, ankles and wrists together, but she’s not hanging from the coiled rope around those.

Kasovitz has made a sort of harness for her, around her chest, her waist and belly, and her weight rests in the cradle of it, and Kuhn wonders when the last time was that he ever, ever felt as strangely relaxed as he does right now, watching this woman tied up in a degenerate hub like this one – he’s tipping slightly forward on his feet, rocking in rhythm with her swinging in the suspension.

Kuhn realises, all at once, that it’s happening all around him.

A fat man with a balding head is leaning back in a chair and two girls – and these are girls, if they’re not boys in dresses, might be at the end of their teens if not their early twenties – are tying him tighter and tighter. Between binding him to the legs and arms of the chair, they’re laughing at him, pinching his cheeks, slapping parts of his flesh, kissing him on the cheeks and the top of his head. Another woman is in suspension at the far end of the hall, hanging from the frame with her legs down and her arms straight out, a mirror of Christ. An older woman has a younger one over her knee and is smacking her across her arse, making the pale cheeks of her flat arse wobble with each blow, and they’re aglow with the heat and redness of it.

“You can have fifteen minutes,” Kasovitz says, checking his pocket watch and gently touching the young woman’s cheek. “And then I’ll bring you down.”

“Can it be twenty?” she asks, her voice husky, but it doesn’t sound seductive, not that Kuhn’s any real judge or expert – it just sounds sleepy to him.

“Seventeen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Seventeen and a half,” says Kasovitz, with a stern movement of one index finger, and when the woman laughs, she gently sways in her bonds, and Kuhn follows after Kasovitz as he goes toward the bar. “Two barley waters, please,” he says, and Kuhn stands there, his hands at his sides, as he watches the young man behind the bar pour from a jug.

He's incredibly grateful, all of a sudden, to hear the clink of ice against the glass – it’s warm outside, and it’s even hotter here inside, and more humid, too. When the glass is pushed toward him, he drinks from it greedily.

“You live in Battersea, don’t you?” Kasovitz asks. “Did you walk all the way here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” says Kuhn. “Never been one for counting sheep. Came here to count fairies instead.”

Kasovitz’ lips twitch, and he takes a sip from his own drink, gesturing for the man behind the bar to replenish Kuhn’s glass, which he does. It occurs to him to complain, to ask why the fuck he’s drinking barley water instead of beer or ale, whether Kasovitz drinks or not, but he doesn’t want to drink anyway, not tonight. Kuhn hops up onto the stool – Kasovitz doesn’t have to do that, just leans back into the one beside him, and Kuhn slowly scans the hall up and down, at the play these people are all having with each other.

“There once was a queer from Khartoum…” says Kasovitz in an undertone, narrating the view for him, and Kuhn’s lips twitch despite himself, and he looks up at the older man’s face. He has round features – big, round eyes with heavy lids, a crescent to his lips, an oval-shaped face. He has thick, dark hair, and he usually has it pomaded at work – he has it washed of pomade, neatly parted, and now they’re not flattened down, the usual waves are made up of bouncing curls instead.

“I saw you walking,” says Kuhn. He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know why it occurs to him to share it – why the fuck should he? But he does. He still feels a bit tense under his clothes, but Kasovitz isn’t touching him, isn’t reaching for him, and Kuhn isn’t entirely relaxed – he doesn’t know if he’s been entirely relaxed in the last twenty fucking years – but he trusts, somehow, that Kasovitz isn’t going to reach and touch him. “I’ve been walking around for an hour or two, and I saw you, recognised you. Thought you’d be out on one of the greens or playing house at this time of night, not coming into a fucking place like this.”

“Playing house?” Kasovitz repeats, raising his thick eyebrows. “What were you hoping, young man, that you’d find me in a cottage waiting for you?”

“Not my thing,” Kuhn mutters.

The old man, the one that spoke to him on the way in, has another older man on his knee – he’s plump, has a sort of prettiness despite his age and his weight, has long eyelashes and very pink lips. The one with the cane is slowly winding ribbon around him with quavering, frail fingers, tying bows about his neck, around his belly, making a sort of harness of the violet silk, laying it down flat against Lippett’s smooth, hairless skin.

“Mr Salford, he’s a haberdasher,” Kasovitz supplies. “Always brings his own ribbons, has more of a care for those than rope. Mr Lippett was a painter’s model as a young man – he still enjoys to be made into something fancy, into something pretty.”

“They’re both so fucking old,” Kuhn says.

“Yes, well,” Kasovitz murmurs, taking another little sip of his drink, “We’re all getting fucking old, at the end of the day.”

Kuhn watches as Salford ties little bows through the rings piercing Lippett’s plump tits – they’re bigger than the ones on the woman Kasovitz has set to dangle, look plush and soft. They wobble a bit when Salford tickles Lippett’s side, making him laugh.

“I didn’t know you were a Scouser,” Kuhn says. “Why’d you do that accent at work?”

“You know what you Londoners are like,” Kasovitz retorts, shrugging his shoulders. “People are liable to think I can’t read and write at all, realising I learned my English in Liverpool. I do the posher accent in the office, and it keeps people on task. Don’t think I don’t know you don’t go a little Cockney now and then, when you think it will have more of an impact.”

“Learned your English?” Kuhn repeats. “Thought you might be a Kraut, with a name like Kasovitz.”

“My family left our troupe to join another when attitudes toward Jews in Germany, in the rest of Europe, became more dangerous, and then we came to England to perform here. Circuses are made for outcasts – Gypsies, Jews, cripples, dwarves, freaks and untouchables of all kinds.” Kasovitz’ voice is quiet and even – he has a nice voice, and Kuhn finds he actually finds his Scouser’s lilt more appealing than the more neutral, posher voice he’s heard here and there from him. “That’s always been true, and always will be. But it was harder here in England, as an invert, a homosexual – and apart from that, the magic was lost for me, I think. I stayed in Liverpool as the circus moved on, enrolled in a secretarial course – I’d learned to do our books, had managed our travelling papers, different ownership papers, contracts. People are always accusing circuses of thievery, so one learns to keep these things in good order.”

“So you’re not actually a Scouser, then,” is what Kuhn takes from this.

“I was born outside of Szeged, actually.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hungary.”

“And you all just… travelled around? The circus you were in, it was all Jews?”

“Not all, no, but a few of us.”

“You all survived?”

Kasovitz’ expression doesn’t change, but he gazes at Kuhn’s face, looks across at him unblinkingly for a few moments. “Most of us,” he says quietly. “My family, for the most part, except for an aunt and uncle I had who were entertainers in Berlin – they were brought to a camp. My uncle died there – my aunt was kept alive, made to perform for the guards, you see. She was a broken woman, after. My mother went to look after her for a little while, but she died not long after the end of the war – typhoid fever. There was another Jewish family with us, half of them went to America, the other half evaded capture for a while, and then two of them, fellow clowns…” He trails off, slowly shaking his head, and exhales. “The rest did survive, they’re in Israel now. All told, those in my closest circle were far luckier than most Jews. Traveling life gave us means of egress, ways to hide, that others didn’t have – and in the circus, we look after our own. We weren’t disposable or undesirable for our Jewishness, as we were and would be elsewhere.”

“I didn’t really know many Jews, before the war,” Kuhn says. He doesn’t know why he says this, either. He doesn’t talk to anybody, really – he has pints with the lads after a job sometimes, but mostly he doesn’t talk, just listens, laughs at a good joke, though there’s never many of those. “My family had some refugees as servants, and then we were deployed, I did meet some Jews – in Stalags, mostly. Some Poles helped us out, once, Polish Jews, that was in France.”

“What are your family, Catholic?”

“C of E.”

“You’re not religious?”

“No, never.”

“Nor am I.”

“You use to be?”

“Before the Shoah? No, not really. I used to think as a young man I’d have time and interest in religion when I was old, that I’d get more interested in spending time with God. And then He let that happen. And I thought… fuck Him. Let Him burn for all I care.”

“One of our priests was the touchy-feely type,” Kuhn says. “He slid his hand down my back once when I was in the church library, and I ripped his dog collar off, knocked my head into his nose. Didn’t break it, just bloodied his lip.”

Kasovitz looks at him with what seems to Kuhn to be a very keen interest, resting his rounded chin on the palm of one of his big, strong, long-fingered hands. In deliberate tones, he asks – sort of snidely – “And a priest stroking your back, young man, you think that’s roughly equivalent to my seeing millions of my people slaughtered?”

“No,” says Kuhn plainly. “But I headbutted a priest. Thought you’d like the point against God. ‘Scuse me for breathing.”

Kasovitz laughs. It seems to take him by surprise – he covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes very wide and almost watering, and it’s a good laugh, very loud. It’s not like the politer, snider thing he keeps in the office, all superior and quiet – this is a clown’s laugh, Kuhn thinks. He likes it.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, a bit breathlessly, when the laugh passes. “Thank you for that, Mr Conrad. I appreciate the effort.”

“Kuhn,” says Kuhn.

Kasovitz blinks his big brown eyes. “Beg pardon?”

“That’s what they called me, the POWs. They said Conrad was too grand for a little fella like me, and when I told them my name was Arthur, they said that was too English. So, Kuhn.”

Kasovitz sips from his drink, and then asks, “Is that what you did in the war, liberate camps? Doctor Lark, he mentioned to me once that you weren’t in the trenches, seemed to imply that was why you were so…”

“Fucked up?”

“Brittle.”

“Brittle,” Kuhn repeats, and he laughs a bit, although it comes out kind of staccato and scattershot, like gunfire, and his ribs feel like they’re rattling, his chest aching. There’s a kind of acrid taste in the back of his throat, the threat of vomiting – he gets that threat a lot, but he doesn’t actually throw up much these days. It’s composure, except that composure’s not all it is.

Better out than in, his nanny used to say. You’re meant to vomit when you’re ill. It’s getting the poison out, throwing it up. The poison that’s in him now is in too deep to throw it up. Vomiting doesn’t make any difference.

“I didn’t really liberate anything,” Kuhn says. “I was little, and fast, and nasty. I just went and killed a lot of people – Krauts, mostly, officers and soldiers. Like a fox or a weasel, I went into the coop sometimes alone, more times with the squad I was with, never more than six of us. Poisoned beer, or food. Slit throats. Sometimes it wasn’t them, sometimes it was collaborators – never liked that word. Too much choice in it.”

“Not much choice in that war, was there?”

“No.”

Kasovitz is looking at him. Kuhn can feel it before he looks up and observes it, feels the way that Kasovitz’ gaze is flickering over Kuhn’s face, down the length of his nose, into the shadows of his eye sockets, down his jaw, up to his ears, to his hair, then down his neck, down to his chest, the clothes he’s wearing – just a vest under a battered, very light summer jersey.

“What?” Kuhn asks, finally.

“The other men in that squad you mentioned,” Kasovitz murmurs. “Were they— men like you?”

“Men like me?”

“Men born so close to Clapham Common. Or Battersea, for that matter.”

“Not really,” Kuhn mutters. “Doctor Lark made the same guess you did. A lot of them were burglars, criminals. A few intelligence officers, sometimes, but we weren’t intelligence, we weren’t spies.”

They were attack dogs. Hunting dogs, a pack of them, sniffing out whatever, whoever they could find, tearing them to shreds. He’s never told anybody he knows at work any of this. Doctor Lark knows, of course, but he knows everything, Doctor Lark. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Kasovitz now.

“Friends of yours, the MI6 men?”

It grates on him, that question, but why? Because Kasovitz isn’t doing his fake accent any longer, because it makes Kuhn seem like he’s posher than he is – makes it seem like he’s posher than Kasovitz?

Because Kasovitz thinks his accent roughs up because he’s putting it on, and not just him picking up the rhythm of other Londoners he’s with, other Londoners he’s been with all his life, no matter what school he went to, whose parties he was invited to?

Because Kasovitz might think Kuhn thinks he’s better than him?

“I’m not that posh, you know. I was friends with some of the posher lads, but it was because my dad was a doctor at the maternity hospital in Clapham, and my mother was a nurse. He was the first person in my family to go to university, my dad. Got a special grant for his board.”

He used to think he was better than him, maybe. Half an hour ago. Not knowing he was a clown. Not knowing he was a Scouser. Not knowing that Kasovitz could sit across from a man like Kuhn at a bar like this, feed him barley water and read everything he was from his face and his posture and make him talk without asking barely anything at all?

He itches to go on, but the words won’t come. He stares down at his hands, at his fingernails which have dirt and rust and a bit of blood underneath where he didn’t go hard enough with the nailbrush once he was home earlier. There are some bruises on the backs of his knuckles.

“Did you like him?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

This is a very strange conversation. A lot of conversations feel strange to Kuhn – he’s not a natural talker – but there doesn’t seem to be a point to this conversation, doesn’t seem to be a clear direction. It makes him feel strange, unsteady, but at the same time, strangely calm, not able to guess where Kasovitz is taking it yet.

“My dad?” Kuhn asks.

“Your father, yes,” Kasovitz says. “Did you like him?”

No one’s ever asked him if he likes his father before. Not even Doctor Lark. “No,” Kuhn says.

“Fair enough,” says Kasovitz, instead of asking why. Kuhn feels faintly dizzy, and when Kasovitz gets up, he automatically moves in his chest, but Kasovitz raises his palms and gestures for him to stay put, and Kuhn automatically obeys without knowing why. “Excuse me, I have to go let Leigh down. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kuhn sinks back down onto the stool and watches Kasovitz walk away, feeling powerless, and he watches him move across the room, watches his hands on the woman’s ropes as he carefully eases her down. He drinks his barley water, and feels a kind of burning heat under his skin, suddenly embarrassed for reasons he can’t quite put together, feels looked at, even though no one in this place is looking at him.

He gets to his feet, nudging back the stool and pushing the glass toward the bar, now empty but for the two bits of ice clinking in it.

“Nice to meet you, dear! Do drop in again!” says Mr Salford as Kuhn slips past – he waves one of his trembling, liver-spotted hands in farewell. His voice is just slightly muffled by the cushion of Mr Lippett’s full tits, which are perked up by the ribbon harnessing them. Mr Lippett waves at him too, and Kuhn’s hand twitches at his side, but he doesn’t actually wave back.

Christine blocks his path when he tries to leave, and Kuhn automatically tries to grab at her arm to shove it off him, but she twists free and then pushes them so hard against the wall it knocks the wind out of his lungs.

“Just wanted to say you should come back, if it feels like the place for you,” she spits at him. “It’s safe here.”

“You keep it safe, do you?”

Christine has more teeth in her head than a wolf, and her eyes are wide and too white. They stare at one another, dog to dog, and then she lowers her arm from where it’s blocking off the entrance to the club, and he stands there for a second.

He gives her a silent nod before he steps out into the drainway, and then ascends the stairs to street level again. His feet hurt from walking, but when he waves down a late-night cab, the driver slows down, gets a good look at his face, and then speeds away instead of risking a stop.

Kuhn can hardly blame him. He’s only carrying his knives, and doesn’t have the fare on him anyway.

* * *

That Monday, Kuhn is sitting on the desk in his office and throwing knives at the dartboard in his office. He hates this fucking office. He hates how fancy-dancy the building is, hates how central it is, hates all the fucking windows and how much light comes in.

It’s one thing for the rest of the business, especially now they’re a bigger company, another thing for the other men who move papers about and more than that, actually move stock, do imports and exports and accountancy, and whatever else makes legitimate businesses go around.

Kuhn’s “office” used to be a fucking stockroom at the back of a warehouse, cold and dank and with sawdust on the floor, and the butcher’s hooks still hanging from the ceiling so that he could string people up, when he needed.

The fuck is he meant to do with this fucking room, with its four fucking windows, up here in the fucking sky? The sort of people he goes shaking down for money aren’t exactly going to show up to a fucking appointment. He does the basic bollocks they pass over his desk to make his salary stand up if someone in authority asks what exactly his role is in this fucking company, and then he sits here on top of his desk and throws his knives at his dartboard, and he waits for five o’clock.

Kasovitz snatches the last of his knives right out of the air, as quick as blinking, and Kuhn looks at him impassively from where he sits on his desk, his feet swinging idly underneath him.

“Your problem, it seems to me,” Kasovitz says pleasantly, holding the knife by the very tip of its blade and by the end of its handle, balancing it between his index fingers, “is that emotion rather gets the best of you.”

Kuhn doesn’t say anything.

“Why seven?” Kasovitz asks as he turns away and begins to pluck the blades from the board, holding them all in the cradle of one big palm like a steel bouquet.

“Seven sisters,” says Kuhn.

“What, the Pleiades?”

“Or the Hyades,” says Kuhn. “Doesn’t matter, really. I just like the sibilance. Can you juggle them?”

“Of course,” says Kasovitz, and then with nothing else but a quick glance toward the ceiling, estimating the height of it, he does. Kuhn stares, taken aback, as Kasovitz just starts flicking the blades up and into the air like it’s nothing, each of them rotating, turning over and over in motion – one, two, three, four, and then he’s catching those and tossing them up again, one, two, three, four, five, tossing them other one another, passing them between his hands, each of them performing perfect arcs, one, two, three, four, five, six, the arcs crossing over one another but the knives not touching, one, two, three, four, five, six, se—

“Oop,” says Kasovitz, stepping back, and after letting the fallen blade dig into the carpet, he catches each of the others, one, two, three, four, five, six. “Sorry about that.” He tugs up the last by the loop – Kuhn can slip his fingers through those loops, can swing and twirl the blades around his fingers. Even Kasovitz’ pinky wouldn’t fit.

“You have to tell Doctor Lark it was you did that to the carpet,” says Kuhn.

“Of course,” Kasovitz agrees immediately. “Where did you go last night?”

“Home.”

“Too much for you, was it?”

“You’re old enough to be my father,” says Kuhn, and Kasovitz laughs.

“If I started at fifteen, maybe,” he says, seeming surprised as he lays Kuhn’s blades on the desk beside him, and Kuhn waits for the touch, but it doesn’t come. Kasovitz keeps his big hands to himself. “I didn’t, I’m afraid – the first man I took a tumble with, I was nearly thirty, in a Berlin club. You might guess why England was so difficult for me, the sort of man I am, when Berlin was my contrast.”

“Not really,” says Kuhn.

“You don’t consider yourself a queer, I take it.”

Kuhn shrugs.

“Do you think of yourself as the obverse?”

“Obverse?”

“The opposite.”

“I know what it means.”

Kasovitz is standing very close to him. Closer than Christine was stood to him the other night – he’s standing right in front of Kuhn, so close that he’s almost slightly between Kuhn’s knees, which are spread to let him keep his balance on the edge of the desk. Kasovitz still isn’t touching him.

“Are you going to touch me?” Kuhn asks.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Kasovitz asks.

Kuhn’s tongue feels like it’s caged behind his teeth, like there’s a spike stuck through it.

“Tell me about it,” he manages to say through a mouth of sand. “That place. Those people.”

“The rope?”

“You tied her up. That woman – she a dyke as well?”

“I believe Leigh likes anybody in a suit, really,” Kasovitz says. “The equipment is less important to her than the clothes and a sufficiently short haircut, I think. In any case, it’s not really about that, for her. She likes the feeling of being suspended, likes the swing – likes to feel weightless, as though she’s on air.”

“And Mr Lippett likes to feel pretty.”

“Yes.”

“And Mr Salford?”

“Likes to advertise his product,” says Kasovitz. When Kuhn doesn’t laugh, he says, more gently, “He likes to dote on a man. Make him pretty, yes. Put complementary fabrics or ribbons or buttons against his skin, his hair, assist the tailor in his work, but more than that, to treat him. Feed him fine food and drink, comb his hair, touch him sweetly, gently, kiss him from top to tail.”

“And the spankings. There were— I saw canes, whips. A hard paddle. One of the trannies had a glove with spikes on it…”

“Mary, her name is,” Kasovitz says. “She makes them herself, uses thumb tacks.”

Kuhn doesn’t know what to say to this. “There were a lot of spikes on it, that glove.”

“Yes.”

“They hard to make?”

“Complicated, certainly, and time consuming. Why, do you think you’d like one?”

Kuhn shakes his head.

“And rope?”

Kuhn is quiet.

He’d been irritated, earlier, frustrated, feeling like a dog in a too-small garden, trapped in a pen – wen Kasovitz had crossed the threshold, that energy had dissipated somewhat. He doesn’t feel relaxed, no, but he doesn’t feel like he’s pacing any longer, inside his own head.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“Being tied up?”

“Yeah.”

“You were never tied up during the war? Never got captured?”

“No,” Kuhn says. He doesn’t mean to say it the way he does, like it’s a stupid fucking question, like it’s a question he should be indignant that Kasovitz asked, but that’s how it comes out, and Kasovitz softly laughs, but it’s a nice laugh. It’s not his big clown’s laugh, but it’s not the snide, superior office laugh, either – he’s using his own accent, here in Kuhn’s office, and not the one he uses in the rest of the building.

“I personally don’t particularly enjoy it,” Kasovitz says. “I don’t hate it, by any means – I stand in and offer myself up as someone to be practised on, when someone’s interested in learning, teach them as they go, but I don’t particularly relish the sensation of it. I feel neutral about rope, as a man to be bound. Some people like the bite of it, the rope on their skin, or the smoothness of ribbon, the tension, the coil, the sense of being contained, the pressure. Some like it to hurt, or to strain – others, like Leigh, they like it to support them, to let them swing or suspend. Some like the process of it, find it meditative, hypnotising, the knots, the patterns. Others just like to be in another’s control. Like that if they’re tied up, it means they can’t be held accountable for what happens – means they have to trust whoever’s bound them, let them make the decisions.”

Kuhn nods his head.

“Yes,” he says.

“Yes?” Kasovitz repeats.

“I want it.”

“Next Friday, if you come back, I’ll—”

“No, not there,” says Kuhn. “Just you. Only you.”

Kasovitz looks down at him with his big, round face, his big, round eyes. Kuhn waits for him to say no, to say that even a man who likes tying men up doesn’t go about trying to collar dogs that like to bite.

(He doesn’t know what he’ll do, if Kasovitz touches him. He’ll try not to bite.)

“Alright,” says Kasovitz, and taking up a notepad from Kuhn’s desk, he writes down an address.

#musings #original fiction #fiction #original characters #asexual kink

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