olden times for Tommy

[oohforeshadowing]

The great country pile isn't their speed, really.

Double had their lovely house in London, bought and paid for by their adoptive father - a High Fae of some high regard, who'd been fretting about their lands and accounts falling into strangers' hands when he passed on. It was a heartrending story, of course, and Double was...well, positively delighted to be anything the old man wanted them to be. For the right price.

Shapeshifters have long since had a bad reputation for sliding into the upper echelons this way. They hadn't been in penury to begin with, by any means, but 'lovely house in London' money and 'vast estates with mining wealth and hundreds of rate-paying tenants' money is not the same by some order of magnitude.

The old man died peacefully in his bed, well over a century old, and left the manor house and everything that went with it to their sole heir. Who is going to sell it all, eventually, but it feels tasteless not to even let their 'father's' body grow cold.

They move in after the last of their furniture has been transported, and lets the housekeeper give them the tour. They cut quite the figure: long blond hair pinned up in curls, a jacket and blouse tailored tightly to a corseted waist, the snug high-waisted breeches favoured by most males. Their tail is the most exposed part of them and the woman they're following keeps eyeing it like she's not sure if it's obscene or not.

"...show you the stables, your grace," she says, as she walks ahead to the outbuildings.

"Ah. I suppose we ought."

Comments

[oohforeshadowing]

"Ah."

Another step closer, and then they see it - the dark red streak across his lovely bottom lip. And what they see too is how he's positively vibrating, in a way that all the hard physical work in the world won't resolve. He's already done too much today. Doing more won't help.

They flicker their tongue over their own, unmarked bottom lip.

"That's...disappointing, Mister Shelby. Your conduct in town reflects on the household, you ought to know that."

They lift their eyebrows in a silent question: yes? Does he want to take advantage of the pretext he's being offered?

[bleak_midwinter]

Yes. The fire in his eyes is undeniable, the way he pulls in a breath right away a sign to them that they're hitting the right note. Last time he'd wanted to be put in his place, this time he needs to be punished. There's no slickness or pretense at smugness. He just wants them to step on him.

"I do. Your Grace. I know that."

His eyes flicker to the doors. If they're going to do much of anything they ought to get to his cottage, but he doesn't know if they'd keep it up long enough for that to work. At least the doors here are closed.

[oohforeshadowing]

"Then come with me," they say smoothly. "If anyone asks after you this evening, I'll tell them you're contemplating your misbehavior."

They like Tommy's cottage. Being invited there for the first time was a real pleasure, even something of a surprise. But everything they might want to accessorise this evening with is in their own suite.

[bleak_midwinter]

He takes in a shuddering breath and nods, all but throwing the pitchfork to the ground. He's really not going to bother with propriety, won't ask them if he ought to take off his boots or if they're sure. They're offering, he needs it, so he's going.

"Don't hold back," he requests, as they walk. "It's just a cut, I can take more."

He needs to take more, is what he means.

[oohforeshadowing]

They nod, once. More it is.

At the door of the house, they instruct him to take off his boots, then lead him upstairs to their rooms. Something has changed in their own body; posture becoming more upright, movements more deliberate.

Their drawing room is a large, comfortable space that takes up one uppermost corner of the house. It has a high, domed ceiling, reflecting something of a tower seen from the outside.

"Take off your shirt and stockings, and kneel in the middle of the room," they tell him, voice clipped, brooking no argument. "I'll be back momentarily."

[bleak_midwinter]

His knees practically buckle at the order. He needs it so badly that it hurts, he can physically feel his desire for it increase. He's never been in the drawing room and he doubts he'll remember much of it later. He does what he's told, takes his shirt and stockings off, leaving him just in his trousers.

When they return he's on his knees, hands resting there, his back bent.

[oohforeshadowing]

They leave him there for some minutes, not so long that he might come looking for them, but certainly long enough that he'll have some time alone with his thoughts.

They return much changed: hair tied up and back, dark grey stockings with garters tied above the knee, ankle boots with a sharper heel than most. And nothing else.

They place a small box on a sideboard. Under their arm is tucked the longer whip that Tommy had recommended they buy, but they haven't yet dared to use. At least not on him.

"Good," they say, coolly. "I see you can perform decently when it suits you."

[bleak_midwinter]

"I wasn't myself," he grinds out when they dig at him. It's taking everything he has not to get up right now and pick them up, push them up against the wall and just -

His shoulders somehow manage to get even more tense. Control yourself, Shelby, he seems to be thinking, confronted with how irresistible they look right now.

[oohforeshadowing]

Double chuckles.

"One of us has a claim to that reasoning, Mr. Shelby, and it isn't you."

They circle around him, holding the whip lightly in both hands, now.

"We can start with six to the chest or ten to the back. What would you prefer?"

[bleak_midwinter]

He lets out an almost primal sound when they make the concrete offer. He shifts forward and puts his hands om the ground to support himself as he manages: "Ten to the back, Your Grace. Please."

[oohforeshadowing]

"Good."

They bend close to his ear to give him his way out, their voice softer:

"Lift one hand high, if you need me to stop. Otherwise I'll ignore whatever you say. You understand?"

[bleak_midwinter]

He nods briskly, verbally confirming with a: "Yes. Thank you."

For everything. He tries to relax his shoulders now, knowing it'll hurt less if he's slightly relaxed, but aware it'll be terrible either way.

[oohforeshadowing]

Double feels confident about this, now, because they have taken the time practice - on cushions, and pieces of paper hung up across the room, the remnants of which were probably quite a baffling thing for their maid to find. They know how to measure the power of the blows, and how to take aim with precision.

What they don't know - what they can't know - is how it's going to feel.

"Count for me," they order, and lay the first stripe just below his shoulders with a fraction of their strength.

[bleak_midwinter]

It's the first time he's ever been hit with such a long whip. He's been lashed before, but the whip had been short and the beating brutal. This time it's a calculated stroke from someone who knows how to wield the weapon, who's doing this because they want to help Tommy in a way.

All of this makes him feel that much more present. He momentarily forgets to count as his body is rocked forward, and the pain blooms like a hot poker deep inside his skin. It hurts, but it's not terrible yet, which means that once the first pain passes he can manage:

"One."

He just knows they're going to make the next one worse.

[oohforeshadowing]

"Good."

And he's not wrong. The next blow isn't heavier but it falls right across the small of his back, where there's less muscle to cushion the blow - the third is a vertical stripe from waist to shoulder, and it is harder.

[bleak_midwinter]

"Two," he says, his voice a high gasp, and then cries out on three. He tries to stay upright but the force of the blow is pushing him forward, onto the palms of his hands. It burns again, this time deeper, harder, wider. The pain blossoms quickly.

Three already feels like a lot, but not nearly enough to sate him. He knows he'll need more for the anger to be drained.

[oohforeshadowing]

"Hold still," they order: voice cold, but concerns real. They don't have the confidence to work with a moving target.

The fourth stripe matches the third - and then the fifth connects them, a blistering stroke across mid-back. The junctions of each mark come up vividly red-purple, the skin not broken, but barely.

[bleak_midwinter]

He can feel his face going warm, his eyes tearing up - and when the fifth stroke connects two welts he sees more than feels a few teardrops drop onto the carpet. He forgets to count this time, but he at least manages to hold still.

[oohforeshadowing]

They tut, loudly, and tap his shoulder with the handle of the whip.

"I'm not going to keep count for you, Mister Shelby. Do I have to keep them coming until I hear a number?"

[bleak_midwinter]

He wishes he had the strength to say yes, but he knows he won't hold up if they keep aiming the blows this well. He takes a deep breath and quickly shakes his head, manages: "Five, Your Grace."

With another breath he sits up straight again, putting his hands on his knees for stability. The pain is settling him and making him ready to bear more.

[oohforeshadowing]

"Good."

They stroke the back of his neck, fleetingly, with their fingertips.

Six: barely above the waistband of his beeches, so that his clothes will worry at the welt for days. The seventh and eighth are not stripes, but the full power of the blows concentrated into two tiny points of pain on one shoulder.

[bleak_midwinter]

He imagines it's what's being shot feels like. It takes tremendous willpower not to fall forward again and to keep the count up. The sound of the leather flying alone makes him feel light-headed, and then the pain hits a split second after the tool hits him, and he cries again. He almost can't believe they're not drawing blood.

"Eight," he gasps, eyes closed now, his chin tipped up like he's begging for something. Maybe he is.

[oohforeshadowing]

He looks beautiful.

It's Double's turn, now, to pause a moment: to catch their breath, to take him in. The beautiful patchwork of his skin, the gleam of teardrops in soft lamplight. He's perfect like this, breathing raggedly, hurting for them just as they want.

The last two strikes come fast and use as much strength as they dare to expend. They form an X across his back, shoulder to hip, connecting some of the other marks they've already dealt. A few little beads of blood well up.

[bleak_midwinter]

Before he couldn't believe they weren't drawing blood, now he can't believe he could ever confuse the two. Now that he's bleeding, even a little, he immediately knows the difference.

The difference, though maybe that's because of the way all the other places he's hurting, is that he just starts crying. His body is flayed, and he's in so much visible pain that something in him accepts that he's allowed to. He's quiet about it, but his chest heaves and his face is wet as he lets himself go. All he needs to think about is pain. His mind goes blank.

[oohforeshadowing]

"That's it," they murmur, no longer artificially cold, but without direct affection - not yet, not while he's working through that catharsis. "That's right."

They place their hands over his shoulders, covering some of the damage they've done, and press. Enough to redouble the pain, bring it up fresh - hopefully enough to push him over the edge and break any barriers he's still trying to maintain.