you could have my heart (and i would break it for you)
-or-
be gay do crime
By: Aviantei
His Second Bow:
"i'm no sweet dream (but i'm a hell of a night)"
1872
The blood had always been the worst part of his mismatched biology and mind, Jameson had decided. Any level of cramps he experienced were discomforting, yes, but they faded soon enough that he'd long been able to forget them. Back in Whitechapel, Miss Penny and the others at the lodging house had been more than helpful with their tips and tricks, and no one in the slums had made the connection as to why he'd spend a handful of days in the month stepping away whilst he was changing out the collection of rags that were necessary to prevent him from bleeding through his trousers. He'd even gotten skilled enough at it that he'd been able to keep his secret for a while after Stratford had finalised Jameson's adoption and moved him into his home.
That hadn't been able to last, no, but it hadn't been the worst. Even once Stratford had realised the situation, he'd changed his attitude, but it hadn't been awful—and even after the current situation had begun, the bleeding had almost been a blessing, seeing as the viscount had no interest in leaving behind more of a mess than necessary.
The Baron Westmeath was nowhere of the same mind.
And so Jameson stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the stickiness of the aftermath, refusing to look at the muck upon the sheets. Though the bedclothes were dark, that didn't change the fact that Jameson's menstruation was more than visible, still wet and shining in the candlelight. The worst part of it all was that the first days of his cycle were the heaviest, and Westmeath was more than willing to pay to take advantage of as much of that time as possible.
There was the sound of the door opening.
Jameson closed his eyes and tried his best to disappear.
March, 1875
On occasion, Jameson had had the thought that, despite the willing admittance from the Moriarty brothers of their involvement in crime and Jameson's own first-hand witnessing of such, they didn't act like a group of criminals. In fact, they were a polite trio of gentlemen with a rather humble lifestyle for their status. They spent their days tending to their home, indulging in study, and enjoying the occasional evening by the fire, books and wine in hand. There wasn't the slightest sign of their illegal activities, and that was even for Jameson who found himself in places that polite company would never venture into.
Jameson had not yet had reason to venture into the basement.
On the surface, it was not, he supposed, anything out of the ordinary. For the most part, it was a storage space, with off-season furnishings, spare sets of dishes for larger events, and the occasional piece of foodstuffs that would keep better than in the main kitchens. On that note, there was also a wine cellar that had much less dust than one would expect that he suspected was due to Albert's frequent maintenance.
And then there was the conference room, which explained why there was no sign of the Moriarty's criminal activities upstairs. It was set up with wooden furniture, a table surrounded by three worn chairs and one with much less wear that had doubtless been added for his benefit. There was a chalkboard upon a wall, along with another place to stick up other memos, and both were at the moment decorated with various notes and a few diagrams, though one photo in particular stood out:
A wiry man with light hair and a clean-shaven face, but with an expression so different that it took Jameson a moment to recognise him. In the photo, the Baron Westmeath almost looked amicable, a decent gentleman whom you could have a pleasant conversation with, or even share a meal with.
Jameson would sooner die before he did either of those things in good faith.
The thought that he would instead be ending Westmeath's life made seeing even a replica of the man's visage much easier.
"At the moment, I have a few different draft plans, but I haven't finalised any of them," William said, standing at the head of the room whilst the others sat, all their attention turned on him. Jameson had caught a glimpse of this William, his expression in pure seriousness, back at Stratford's graveside, but it was another matter to not have it turned on Jameson in full. The sincere level of consideration that he was putting into the matter was enough to make Jameson's pulse pick up, but he was also too interested in hearing the details of the upcoming plan to dwell on it for long. "While of course we have the primary objective of bringing justice to someone who will not be reached by the law, we are aiming for a perfect crime as usual. The real challenge brought about by this case is that there are several targets we will be dealing with over a span of time. Jameson, including Westmeath, how many more of these 'regulars' were you hoping to handle?"
Jameson's seat was at the front of the group, but he didn't need to see the other Moriarty brothers to know that all of their gazes were turned towards him. "…Four." That was not the full extent of those that Jameson had bedded, not even close, but it was the remaining number of those who hadn't needed to be bribed to continue their visits.
William nodded, his expression that unreadable look Jameson didn't want to think too much about. But whatever was racing through William's mind at that news, he didn't voice any of it, instead returning to the logistics. "Once we add in Charleville and Stratford himself, that will be a total of six deaths within your vicinity, even if the latter ones won't have as clear of connections. With that in mind, it will be best if we both spread out the timing of the deaths, as well as the exact scenarios so that they're more difficult for law enforcement to consider connecting together."
Jameson didn't have any issue with those facts; they made sense. Making himself traceable in his crimes wouldn't just restrict his freedom, but it would also bring attention on the Moriartys who had welcomed him into their family, complicating their larger plans. "This would be a lot easier," Louis said with about half as much bite as usual, "if you didn't insist on killing them all yourself."
There was nothing to argue with there, either. If Jameson wanted all the regulars dead and that was all, there were plenty of methods and options to accomplish that goal. Just say the word, and Jameson was certain William, Albert, and Louis would handle all the rest, and Jameson wouldn't need to get his hands dirty, wouldn't need to face anyone that hurt him. He'd considered the possibility, too, but he'd reached the same conclusion every time:
It just feels meaningless if I don't do it myself.
"I know I'm making things more complicated, but I can't go back on that," Jameson said, his hands clenched together in his lap. "I…can't accept any other outcome than being the one that gets to kill them."
"There's no need to apologise," William said. Louis doubtless disagreed, but Jameson wasn't about to look back to check. "I'm the crime consultant here. Making all of this work is my responsibility." Jameson wasn't certain if that made him feel better about causing yet another inconvenience, but he swore would make up for it in whatever way he could. "If nothing else, I think it's safe enough to say that plenty of time has passed since our first job that we should have nothing to fear in completing our next case."
"Fortunate for us that this timeline lines up well with your recovery as well," Albert said. "Though that does beg the question of what option you think will be the best, Will."
Jameson, too, was curious, and he sat up straighter in his seat. He'd had plenty of fantasies about it, about the moments he'd erase those that had used him, but all he'd been able to conjure was the repeated feeling of a knife in his hand, blood hot through the cold. "In an ideal set of circumstances, we'd be able to build the best possible strategy for the four remaining targets. However, as we know, Westmeath already has an interest in finding Jameson again, so he's the highest priority." It wasn't as frightening as when Charleville had reached out to the Moriartys, but how much longer would it take for Westmeath to find out about him and come asking for the same things?
"Of course," William continued, "we won't be able to reuse the carriage strategy that we did before—there's no way to pass that off as a coincidence, after all. However, after conducting some research, it seems that Westmeath has a bit of a gambling indulgence in the way of playing cards at taverns. While he doesn't have a particular haunt he always attends, it seems it's not unusual for him to end the evening with taking a woman along with him, often not returning home until the next morning."
Jameson frowned. Revenge for his own suffering was his primary goal, but he did want to also prevent others from going through what he had. While Westmeath hadn't had as brutal tastes as Charleville did, the idea that the baron had more targets than Jameson was enough to send a shiver up his spine. Then again, didn't his own discomfort stem from the fact that Westmeath insisted on coming to him, treating him like a woman and indulging in his blood? Could there be women out there much more willing to indulge a man with money?
But if he was willing to force you, doesn't that mean he'd be willing to force others?
Jameson exhaled, trying to refocus on the conversation at hand. If Westmeath went out, enjoying cards and women, why not take advantage of that? Hadn't that been what Jameson had been planning when refusing the surgery upon his chest?
"William," Jameson said, his resolve settled back within him, ready to move forward with that fire once again burning inside his lungs, "did one of your plans involve what we discussed before?"
"Hm?" Albert asked, the sound of his chair legs scraping against concrete suggesting that he'd leaned forward in his seat. "Did you already have an idea in mind, Jameson?"
"Nothing more than the briefest beginnings of a strategy." To call it a plan would be a vast exaggeration, but there was also no need to hold back on what he had decided, seeing as it would be the key lynchpin to the entire endeavour. "I've decided that I'll make myself the bait to lure Westmeath." Jameson had been around the Moriarty brothers enough to recognize the sound of Albert beginning to speak, but he didn't give the Earl an opportunity to finish. "I am well aware of the risks and that this is not necessary. However, I believe this will be the best option to catch the baron off guard so that I can handle things myself.
"If you intend to deny me the opportunity to choose my own path, then don't bother pretending as if you'll help."
To say so was rude—beyond it at that. It would have been rude in any situation, but all the more so since Albert was the one allowing Jameson to stay in his home. Jameson had no right to be indignant, no grounds for becoming combative before any counterargument could even be given, and yet he was incapable of remaining calm. Just like he'd told Louis before, just like he'd experienced when facing down Charleville and the rage that boiled over him upon hearing the contents of Stratford's will, Jameson was burning like fire, and he couldn't stand the thought of that ambition being stopped.
Whatever Albert had been planning to say, he didn't follow through on it, though a glance back showed a complicated expression on his face that seemed out of place in comparison to his usual relaxed demeanour. Jameson didn't understand why he and William alike were so concerned. Miss Penny's worry for his wellbeing made sense—she'd known him as a child, not to mention she didn't know the truth.
Neither of those factors applied to the Moriarty brothers, and yet.
And yet.
What a waste of their care and concern for Jameson—for someone who didn't even deserve it.
What? Do you want me to hold onto my honour? What's the point when I've already been ruined? These are my choices, and I won't let anyone else tell me otherwise. Not William, not Albert, and least of all Westmeath. The baron wanted blood?
Jameson would give him more blood than he can handle.
"Let's not waste time on arguing over the methods."
The careful retort Jameson had been preparing to make Albert see things his way slipped out of his mind. Out of anyone, he'd almost expected William to step in, seeing as his role as the lead of the meeting was clear, but no.
It had been Louis.
"I'm sure that Brother has already considered all the options," Louis continued, his tone matter of fact and leaving no room for disagreement. "And I'm sure that Jameson has done the same. It's a reasonable enough strategy, and it should be more than distracting. So long as Jameson is willing to go through with it and we come up with contingency plans, there's no reason to use whatever resources we have available to us. That's been your reasoning, right?"
Rather than Albert, those last words were directed at Jameson, and it took him several moments to recognise that, process the question, and nod in response.
"Then we should leave it at that. There's no sense in wasting time on debating these details and leaving a harmful target to his own devices." Albert didn't look satisfied by the logic, but the fact that he didn't come back with an immediate counterargument also spoke volumes. Perhaps Jameson should've stepped in to move the conversation along, but he was too stunned by the fact that Louis had taken his side to do so. "Brother, what sort of roles did you have in mind for us?"
Unlike Jameson, William had no issues with stepping up to move things along once the opportunity presented itself. "The main goal would be to have us around in case something goes wrong. Even so, the rest of us associating with Jameson would complicate matters. One of us at least should be present for the gambling stage, and at least one of us needs to be ready to help with transportation. I believe a more covert operation would be for the best, if you don't mind, Jameson?"
Having been asked outright, Jameson pulled himself enough together to respond, "So long as I can kill him in the same night, I don't have any objections." Jameson wouldn't be able to stand his presence longer than that, but a little bit of delay would be worth it so that he could continue to execute his revenge in the long run.
"I have no intention of denying you that," William said, and Jameson couldn't help but smile. "Unlike last time, most of the supporting roles aren't very particular, so any of us can fill them in. Thus, we'll have lookout during the gambling, manning the carriage, and the one responsible for catching Westmeath off guard and assisting with the capture, so we just need to determine…"
"I'll take the last role," Albert said. His tone hadn't been harsh, but it was clear that he was allowing no room for argument—not that there was any reason to argue with him in the first place. Whenever Jameson locked eyes with him, Albert managed to put that smile on again, the same one that seemed so pristine but that Jameson could tell was strained. "If you'll be kind enough to have me, I'll be helping you during the critical phase again."
Jameson nodded, not thinking it prudent to probe Albert for what he was thinking. "Thank you in advance for your help."
William made a note upon the board before contemplating the other roles he'd already outlined. It was a bit amusing to think that the scene of him with chalk in hand and providing an explanation was so much like the professor he worked as, and yet so different. "Alright. With that in mind, I think I might be best for the first phase. I've been considering making some extra commotion to distract any potential witnesses from seeing the baron leave with Jameson in tow, so I was considering…"
Since William had sorted out most of the planning already, the rest of the strategy meeting didn't take longer than ironing out the general outline and making sure everyone understood what they would be responsible for in the long run. After the murder of Charleville, Jameson had every confidence that the plan would go off without a hitch—or at least that the Moriarty brothers would be capable of improvising for any mistakes that might be made along the way.
Though it does feel a bit ironic that we stopped abductions beforehand and now we'll be conducting one ourselves…
There was a difference, of course. The ring that had been active around Whitechapel had been interested in human trafficking, viewing human lives as having no worth than as merchandise. For Jameson and the Moriarty brothers, they were trying to end a single life, one that had no qualms about hurting others for his own pleasure.
Even if Jameson had been the sole victim of the Baron Westmeath, he had decided that was one victim too many.
Jameson had to keep that resolve in mind, because the role he was to play would be much more difficult than the last.
When handling Charleville, it had been more than enough for Jameson to be himself in his truest form, a man attending a dinner to which he had received an invitation. There had been a moment where Charleville had viewed Jameson with sexual desire, but it hadn't had the opportunity to become intrusive. Furthermore, for everything awful about him, Charleville had never viewed Jameson's biology as a concern, the prospect of having a willing body much more important than any of the particulars.
Westmeath was a different matter altogether. His interest in Jameson had been very much due to his ability to menstruate, and thus the baron had treated Jameson like a woman every step of the way, and Stratford had dressed Jameson as such whence the time came for those monthly visits. As such, Jameson was going to have to embrace that in his appearance for the maximum effect, which meant once again donning a dress and a wig to complete the picture, turning him into an even more appealing prize, one that could distract Westmeath away from his cards for the evening to indulge in his other, much guiltier pleasure.
Such reasons were why Jameson had opted to decline the surgery upon his chest, after all, He'd known all along that such scenarios would be in his future, and he'd accepted them as necessary to accomplish his desires, seen them as worth the discomfort they would bring. But now, on the day their plan was to be executed and that Jameson would need to go through with it, he couldn't help but stare at himself in the mirror, a hand pressed against his chest where he could find the faint bulge of his chest, no matter how tight his bindings.
It had been two months since he'd had to dress as a woman, which seemed impossible. Even when Stratford had allowed Jameson to wear his suits, it was never a permanent agreement. The day he'd met William, Jameson had been in a dress from dawn to noon, the pretty doll taking on his mother's visage. The fact that he could now go the rest of his life never having to dress in such a way again was almost enough for him to ask William to revise the plan. He was sure that the Moriarty brothers were more than skilled in abductions when need be, given the way they'd hashed out the details with ease during the meeting.
And yet.
Jameson still wanted to do it himself.
Jameson wanted to do everything he was capable of on his own, without having to rely on others.
If I can do this, maybe I can prove to myself that I'm the one that has power, no matter what scenario I am in.
With the faint hope that such a wish would come to fruition, Jameson cast one last glance upon his reflection before turning to the clothes that had been procured for the evening and beginning to change.
Finding out Westmeath's pattern of indulgences had been a rather simple matter. The first was for Albert to make use of his many social connections, to see who amongst his circle knew the man—or who knew someone who knew someone that knew the man, as it often turned out to be. The nobility were a tight-knit group in many ways, so it was simple to get introductions at most times, even when Albert's younger age compared to his peers posed some challenge. That said, there was often some servant or another who would be willing to chat, and so the Moriartys had discovered the Baron Westmeath's weekend habit of finding gambling and women to satisfy him.
From there, it had been a simple matter of seeking out his probable haunts, collecting information on when he'd last been at said places (often procured through a quite generous tip in addition to one's tab), and then deducing a rough pattern. Human beings weren't as straightforward as mathematical equations, didn't always pick the same locations on a cycle—but they still had their preferences, and all it took was a little bit of observation to confirm the location and head out onto the stage.
And so William had kept himself occupied at the pub with a drink or two, though he kept his consumption low so as not to damage his focus. His tolerance was reasonable, but nowhere on the level of Albert's, so it was best to not go overboard, even if he didn't have the most important role for the night at all. Still, he'd managed to obtain a seat that made it easy to watch the Baron Westmeath on the opposite side of the room.
It was something that William had thought before, but it was remarkable the way that they seemed like normal people, the devils who plagued the country. No one would suspect that the man with a cordial smile and boisterous laugh as he played cards would be anything other than a gentleman, albeit one with the somewhat coarse but still acceptable habit of gambling. Such a thing was considered sport, and William wouldn't even have thought twice about the man if he hadn't already known.
If Jameson hadn't admitted what he'd gone through.
That was the type of evil they were trying to eliminate.
William realized that he'd been gripping upon his mug with far more force than was necessary, and he forced himself to relax. Though he had an exceptional amount of patience, he still found that, whenever the plan was in motion, whenever it was so close to the moment of punishment, he couldn't help but wish for the moment to pass, wish for it all to be over, so that—
The usual chatter of the bar increased the slightest bit in volume at once, and someone even let loose a whistle of appreciation that snapped William from his thoughts.
Jameson had arrived.
It was no surprise whatsoever that he attracted attention: between his natural beauty and the careful consideration of his disguise for the evening, he was stunning to look at, even without any of the complicated and expensive accessories of the upper classes. The blonde wig matched his complexion well, and the dress, while simple, was the right shade of dark green to tie his appearance together. No wonder the men at the bar were compelled to pay attention—and yet William couldn't agree with their opinions in full. Yes, Jameson was attractive, but how was William to care for the appearance of a lovely woman before him whenever he'd seen the sharp appearance of Jameson in his suit, whenever he'd witnessed that face light up in a smile of elation that brought out his true appeal so that so very much outclassed the woman before them all that didn't even exist?
Of course, that was the point: that Jameson look unrecognizable. Even if the patrons of the bar remembered the woman he was disguised as after the Baron Westmeath went missing, they wouldn't even consider that a young nobleman would be the one responsible. William continued to watch Jameson, though the other man never once looked right at him. They'd agreed that it would be for the best if they didn't associate with each other at all. William was confident enough in his acting skills that he could pretend that they were total strangers, but Jameson still needed some practice in the matter, so they wouldn't take the risk.
That said, he couldn't help but wish he could provide some support as Jameson first picked up a drink from the bar, then made his way over to the table where Westmeath was engrossed in a game of poker to watch. William had glanced at the table every now and then, finding that the winnings hadn't been favourable to any one player over the other, and the same was true now. Still, Jameson managed to keep a polite smile on his face, though it was still recognisable as a façade to William, even from a distance. Whatever piece of himself Jameson tucked away to be able to stand everything he'd gone through, he was doing so now, and it would be different than the dinner table with Charleville present, because William wouldn't be at his side to provide reassurance whenever it was necessary.
Never mind Jameson not being able to do anything on his own because he becomes too reliant on me; at this rate, I shall be the one spoiling him into such a state. Jameson didn't want that, so William would have to behave himself—and regardless, no one deserved to be tied to him in such a manner.
Deciding that was more than enough, William picked up his drink and stood, meandering over to another table where a different game of cards was being played: Vingt-Un. The rules were simple, but the large factor of chance made it very popular as a gambling option even amongst the working classes, seeing as all you needed to do to play the game at a base level was add up simple numbers. With that said, there was a lot more nuance and strategy at hand should you delve into it.
One of the players was squinting at his cards, debating if it was worth it to take the chance or play it safe. From a quick survey of the rest of the table, William could see he wouldn't win in his current state, though there was also a high chance of busting—but even so.
"You should take the hit," William said, offering a smile. The returning look was one of disbelief, but William was more than used to that upon giving such suggestions. "It's what I would do," he added, not changing his demeanour in the slightest. "If it makes you feel better, I'll cover your next drink if I'm wrong?"
That offer seemed to be enough for the man to lower his defences. "Don't go back on your word there, boy. Alright, here goes!"
The card flipped over and—while it wasn't enough to reach the upper limit of twenty-one—it was enough for his cards to add up to twenty, which was more than enough to make the other players at the table groan in defeat. Coins were passed around, and the winner looked beyond pleased. "Phew, I never would've made that play on my own! What made you think that was the right move to take?"
"Oh, it's nothing too complicated." That comment got him further looks of disbelief, not unlike the ones he got from his students when introducing a new mathematical concept to them. "There are a limited number of cards in the deck, after all. Once you see what all is on the board—" an easy enough task as they were playing all hands face up, as opposed to another variant "—you can calculate your options and see how probable it is you'll be met with success."
A couple of the players looked to the cards again, wondering if they could figure out the solution. Another man, sitting opposite of the one that William had helped, said, "If you're so sure of yourself, you wouldn't be opposed to wagering some money on those calculations, now would ya?"
Given that his natural intelligence often gave him the unfair advantage, he tended not to involve himself in gambling—aside from smaller wagers with his family or compatriots, who knew very well what they were getting into. However, that evening, attracting attention was the main ambition, and a bit of showy card playing was an excellent way to do so. "Well, it's not a perfect method by any means," he said, accepting the chair that was offered to him, "but I was just thinking it's been some time since I enjoyed some cards for sport. If you're offering, it would be rude of me not to join…"
And with that, the players all returned their cards to the deck before drawing their opening cards. William found himself face to face with the Jack of Hearts, and his lips quirked the slightest into a genuine smile before he focused back on the table, surveying the playing field.
Unbeknownst to anyone but him, the real game was just about to start.
Just like it had been with Charleville before him, the hardest part of the strategy was not snapping and killing Westmeath in public. Every part of Jameson was ready for it, was ready to repeat the sensation of driving knife into flesh, but it would do no good at all to do so in front of so many witnesses.
Thus: Jameson taking his time and waiting for the appropriate moment to catch Westmeath's attention. That part hadn't been difficult—once dolled up, Jameson was well aware how much attention he could attract. Even without being overdressed, he caught the eyes of most of the patrons of the bar.
Jameson rather thought it was a miracle he didn't want to tear off his own skin with so much attention on him. Perhaps it was the rage at seeing Westmeath again that was keeping every other disgusting feeling away from him at the moment. Either way, Jameson wasn't about to complain.
With a drink in hand, it had been easy to turn into a spectator of the poker game Westmeath was participating in. Jameson hadn't had much opportunity to play himself—it wasn't something ladies should indulge in, after all—but he'd watched enough games to learn the rules. Everyone at the table was at an average level of play, but it didn't seem to bother Westmeath that he was losing coins on the regular. One of the benefits of privilege, Jameson supposed.
It wasn't enough to just be a spectator, though; if Jameson were to guarantee that he could isolate Westmeath, he needed to ensure he caught the man's attention enough to leave with him. That was simple enough, too—a compliment on his gameplay here, a smile there. Once Jameson got into the rhythm of seduction again, it wasn't anywhere near as difficult as he'd imagined it would be. Not all that much longer, and Jameson was all but sidled up to the baron's side, watching his hand with the occasional feigned ignorance of needing an explanation for what he was doing, and an awful lot more of holding his tongue as Westmeath made a subpar choice in which cards to switch out.
All along, the knife he had for self-defence purposes sang a siren's song from where it was tucked into Jameson's skirts, begging for blood.
Not looking up and finding William's presence in the room was just the slightest bit less difficult from restraining himself from cutting Westmeath's throat then and there. He refrained, though, and it felt even more impressive than when he'd let Charleville live through dinner, just because William wasn't there to stop him.
"Well, it seems they're having quite the time over there," one of the other men whom Charleville was playing against said, leaning back a bit to look at the small crowd that had formed around another table. Though there were too many people to see, Jameson knew that William would be at the centre of attention, just as they'd planned. "I reckon' I'll go see what all the fuss is about. What about you lot?"
A couple of the others agreed, one of the men setting about cleaning up the leftover cards. It made sense that card players would want to see someone else who either had great skill or great luck on his side. Jameson glanced at Charleville, attempting to read the Baron's reaction to see what his own next move would be—and just happened to lock eyes in the process, blue to green.
Jameson ducked his head, half so it would appear that he were embarrassed, half to hide the smirk that threatened to break out upon his lips.
"You all have fun," Charleville said, waving the other men off. "I think I'll retire for the evening. Thanks for the game, gentlemen. We'll have to play again next time."
No next time for you, Jameson thought, the words almost a vow to himself. No, the Baron Charleville would play one last game—one where Jameson was his opponent and the cards were so stacked against him that there wasn't the slightest chance of victory. Jameson was so caught up in the thought that he almost missed Charleville saying, "Though if I could impose on the lady for a bit of company…"
While Jameson usually felt brittle while putting on his fake smile, in that moment it was so simple that the look on his face was almost natural—although for very different reasons than what Charleville expected of the encounter. "I'd be honoured, sir, but…" Jameson glanced down, halfway fidgeting in the motion, and summoned the blush he'd learned how to muster. "I'm afraid that, right now this month, I…"
He left the sentence incomplete, but there was no doubt in his mind that Charleville would fill in the blank to imply menstruation was involved—and it was a wonderful thing not to worry about such things anymore, but he couldn't start celebrating the fact now. Not whenever Charleville offered a smile so kind it was a wonder he was even capable of making it in the first place. "I assure you, that won't be a problem at all."
"I-if you're certain…"
"I assure you, I don't consider it a matter of concern."
Such politeness was almost enough to make Jameson feel sick, which was very much the opposite of the intended effect. But what was he to do? He knew too much to see the words as anything but a guise for malice. And if he was wrong, if Westmeath had no intentions of hurting the woman he believed he was leaving the bar with? Jameson had thought about it, and he had but one answer to give to that line of logic:
So what?
Did it somehow mean that Westmeath should be cleared of all wrongs if the one person he had ever treated with malicious intent had been Jameson? Did he get a passing mark if he was kind to everyone else in the world aside from the one unwilling victim he had paid to get his hands on, a couple of times a month, without fail for the past three years?
Not in the world William wants to make.
Not in a world where I get to make that call.
Jameson and Westmeath were but a few metres away from the bar, and already adrenaline was pumping through the former's veins, a sweet sensation that reminded him of what was possible, of what reminded him that he was in control. It hadn't been difficult at all to convince Westmeath to follow Jameson down a narrow street with little lighting and just away enough from the main streets, and every ounce of Jameson's determination was overwhelming him to the point that he didn't feel anything else, even as he dipped to his knees in the dark and began the work of undoing Westmeath's belt.
You can't hurt me anymore.
The scenario was a little bit different than when he'd taken William in his hands and pleasured him in the parlour, but the skills required were simple enough. Westmeath hadn't been hard before, but a few well-executed tugs were enough to pull him towards an erection. Once that was in progress, Jameson opened his mouth, popping Westmeath's head inside—and from there it was such a familiar set of motions that he didn't even need to think about what he was doing. He didn't even need to bring the baron to release; so long as Westmeath's attention was focused on the service he was receiving, it would just be a matter of time until it was over. But wouldn't it, Jameson found himself thinking instead of concentrating, be enjoyable to see how William would react if I—
There was a grunt and a groan that had nothing to do with sexual pleasure, and Jameson let the penis slip from his mouth just in time to see the shadow of Albert pressing a cloth to Westmeath's face, the faintest tinge of a chemical scent in the air. And then the baron stopped struggling, having fell into unconsciousness. Even through the dark, it was possible to see the moment when Albert's look of serious consideration morphed into a smile.
"Are you doing alright?" Albert asked, hauling Westmeath over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing.
Jameson collected the salvia in his mouth and spit onto the ground as he stood, then dusted off his skirt. "I think I'd like to castrate him."
The comment pulled one of Albert's melodic chuckles into the air, though he made sure not to laugh out loud. "If you were to do such a thing here, you'd risk leaving evidence behind." Jameson couldn't help but notice that Albert hadn't said Jameson couldn't do such a thing, and it was the first time since he'd left Moriarty Manor that evening that Jameson felt at ease. "That being said, we should be going. No sense in wasting time here when we have an appointment to keep."
And just like that, they disappeared into the darkness.
Within the past week, Jameson had learned that Moriarty Manor was not the one piece of private property the Earldom owned. Of course, most nobility owned and leased out land to the working classes, and even Stratford had a residence within London for when it was necessary to visit for the social season or other business affairs. Even with that in mind, though, the Moriartys' primary residence was already in London, so there wasn't much other reason for them to have another home within the city.
Or that would be the case if it weren't for their crime consultancy.
The case where Albert had feigned murdering Charleville was an anomaly, one that they'd done for no other reason than there were witnesses seeing the two of them leave together. Since Jameson had requested to continue executing the regulars with his own hand, they needed less flashy situations—and thus the reason for the one of many additional residences:
They were the perfect place to complete murders without risking any witnesses.
And that was how Jameson found himself in the basement, Westmeath tied to a chair by Albert's assistance. The Earl of Moriarty wasn't present now, nor was Louis, though they were just upstairs should Jameson need their assistance. Westmeath was still unconscious, and Jameson was in the middle of orienting himself.
If he was there, the plan had been successful, and that was what mattered. It felt surreal. It was just a matter of how he wanted to go about it, aside from the obvious. The knife was in his hand, but did he want the baron to be awake? Would he regret it if he didn't make Westmeath understand what was happening before his death? He'd stabbed Charleville a few times, but that had been more to assure himself that the job was done rather than any sense of torture. It mattered much more to Jameson that he was responsible.
It's not like any of them ever cared what state I was in.
Jameson gripped the knife tighter, the bodice of his dress feeling as if it were restricting his breathing. It had seemed pointless to change, seeing as he was going to get blood everywhere, but now the garment was enough to make his skin crawl. He wanted it to be over, wanted to be back in his preferred clothes, wanted to be reassured that Westmeath was dead and would never hurt anyone again.
Without even checking to see if the man was waking, Jameson stepped forward and brought the knife down. Metal sheered through flesh, and the scent of copper entered the air. There was a moment where Westmeath gasped, but the sound was soon lost as Jameson repeated his actions, ensuring that his target's life came to an end. The warmth of blood had seeped onto his hands, but that was fine, that was proof that he'd succeeded.
The basement might have been dark, but the colour red was clear in his mind. Winter might have been almost over, but he remembered the snow. More than anything, though, he remembered his mother, and he wasn't sure if that was a good omen or a bad one.
"Two down, though…"
The satisfaction at last caught up to him, a smile curling on his lips as Jameson wiped the blood off on a clean part of his skirts, sheathed the knife, and went to change.
One of the difficulties with running a crime consultancy was needing to complete the crime in secret, ensuring that the deed couldn't be traced back to the Moriarty family nor the client. In some cases, that was simple: all the way back to that first crime committed as brothers, William had been adept at coming up with means of demise that could be passed off as other causes—a dose of medicine meant to replicate a health complication, a fire burning down a manor in the middle of the night.
Once the methods of death became more violent, that added even more complications to the mix. What would become of the body? Was it one they could leave be, setting up the circumstances as an unsolvable crime? Or did they need to leave no trace of the corpse at all, pass the case off as nothing more than a missing person? William was often the one to make those decisions to ensure they achieved the desired effect as requested by the client.
Jameson's request was looking to complicate matters.
Five targets, including the one they'd already taken care of, in addition to the initial case of the Viscount of Aldborough. It was the first time they'd ever conducted such a large-scale operation, and Louis couldn't help but feel concern. He had faith in William's plans as always, but to carry out a series of interconnected murders over the course of a year without exposing their own culpability in the matter, and with an inexperienced member of their team on top of that?
It all felt too risky, so Louis's logic opposed the idea on principle alone—and yet he couldn't bring himself to argue in full, either.
"You have that look on your face again," Albert said, sitting opposite of Louis. The home had furnishings, just in case it would be used for an in-depth consultation with a client, and that was where they sat. Considering the plan involved just members of their family, they hadn't brought in any refreshments, so the brothers had nothing to do but sit and wait.
The last fact was a shame, because Louis could have used some tea; not because he was thirsty, but instead so he could have something to pass the time with while they waited for Jameson to finish the job.
"I don't know what look you're referring to," Louis said, though he knew very much what Albert was talking about.
Albert also knew that he understood, but he played along anyways. "The one that means you're trying to solve a complicated problem on your own instead of asking for help. As your brother, I'm more than willing to listen, should you need it." Should you need to talk to someone other than William about it, he seemed to be saying. "Is this about Jameson again?"
Louis couldn't even begin to feel upset about being read with so little effort, not whenever it wasn't hard to guess what was on his mind. Beyond that, he couldn't help but glance down to where the basement lied below—where Jameson hadn't yet called for help and was no doubt taking his time on his vengeance. "I…think I've lost my ability to think objectively about the situation."
Albert didn't need to ask any follow up questions—the look on his face was more than enough to urge Louis to continue.
It had been some time since Louis felt as if he were under such intense scrutiny, and he glanced down to his hands folded in his lap as he continued, "Since we investigated the human trafficking, I've been thinking on and off about what Jameson has gone through. The courses of our lives are different, yes, but they're also similar. It's…difficult enough for anyone to be put in the position of an object used for pleasure. To think he endured that while also being treated as his birth sex…" As someone who shared such an identity and had had enough issues without the abuse Jameson had endured, Louis couldn't imagine the full scope of how much worse things must have been.
"And on top of that," Louis continued, "he's willing to go so far as to use that difference for his benefit, though it does make him uncomfortable." He may have stood up for Jameson's preferred approach during the strategy meeting, but he still felt a bit unsure to why he'd done it—and all the more so when he'd seen Jameson dressed in women's fineries, that tension in his shoulders and jawline indicating his desire to not want to be wearing the clothes, but enduring, nonetheless. "…I'm starting to feel that there wouldn't be any way someone would go so far to betray us in the end."
Albert's expression didn't change in the slightest from his already relaxed state. "Isn't that good news, then? Gaining another ally should prove to be a boon in the long run. Yes, it will take Jameson some time to receive training to rise to our usual standards, but if we can trust him, that's more important than any other qualification, is it not?"
Louis knew that Albert was right. It should have been good news. And yet admitting as such made him feel more unease than its opposite. The worst part was that Louis recognised the feeling, one that he thought he'd grown out of long ago:
The concern that someone might take William's attention away from him.
William, who ensured that Louis he existed.
It was foolish and irrational. No matter how many other allies had joined their cause, William had never once set Louis aside, never once ignored his remaining blood relative. It hadn't happened when they'd joined forces with Albert, when they'd begun their lessons with Maestro Jack, nor when William had taken Moran into his employ. Of course, the scenarios were different from each other, but they'd all involved bringing someone new into their lives.
Was it the prospect that Jameson might become something different than just an ally that brought out Louis's concern? If so, he felt even more foolish than he already had.
"Louis," Albert said, his tone gentle and caring. How much of Louis's thoughts had he managed to read during the stretch of that silence? "You know Will loves you more than anyone else, don't you?" From a logical perspective, the answer was yes, but from the more illogical space of his feelings… "Part of him wants to change the world for you. And even beyond that, Jameson doesn't want to get in the way of any of that." Louis had already witnessed that, too, had seen the way Jameson had given up his place in an outing for Louis's sake. "Not to mention that if anything does change in an unfavourable way, it doesn't have to be that way forever. We're already planning to change this broken system, aren't we? I think we're more than capable of mending misunderstandings between ourselves."
All of that was more than true—and yet Louis couldn't help but be terrified of any such misunderstandings happening in the first place. William was everything that had kept Louis going their entire lives. To lose that support, even for an instant…
The sound of the basement door opening kept Louis from needing to complete that thought. Not even exchanging a word, Albert and Louis stood up to go and greet Jameson. Without the wig, there was something surreal about seeing the man they'd come to know in a dress that accentuated his natural figure, but the blood running down the front made it seem as if it fit—not because Jameson needed to look like a woman, but because the evidence of bringing death was one that was suited to his overall demeanour.
Fire, Jameson had said in the kitchen. It feels like fire.
And Louis could see that fire now, that blaze not having been extinguished in the slightest by the murder that had just taken place in the basement. If anything, Louis thought that Jameson looked even more ablaze, as if each successful bid for his vengeance and freedom was but adding fuel to the flames. By the end of it, would he be an inferno, unable to be put down, or would he burn himself to ashes?
"You brought in my change of clothes, right?" Jameson asked, not elaborating on how the murder itself had gone. And then, without either brother commenting, he tugged on his skirt and said, "I'd also like to burn this before we go."
That was a feeling that Louis found more than relatable, and he nodded in time with Albert's smile. "That won't be a problem at all. Let's clean up here and get ourselves home, shall we?"
In most cases, William did not feel as if he needed to oversee every last moment of the crimes he orchestrated. Oh, if he could be the one to accomplish the deed or if his presence was essential, he would be there, yes. But in some cases, where showing up would be unnecessary or even attract more undue attention to a place, it was best for him to wait for news from his brothers to know the results.
The roles that they'd chosen for themselves meant that, after entertaining the pub with various card tricks for a few hours, William didn't have much more to do than go home and wait. He'd started by smoking his usual cigarette, but unlike before, Jameson hadn't arrived mid-tobacco, and that just left William to pass the time. He'd spent some time in his office, making progress on reviewing the latest academic publications in mathematics, and, though the information had stuck, he wasn't able to achieve his typical level of focus.
He had every faith that things would go well—Louis would have already gotten him from the pub if they'd failed to capture Westmeath as planned, and the rest from there was failproof. The Baron would die—but would Jameson be alright? He'd insisted on the approach, and he'd kept himself together in the pub, but William couldn't help but worry re-exposing himself to such trauma would be enough to shatter his resolve.
Which was why Albert was so insistent on taking the role of helping to capture Westmeath. Again, the lack of any news from Louis meant that that hadn't been an immediate issue, but how long could that last? It was an unusual situation indeed whenever William couldn't just relax and have faith in his strategy, back up plans included.
Perhaps I'm just tired. With his main thesis completed not that long ago, there was the pressure lurking in his mind. Not to mention the additional strain of planning a crime consultation and arranging all the logistics of Jameson's surgery. William hadn't yet reached his mental limit—if he had, he would already have been unconscious—but there was never any harm in staving off his unwilling slumbers as long as he could.
With that logic to spur him on, William left his unfinished reading upon his desk and got up, turning off the lights before exiting the room. Perhaps he would reach his limit and fall into sleep, sparing himself from the worries lingering in his mind. By the time he awoke, it would be morning, the entire operation over and another success would be there to set Jameson further free from the shackles of his past.
And then, from further down the unlit hallway, there was a movement in the shadow. William blinked himself back to awareness, but soon it was clear Jameson had arrived home. William had been thinking of it before, but it was nice to see his earlier hypothesis proven true: that Jameson looked much better dressed in his suit than the dress he'd been in before. He also seemed to be well, the evidence of a successful kill, but it was hard to tell in such lighting whether that expression of emotion was genuine or whether it was Jameson trying to present himself as such.
William's intent to observe Jameson from a closer vantage point to check didn't pan out, not because Jameson's ability to conceal his true thoughts had improved, but instead because Jameson had pulled William into an embrace upon being in range. At first, William thought Jameson had been containing his distress until that moment, but Jameson didn't seem to be shaking, so…
"Should we make it a rule that if I embrace you first, I'm hoping for you to return the favour?"
Jameson peeked up at William from his chest, the gesture rather adorable, and it was enough to help ease the worries that had been leftover. William allowed himself a smile, at last doing as Jameson wished and wrapping both arms around his middle. "Apologies. I wasn't sure how you would be feeling after…" In a moment that was uncharacteristic for him, William trailed off, not having the appropriate words to make the end of the sentence seem less awful.
However, Jameson had no such concerns, seeing as he finished, "After servicing someone else?" Seeing as he'd been the one to say it, William couldn't deny the implication, and so he nodded. "I'll admit it's not how I want to enjoy myself, but…as a piece of the plan, I don't mind. It was…easier than I thought it would be."
Does that bother you? Do you still want to keep going? Are you asking me to stop you? To voice any of those questions seemed unfair, so William did no such thing. Jameson's tone and demeanour seemed more than stable, so William would not do anything to upset him when it would be unnecessary. "I take it you would rather have company tonight than staying on your own?"
"Please." If Jameson was asking, then there was no need to turn it down. Jameson at last stepped back from the hug, but the look on his face had brightened considerably since he'd first arrived.
"If you want, we can take tea in my room," William said, already starting to head down the hall. If things had gone the exact way they were planned, that meant Jameson had provided an ample distraction in the form of fellatio, and William doubted he'd had the opportunity to erase the feeling from his mouth. A drink would solve that problem without issue. "You're free to enter; I'll go start —"
Jameson's hand caught onto William's.
William stopped, not sure how to take the gesture. If it were just a matter of Jameson not wanting to be alone, he could understand it—but also William hadn't been able to erase the memory of the aftermath of Jameson's first case, of the very hand now in William's grasp holding onto something very different indeed. He hadn't wanted to erase the memory, but he did wish his mind that was so adept at creating associations that were so often essential to his insights and planning would have eased up in the slightest for just a moment, so that he could make the sound decision, and not one driven by his baser instincts.
And then Jameson took a step closer, hugging William's arm instead of simply holding onto it, and William found it very hard to maintain his composure as he checked to ensure Jameson's state of mind was still intact and that he wasn't dealing with the hollow version of the man that surfaced upon occasion.
It took but a glance to prove that was not a concern whatsoever. Jameson was looking up at William with great expectation, and their faces had grown close enough that William could almost feel the heat of Jameson's blush. "While I did it," Jameson said, his voice trembling the slightest amount but his tone betraying his excitement, "I thought about you." That admission sent a much stronger jolt through William than it should have, but he kept himself steady, kept to the promise he'd made that Jameson would always be the one to initiate. "I'd much rather with you instead."
"And what," William found himself asking before he could stop himself, "was it that you would rather do?"
For all that they'd planned the details of that evening, there had been no discussion of the precise details of Jameson's seduction. Something about providing instruction didn't seem right, and Jameson hadn't requested any assistance. Though the majority of his past experiences had been negative, there was no doubting he was experienced, as well as familiar with Westmeath enough that he could—as evidence proved—handle the matter himself.
But if Jameson were to proposition William with such a premise, it seemed essential to ask so that William could do his part.
Jameson's smile had turned sly, one of his hands managing to slip down William's side and even further to the top of his thigh. "Why don't you let me do you a favour, my lord?"
Had he said the same thing to Westmeath as they'd left the pub? It shouldn't have mattered—and yet William couldn't erase the concern from his mind. It was because of his distraction that Jameson had no issue with pulling him up the stairs and to Jameson's bedchamber, though it wasn't long before they were inside and Jameson had dropped to his knees in a motion so fluid William didn't have any time to react before there was the clatter of his belt being undone.
William felt that he might protest—but if Jameson had asked for it, should he? William had fantasized about such a thing, in fleeting moments as he familiarised himself with Jameson's kiss, and he couldn't deny the prospect was inviting. Jameson's smile was pristine and clear, his gaze almost intense as he studied William's still soft penis before wrapping his fingers around it. Perhaps William was getting ahead of himself, imaging something as perverse as Jameson taking him into his mouth and servicing him, and he took but a step back to brace himself against the wall, rather than taking a free-standing approach.
And then Jameson's lips kissed William's head, and he supposed he hadn't been jumping to conclusions after all.
Much like with his hands about a month and a half ago, Jameson's approach was nice and slow. He kept William's penis resting upon the palm of his hand, the other rubbing the inside of his thigh. That bit of stimulation might have been enough to coax William into arousal, but the additional sensation of Jameson's lips all but guaranteed it. And when those lips parted, opening to hot, wet kisses, to the slide of a tongue against his flesh—
"Jameson," he murmured in appreciation, giving back the one thing he could in his position. And upon looking down, he was rewarded with the most pleased smile before Jameson at last opened up and took William into his mouth proper.
It had been some time since William had been pleasured in such a way, and perhaps that was what made the feeling seem so rapturous. But to make such a presumption would do little to credit Jameson's own contribution, which was also rather significant. He took a moment to get used to the feel of William filling up his mouth, and then he began to suck upon the tip in earnest.
As such, it wasn't long at all before William had mustered a full erection, further spurned on by Jameson taking more into his mouth. It wasn't the entirety of his length, no, but what Jameson was managing was more than enough to make William let out a sigh of pleasure. Jade green eyes flicked up to him, and William offered a smile. "You're even better than I imagined, dear."
Surprise flickered on Jameson's face for a moment, colour flushing the skin beneath his freckles. William reached out to caress a knuckle up the side of Jameson's cheek. There was a faint vibration as Jameson shivered at the touch, and then a far less faint sensation as he began to suck. The resulting pressure was immediate, William's eyes fluttering half shut. As Jameson set the pace at a steady yet not too slow clip, William's instincts urged him to move his hips in kind, but he restrained himself.
Stay, the grip on William's beltloops seemed to be saying. Let me take care of you.
And even if that presumption was wrong, William didn't want to chance pushing Jameson too far. Traditional intercourse was one matter—after all, he'd gotten a good feel of Jameson's limits there first-hand—but oral was a bit more complicated. Pushing too far could affect anyone, and the possibility of that was even more probable given Jameson's history. If nothing else, William did enjoy a slower pace, so it wasn't unbearable, but even so…
I'm not accustomed to feeling this much desire. "Jameson," he said again, not bothering to restrain the pleasure in his voice, "you're wonderful." The simple compliment earned a pleased moan, which just built William's satisfaction even more. Further, Jameson's fingers wrapped around William's base, offering friction where his mouth did not, and William's next words were replaced with a groan. "If you keep that up, I'll—"
But that seemed to be the point, if the way Jameson didn't let up in the slightest was any indication. He bobbed his head a few more times, adding in an extra suck every now and then, and William braced himself against the wall as best he could with nothing to grab purchase on. The pressure inside him was building to almost unbearable levels, and William did his best to provide a warning before his orgasm arrived and began to spill into Jameson's mouth.
If Jameson had chosen then to pull away, William wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest. But there was the sound of a swallow, Jameson's hold on William's penis not disappearing as he drank the load down. Considering the weeks it had been since their last rendezvous, William had a bit more semen than he'd expected to give, and Jameson took it all, his moan muffled but sounding no less pleased for it.
And then he pulled back, catching his breath and wiping his mouth before looking up to William. There was a faint smile curling on those lips, and he seemed to be studying William's expression, though for what, the subject of said study couldn't say.
"Much better," Jameson said, and William pulled his thoughts together to realise Jameson had no doubt been comparing the experience to what he'd gone through with Westmeath.
After a short moment to ensure he could speak clearly, William responded, "I'm honoured to hear it." Remaining above Jameson seemed unnecessary, so William squatted down to his level, once again caressing Jameson's cheek, the other man leaning into the touch. "Are you feeling alright, then?"
"I'm more than fine. I'm more interested in hearing what you thought of it."
William chuckled at the blunt request for praise. Well, there was no point in arguing with such a demand, now was there? "I'd think the fact that you brought me to release would answer for that, dear. But by this point, I'm not surprised at all. You were perfect in every way." Those words brought that pleased blush to Jameson's cheeks, the very one that made him oh so appealing. "In fact…I believe I'd like to return the favour if you'd permit me."
There was no risk of such an insinuation being misunderstood, and Jameson gave an eager nod. William ran through the options in his mind, and settled on the best position. Taking Jameson's hands in his, the two of them stood, William kicking his already half off pants onto the ground to deal with later. He tugged loose his tie and shrugged off his jacket as well to release some heat, and Jameson followed suit, ending in a similar state of undress before William lifted him up and sat him on a nearby end table, close enough to the edge that William would have plentiful access to what he needed to take care of Jameson in turn.
But William didn't feel there was any need to rush. Instead, he ran his palm over the top of Jameson's thigh, feeling the tickle of the fine hairs there in the process. A soft gasp slipped from between his lips, and William savoured the sound before offering Jameson a simple kiss. It was as enjoyable as every kiss beforehand, though there was the faintest leftover flavour of William's release mixed in, an addition he didn't mind in the slightest. Their tongues tangled together, William massaging Jameson's thigh in the process, once again enjoying that lotus and sugar scent, though it, too, had an extra acerbic edge to it that William recognised as—
"…Smoke?"
The murmur slipped out of him before he could stop himself, and William's touch stilled. Jameson had taken on an almost sheepish expression in response to William's curious gaze. "I burnt the dress," he said, the admission coming out as a whisper.
Somehow, that Jameson was shy about that of all things was enough to wipe away any concern that William had about the matter. In addition, it compelled him to drop a kiss on Jameson's lips, though the exact logic for the movement escaped him. Jameson's response of slipping his tongue into William's mouth captured his attention next, and he went back to his teasing touches, earning a sharp gasp as he at last brushed against the innermost part of thigh, the skin even more sensitive than Jameson's norm.
William's other hand slid along the line of buttons of Jameson's vest. "May I?"
"Y-you may." Yes, that tremble of pleasure in his voice was more than delectable, though it was but an appetiser to what he was capable of. William looked forward to it with relish, though he focused on the task at hand. First Jameson's vest slipped off his shoulders, and second his button-down was hanging open, with the last piece being loosening the chest binding so that Jameson would have a bit more room to breathe.
With that complete, William pulled Jameson the slightest bit forward with a hand upon the small of his back, running his fingers along the spine while beginning to kiss across Jameson's stomach. That earned him a call of "William," and Jameson's hands gripped onto the edge of the end table as William at last dropped to his own knees as he inched ever lower.
The scent of Jameson's arousal was apparent from up close, and William eased Jameson's thighs apart to give himself better access. "Please," Jameson said, his eyes shut and the word breathy, "please, please, oh—"
In the immediate aftermath of William's tongue running against Jameson's clit, the other man's body tensed at the contact—and then he'd relaxed right into the pleasure of it. That made William confident that it would be alright to continue, and so he did, catching the heavy and bitter taste upon his tongue, his own moan overlapping with Jameson's in a wonderful harmony. One of his hands kept himself steady upon Jameson's thigh, the other free to caress the space where thigh met pelvis, Jameson's resulting moan indicating it was a more than favourable location to provide attention to.
Good. I want you to focus on nothing but your pleasure.
That was what William would be focusing on, after all, offering a few longer licks to provide Jameson with every piece of pleasure he could experience. After everything Jameson had been through, it was an honour that he allowed William as much freedom as he did, and he had no intention to lose that privilege. With each movement of William's, Jameson's responses grew, one of the most satisfying feelings, and all the more so as repetition of his name became all the more frequent. With how sensitive Jameson could be, there was almost no doubt that he would achieve ecstasy soon enough, but rushing things was such a waste of an opportunity, now wasn't it?
So William adjusted himself lower, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and Jameson's walls tightened around him as best they could within the next second.
He'd gotten but a slight taste of it before, but it was a different experience altogether to savour Jameson's wetness in full. It was a strong flavour, enough to maybe even be overwhelming if you weren't prepared for it, but William didn't mind in the slightest. It was also a different experience, exploring those walls with his tongue rather than his fingers, and he couldn't reach inside anywhere near enough—but Jameson's moans were consistent, which meant that wasn't as much of an issue, regardless. Flesh met flesh, one of William's hands snaking under Jameson's thigh to widen the spread of his legs even more, allowing for optimal access just as his tongue managed to reach the walnut-textured piece of skin, pressing against it in experiment.
Jameson still moaned, but it wasn't anything much different than the norm, so William surmised for the time being it wasn't a more favoured location and moved on, instead pushing his tongue in and out as best he could, which earned much better results. Whenever he didn't have a pressing need for his mouth, William could ask questions to confirm his hypothesis; interrupting the process whenever Jameson had been so diligent in his own service seemed unfair and, furthermore, unnecessary.
"Mm…" Yes, there was that voice that William had wanted to hear; when had he started craving receiving that response, revelling in Jameson's pleasure in particular? "P…please."
That impatience of his was precious, and it was almost enough for William to tease Jameson a bit more, to drag the experience out as long as possible. But William supressed that urge, instead moving his mouth upwards, enveloping Jameson's clitoris in a full-mouthed kiss. Jameson's back went from hunched over to arched back, and William caught a hand around the other man's waist to keep him from falling off his temporary seat, and the wall behind him added its support as well. William began the process of controlled licks, dragging the full length of his tongue to give the most effect, listening to that ambrosial sound growing louder and louder, hearing the call of his name:
"Oh, William… William, more." William was unable to contain his chuckle, and he was certain the sound added even more stimulation to the fire as he complied, picking up the pace. There was a moment where Jameson shifted, and William flicked his eyes up to see that Jameson had lifted one of his hands but stopped just short of pushing on William's head. While he could understand Jameson's hesitation, he also didn't mind in the slightest, but explaining that much in words would interrupt the pace he had built, and that seemed just as unfair, so instead he took Jameson's hand in his and guided it to its intended destination. "Are…" Jameson managed to gasp out, though it took him some time to complete the sentence, "are you sure?"
He hummed his affirmation—and that seemed to be enough for Jameson to curl his fingers in William's hair and push him closer. William had managed to sneak in a breath beforehand, so he wasn't smothered, but that eagerness was sign enough that Jameson's own climax would be coming soon, and so William focused on his work, picking up the speed of his flicking tongue. Soon enough, Jameson's hips were moving as much as they could given his fragile seating, the rhythm building enough until the sound of success echoed through the air:
"William, William, yes!"
William gave a satisfied moan of his own, continuing his ministrations as long as possible. Jameson seemed to be in agreement with that approach, still holding William in place and giving wonderful sounds all the while, and it wasn't until he wobbled that William pulled back, spit trailing after him and a puddle of wetness left over on the end table that further proved Jameson's utter satisfaction.
Having released the tension mounting inside him, Jameson's hand slipped out of William's hair, and William caught it, first pressing a kiss against the back of his palm, then kissing all the way up Jameson's arm. Even with Jameson's sleeve in the way, his breath still caught, and he watched William all the way up, never once averting his gaze until William was as his throat, where making eye contact was impossible. Even so, it didn't take long for him to finish kissing up the hollow of his neck, the underside of his chin, and then recapturing his lips where jade green eyes were open and waiting for him.
"You look like you're thinking something, dear," William said, and Jameson blinked back to attention.
Up so close, it was easy to catch the sound of Jameson's swallow as he composed himself. "That was just…the first time anyone's ever taken care of me like that before." Not wanting to ruin the moment, William kept his comments on that matter to himself, but he did squeeze Jameson's hand in his as reassurance. "It was wonderful. You're wonderful, William."
Knowing that he'd given Jameson enough satisfaction to earn such praise was no doubt a good thing—after all, the point had been to return the pleasure he'd offered in full. And of course, William was also doing everything he could to make Jameson feel as if he were safe, which was also a success. But if things kept up as they were, wasn't that risking Jameson becoming attached to him in a way he couldn't erase?
You're wonderful, as if William's hands weren't long stained with blood.
You're wonderful, as if William wasn't dragging Jameson down with him.
You're wonderful, as if, when the time came, William wasn't going to leave everyone who knew him behind, and—
Harden yourself as you always have. You won't be able to achieve what you wish if you don't.
And yet, no matter how much he hardened himself, making Jameson care for him and then ripping that all away was not necessary.
You deserve so very much better than someone like me, Jameson, he didn't say, instead offering a smile and a short kiss on the forehead. Don't treat me like I'm much better than I am. Once you see more of the world, you'll understand.
But that would be best to leave for another day, would be something William could pay more careful mind to when the sun was high and the world awakened with another corrupted noble no longer able to bring harm to the world and the day-to-day life of their future resumed. For now, the two of them were close, and Jameson had slipped his arms around William's shoulders, nice and warm and feeling almost like he belonged.
"Rest would do us both well," William said, and Jameson nodded against his shoulder. "Any opposition to my sharing of your bed?"
"None at all."
And trying to convince himself that he would find the solution to the new problem presented to him, William led Jameson to bed where the two of them would dream until morning, one step closer to remaking the world anew.
[Author's Notes]
And we've made it through season two, baby! That's two of Jameson's shitty abusers out of the way, plus he's starting to gain a clearer image of his total resolve. And William's...well, he's William, and he's got depression, so now he's making up problems for himself, as you do.
Thanks to patamon642 for the fav and the follow! It's nice to see your username again; I appreciate your ongoing support!
As the author, I will admit I was very much thrown off since I'd planned for this inner conflict of William's to happen a bit later on my outline...but he said now. How will this mentality impact his and Jameson's growing relationship? Find out in season three, which is still in the works.
That said, it's summer, so it's time for [Twelve Shots of Summer], baby! This is our tenth year of this one shot prompt challenge, so it's very exciting. I will be publishing the little paths we find ourselves upon, which is a post-canon companion to my Kimetsu no Yaiba fic, walk steady on this cruel world's path, so I'd be honored if you'd check that out. Otherwise, stay tuned for more Jameson, which will either come out in the fall or in winter for the next year's [SOSS] season. Wanna write some one shots yourself? Join us in the ff forums!
Title of the chapter is from Halsey's "Nightmare." In particular, I like the reprise version for this fic.
Next time: Two Futures, Act One. Please look forward to it!
-Avi
[05.27.2023]