“Very few come back for more,” Jameson says. His voice is light and affectionate and poison to Connor’s ears. “Very few, but some. They understand that as long as they come to me, they are safe.”
He runs his fingers through Connor’s hair. No one has done that to him since he was a child, and it takes all of his restraint now not to pull away. They’re in a tiny room that must be the Warden’s private quarters, Jameson taking great care to bolt the door behind him. There’s a clumsy-looking desk to one side, and Jameson pins him against it, brushing aside the various letters that litter it.
“No interruptions this time,” he promises, and Connor can’t bring himself to school his features into happiness, or gratitude. He just stares back blankly. Jameson doesn’t seem to care.
He does, however, act far more gently than he did before, and Connor wonders with mild horror if Jameson thinks he is making things up to him. As if a loving stroke here and a light caress there make up for the blood spilt before, now that Connor has seen the error of his ways.
Connor does not scare easily. It is only now that Jameson truly terrifies him.
“Look at this,” Jameson says, sounding almost upset. His fingers trace lightly around the outline of a bruise along Connor’s ribs, and Connor doesn’t know if Jameson is even aware he put it there.
This time Jameson slicks himself up with an ointment, and draws Connor close to press still oil slick fingers inside of him. “Shh,” he murmurs as Connor squirms despite himself, “I don’t want to hurt you unless I have to. But I won’t have to, will I?”
It takes more than Connor thinks he has left to give to say, “No. You won’t.”
It isn’t as painful as it was before, but Connor still hisses slightly as Jameson pushes his way inside, fingers gripping against Connor’s back in a way that are sure to leave more bruises.
“Beg me for it,” says Jameson, his voice low and husky. Connor briefly imagines standing over Jameson, pressing his foot down against the man’s throat until his lips turn blue and no more sound comes out. “Tell me how much you need this.”
“Please,” Connor says quietly, “please.”
“Louder.”
Connor swallows around a lump in his throat. “Please take me.”
“Louder!”
“Please!”
And the door clicks open. Jameson swears, pushing Connor away so hard that he falls over and off the desk entirely – only just managing to catch himself so that his back takes the brunt of the fall rather than his head.
When he hears the intruder’s voice, he’s suddenly very happy to be hidden from view.
“So sorry,” comes Haytham’s voice, with the air of one not remotely apologetic.
“The door was locked,” Jameson growls.
“Was it? I must not have noticed.”
The air fills with a dangerous silence. “May I help you?” Jameson says at last.
Haytham gives a quiet hum, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “As a matter of fact, you may. An associate of mine, Thomas Hickey, is currently under your… care. I was informed that you might tell me where he is.”
“Most men of your standing would not admit being associates with a prisoner here.”
“I am not, it seems, most men,” Haytham replies, and Connor hears him take a step closer towards Jameson. “And I believe most prison guards would not bed their prisoners like common whores.”
“You–”
Connor isn’t quite sure what happens next – Haytham is clearly capable of moving as silently as himself when he so wishes. All he hears is Haytham saying, quite mildly, “Thomas Hickey, if you will.”
“I… of course. Come this way.”
Jameson doesn’t look at Connor as he snatches the ring of keys off of the desk, Mason’s false key nestled amongst them, and Connor remains perfectly still until he’s sure both men are a safe distance away. He dresses himself – awkwardly, with one shaking hand.
The other is gripping the key so tightly it cuts into his skin.
FILL [5/?]
He runs his fingers through Connor’s hair. No one has done that to him since he was a child, and it takes all of his restraint now not to pull away. They’re in a tiny room that must be the Warden’s private quarters, Jameson taking great care to bolt the door behind him. There’s a clumsy-looking desk to one side, and Jameson pins him against it, brushing aside the various letters that litter it.
“No interruptions this time,” he promises, and Connor can’t bring himself to school his features into happiness, or gratitude. He just stares back blankly. Jameson doesn’t seem to care.
He does, however, act far more gently than he did before, and Connor wonders with mild horror if Jameson thinks he is making things up to him. As if a loving stroke here and a light caress there make up for the blood spilt before, now that Connor has seen the error of his ways.
Connor does not scare easily. It is only now that Jameson truly terrifies him.
“Look at this,” Jameson says, sounding almost upset. His fingers trace lightly around the outline of a bruise along Connor’s ribs, and Connor doesn’t know if Jameson is even aware he put it there.
This time Jameson slicks himself up with an ointment, and draws Connor close to press still oil slick fingers inside of him. “Shh,” he murmurs as Connor squirms despite himself, “I don’t want to hurt you unless I have to. But I won’t have to, will I?”
It takes more than Connor thinks he has left to give to say, “No. You won’t.”
It isn’t as painful as it was before, but Connor still hisses slightly as Jameson pushes his way inside, fingers gripping against Connor’s back in a way that are sure to leave more bruises.
“Beg me for it,” says Jameson, his voice low and husky. Connor briefly imagines standing over Jameson, pressing his foot down against the man’s throat until his lips turn blue and no more sound comes out. “Tell me how much you need this.”
“Please,” Connor says quietly, “please.”
“Louder.”
Connor swallows around a lump in his throat. “Please take me.”
“Louder!”
“Please!”
And the door clicks open. Jameson swears, pushing Connor away so hard that he falls over and off the desk entirely – only just managing to catch himself so that his back takes the brunt of the fall rather than his head.
When he hears the intruder’s voice, he’s suddenly very happy to be hidden from view.
“So sorry,” comes Haytham’s voice, with the air of one not remotely apologetic.
“The door was locked,” Jameson growls.
“Was it? I must not have noticed.”
The air fills with a dangerous silence. “May I help you?” Jameson says at last.
Haytham gives a quiet hum, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “As a matter of fact, you may. An associate of mine, Thomas Hickey, is currently under your… care. I was informed that you might tell me where he is.”
“Most men of your standing would not admit being associates with a prisoner here.”
“I am not, it seems, most men,” Haytham replies, and Connor hears him take a step closer towards Jameson. “And I believe most prison guards would not bed their prisoners like common whores.”
“You–”
Connor isn’t quite sure what happens next – Haytham is clearly capable of moving as silently as himself when he so wishes. All he hears is Haytham saying, quite mildly, “Thomas Hickey, if you will.”
“I… of course. Come this way.”
Jameson doesn’t look at Connor as he snatches the ring of keys off of the desk, Mason’s false key nestled amongst them, and Connor remains perfectly still until he’s sure both men are a safe distance away. He dresses himself – awkwardly, with one shaking hand.
The other is gripping the key so tightly it cuts into his skin.