jackrackham | Make you a sword of me?

Make you a sword of me?

Jack flips through the few shirts lying in his dresser, feeling full of nervous energy. There's something exciting about the prospect of being able to fight again, even if only played with an aim to practice. It feels like something that really truly belongs to him and who he is, even in this place.

Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.

He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.

When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.

He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He realizes, staring at Jack’s mouth, that he isn’t afraid of the answer. He registers the tension in Jack’s posture, the apprehension and want, and when he nods and speaks his voice is so low it cuts through all Eliot’s doubts. There’s only the overpowering need to do as he asks.

“Okay,” Eliot answers quietly, with a soft smile. He feels the tension leave him like a knot that’s been loosened—the certainty of knowing they both want this is so freeing. So it feels right, as natural as gravity when he leans closer to kiss him.

It’s better than this morning. It’s better even than he’d imagined before because this is deliberate, and real, the warmth of his lips and the gentle bristle of his moustache.

Jack makes some sound low in his throat and Eliot shifts, planting his hand a little higher on Jack’s leg to lean onto him.

He is still, he realizes with a strange thrill, holding Jack’s hand. He gives it a squeeze and then lets it go to rest on Jack’s jaw, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear and relishing the way he sighs at the touch. Jack’s quiet but enthusiastic, and if he’s holding himself very still it’s probably, Eliot thinks, that this is all very new.

Teasing, he brushes their noses together after a moment, pulling away just enough that Jack tilts his head to close the little distance and kiss him again, and Eliot hums with pleasure. He doesn’t feel frenzied at finally getting what he wanted, like he thought he would. He’s calm, and he wants this to be good for Jack, and he wants to take his time.

Eliot leans back to look at him and take a breath. Jack isn’t terribly mussed but flushed. He looks beautiful, and Eliot wants to tell him so, but that feels like too much, too soon. Instead he just smiles, raising his eyebrows.

“There, was that all right?”

He laughs quietly, a smile both embarrassed and pleased on his lips. He's not sure how he feels exactly, but it's something bubbly and light, like a sea-foam crested wave gently rolling in behind his ribs.

"Much better." His gaze drifts to Eliot's lips and he tries to remember for a moment how long it's been since anyone kissed him- the early days with Anne, maybe? Very early on when neither of them had really figured out how things were going to go.

There is also the matter of Eliot's hand, which is higher on his thigh than it had been. Every moment that passes it becomes more clear that Eliot doesn't intend to stop with kisses. There's certainly focus and intent in how Eliot is looking at him now, and he finds it both exhilarating and intimidating.

"Can I-" He leans forward and kisses Eliot again, taking his bottom lip between his own. His hand hovers to the side of Eliot's jaw as he presses further into the kiss. There's a growing anxiety in him that he's having trouble suppressing. They've covered well enough by now that kissing is acceptable and desired, but he's not sure just where Eliot's boundaries lie. Clearly sex is on the table, but in what way?

Eliot's thumb shifts against his thigh and his breathe catches in his throat. Jack leans back from the kiss, glancing from Eliot's lips to his eyes to his own hand still hovering. It feels like Eliot is waiting for him, but he wishes that he would just show him to the bedroom, push him on the bed, and take what he wants.

In the absence of knowing how to proceed, he starts talking. "The picture you sent on your birthday, wearing my necklace- You looked so exhausted and so pleased with yourself." He takes a short breath, feeling his heart still beating fast in his chest. "I confess I have thought about it. Often." His eyes shift away from Eliot and then find his gaze again. He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, considering the admission before he adds, "I've done more than think about it. Once or twice."

The corner of his lips lift into half a smile. Nervous, but sincere. "I'd very much like to see that look again, in person."

He pulls his hand away and reaches out again, this time towards Eliot's chest, but he can't convince himself to make contact. As much as Eliot has made clear, it's not clear how he wants this to go, and Jack doesn't want to make assumptions. He spent too long ignoring what Anne really needed and he doesn't want to be so foolish again.

"Do you want me to touch you? Do you-" He wants to press forward and kiss him again, but he holds himself back. "What do you want me to do?"

He sighs when Jack pulls away, already missing the warmth of his mouth. It’s good, and he wants more of the odd contentment he feels at just being close to him. But Eliot blinks in growing confusion; Jack isn’t touching him. He draws back and folds his hands in his lap, hoping he hasn’t overstepped somehow.

He tilts his head in consideration as Jack begins speaking. He’d forgotten about the photo with everything else going on, and now the thought of Jack using it as inspiration makes his pulse race faster. He certainly wouldn’t mind lying there and watching Jack get himself off, and he shifts in his seat and opens his mouth to say so, but Jack gives him pause.

There’s something wrong about how hesitant Jack is, more than just the uncertainty of a first time with a man. It’s like there’s some force preventing him from doing what he wants, and his questions, which Eliot would normally find sweet and helpful, sound concerning in this context.

There’s a needy part of him that wants to simply take Jack’s hands and show him, but as much as he misses the contact, there’s clearly an issue that needs to be addressed. It alarms him that despite Jack's stated desire, he’s acting like a dog fearful of being kicked.

Eliot chews his lower lip and sucks in breath through his teeth as he considers how to answer. If the last few minutes have proved anything it’s that talking things out might actually be a viable problem-solving strategy. As long as he doesn’t make Jack more skittish than he already is.

He gives a nervous laugh. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says, hoping that will put Jack at ease a little. “This is good, I think we should…before we get too far ahead of ourselves, just talk about this a bit? And get an idea of what we’re both comfortable with.”

He glances at Jack’s hands, his eyes, his face still flushed. These things are usually easier to talk about, but then there’s usually a common frame of reference. “Maybe,” Eliot sighs, trying to frame the question, “I wonder—I don’t know how it was like for you before, but just so I know—what you’re used to in bed, if there’s anything you want to try?”

Eliot hates that he sounds so awkward. If it were anyone else he wouldn’t feel nearly so apprehensive, but this is Jack. He wants to get it right.

He huffs a soft laugh, meeting his eyes again and finding confusion there. “I don’t mean to make this sound like a business transaction. But I want this to be…equitable. For the record, I do want you to touch me. Lots, actually,” he adds with a sheepish grin. “I’m fairly easygoing, like I enjoy a lot of things but I don’t know what you particularly enjoy, or…or what you don’t.” He looks at Jack, serious. “And I want this to be good for you.”

When Eliot continues to explain, Jack just gets more confused. He's never had anyone talk to him like this before and he's not entirely sure how to take it. He doesn't really know what he wants, and asking what he's used to feels like an even worse question to answer. He's used to Anne, and nothing about that seems applicable here. Not just because Eliot's a man, but because they seem to do things differently. Anne never would have asked questions like this.

Moreso- he's not exactly sure what Eliot wants to know, or why. His impression is that Eliot wants an idea of his experience level and is also concerned about making a move that Jack isn't going to like, both which seem like strange requests to him. He's not sure why either would matter.

"I don't need special treatment. I just wanted to know the rules, if you have any."

Eliot's face shows that that's not the answer he's expecting, so Jack huffs out an anxious breath and keeps talking, picking up speed as he goes. "What do you need to know?"

His hands don't settle on any one place as he continues talking. He moves them to his lap, gesturing in the air, settles one on the back of the couch then takes it away again, pushes one back through through his hair. "I've had things up my ass- fingers, memorably-the handle of a silver hair brush...Anne liked to ride me but she didn't like to be touched. It's-" He fumbles over the impulse to explain the events in Anne's past that might explain why Anne didn't like to be touched, but none of that is for him to tell, even if he was sure it was the real reason and not just that she was secretly wanting something other than him. Instead, he just moves on. "She'd tie me to the bed. Which was fine enough, but if my hands aren't moving my mind tends to wander."

"Before Anne was Jo. Josephine. It was just flattery and fucking from her and after a year she stole my purse and left, I don't think there much else to say. And before that...a couple fumbles in my youth..." He looks away and looks back while he gestures vaguely with his hand. "I know pirates and sailors tend to have a reputation for fucking their way through every available woman...I definitely saw it at the brothel. But I had Anne, and then I had Nassau and a war and..." He shrugs, stopping short of adding Charles to the list. "It wasn't a focus."

"If my limited scope of experience is a problem-" He reaches out now to gently cup Eliot's jaw, then slide that hand down until it's resting on Eliot's chest. "You can direct me. I won't object."

He tracks the movement of Jack’s hands as he speaks—he’s flitting and nervous and his elaboration is more than a little concerning. Eliot starts to wonder if this was a bad idea. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. Jack speaks of his sexual experiences, like so much else, so matter-of-factly, when from Eliot’s perspective it all adds up to be rather alarming.

But then there is Jack’s hand on his face, on his chest, and Eliot’s doubts are pushed aside by longing. He wants him, and he wants to make him happy, however much effort it takes.

“…Huh,” he answers after a moment. He needs to be careful here, and not give Jack any impression of pity, but it’s difficult to express his feelings on the subject without being horribly awkward.

Eliot smiles, he hopes reassuringly. “Of course it isn’t a problem. That’s all good to know, and I ask because…” He puts his hand on Jack’s, holding it to his chest, and spends a quiet moment tracing the metacarpal bones, the rings, the shape of his fingers. “If the focus in the past has mainly been about someone else’s gratification…”

He falters a little, pondering. Easier to start with specifics. “I wouldn’t tie you up, for example, unless it was something you wanted,” Eliot says quietly. “If it was something Anne needed that’s one thing, but…like, being restrained excites some people, makes other people feel comfortable, it varies. But I wouldn’t ask you to just tolerate it, or anything else for that matter, merely for my sake.”

“I wanted to get an idea of your outlook, I suppose. For my part, the way I approach sex is…” Eliot looks down, smiling to himself. He shifts his hold to lightly stroke the underside of Jack’s wrist. “I like providing for people. I enjoy being a good host, and a good king.” He looks up, meeting Jack’s gaze with a grin. “I like seeing someone at the height of pleasure and knowing that I’m what got him there. I’m certain it would be equally enjoyable for both of us, but since this is a new experience for you, I’m more interested in exploring what you need." He take a breath and lets it out in a soft sigh. “I’d really like to give you my full and undivided attention.”

"Mhm." He swallows and nods, his mind struggling to skip back to anything approaching rational thought. If Eliot keeps talking like this, he's fairly sure it'll kill him before they ever get undressed. He said a good king provides and Jack imagined Eliot on a throne and himself kneeling before him, kissing the inside of his wrist. He dips his head and takes a breath that puffs out his cheeks, then blows it out in one extended huff. He still feels faintly ridiculous, both amazed that this is happening and self conscious of wanting something so openly. He's half-hard and they haven't even done anything yet. "I never really considered my outlook before. But..."

His fingers twitch under Eliot's gentle grip before he shifts his hand down a fraction to squeeze loose a button on Eliot's shirt. That accomplished, he dips his fingers to touch the skin beneath. It's a small action, but deliberate. Definitely not something he would have done with Anne, and that matters- it makes this feel like more than just a replacement for what he's lost. Eliot's chest is warm and soft and, as he presses his fingers flat, he finds a small dusting of chest hair. He smiles softly, not sure if he's feeling Eliot's heart or his own beating down into his fingertips. "I have considered you."

He chuckles lightly, and glances up at Eliot, catching his gaze. "If you want to show me the heights of pleasure you are welcome to it, but I would..." He lets his thumb trace back and forth and he watches it for a moment, getting used to the amount of attention that Eliot is giving him even now. He's not used to being watched with such interest. As much as Eliot has made clear, he can't shrug off the idea that there's something he's missing or doing wrong. "I'd like you to show me some of what you like, too."

He leans forward and kisses Eliot slowly and deliberately, only pulling away when Eliot starts to lean further in and open the kiss. If this is happening, the bedroom is probably the right place for it. He stands and walks towards the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He discards the shirt on top of the small curio cabinet that he remembers contains Eliot's crown and bits of spell components. He considers it for as long at it takes to make sure that the shirt hasn't fallen to the floor, wondering if Eliot might like to wear his crown for this, or to cast some spell, but he doesn't feel right asking. If feels like too much to imply how much he likes the power that Eliot holds, both in title and skill.

He leaves the shirt behind and bends to pull off his boots and socks. Halfway through, he glances up to find Eliot still at the couch watching him. "Well, my liege," he says with a smirk, "Are you coming?" He's trying to tease him, but it comes out sounding a little more sincere than he'd been intending. He focuses back down on removing his other boot and sock, then turns and walks into the bedroom.

Eliot's bedroom is beautiful, all dark woods and soft furnishings. In some ways, it looks more familiar and more like home than anywhere else he's been in Darrow. While he's still alone here he takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and goes to sit on the edge of the bed.

There’s a part of Eliot’s mind that questions why he feels so strongly now, why he can’t take his eyes off Jack and can barely speak. Every atom seems to thrum with want at his touch, and Eliot tells himself it’s because this is new, and he’s focused on being careful and ensuring a his friend has a good experience. It almost feels like the whole truth.

He’s transfixed watching Jack shed his shirt, the way he discards it on the cabinet feels oddly deliberate. Eliot’s almost irritated by it—a little bit of mess left behind in a carefully curated space. Like he owns the damn place, like he belongs here. He wants to say something teasing to that effect. But when Jack stoops and addresses him with smirking fealty his throat goes dry in an instant. It’s not a joke, he thinks. Not entirely, anyway, judging by the look in Jack’s eyes. No one’s spoken to him like that in a long time, much less in an intimate context, and it makes him want to get up and press Jack against the wall. But he can’t move.

“I-I’m just going to get some snacks,” he announces to Jack’s back, before rising shakily from the couch to retreat for a moment to the kitchen. Eliot exhales in a near-hysterical laugh, leaning on the counter for support. The shock of the moment has been replaced by a light and bubbly feeling; it might have just been aimless teasing but it’s made Eliot playful, and he wants to see how deep the sentiment might run. He turns his face to hide a grin against his shoulder, even though no one’s there to see, and tries to center himself.

He doesn’t want to make Jack wait too long, and so he quickly puts together a tray of little things: clementines and grapes and cubes of a nice sweet gouda. He fills a pitcher with ice water and draws a figure on the glass to keep it cold, and takes it all with a couple cups, arms full, to the bedroom.

He finds Jack laying back on the bed, his legs hanging off the side, staring up at the canopy with some unreadable expression. And for a moment Eliot is silent, just watching the rise and fall of his chest, the edge of his ribs dipping down to his flat stomach, and he thinks with a strange fondness that Jack looks right here, in his bed. He’d furnished the room to be a spectacle of comfortable excess, soft sheets and too many pillows, and now he thinks maybe the purpose of it all was to surround Jack’s narrow torso and bony shoulders in well-deserved luxury. Eliot wishes he could see this every day.

He draws in an audible breath and Jack turns to look at him, and Eliot smiles at the way his hair fans out on the duvet. “Hey,” he says, putting the pitcher and glasses on the bedside table and setting the tray down on the bed. “Sit up, have a little something to eat.” Eliot smiles as he says it, making his tone serene and commanding, and sinks down next to him when he complies. He plucks a grape from the bunch and puts it to Jack’s mouth, shivering at the brief flick of his tongue against the pad of his thumb when he takes it, blushing. He loses a moment staring at the movement of Jack’s throat as he swallows. “Good,” Eliot says, softly, and keeps his hand there, thumb brushing against his lips in consideration.

“If we’re discussing what I like,” he begins, giving him a mischievous glance, “I’d like your assistance with the rest of these…pesky buttons, to start with.” Eliot looks down at his shirt before shifting his gaze to the small dark shape on Jack’s ribs, the tattooed figure of an animal. He smiles, reaching out to lightly stroke the ink lines. “And then perhaps you could introduce me to your little friend here.”

The gentle way that Eliot commands him is a relief. It is easy to do as he asks- sit up, eat a grape, undo buttons. He'd been feeling like he'd gotten in over his head and this grounds him in a way that feels comfortable. He doesn't know how to talk about what he wants, or even what he wants, except for the quiet thrill of knowing that he's doing what Eliot has asked of him. He blushes at the affirmation, a little embarrassed at how much Eliot saying Good makes him relax.

"You don't have a spell for that? Snap your fingers and your clothes are all off and folded neatly in their places?" he teases with a brief smirk, already turning and reaching out for Eliot's shirt cuff. When Eliot's hand instead travels further to caress along the line of his ribs and the small figure that sits there, he closes his eyes briefly, sighing against the press of Eliot's fingers. In the touch he can already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming from their fight earlier in the day. Eliot's touch is light, and it's not unpleasant to have a reminder of how evenly matched they were when it came to fighting hand to hand.

"Pictish design, or so said Greaves-" Jack catches Eliot's wrist as he draws it back and turns it so that he can pay attention to the nice gold cuff-link there. "He was a Scot by blood, but born in Barbados, so it may have been his own invention." He smiles at the memory of being laid out on the deck, a hulking red-haired man hammering away at him with a needle, Charles watching, amused and pleased, from a little ways away.

He figures out how the cuff-link works before removing it gently, then folds back the cuff, taking a moment to examine Eliot's wrist, his elegant fingers, the whorls on his soft fingertips.

"A fox. Earned by my cleverness." Jack runs a thumb over Eliot's wrist, then gives into the urge to dip his head and kiss the delicate skin there. This is no throne room, and he is no knight, but Eliot does deserve this kind of attention and care. He looks up when he hears a soft moan escape Eliot's lips, and is pleased to see his mouth open, his expression startled. It's nice to know that he can take a few liberties and still be doing the right thing, to get reinforcement that Eliot is enjoying this. He gestures for Eliot's other hand. When he gives it, Jack smiles and pays attention to the cuff-link there. "There was a French man-o-war. I found a way to capture it."

"That was early days." He dips his head a measure further, feeling vulnerable in knowing that Eliot is watching him. He could add that Charles chose the spot, that his hand was once where Eliot's just was, but it feels at once inappropriate and immaterial. Eliot doesn't feel like a replacement for how he felt about Charles, and bringing him up now would only suggest a connection where there isn't one.

Eliot lifts a small slice of citrus to his mouth and he takes it. The taste is bright and sweet and makes him realize how thirsty he's been. Eliot's thumb lingers at his mouth and he takes it between his lips, sucking a drop of juice from the pad of his thumb.

He leans back to set the cuff-links on the side table and takes a moment to pour a glass of water.

"Do you always treat your conquests like this?" He nods to the plate of fruit and cheese, but there's more to it than that- more than the food, he wonders if the care that Eliot is showing him is more than he usually shows men in his bed. Maybe he should have expected more from Eliot, but he figured that all sex between men must be rough and quick. He didn't think that men had sex like this- with care and attention.

He drinks half of the glass and then hands it over to Eliot to drink so that he can reach out again, this time to the remaining buttons down the placket of his shirt. He's faster here than he'd been with the cuffs, pressing buttons open and pulling the shirt up from its neatly tucked position to expose Eliot's slim soft torso.

Eliot watches him, the way he reacts to things, noting the change in Jack’s posture. His head is low but his whole demeanor is relaxed, even as he’s blushing so much.

“I like watching you work,” he says, soft and intent, in reply to the teasing. Jack goes even redder and Eliot grins, delighted to see this side of him that’s so receptive and eager to please. He likes the energy between them now, the thing taking shape here, and he finds it an easy role to play.

It’s comforting being pampered like this, and Eliot can easily imagine himself in Whitespire, his servants preparing him for bed. The routine was awkward when he first took the throne; despite all his snobbishness he doesn’t believe in any inherent kind of superiority, least of all over elves and fauns and all sorts of folk grateful to not be living in a reign of terror. But there were rules about these things, and it was all tied into the magic of the place, and the job, and he had to get used to it.

And in a sudden jarring moment Eliot forgets to breathe, caught by the light, reverent touch of Jack’s lips to his wrist. He exhales in a barely-voiced moan, and glances down to meet Jack’s gaze, and between the cow-eyed sincerity and the tender warmth of his mouth, Eliot’s confidence is obliterated.

It shouldn’t be possible to be so turned on by one little kiss—but if he didn’t need to show Jack a good time here and maintain a certain amount of self-control to do so, he’d be a whimpering mess from it.

He shifts, and clears his throat. “Clever indeed,” he murmurs, trying to sound calm as he gives Jack his other wrist to work on.

Eliot distracts himself with food, munching on sections of clementine as Jack works. He gives Jack a piece, a little reward for being a quick study, and gasps at the delicious tingling when he sucks the juice off his thumb. It’s like Jack’s pulling his heart out through his hand, and his pulse races as he thinks of other tasks for that clever mouth—but there’s an apprehension he has to quash. Jack could hurt him, like this, his teeth are so close. He could, but he won’t, because he wants to be good. And Eliot sighs, a little shakily, grateful when Jack passes him the water.

He finishes the glass and hands it back to Jack, and considers the question. “I’d say I’m always decently hospitable,” he answers slowly, “but this is…it’s different with you.” His fingers trace over the fox and the scars, hands skimming over Jack’s chest and shoulders to map him out. “I know you, I know we both like fine things, and I see this as an opportunity to be a little more…decadent than usual. I don’t…I hadn’t been telling men I’ve met in bars about the magic. They don’t need to know that about me.”

Eliot wonders if that last bit was too much or too honest for the tone of this little scene, but he covers the doubt by giving Jack a smirk and shrugging out of his shirt.

“So,” he says, “you see yourself as a conquest in this situation?” Eliot grins playfully, testing the waters. “I suppose I did defeat you in battle. But I assure you I’m quite ah, magnanimous in victory.”

Eliot leans in, and his hands settle at Jack’s waist and tug him gently closer. He whispers into his ear, “come here,” beckoning Jack onto his lap.

The whisper in his ear makes him shiver and as Eliot pulls away, Jack is already leaning further towards him. Jack hastily returns the glass to the bedside table, then follows Eliot's direction, gladly letting himself be pulled closer. He grabs Eliot by the shoulders and swings a leg over his lap, straddling him. As he settles down, his grip on Eliot's shoulders loosens and he takes the opportunity to run his hands over Eliot's shoulders and down the length of his arms, then slowly back up again - following the curves of his muscles as he goes.

"Why would you hide what you can do? You're a powerful man. I'd think other men would like that." He sighs lightly, as he follows the line of Eliot's collarbone with his eyes. "I do. Like it."

Maybe it's too much to admit, but he has an instinct to flatter Eliot, and more, it doesn't make sense to him that Eliot would hide what seems like a fundamental part of himself. This really is different, if Eliot usually prefers anonymity with the men he fucks, but he deserves some praise for who he is and what he's accomplished. Jack doesn't want this to feel anonymous and it seems like Eliot doesn't either- or at least they know each other too well now to pretend.

He sets his elbows on top of Eliot's shoulders, ready to pull himself flush against him or grind down against him, but Eliot's hands are already up between them, tracing up his torso and over his chest. When Eliot said he wants to be decadent about this, Jack thought he'd only meant the food, but he's beginning to realize that his entire approach is different than he'd been expecting. Maybe Eliot wants it this way, or maybe he thinks that this is what Jack needs, but in the least he's learning that he's going to have to be patient and follow Eliot's pace.

Searching for a more comfortable position, he lifts himself up on his shins and tilts his hips forward. As he settles back down, he voices a small noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a moan and a sigh.

As Eliot continues to explore his chest, Jack lifts a hand to the back of Eliot's neck, gently pressing fingers along his spine up into his hairline. His skin is smooth, his hair a pleasant texture, and it feels nice to cycle between the two.

"If you hadn't used magic, I would have had my blade at your throat instead, and we wouldn't be here now." He smiles a little, relieved now that this is where they are. "Unless you had plans to lose your mind and kiss me in the middle of a sparring session?"

Eliot's hand stills for a moment and then traces a small circular scar that rests over his heart. Jack tips his head to the side, looking more at Eliot's hand than at the scar itself. When Eliot stays quiet, Jack glances to his face. The expression that he finds there seems hard to read, but he guesses that he's intrigued by the origin of it.

Jack smirks. It's entirely possible that Eliot likes his scars. It is proof that he's had an exciting life and been in life or death situations. It must be a thrilling reminder. "A lead shot. I was lucky I wasn't closer when he fired the pistol. Hurt like hell when they dug it out."

“Oh,” Eliot says. He knows that he needs to say more, to maintain the mood, but for a moment he doesn’t know what to do. It doesn’t matter that Jack explained the scar with the same nonchalance as every other tidbit of information about the inherent violence of his life before Darrow. He can only think of Jack in pain, bleeding, the wound so close to his heart. He holds his breath, trying to push down the irrational fear and anger that someone–in the past, in a different world–nearly took Jack away from him.

It’s not how he expected this to go, none of it is. Jack’s careful hand on the back of his neck, idly petting him and giving him such a deep feeling of calm it’s disturbing. His questions, the uncanny way he can get under Eliot’s skin even now, framing a very reasonable withholding of personal information as hiding. Eliot could explain himself, try to convey the disappointment he felt the first time he bragged about his world to a local and was met with polite disinterest. He could try and express how that feeling made him stop mentioning it, or caring so much about getting to know anyone here, how he started to think of his casual encounters as glorified masturbation. But he can’t go down that line of thought, because it’s not about trying to explain how he feels. It’s not about him, it’s about making Jack feel good and enjoying this little bit of time for what it is, and he needs to stop thinking and just act.

Eliot dips his head to kiss the scar, and pulls Jack closer with one hand firm on his back to feel the muscles there, tight despite how readily he goes where he’s led. He slings his other arm around Jack’s hips, relishing the warmth and pressure of their bodies pulled more flush against each other, the slowly building humidity of shared breath. Most of all Eliot loves the way Jack shudders when he traces the divot of the scar with his tongue, reverent, as if he could erase the memory of suffering and claim this man, for just a little while, as his.

When Eliot tilts his head and mouths at his nipple, he can feel Jack’s sharp intake of breath and the low sound that gets stuck in his throat. He relishes all the sensation, the quickening pulse next to his ear, and no longer feels lost in his own head about this night. He looks up at Jack, his expression smug and a little devious, before he pulls away.

“You feel so fucking good, can I just—you won’t mind if I show off a little,” he says, breathless and smirking. It’s not even flashy, lifting the tray of food out of the way with telekinesisand setting it on the table, but Jack seems awed all the same. Eliot looks past his flushed face to the lamp and it clicks off with a thought, and for a moment they’re in darkness. Then, he sighs and wills a cluster of little lights into being. They twinkle like warm candle-colored fireflies as they drift on the canopy of the bed and glint off Jack’s necklace. Eliot almost wants to ask him to keep it on. He looks at Jack with a smile, shifting further onto the bed so he can lean back, and toys with the waistband of his jeans. “There now, that’s so much better, don’t you think?”

Jack watches with surprise and awe as the tray of food lifts out of the way and the light clicks off. He is already feeling pleasantly overwhelmed by Eliot's praise even before Eliot starts moving objects about with his mind. When it does happen, it takes him a moment to register that it's Eliot's doing at all. He thinks that the tray and the light will be the extent of Eliot's 'showing off' until low light fades back in as a collection of gently moving sparks of light. He's caught off guard, distracted from Eliot by this display, the corner of his mouth lifted in a surprised smile.

Eliot speaking brings his attention back and for a moment he just looks at him, speechless at how beautiful he looks with the low warm light reflecting off his eyes and his smooth skin.

"I-" A laugh bubbles up out of his throat. It feels faintly ridiculous, that Eliot wants to be here with him, that he's a magician that can cast real magic, and he's charming enough to do it now just for atmosphere. This all feels unreal, like he's dreaming it.

"Eliot, you can show off anytime you like." He's not sure how to parse what he's feeling, but he does know that it's something fond and pleased and yet it also feels too big to exist in his body. The immensity of the feeling presses outward from his chest in a way that makes him feel like there is something inside of him trying to fight its way out. Eliot has leaned back, but Jack follows him eagerly, tipping his head to smother his smile at Eliot's temple. He mouths along the edge of his jaw, then drops a foot to the floor to brace himself as he explores the shifting landscape of Eliot's neck and the gentle hollow behind his collarbone.

He shifts to go lower, but his position at the edge of the bed makes it difficult to explore with more than his hands. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stands, a small smile returning to his lips when he finds himself weak in the knees.

As Eliot moves fully onto the bed and turns to look up at him, Jack divests himself of his trousers and underthings. It's a relief, to no longer be so constrained, but he already misses the gentle pressure of the boxer-briefs (he remembers with a little laugh, that Eliot had picked them out for him.) He carefully removes the rings from his right hand and sets them beside the tray of food. They'll just get in the way if they stay on his fingers.

As he's turning back to Eliot, a small mote of light flies in front of his face and he reaches out, lifting up two fingers to gently touch it. It's warm, like candlelight- He's almost expecting it to be solid like wax, but as he pushes his fingers into the light it splits and rejoins behind them. When he looks back down at Eliot, the open desire he sees there cuts right through him. Still keeping his eyes on Eliot, he pushes the same two fingers that he'd used to touch the mote of light into his own mouth, half curious if there might be a lingering taste to the magic. Not finding any, he wets his fingers with saliva and then drops his hand to stroke his cock once, then again, an unvoiced moan at the back of his throat as his gaze shifts down the length of Eliot's torso, settling on the bulge evident in his jeans.

"Another pesky button there?" he says and he kneels onto the bed and directs his attention to the waistband of Eliot's jeans. He undoes the button, but stops short of undressing Eliot further. It feels to him like something that he shouldn't do without being asked. He pulls his hand away and sets it instead along the inside of Eliot's thigh, stroking there as he glances up to meet Eliot's gaze. He feels comfortable in this space, but impatient. He isn't really sure where to go from here or what Eliot is expecting, but he knows he wants more.

"How are we going to do this? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to be the woman?" Either option feels intimidating, but Eliot has been so considerate with him thus far and his own desire is making details unimportant. He doesn't really care what Eliot decides, as long as he gets to be closer to him as soon as possible.

Eliot can’t remember the last time he’s wanted someone this keenly. He watches Jack, intent and a little in awe of how beautiful he looks amid the drifting lights. He feels sure of himself, not desperate despite how uncomfortably clothed he still is. The energy between them now coalesces into an understanding that calms him. He stares, mouth half open in a grin, and loves him: his wobbly legs, the desire in his eyes, the trust he’s placed in Eliot by expressing it. Jack so deserves to be appreciated, he thinks—he’s been neglected for far too long, and Eliot’s delighted to make it up to him.

That certainty doesn’t keep him from letting out a needy whine, though, when Jack sucks on his fingers. Eliot squirms in place, eager and gripping a fistful of sheets to keep himself from just stripping down. He needs to give Jack something to do, since he so clearly likes to be useful and reacts so charmingly to praise.

His breath quickens when Jack comes back to the bed, and it feels good, the way Jack orients himself to him. He feels powerful, and he likes it, but even more he likes that Jack likes it. Eliot gives him a slow, hungry smile. He’s going to take such good care of him. “Go on,” he says, his voice low and calm, and nods at Jack’s hands for him to continue.

Eliot’s not surprised by the question, or bothered by it, but it does deserve a more substantive answer than ‘neither’ to correct the assumptions Jack’s working from. So he sits up on his elbows and considers him.

“There’s a lot of different ways to fuck,” Eliot says slowly, his smile widening as he watches Jack work. He holds admirably still, despite wanting to grind up against his palms, and continues his explanation. “But in any circumstance neither of us is ‘the woman,’ and that’s kind of the point. We’re not-” he groans in relief as he’s freed from his jeans, and lifts his hips to be extricated. He huffs a laugh; he’s so eager he’s already leaking a damp spot onto his underwear and Jack’s looking at his cock like he’s starving, but Eliot exercises the most restraint known to humanity and keeps talking.

“-We’re not operating within the bounds of some idea about proper order,” he explains, and reaches out to thread his fingers through Jack’s hair. “It’s not a performance with a set script or roles, it’s…a conversation, and we decide what we want together. It’s collaborative, not transactional.” Perhaps it’s not the best speech, but he can hardly do better in these circumstances.

Eliot clears his throat and kicks his jeans off the bed with an awkward shake before he notices where Jack’s attention has gone. He’s staring at Eliot’s socks, or the garters at least, one hand resting warm on his ankle. He can feel his pulse through the thin silk and the slight tickle of Jack’s fingers on the back of his calf as he’s starting to figure out the clip, “Oh it’s all right, leave it,” he laughs softly. “I’ll keep them on, just come back here.” Jack looks up at him with an expression in his dark eyes that stops his breath for a moment.

He draws Jack up with a hand on the back of his neck to lie on top of him, and shivers at the electric tingle of skin on skin. Jack is soft where he’s not wind-chapped from a life at sea, and Eliot wants to memorize every inch of him. From their bony knees bumping to the weight of him and the feel of his ribs when he breathes, it’s like an echo of this morning—but better in every possible way. He presses a hand to the small of Jack’s back, like they’re dancing, and ruts against him slowly. Eliot has to stifle his moan in a kiss just below his ear, the skin hot and sweat-damp under his mouth. Neither of them may last very long at this rate, but it will surely be worth it.

Pulling away a bit, he peppers Jack’s face with kisses and notes the dazed look in his eyes. “If you’re curious how it feels getting fucked in the ass,” he smirks, breathless, “I’d
love to enlighten you. But that’s a lot of effort and I’m-” Eliot laughs. “-impatient. So let’s start a little simpler.”

"Christ, Eliot." Jack laughs in return, burying his face at Eliot's temple. "I'm not going to need complicated. But ah-" He starts shifting his hips gently, and his breath is caught by the pressure of their bodies, his cock sliding against the similar hardness of Eliot's cock. He gasps, his breath hot, and he keeps his hips moving. It takes effort to keep the pace slow, especially with the thought of what Eliot might feel like moving inside him. "-I'm going to hold you to that."

After a minute, he feels the silk sock and the elastic garter pressed against his ass- Eliot lifting a foot to hook behind him and urge him closer. A laugh caught halfway in his throat at the reminder that he didn't actually manage to get Eliot fully undressed shifts immediately into a moan when he follows the unspoken demand and presses closer.

He nuzzles into Eliot's temple, hiding a smile there. The idea that this might not be the only time they fuck removes the remaining anxiety he had about how this is going. He wants this again- to find new ways to make Eliot sweat and moan his name, to know the feeling of every smooth surface of his body.

Slowly, they become a chorus of pants and moans. The gentle shifting of their hips speeds up- One elbow planted beside Eliot, the other with his fingers dug into his hair, he struggles to move faster and press closer.

Eliot's hand fists into his hair and he moans out Eliot's name, pausing for a moment, his head resting against Eliot's chest. He can hear Eliot's heart beating fast, feel his cock twitching pressed between their bodies, and this feels right. He doesn't feel awkward or lost or too inexperienced. This is Eliot and there's no denying that they both want this.

"Hold on. H-hold on." He pulls back enough to kiss him, but both of them are breathing too quickly to maintain a kiss for very long. Instead, he kisses along his jaw, then pulls back, running his hands along Eliot's chest, tracing over his nipples and down his waist. He feels dangerously close to a precipice, and he doesn't want to cum without palming Eliot's cock.

"I just need-" He sits up enough that he can reach between them to wrap his hand around both of their cocks. Around them, the motes of light surge and flicker, and Jack smirks from within a daze, hoping that that means he's distracted Eliot enough that he can't keep focus on his spell. He strokes them once then lifts his hand back to his mouth, licking across the palm of his hand before returning it slicker.

"That's...so hot but let me get...I've got something better than spit," says Eliot, and fumbles for his side table. It's awkward, reaching backward, and Jack follows his hand to open the drawer. With direction, he retrieves the small bottle from within and hands it over to Eliot.

Oil spills over Eliot's hand and he joins Jack's hand, sliding over their cocks until they are impossibly slick.

"Oh, yes. That's...good. You're perfect." Jack's hips involuntarily jerk forward as they both stroke. His arm holding him up trembles and props his other hand beside Eliot. His heart is pounding against his ribs and he whimpers. Between quick breaths he mumbles out "Eliot, please."

Eliot's hand strokes quickly, fisted around Jack's cock now, and Jack whines, only able to hold himself up as his vision momentarily whites out and he cums over Eliot's hand.

"Eliot," he gasps through his orgasm. Afterward, Eliot brings a hand up to stroke his chest and push back his sweat-damp hair. His breath slowing, he's able to ease back and return his attention to Eliot. Eliot is gently stroking himself and Jack watches him for a moment, taking in for a moment how utterly perfect he looks in this moment- his cock slick and straining, his eyes dark and lidded, he lips parted, breathing hard.

"Let me." Jack replaces Eliot's hand with his own. He starts slow, enjoying how Eliot pants and squirms under him, but he quickly speeds up. It's not long before Eliot is moaning loader, his head tipped back gasping as he cums. The motes of light spark and sizzle like a hundred lit fuses. Jack strokes him through it while the room momentarily glows.

As the motes of light shift back to their dim glow, Jack falls to Eliot's side, smiling lazily and listening to his own heartbeat slow, his breathing evening out. His mind feels fogged over and he can't think of anything to say. For the moment, he's okay with simply resting next to Eliot, staring up at the gently shifting lights.

Eliot abandons any notion he had about keeping a serious or authoritative air. It’s all too delightful. Jack is surprisingly affectionate, nuzzling at him so Eliot can feel his smile, and all Eliot can think is how how lucky he is to see him like this. It’s an overwhelming, possessive joy, something Eliot hasn’t felt in a long time. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it. And now he has it here in Jack, who hasn’t balked from this, and whose enthusiasm is intoxicating.

If he were coherent he’d tell Jack how proud he is of him, but all he can manage is a breathless litany of “yes” and “good.”

Eliot flashes a quick triumphant grin. Jack’s needy and begging as he strokes him, and Eliot would give him anything he asked. He’d give him the world if he asked.

He wants to tell Jack all these things after he finishes but he can’t form the words. The hand on his cock drives all thought from Eliot’s mind, and he can only whine and gasp Jack’s name, and the flare of the lights match the spots in his vision.

Jack rolls off of him and Eliot keeps his eyes closed, lets out an unsteady exhale, and lays in the hazy muddle of returning thought.

He counts his own heartbeats, feeling heavy and tired, the familiar sequence of sensation spinning out like it does after every sexual encounter. It will be awkward, Eliot knows—he waits for the inevitable moment that the physical presence of someone else in his bed grows too uncomfortable and he has to get him to leave.

He doesn’t want it, of course. He wants to make this last but he knows it won’t, he’ll start to get irritated by another body this close to him, and he needs to ensure Jack doesn’t feel bad about it.

But as his breathing slows to normal and Jack is lying quiet beside him, it doesn’t happen. Eliot realizes, with slow confusion, that he doesn’t mind the feeling at all. That he only feels the strange calmness he’s come to associate with being close to Jack. The sex was fun and good and he feels satisfied, providing Jack that experience. But in some unfamiliar way, it isn’t enough.

He keeps his eyes closed and imagines what it would be like, if this was different. If he were different, and good for more than just a nice time. I could be happy like this, he thinks. And as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he wants it, so badly he has to hold his breath for a sudden moment. He doesn’t want to play the good host and get Jack cleaned up and sent on his way. He wants this feeling to stay, for Jack to stay, and he wants Jack’s arms around him and he’s certain that if he were better, and deserved it, that it could be different and he could fall asleep feeling safe.

He ought to tell Jack this, that he’s never wanted something like this before but somehow he needs it now. Jack is just his friend, he has no illusions about that. But maybe it wouldn’t be too much to ask him to stay, maybe he wouldn’t mind giving Eliot more than what he already has.

“Hey-” he starts to say, finding his voice hoarse, but at that same moment Jack rolls over and the mattress dips as he moves to get up.

The peaceful feeling is gone, and all Eliot’s certainty along with it. He makes himself smile and be charming.

“How are you feeling, was that all right?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at Jack. It’s an important question, but not the one he wanted to ask. But he can only be responsible now, the moment for tenderness and vulnerability has passed.

He almost wonders if Jack wants to go another round, but something in his bearing tells Eliot to give him space. So he manages to form a little abjurative spell with one shaky hand and he sits up on his elbows and flicks his fingers at Jack like he’s brushing dust away, and in an instant he’s clean and dry.

Eliot lays back down with a sigh. The little lights seem dimmer than before.

For a few moments, the silence feels companionable and his mind is clear. He feels comfortable in this little pocket of warmth that they've created, but the silence stretches out a little too long. In the increasingly resonant silence, Jack shifts his gaze towards Eliot. He finds him impassive, his eyes closed, a line of tension pressed between his eyebrows.

He'd expected that by now Eliot would be rolling back towards him- maybe gloating a little, considering how easily and thoroughly he'd managed to undo him. He'd expected a hand on his chest and the warm smile that he's come to expect. He wants to smile and joke about his ridiculous socks, tell him that next time he'll manage to undress him completely, but none of that feels appropriate.

The silence begins to feel like dismissal.

Could it be, he thinks, even though Eliot had said he wanted this, that he actually didn't? Or that Eliot had thought he'd wanted him, but the actual experience had been a disappointment? Had Eliot been acting for his sake? He's not sure which is worse, and the thought makes him feel sick. Can it be that he's destined to keep hurting the people he loves in the same way?

He pushes himself up to sit and bends to retrieve his trousers and underwear from the floor. When he looks back at Eliot, he finds him smiling, but it's the smile that stops just short of showing off the crooked tilt of his jaw. It's practiced and perfect, and he has no idea what it's hiding, but he does know that he's done something wrong to make it necessary.

He huffs an embarrassed laugh at Eliot's question. He feels like a selfish fool. Before he can answer, Eliot makes a shooing motion at him and suddenly they're both clean, like this never happened at all. He pulls on his underwear and trousers, standing as he does. At best, this was fine for Eliot, but it was transactional, and he's slipped on this mask so that Jack will leave him alone instead of hanging around.

"More than all right," he answers honestly, and looks back down at Eliot, the little lights dimming around them and obscuring the details of his expression.

"I should let you get to sleep," he says, watching the shadows shift around Eliot's face.

One last transgression- He bends to kiss him once more and lingers there a moment, afraid that it might be the last time.

"See you later" he says. Hovering there, one hand on Eliot's chest, he nearly adds thank you, but it feels too pathetic to voice out loud. Instead, he walks away, retrieves the rest of his clothes from the other room, and leaves Eliot's apartment without saying anything else.

Eliot had assumed there’d be a certain amount of awkwardness at the end, but he never anticipated a kiss. He returns it after a moment’s hesitation—his thoughts are sluggish and he can’t quite understand why this is happening. Something about the way Jack’s looking at him makes his smile falter. Eliot gives a shaky nod and wonders at how Jack is so hard to read now, when just a little while ago they were so in sync.

“Sure,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Get home safe.” He says it like this is any other evening coming to a close, and he’s horrified at himself.

A lightheadedness suffuses him even before Jack is gone, but the sound of the door closing knocks something loose in him, and Eliot sits up and draws his knees to his chest and the little lights wink out as he starts shaking.

Jack’s hand on his chest was so warm, and now Eliot just feels so cold, like he’ll never be warm again.

He tugs the duvet loose and wraps it around his shoulders; he surely cuts a pathetic figure just huddled in the dark so he reaches to turn on the lamp. The light doesn’t improve his mood as much as he’d thought, revealing only the food and water still mostly untouched. It seems such a meager offering now.

A glint of silver catches Eliot’s attention and he stares at the two rings sitting on the nightstand where Jack had left them. For a long moment he doesn’t know what to think. See you later, he’d said, but in Jack’s absence it’s impossible to take his words to heart. The rings seem less like a reason to return and more like they’d been abandoned as Jack cut and run.

He reaches out to touch them but draws his hand back. He’s trembling, and for a moment he has the wild irrational thought that he cannot touch these things or else he will sully them somehow, as surely as sullied Jack in this whole endeavor.

He tries to take a breath to steady himself but only manages a sob. Dimly, Eliot knows he ought to eat, but he glances at the tray of fruit and cheese and feels a little ill. He’s spoiled everything, and Jack must be regretting it by now.

Eliot’s up and staggering out of the bedroom before he realizes it, taking the duvet with him. The weight of it is like a mantle and it helps the shaking enough that he can walk, but he feels wobbly and wild-eyed as he looks around the apartment like it’s a crime scene.

The dagger, too, was left behind. It feels like an indictment. Eliot frowns at it, and the bottle of wine in the kitchen. It’s far better than he deserves, but he needs something to chase the chill and the tremors away.

He pours himself two fingers of whiskey instead. The first swallow burns his throat as he takes the glass back to the bedroom. Eliot laughs to himself, thinking that the sting is the least he deserves. He only realizes he’s crying once he’s back in bed, curled up in a pile.

If there’s a silver lining to be found, at least Jack left before seeing what a pathetic mess he really is.

“Fuck,” Eliot whispers, trying to concentrate on keeping his hands from shaking and spilling the drink. “Fuck.”

Jack doesn't pause once he's outside Eliot's door, and instead of going into the familiar metal prison of the elevator, he follows the bright green exit sign and pushes his way into a set of stairs. They're concrete and cold and not much better than the elevator, but at least he can keep moving. Jack knows that he's running away, that he's not being rational, but as his boots his the steps he feels propelled away as surely as if Eliot had firmly asked him to leave.

He makes it down five flights before he slows down and another before he stops completely and drops to sit on the landing of the stairs, hastily wiping tears away from his eyes. It's only then, with his palm pressed against his face, that he realizes he left his rings behind. He left his dagger behind, too.

He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, trying to slow down his breathing. He leans over, letting his hands slide back into his hair and fists his hands there, pulling just tight enough to feel pain.

What is he supposed to do now? He can't just walk back up there, sweaty and crying, and ask for his things back. Eliot's already had enough of him for one evening, if his silence was anything to go by.

For a while there, he thought at least they'd had an understanding. He'd though that Eliot had enjoyed himself, but Eliot's silence calls into question all of his assumptions. What a fucking farce this has all been, he thinks. He feels even more confused and upset than he had this morning.

Could it be that Eliot was regretting his decision? Had he done something wrong that hurt Eliot? Was it just bad sex and he didn't know any better?

"Fuck," he says, bringing his hands down to scrub over his face. He thought it had been good. Not just the sex, but being close to Eliot in that way had felt far more comfortable than he'd expected, far more like he belonged in that bed. It had seemed for a little while like their friendship could extend to sex without any hiccups at all. He'd felt safe with him.

He dwells for a moment on what didn't happen after- Eliot rolling to him and putting a warm hand on his chest, smiling his crooked smile, asking him to stay and sleep next to him, going for breakfast in the morning.

He sighs. He shouldn't have expected it, but part of him did.

"Jack Rackham, you are a fool."

He sits there for a few minutes more, coming to rest his head against the side of the stairwell. He feels exhausted. Only when he hears someone opening the stairwell door above does he push himself back to his feet and walk down the remaining flights of stairs. He has no interest in interacting with some random stranger right now.

His apartment is cold and stark and strange. Once in the door he locks it and gravitates to his desk- the one piece of furniture that he'd added since he moved into this place, and now the most familiar. A blank notebook offers him the chance to write any of this down, but he finds he can't order his thoughts enough to write a word. For a while he pulls over his algebra textbook and distracts himself with a different sort of frustration.

He should try to sleep, he knows, but it would hurt to confront his cold bed knowing that Eliot is in his own, sleeping soundly. He digs out his phone and opens up his texts with Eliot, scrolling back a little bit to look at their texts from today and the last few days. It's past midnight, now. Calling now to leave a message would wake him, but he could leave a note for him to read in the morning.

What, though? He can't let on that he'd been hurt by Eliot's quiet dismissal, or that he would have liked to stay. Leaving immediately is probably just what Eliot expects from his partners and he'd been wrong to hope for anything more. He definitely can't let on how much he cares for him. There's no guarantee that Eliot even wants to sleep with him again.

At the same time- he has been wrong about Eliot's intentions and desires before. There must be a diplomatic way to ask if Eliot ever wants him again.

After a couple of false starts, he texts Thank you for the transformative experience. Hardly the swordplay I'd intended to have when I awoke this morning, but a welcome lesson nonetheless. If you are still a willing teacher, I would enjoy trying something else, some other time.

Then, he adds, Do you think that I should accept Jacobs offer? The date this Saturday? If he's no longer interested, Eliot deserves a simple way to let him down an Jacob is an simple alternative. It would be much easier for Eliot to suggest that Jacob might be a better match for him than it would be to turn him down outright. He presses send, then tuns his phone face down on the desk. His hand rests there a moment, as if he might read Eliot's mind across the distance, then he returns to his studies.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Make you a sword of me?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject