#Auburn Prison

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"By 1924, progressive prison reformers were openly lamenting the atrophy of public interest in the cause of humanitarian prison reform; two years later, many noted that this inattentiveness had turned to outright hostility toward a number of the foundational principles of progressive penology. That year, under the leadership of Republican Crime Commissioner, state Senator Caleb Baumes, the Republican-dominated New York state legislature breathlessly enacted twenty two crime bills that, together, had far-reaching implications for offenders and life in the state’s prisons. Popularly known as the "Baumes laws," the new legislation created new crimes, retrenched procedural protections for the accused, abolished the good-time system under which good behavior in prison reduced a convict’s sentence, reintroduced mandatory sentencing, and drastically raised maximum sentences for a number of serious crimes. (For example, the maximum sentence for first-degree robbery was raised from twenty years to life imprisonment and, for second-degree robbery, from ten to fifteen years). Most infamously, the Baumes laws strengthened the state’s 1907 habitual criminal law by providing that any person convicted of a fourth felony "shall be sentenced to life imprisonment without possibility of parole or commutation of sentence."

The passage of these laws had little, if any, appreciable impact upon New York’s supposed crime wave (although, according to an outraged Clarence Darrow, they contributed significantly to a national "hate wave" and constituted an egregious assault upon civil liberties). The laws did, however, play a catalytic and, in many ways, deeply ironic role in the history of legal punishment. In effectively abolishing indeterminate sentences and providing that upon a fourth conviction for felony crime a convict would automatically receive a life sentence without possibility of parole or commutation, the Baumes laws threw a large spanner into the disciplinary machinery of the prisons. As noted earlier, the logic of the new disciplinary system held that prisoners would render up obedience in exchange for earlier freedom and, in the meantime, the pleasures and releases afforded by movies, athletics, tobacco, and various other sublimating activities. The Baumes laws, however, challenged three of the principal presuppositions of this penology: namely, that all but a small minority of convicts would eventually leave prison; that no hardened core of embittered, hopeless "lifers" would accumulate in the prison; and that every prisoner, in theory at least, enjoyed the possibility of early discharge through good behavior. These were important structural preconditions for penal managerialism’s system of incentive; without them, convicts had much less reason to cooperate with the administration and far more incentive to rebel.

As well as tinkering with the incentive system of managerial penology, the Baumes laws breached a principle of justice dear to the hearts of prisoners: equality of sentencing (wherein the same crime got the same time, regardless of the convict’s record). As Warden Lawes understood very well, equality of sentencing, and more especially prisoners’ perception that the criminal justice system treated convicts more or less equally, was essential to the task of maintaining the good morale of the prisoners – and, hence, the good order of the prison. The "four strikes” law engendered the situation by which a person convicted of four burglaries would be automatically incarcerated for life without possibility of parole or commutation, whereas a person with a conviction for manslaughter (or even two previous convictions for manslaughter) would more likely serve a sentence of twenty years. This assault upon equality of sentencing prompted Lawes to complain to a reporter from the New York Times that the Baumes laws quite perversely provided robbers an incentive to kill their victims and plead guilty to what was now the lesser charge of manslaughter. The third problem posed by the Baumes laws was that their provision for longer sentences and mandatory lifetime sentences for fourth-timers threatened to trigger a rapid increase of the prison populations in prisons that were already putting two, and sometimes three, men in cells measuring just six feet by five feet. The Baumes’ laws seemed very likely to overfill the prisons; moreover, the surplus of prisoners would consist not in the usual run of convicts, but in an aggrieved and hopeless class of convicts who considered themselves profoundly wronged by the law.

Once the Baumes laws went into effect in July 1926, prison populations began to grow quite steeply and prison conditions began to degenerate. The initial source of the increase was not a rapid upswing in new commitments, but rather a decrease in the release rate, and people entering with longer sentences to serve: Fewer people were committed to New York’s state prisons and reformatories in 1927 than in 1926, but New York’s state prison population nonetheless increased quite steadily in the following years, as the first to be sentenced to life under the four strikes law began to trickle into the system. Every year after 1927, commitments to the state prisons increased dramatically. In 1928 and 1929, the population of the four main state prisons increased over eleven percent, or just over five percent per annum. Cellblocks that already held a full complement of prisoners overflowed: By 1929, New York’s male state prison population exceeded cell capacity by almost 1,000 men – or twenty percent – of the prisons’ capacity. Although, in and of itself, the increase in the sheer number of prisoners exerted considerable pressure on the prison order, the particular source of the surplus population was even more significant. Just as Lawes had warned, the prisons began accumulating miserable and volatile lifetime prisoners, and a larger mass of prisoners serving longer sentences for lesser crimes. At Sing Sing an influx of Baumes "lifers" increased the total number of prisoners serving life terms by sixty-five percent in just sixteen months. These were precisely the prisoners whom Lawes warned would have no hope for the future and who, in their mounting desperation, were likely to resist, escape, or even attempt to overthrow prison authorities.

Prisoners at Auburn and Clinton, the prisons to which the majority of repeat and lifetime convicts were committed, became increasingly restive in these years. Audacious escape attempts multiplied: A train-load of men being transferred out of overcrowded Sing Sing to Clinton in late 1927 attempted a mass break in transit (the attempt was foiled). The same year, Clinton authorities intercepted a cache of weapons, ammunition, and maps intended for a group of prisoners, and learned of plans for a large-scale prison break. In another spectacular, if equally unsuccessful, escape attempt, three convicted felons held in Manhattan’s "Tombs" jail used smuggled pistols to shoot their way to freedom; along the way, the warden and head keeper were shot dead, and two of the prisoners turned their weapons on themselves rather than face trial under the new laws. The rate of smaller scale escape attempts also inclined – both at the state prisons and at police jails, where accused offenders awaited trial under the new sentencing laws or transfer to a state prison.

Under the strain, the critical mechanisms of managerial prison discipline – sublimation and the activation of a convict’s desire to be free – threatened to jam. The respective state prison wardens took immediate steps to head off trouble: All scaled-up security and most rolled back privileges. In the midst of the statewide spate of escape attempts, the warden of Great Meadow abolished the honor league and put the convicts to work building a high wall around that previously low-security prison. At Auburn, warden Edgar S. Jennings abandoned the basic managerial approach and began to crack down on various prisoner-organized activities. Anxious to assert his authority, Jennings moved, in 1927, to cancel the established celebrations surrounding various national and ethnic holidays in the prison. Failing to recognize that such affairs could be restructured in such a way as to stabilize rather than undermine the prison order, Jennings insisted they were inherently disruptive, unruly events: "The Irish-Americans wish to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day; the colored men, Emancipation Day; the Italians, Columbus Day; the Polish, a Polish Day; and the Hebrews, a special feast day," he exclaimed in an exasperated memo to the Superintendent of Prisons in 1927. "The rivalry between those few different groups to have a more successful performance, bigger acts, and more entertainment has developed a condition that is very unsatisfactory," he went on: The celebrations had to be curtailed. The warden proceeded to abolish half-holidays, lock-down the prisoners in their cells on Saturday nights, cancel special suppers, reinstate the punishment cells, and suspend various privileges. As warden Jennings cracked down, prisoners began defying orders, the warden punished alleged troublemakers with ever longer periods of isolation in the punishment cells, and the keepers turned against both the league and a warden who seemed incapable of reining in the prisoners. Clinton’s warden rolled back privileges and segregated suspected troublemakers in the punishment cells.

At Sing Sing, Lewis E. Lawes took a different tack. Like his colleagues up-state, he quietly tightened security at the prison (chiefly, by suspending visiting, reinforcing the prison wall, and mounting machineguns on the watchtowers). But, at the same time, he stepped up his program of morale-building. Lawes redoubled his efforts to demonstrate his responsiveness to the prisoners and their needs. As well as maintaining established programs, he gave the entire prison a special chicken dinner, motion pictures, and live music on Thanksgiving; likewise, on Christmas day, he and his wife provided the men with movies, a special meal, and small "favors" and gifts. At the request of one "lifer" he ordered the stars and stripes hoisted within sight of the cellblock, in honor of the 300-odd Great War veterans who resided there. He also extended the new psychiatric program at the prison, describing the program as a great asset to prison administration. Finally, he made a number of public statements in which he made it clear, not only to the general public but to the prisoners, that he was unequivocally opposed to the Baumes laws and that he felt considerable empathy for the convicts. All men, including prisoners, had their breaking point, Lawes declared in a 1928 radio address on Collier’s hour (which was broadcasted live to the men of Sing Sing): All were subject to temptation.

The deteriorating situation in the prisons came to a head in the summer of 1929. At Clinton prison, on July 22, 1929 (almost exactly three years after the Baumes laws had gone into effect), 1,300 prisoners attempted to storm the walls and burn down the buildings. Before a hastily convened force of keepers and volunteers restored order, three prisoners were shot dead and dozens more, peppered with buckshot. Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt indicated, following the Clinton rebellion, that no executive action was needed. However, within days of the Clinton rebellion, the escalating power tussles at Auburn erupted into open conflict. A full-scale uprising broke out. Auburn prisoners rioted for several days, razing the wood and furniture shops, foundry, dye house, store house, and commissary and seriously damaging five other prison buildings. Order was restored only after the National Guard was called out. Realizing that these riots were probably not isolated incidents, after all, Roosevelt called for an immediate and wide-ranging investigation of the prisons, and for a review of the Baumes laws (which he strongly inferred were responsible for the recent unrest in the prisons).

Using a technique he would later put to use as President of the United States, Roosevelt convened a series of “parleys” at his Manhattan residence, calling together a wide array of experts, including prison wardens, members of the National Committee on Prisons & Prison Labor, and criminologists, to discuss the prison situation. As the investigation got underway in earnest, Auburn prisoners acted a second time to register their frustration and anger at the Baumes laws. In December 1929, a handful of Auburn prisoners rebelled once again, this time taking warden Jennings hostage and calling for the release of their comrades from the punishment cells. When the authorities refused to cooperate, the prisoners put that marvelous technology of penal managerialism – the radio system – to work, broadcasting a general call to riot, and successfully precipitating a second, full-fledged prison uprising. The National Guard was called out once more. By the time order was restored, the principal keeper and eight convicts were dead, four guards and two convicts were seriously wounded, and dozens of convicts and guards had been gassed. (Warden Jennings survived).

...

Notably, convicts at the most infamous of American prisons – Sing Sing – did not riot. Although it was the case that Sing Sing had not borne the full brunt of the four strikes laws (largely because it received mostly shorter-term first and second-time offenders) it was, nonetheless, more overcrowded than at any other point in its history, and it did have a small, but rapidly growing, population of Baumes "lifers." Like his colleagues, Lawes had tightened security as unrest among the prisoners had mounted after 1926. But, unlike the others, Lawes had extended and reinforced the morale-building disciplinary system and sought, at every turn, to shore up the "square deal" between prisoners and keepers.

Upon hearing rumors that Sing Sing prisoners might follow Auburn’s example and riot, Lawes deftly deployed a combination of force and empathy to maintain control of Sing Sing. He immediately talked with the Sing Sing convicts and solicited their grievances. While consulting with his wards, he also made it clear that any collective action or protest on the convicts’ part would be met with swift and certain repression. An overwhelming show of force punctuated this threat: Within hours of the December uprising at Auburn, three companies of the National Guard went on alert at Sing Sing, a small U.S. naval vessel sailed up the Hudson from New York City, and three more Gattling machine guns appeared on the high wall of the prison. As convicts witnessed this show of force, Lawes quietly suspended the Mutual Welfare League’s annual Christmas show on the grounds that a large gathering of convicts might be volatile. As Lawes later told the story, when the league’s leaders voted to resign in protest and rumors began circulating to the effect that a riot was imminent, he accepted their resignations and then promptly informed the prison population that the former organizers had resigned and were on their way to Clinton prison. But even at this point, Lawes did not abolish the league or institute a prisonwide crack-down, as Jennings had done at Auburn. Rather, he worked with the league’s new leaders (who quietly "agreed" with Lawes that the show, indeed, ought to be cancelled, after all) to calm the prison. Rumors of imminent riot subsided. Some sixteen years after the scandalous rebellion of 1913, and as prisons around the state and in other parts of the country erupted in protest, Lawes had enforced the good order of Sing Sing. Even more critically, he had been seen to have done so.

Rather than undermining the penal managerial model of imprisonment, the riots of 1929 indirectly facilitated its consolidation and extension throughout New York’s state prison system. That the Baumes laws had very likely precipitated the Auburn and Clinton prison riots was not lost on Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt; nor did Roosevelt fail to notice Sing Sing’s relative calm and Lawes’s apparently adept handling of the unrest there. In a confidential memorandum to Lawes, Roosevelt sought his advice and, in particular, his views on the Baumes laws’ impact on prison order. A series of official investigations further called into question both the efficacy and the justice of the Baumes laws and cast a very positive light on Lawes and his well-worked-up model of prison administration.

Following the December riot at Auburn, a hastily convened commission headed by Colonel George F. Chandler (former Superintendent of the New York State Police) scrutinized not only the actions of prisoners, but prison conditions and the conduct of the warden, guards, police, and troopers. In his report, Chandler condemned Auburn as an overcrowded prison full of ill-disciplined, underfed convicts and declared that a small group of "desperate" longterm convicts (of the sort generated by the Baumes laws) had taken over the Mutual Welfare League (MWL) and were more or less running the prison. His objection, critically, was not that the convicts were attending entertainments but that the warden had suffered the MWL to become a thuggish gang under the tutelage of the long-term men. (Chandler wrote: "These League officers have police powers, administer punishments, order privilege taken away or granted, run entertainment once or twice a year for which they collect money from the general public who attend, and run a baseball club where male outsiders may attend." Moreover, the convicts ran the telephone switchboard, assisted in mail handling and the cleaning of the offices, guard rooms, and hallways, which, Chandler objected, compromised security.) He concluded by recommending that the overcrowding of the prison be relieved and the Auburn MWL, abolished.

In a separate investigation, Joseph M. Proskauer, an associate justice of the Supreme Court of New York, affirmed these findings but was far more explicit in placing the blame for the riots squarely on the shoulders of the Baumes laws. Proskauer urgently recommended that Governor Roosevelt undertake "fundamental and drastic reform" of the state’s penal system. The Superintendent of Prisons, Raymond Kieb, also criticized the Baumes laws, and recommended the restoration of compensation time. He publicly declared: "(i)t was the strongest instrument the office had for the preservation of law and order in the prisons, as each [convict] knew that behavioristic [sic] deviation led to time forfeiture and delayed the date the prisoners might be granted the privilege of again being free." Finally, the National Society of Penal Information (whose membership was composed of veteran progressive reformers) issued a report laying the blame for the first two New York rebellions on the new sentencing laws, the curtailment of the good-conduct system of early release, and the retrenchment of parole.

In 1930, Roosevelt proceeded to act on these recommendations. He and the Superintendent of Prisons consulted with the wardens about how best to rebuild discipline at Auburn and in the system more generally: Warden Lawes’s Sing Sing was to serve as the basic model of reform. Notably, prison industries – which, just a few years earlier, had been the object of intensive discussion – were given very little emphasis. In announcing the appointment of two prison planning committees (one on the "segregation" of various classes of prisoners and one on prison industries), Roosevelt indicated that putting prisoners to productive labor would most likely not be part of the solution: Noting that "an idle prisoner becomes a brooder and only too often eventually a plotter" he suggested that "trade schools rather than ... factories" might be established in the prisons. Instead, New York’s prison reforms concentrated on segregating various classes of prisoners, repealing the Baumes sentencing laws, and, slowly but surely, applying the principles of Lawes’ managerial penology across the entire state prison system. Roosevelt announced a $30 million program for the improvement of prison conditions, athletics and exercise programs, education, manual training, and the systematic segregation of various classes of prisoners. Notably, when Roosevelt discussed the program he remained silent on the topic of prison industries.

Over the next few years, the principles of the sublimation of prisoners’ emotions through a variety of mostly nonlaboring activities, the privilege system, and the occasional show of uncompromising force, were generalized to the entire state prison system. Although, at Auburn, the MWL was abolished (as per Roosevelt’s request), the recreational and educational activities its members had organized were eventually reinstituted under the auspices of the state, much as Chandler had recommended. On Lawes’s insistence that good food was an important "aide to morale," the quality of prison rations was improved all round. Psychiatrists were hired for each prison and proceeded to play an important role in the assessment of those convicts thought to pose a risk to the prison’s security. Sing Sing psychiatrist, Bernard Glueck’s, taxonomy of mental health was adapted to these ends; in all the prisons, the psychiatrists’ primary task was that of adapting petulant, troublesome, or depressed convicts to prison discipline and identifying for segregation (or exile to Clinton) those deemed to be security threats. Penal managerialism’s need for guards who would resort to psychological, rather than corporeal, means of managing prisoners, was implicitly recognized in the planning and execution of the state’s first guard training programs and the New York State Training School for Guards at Wallkill prison (opened in 1936). Finally, in 1931, at the recommendation of the State Commission of Correction, and with the vocal support of Lawes and Roosevelt, the New York legislature repealed several of the Baumes laws: Most critically, lawmakers reinstituted one of the cornerstones of managerial penology – the good-time compensation plan, under which good behavior was to be rewarded by early release. A year later, Roosevelt signed into law a bill that repealed the mandatory life sentence that another Baumes law imposed on fourth-time offenders: Persons convicted of a fourth felony were now subject to a minimum sentence of fifteen years in prison rather than the mandatory sentence of life.

As part of this general overhaul of the state prison system, Roosevelt also established a State Commission on Prison Administration and Construction, charging it with the task of planning and building six new prisons. The state’s second great wave of prison building soon followed, and in four years, five new state prisons were opened (Attica, Bedford Hills, Coxsackie, Wallkill, and Woodburne). All were to be administered according to much the same managerial principles prescribed for the other prisons of the state. Critically, prison labor was not to be used in the construction of these new facilities: William Green, the President of the AFL, successfully lobbied New York state, and the federal government, to restrict the use of penal labor in public works on the grounds that convicts were provided with "food, clothing, and shelter" while, as the Great Depression wore on, free labor was going without. Prisons were "public works" and as such, it was agreed that free labor, rather than convict labor, should build them."

- Rebecca M. McLennan, The Crisis of Imprisonment: Protest, Politics, and the Making of the American Penal State, 1776-1941. Cambridge University Press, 2008. McCormick, p. 450-459

The photo shows prisoners at Sing Sing marching to the mess hall, from Lewis E. Lawes, Twenty Thousand Years in Sing Sing.  New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1932, p. 178.

[cloudcountry]

I feel like any daburn fic would automatically be a Celebrity AU because you're such a celeb on this platform

omg anon ... im not that famous on here ^^; but its so funny to picture me being a CELEB celeb running away from paparazzi and SOMEHOW stumbling across dazai. a meet cute. a celebrity au. strangers to friends to lovers. delicious. i love this concept.

[waxcasket]

@wise-innocence replied to your post “Auburn is standing in the middle of a field. ...”:

"Indecent exposure, Class B misdemeanor, up to 180 days in jail..." :D

​ "Wh-- Hey now, It ain't like I stripped by choice!"

"You can't arrest me-- I was doin' a public service! Y'know, beating the shit outta' treasure hunters?! Come on, there's gotta be some sorta pyro-battle mishap clause--!!"

[bumblesimagines]

The Wolf's Guard

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The love between a wolf and their darling is unbreakable, even if that darling is a Bolton.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

If the Starks were known for anything, it was their honor, duty, and family values. Everyone in all of Westeros knew it, from the poor to the rest of the Great Houses, as many had bore witness to those traits at play. The wolves of the north, the pack that'd once been called Kings, had bent the knee willingly during Aegon's Conquest and from then on, were known as Wardens of the North.

The glorious House Stark of Winterfell. Robb still vividly remembered the days in which he and his bastard brother, Jon Snow, were taught the history of their ancestors. Brandon the Boisterous, Cregan Stark, Rodwell Stark, Rickard Stark... Robb knew their names well, knew the significance of their importance to his bloodline. They were his ancestors, warriors with wolf's blood coursing through their veins, and blood that ran through his. Just like them, Robb is heir to Winterfell, the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. And while Robb's heart valued honor, duty, and family over all else, there were times when he wished he hadn't been born first.

The first time he took his mind off his duty as heir (a duty everyone constantly reminded him of every waking moment) was when Roose Bolton brought his second-born son, (Y/N) Bolton, to Winterfell when they were children to become a ward under Eddard Stark. He'd heard about the stories and rumors surrounding the family and their ancestral home, the Dreadfort. Their history was as lengthy as the Starks, with their own ancestors having been once called the Red Kings. While Starks were honorable, Boltons were cruel, cunning, and dishonorable with a tradition of flaying their enemies that they were forced to give up upon being bannermen for the Starks. However, there were rumors they still flayed their prisoners after days and weeks of torture.

Robb and Jon exchanged whispers while their father spoke with Roose Bolton, an unremarkably ordinary-looking man despite the eerie aura that surrounded him and his sons. His eyes were striking, a color so pale and odd that they made shivers run down the spines of the two boys when he looked in their direction. But the prickle of uneasiness that poked at Robb vanished when (Y/N) looked toward him. Jon immediately ducked behind the barrel they'd chosen to hide behind but Robb held his gaze and was rewarded with a grin. 

"Robb," His father had called out, "Come."

Robb immediately obeyed, jumping out from behind the barrel and striding over to his brother. At the age of seven, Robb knew his place as heir very well so he made every attempt at showing everyone the manners and way of nobles he'd been taught. Ned placed a comforting hand over his shoulder and smiled down at his son. "Why don't you show (Y/N) around Winterfell, Robb? His father and I have much to discuss." 

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, his auburn curls bouncing off his forehead. Domeric Bolton, eldest son of Roose and heir to the Dreadfort, similarly set his hand over his younger brother's shoulder. (Y/N) peered up at his father and then at his brother, lingering even after Roose gave him an approving nod. 

"Go on," Domeric murmured gently and (Y/N) looked back at Robb with a growing smile. 

Robb spent the rest of the day showing (Y/N) around Winterfell, his chest puffing out with pride each time (Y/N) seemed impressed about something. Jon and Theon trailed after them, providing input that (Y/N) largely ignored in favor of giving Robb his full attention, something surprisingly made him squirm. He finished the tour by introducing (Y/N) to his mother and his younger sister, Sansa. Catelyn greeted (Y/N) politely, more kindly than she treated Jon at least, and offered to get some sweets for them after dinner while Sansa clung to her skirts and watched them.

It wasn't until a few days later, when the boys were giggling on a stack of haybale after their latest mischief that Robb had a thought that would continue to emerge: 'I wish he were a girl.'

As they grew and reached their fifteenth name days, they both began showcasing the faithful traits of their house. Robb grew gentler, less mischievous, and showed a strong sense of honor. He continued reading his histories and studied faithfully under the septa, training nearly every day with Ser Rodrick Cassel and accompanying his father whenever he ventured out on hunts or to meet with others. (Y/N) seemingly grew a taste for blood, something that emerged during training. He went easier on Robb than the others, incredibly apparent as Theon and Jon would end up bruised and bloody by the end of each session. But despite Theon's complaints and Jon's worries about (Y/N) fatally injuring someone, Robb could never shake the astonished, fluttery feeling whenever he saw (Y/N). 

"Come on, boy," Ser Rodrick called to the staggering Jon and Robb couldn't help but wince at the trickle of blood going down his nose. Jon wiped it away, his black hair clinging to his dirt-speckled sweaty face. Nobody had to look at Theon to know the boy likely looked pale as winter snow. (Y/N) pointed the - thankfully - wooden sword at Jon and cocked his head to the side, a wide grin across his face. 

"What's wrong, Snow?" (Y/N) taunted, and Jon glared at him, throwing aside his sword and marching right up to (Y/N). The Bolton laughed when Jon grabbed the sides of his chest armor, his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he rammed the end of the sword into Jon's temple. Jon cursed loudly and released him to grab the side of his head, the blow working as intended when (Y/N) slammed his foot into Jon's chest piece and knocked him back. 

"I believe that's enough, aye, lad?" Robb straightened up at the sound of his father's voice, craning his neck to watch Ned step out of the nearby building and approach them with a grimace. He gently clapped the back of (Y/N)'s shoulder to congratulate him, his eyes remaining locked on his bastard son's panting form. "Go see Maester Luwin, Jon."

"May I have a word in private, Lord Stark?" Ser Rodrick asked, earning a curt nod in response. (Y/N)'s eyes followed the two older men as they walked further away from them, their voices drowned out by the hustle and bustle of servants working and guests chatting. His lips formed a noticeable pout, one that made Robb chuckle as he helped take the chest piece off him. 

"They're going to send me home." (Y/N) muttered bitterly.

"They won't," Robb assured him, handing the piece off to a nearby servant and giving them a thankful smile. (Y/N) huffed, the air coming out in a small cloud, and he tossed the sword aside into the dirt beside them. Robb caught a brief look at the knitted brow, sullen expression on his face before (Y/N) turned on his heel and stormed away. Immediately, Robb followed without a second thought, keeping his eyes focused on the boy until they reached the Godswood. 

"Leave me alone, Robb." (Y/N) muttered grumpily, slumping down on the ground beside the water and roughly tugging blades of grass from the ground. 

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Robb responded, taking a seat beside him and gazing out into the water. The Godswood had always been a place to seek peace or advice from the Old Gods, a place Robb could visit to clear his mind or simply escape for a brief moment. (Y/N) pursed his lips and Robb smiled, pressing his fingertip against (Y/N)'s cheek and gigging softly when he swatted at his hand. "Come on, tell me." 

"Nobody here likes me. They're scared of me." (Y/N) said quietly, tugging more grass out of the dirt. "Lord Eddard is going to send me home to the Dreadfort, I know he is. Father's going to be mad at me but at least Dom will be there."

Robb stared at him, noticing the way he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "I like you." He revealed softly and (Y/N) tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering between Robb's vibrant blue eyes. Robb's stomach twisted and turned, heat rising up his neck and covering his ears like fire. 

"How much?"

"A lot." He admitted, the branches above them gently rustling together with the wind. The sound eased his nerves, eased the dread threatening to bubble up and consume him. "If you were a lady, I would ask Father to let us wed."

(Y/N)'s lips curled up at that. "The Old Gods do not care if we're both men, Robb." He reminded him, that familiar grin working its way onto his face. Robb smiled again, setting his hand over (Y/N)'s and putting an end to his constant grass tearing. "Would you kill for me, Robb?"

"To protect you, yes," Robb answered immediately, no poundering needed. He'd kill to protect any of his loved ones. His parents, Jon, Theon, Sansa, little Arya and Bran. His father spilled blood for his late sister, Lyanna, during the rebellion and Robb doubted his father wouldn't do it all over again for her. "Would you?"

"If you asked." Then, (Y/N) leaned forward and clumsily mushed their lips together, sending a jolt down Robb's spine and a heat throughout his face. He'd kissed a young lady once or twice in secret and out of curiosity but despite his brief experience, he moved nervously and just as clumsily. 

Things rapidly changed from then on, behind closed doors at least. To the servants and residents of Winterfell, the two remained the same close friends as always, but away from prying eyes and curious ears, they were inseparable lovers. Robb's lingering stares grew and any ladies his mother asked him about were brushed away for one excuse or another. The sneaking around, the subtle touches, and innocent gestures, it was all exciting for them but Robb grew to prefer how hungry (Y/N) always seemed for him. It felt good to be wanted, felt good when he whispered loving confessions and laughed at (Y/N)'s eye rolls and flustered smiles. 

Until, as quickly as their relationship began, they were just as quickly swept away from each other. 

Not long after (Y/N) sixteenth name day, news arrived at Winterfell of Domeric Bolton's death. An illness in the stomach, the first letter from Maester Uthor read, but the letter from Roose informed him of a new family member who'd potentially caused the death of his brother: a half-brother by the name of Ramsay Snow—a bastard of the North. With Domeric dead, the title of heir fell on (Y/N)'s shoulders and took him away from Winterfell and back to the Dreadfort. Jon and Theon eased with his absence but Robb's heart broke into pieces. As a secondborn, (Y/N) could do as he pleased and remain by Robb's side forever if he wished, but as an heir?

As much as his absence pained him, Robb ensured to write (Y/N) many letters, most with secret messages only the two of them could understand. He detailed any events that'd gone on, small or big, silly or tragic. He wrote to him about the pups found by Jon and the one he'd claimed, about the royal visit at Winterfell and his father's new position as Hand, Jon joining the Night's Watch, the saddening news of his sister's wolf being killed. The letters stopped when Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell called the bannermen to war. 

Robb focused on the war, on avenging his father and bringing his beloved sisters home before they could be harmed by the Lannisters. The Bolton's joined the effort, of course, but Robb hardly saw (Y/N) during the start. They both had their duties, their own men to command, and many more things to worry about. But, the reunion had Robb nearly collapsing. 

He'd seen him, caught a brief glance during a battle with Lannister's army. It'd been enough to make him fight even harder, and they'd won in the end, returning back to camp to treat their wounded and count the dead. Robb had been swept away, his new title as King of the North forcing even more responsibilities onto his lap, but he managed to keep his racing mind focused enough to manage the tasks at hand, nearly forgetting about the glimpse until that night. 

Dragging the wet rag over his sword, Robb thought about his father. He thought about all the things Ned would say to him, the advice he'd give to him. His father knew of battles and rebellions, he knew of war. Robb only knew what he learned as the war progressed. Sure, there were many older men who'd fought alongside his father, who still had the taste of war in their mouths, but none would compare to the knowledge of Eddard Stark. He sighed quietly, gazing over his reflection and failing to hear the person entering his tent. 

"King of the North, aye? Has a pretty ring to it." He tensed immediately, first due to surprise and then because of that familiar voice. His head whirled around, eyes wide and heart pleading. (Y/N) grinned at him, splatters of blood still covering his skin and clothes from a battle the Boltons and few others had ridden out to, but it suited him perfectly. The sword fell with a loud clatter and Robb darted up from his seat, unable to restrain himself from flying into (Y/N)'s embrace. "Missed me, hm?" He laughed.

"Of course, I missed you, you bastard." Robb exhaled, leaning back to grasp the sides of his face, disregarding the blood that smeared onto his palms before he crashed their lips together. An almost animalistic growl-like noise emitted from (Y/N) throat and he kissed him back more roughly, as were most things with (Y/N). The Bolton backed him up until Robb fell back onto the bed, briefly knocking the air out of him. (Y/N) hovered above him, eyes glinting with a familiar look that sent heat rushing to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout Lord Eddard, Robb." He murmured, dipping down to brush his lips over Robb's cheek and down to his throat where he dug his teeth lightly into him. 

"I heard of your half-brother, (Y/N)." Robb sighed again, the familiarity of it all making him lightheaded. His beloved had always been all tongue and teeth. (Y/N) snorted softly into his throat, a short chuckle leaving him at the mention of Ramsay's demise. He'd died in his sleep, or so Lord Bolton had said. 

"Never liked him, anyway." (Y/N) told him, rising back up to press their lips tightly together, teeth digging into Robb's bottom lip and tugging lightly. "I have news, Robb."

"Can it wait?" Robb knew the answer but he hoped pulling (Y/N) closer would change his mind. (Y/N) chuckled again and moved his hips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when Robb cursed softly under his breath and reached down to fumble with their pants. 

"No, My King."

"Gods, you're the worst."

A sadistic little bastard but Robb loved him anyway. (Y/N)'s amusement faded away and he inhaled heavily, planting his hands on the sides of Robb's head and staring down at him. The seriousness made Robb straighten up, despite their rather compromising position, and he nodded for (Y/N) to continue. "My father plans on betraying you, Robb. Your rejection of Walder Frey's girls gave way for Father. He plans on marrying one of his daughters for an alliance. He wants to kill you." Robb's blood ran icy cold. War always had its fair share of traitors and cowardly, slimy men.

"Are you certain?" Robb sat up in the bed, forcing (Y/N) to lean back and stand again. A traitor in their midst and Walder Frey's ego. Two problems Robb hardly had time to deal with. (Y/N) reached out, fingers dipping under Robb's chin and tilting his head up.

"Give me your command and I'll bring his head to you by early morrow." 

[feyhunter78]

Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Thinking about roleplaying with mean mommy Wanda where she’d be an evil Queen and R her favorite maid and/or prisoner 🤭

Evil Queen Wanda and maid reader omg!!!! What a good idea ◡̈ I took this wayyyyy more literal... in this little blurb its not a roleplay🤭

This got kinda long... oops.

You're Wanda's personal servant, she'd taken one look at you on your first day and declared you hers.

Of course, you're happy to serve your queen, and you don't mind the extra protection that comes along with it. Her protective manner and watchful eyes draw you in, even as a small part of your mind reminds you that she is an evil queen.

One day, she comes in covered in blood, having dealt with some traiters in the dungeons. Not that you're aware of that little fact. You freak out, as expected, nervously fluttering around her as you draw her a bath. The frantic words coming out of your mouth are nothing short of endearing, and Wanda simply watches you with warm, green eyes as you collect yourself.

When you finally calm down, your mind returning back to your body, you realize that you're in the middle of undressing Wan- your queen. You go rigid, mouth agape as you blink rapidly, your fingers freezing from where you've been unbuttoning the front of her corset.

"Don't stop talking now, darling," Wanda's low voice wraps around your head, drawing you in. "I was quite enjoying the spew of nonsense from those pretty lips."

You barely register the slight insult, focused entirely on the fact that she had called your lips... pretty. Your queen, Wanda Maximoff, had called you pretty.

The worried energy surrounding you quickly becomes meek and nervous, and Wanda smirks at you while you finish unbuttoning her corset. You pull her hair free of its many pins, the silky auburn waves resting delicately over her bare shoulders as she...

Bare shoulders?

You blink again, taking in the sight of a completely nude Wanda. Your queen, standing in front of you with her perfect hair and knowing green eyes and that tantalizing curve of her hips...

She brushes past you, the barest touch of her skin against your hand sending shivers down your whole spine as you stare at her. Wanda sinks into her bath, raising an expectant eyebrow at you as the water turns slightly pink.

You snap to attention, grabbing a washcloth as you begin to wash the blood off of her. You pay special attention to her hands, wiping away the blood underneath her fingernails, your ears burning under the weight of her stare.

Resuming your duty, you ignore the growing arousal pooling at your gut. You resolutely ignore the swell of her breasts, or the way her nipples harden when you quickly wash her torso. Wanda doesn't say a word, simply observing you under the light of the candles littering the bathroom.

Eventually, you finish. Kneeling next to the tub, you wring the washcloth out. As you begin to stand, Wanda's hand snaps out and grips your wrist.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Wanda asks, and you finally let yourself meet her green eyes. She spreads her thighs, knees touching the sides of the tub as she tilts her head at you.

"Part of your duties as my personal maid include cleaning your queen." Wanda states, her eyes burning. "Every part of your queen."

You hold back a whimper, feeling your arousal begin to leak down your thighs. Nodding, you maintain eye contact as your hand slowly moves towards the apex of her thighs, the washcloth gently brushing her skin. You can't seem to look away, something in her gaze holding you there, holding you captive as she gently pries the washcloth away from your loose grip and guides your hand down further, and further, and...

The fear you normally feel around your queen evaporates, twisting into a burning arousal as you begin to move your fingers. Her gaze is almost predatory, and you know she'll never let you leave after this.

Not that you'd want to leave.

After that night, your queen treats you differently, even if it is only behind closed doors. When in the presence of others, her cold, hard mask is firmly in place, the glances she sends your way nothing short of distaste.

But, the moment she gets you alone in her private chambers, her hands are all over your body, ripping your clothes off and lifting her skirts while shoving you down onto your knees.

Her favorite activity is punishing you, especially whenever she catches one of her knights looking in your direction. Wanda will fuck you roughly, your backside aching from the blows she rains down using a riding crop, her strap buried deep inside you while she whispers "All mine," into your ear.

It's almost as if she turns into something else. Something different, something fierce and hungry and all yours.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

[miss-bridget]

Gender Gap. Part 2

I laid the latex maid outfits out for my new toy to look at. I had taken the liberty to include contrasting cages too. He gurgled a protest around the ball gag and I slapped him hard across the face. He whimpered a little bit and I grabbed his shrunken balls roughly….

“Now, you little streak of rat’s piss. This is what will be happening. I’m going to give you a choice. It will be the only one you’ll get while you’re in my company. Pick a dress and a cage. We’re going to film a little video and it will be uploaded to every account you have…..LinkedIn, Facebook, tinder…..Grindr. I say that, because you might get a lot of new followers who like sissy cunts.”

He cried in pain as I then spitefully twisted his nipples. When he stopped snivelling he grunted and nodded his head toward the black dress. It was predictable, but at least the cage would be nice and pink for my little whore. In truth, he would be wearing both at various points, but we had to start somewhere. I locked the cage on his disgusting cock and tugged it once in place. Another gagged yelp escaped his mouth and another slap followed.

I stood him up and forced the dress on his body. The glossy latex clung to him, with the skirt flitting out nicely at the bottom. I spun him around and inserted a matching pink anal plug up his ass. His eyes widened as the toy invaded his rectum and he slumped in resignation. I was disappointed, I was expecting this ‘alpha’ prick to put up a fight…..but he was cowed and humiliated already.

I produced the black stockings and put them on his legs….one of them was laddered….enhancing his look of a used slut. The high heels were too small, but I wedged his trotters in them and dragged him to his feet. He tottered unsteadily, more groans of pain emanating from his drooling lips.

“There. We’re almost done. But you look far too ugly and I want a pretty maid, don’t I? So, I think we need to see if I can perform a miracle and turn you into something even I might want to fuck.”

I grabbed the make up bag and started to apply the rouge and the lipstick. His lips were perfectly wrapped around the ball gag, making it easier to paint him into a tart. Next, the garish blue eye shadow, mascara and false lashes.

I stood back and checked my work so far. “My goodness, you really are a wanton sissy aren’t you? If I check your cage I wonder if you like it so far.”

Of course he had a mirror in his office and I shunted him over to look. He struggled and tried to curse at me….so I stuck my hand up his ass and started to manoeuvre the plug around. He shrieked like a bitch and guess what? The dreary little cock was straining in its prison. I chuckled and brought him back to the chair to continue his makeover. The auburn wig wasn’t quite his colour, but he looked presentable from behind at least. The setting up of the camera took time, but at last we were ready as I got him on all fours….crawling around his office and shaking his plugged ass for me. I lifted the skirt and the base of the squat plug was firmly on show, along with the cock cage dangling uselessly in front.

The leather slave collar was buckled on and I led him around the office a few times. When I bent him over his desk, i made sure his cuffs were tight. He saw me take the strapon and step into it….i did it slowly and deliberately just to give him time to beg….but it wasn’t going to change my mind.

The camera was set and so was I……the plug would be removed and there would be no doubt, the little slag’s mascara would be running down his face….

TBC

[tranquil-ivy]

Auburn | '24 Alphabet Challenge

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your son wants Eddie to be his Dad and Eddie really doesn't want to be like his father.

Words: 1.5k

Content Warning: Domestic fluff, mentions of death (briefly), mentions of marriage and an unconventional proposal. (It's Eddie, c'mon)

The sound of clattering filled the kitchen as Eddie quickly steadied the bright green bowl on the counter. A pair of wide innocent blue eyes look up at him from the floor as he shushes him softly.

"We can't make too much noise. It's too early. You'll wake up your mom." A small giggle comes from the small boy next to him as he gave him a pointed look.

"Sorry Eddie." He says, continuing his giggling as he trots over to the lower cabinet next to the fridge, ninja turtle slippers dragging against the cold linoleum.

Eddie watched the little one open the cabinet and grab a box of off-brand sugary cereal almost as big as he was. His little waves of hair bobbing as he carried it over to the counter, he set it on the hard surface, climbing onto the chair propped up against the counter next to Eddie.

"Not too much now. We don't want you hopping off the walls when we go out in the snow later." He pouts, pouring the cereal into his bowl, Eddie supervising, as he knew this kid loved doing everything himself.

"Good?" His little face looked up at him for approval. Eddie nods, watching the kid go put the box back.

"Go turn your cartoons on, I'll get the milk."

This became the normal Saturday morning routine every time Eddie stayed at his girlfriend's apartment. Being woken up at 7am by her son Oliver, mostly called Ollie, just to watch cartoons together and eat cereal in front of the TV.

Not the most extravagant tradition, but it was something he enjoyed regardless.

Time passes as they dine on their bowls of cereal and watch the newest episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Ollie sets his bowl down on the floor, looking up at Eddie seated in his usual recliner. Enjoying his own bowl of cereal.

"Eddie?" The curly-haired musician stopped his chewing to look down at the boy. He looks nervous almost as he fiddles with the buttons on his pajama shirt.

"Yeah kid?"

"You love my Mom, right?" Eddie raises an eyebrow, a soft clank breaks the silence as he drops his spoon in his bowl.

"Of course I do. I love your Mom a lot." Ollie nods, looking back at the television, watching an ad for some brand new toy coming out soon.

"And you love me, right?" The brunet sat forward, having a feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was going.

"I love you just as much as your Mom, Bud." Eddie studied the profile of the little boy's face as he turned to look at the older man.

"Are you going to marry my Mom?" Eddie's eyes went wide, his mouth slipping open with a shocked 'uhh', Ollie patiently waiting for his answer.

"I'd like to some day if she wants to..." He chuckled nervously, watching the little boy nod and look back at the TV again as his cartoon came back on.

"Good, 'cause I want you to be my Dad."

Eddie stared at the kid, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. Nerves started to get the better of him as he started to dwell on the thought.

He never really pictured himself being the father type because he didn't really grow up with a Dad. Just his Uncle Wayne when he took him in at a young age after his own father went to prison.

He knew what it was like growing up without a father, and he knew about the situation of your son's biological father dying years ago in the Hawkins Mall fire. Right before you could even tell him you were pregnant.

This poor kid would never get to know his real dad, but by how you described the guy maybe it was for the best.

"You really want me to be your old man?" Ollie turned again, looking up at Eddie. His beautiful little blue eyes gleamed at the thought, making Eddie almost smile.

"Yeah, you're fun, and you want to spend time with me. I like when you play with me, or we watch cartoons together. And you make my Mom happy." Eddie finally smiled.

He knows he makes you happy, you tell him enough. But having a child notice just makes him feel all the more appreciated for his efforts.

"I'm trying to do good by you and your Mom." He knows what it's like to not have a father. Even if this kid technically isn't his son yet, he'd be damned if he didn't treat him like he was.

"You're both very important to me and some day I hope to be your Dad. You're a good kid, and I'd be proud to be your old man."

"You can't be my Dad right now?" Eddie tenses up, knowing it really isn't exactly that simple.

"It's not that easy. Plus, that would be a question only your Mother could answer."

"What question?" Both of their attentions turned to the hall doorway. There you stood, half asleep and confused with a coffee cup in your hands.

"Can Eddie be my Dad?"

Your eyes go wide staring at your son in disbelief. You knew he adored Eddie since you two started dating a little over a year ago. Introducing them to each other and becoming inseparable almost immediately.

It was obvious that your boyfriend would make a fantastic dad for your son, but you still didn't want to rush things with him and risk scaring him away.

"Oliver, honey. It's not that simple. From a legal standpoint..." Your lips draw to a line as Ollie stares at you, still innocent as ever. Glancing at Eddie, he just smirks. All the cocky son of a bitch can do is egg on the question.

"I think he really wants you to answer the question babe." Glaring at him, you think of exactly what to say, getting the idea to turn this around on him.

"For him to be your Dad, we'd have to get married. And that would mean Eddie would have to ask me to marry him." Ollie looks back at Eddie as the Metal heads face drops.

"Would you marry my Mom?"

"In a heartbeat." He answers, chocolate brown eyes locking on you.

Ollie looks back and forth between you two, little curls bouncing on his head as it bobs back and forth. His attention quickly turns towards the TV, hearing the turtles talking and remembering he was watching cartoons.

Eddie looks up at you, shrugging and patting his lap as he moves the cereal bowl off his lap and onto the side table next to him.

"C'mere sweetheart." Walking over, he takes your coffee and sets it down right before you sit across his lap. Tattooed arms wrap around your calves and waist.

"I'm sorry if he blindsided you. He's just been asking me about Billy a lot lately and... I guess since he started preschool he just sees other kids with their parents." His grip tightens on you, your head going to his shoulder as he chuckles.

"It's fine babe. I'm just a little surprised. I knew he liked me just not this much." You scoff, his head turning towards you. A soft smile on his lips as he admires your face.

"He's nuts about you, Eddie."

"Gets it from his Mom." You laugh, tapping him on his chest, sliding it up his collarbone and behind his neck past his mountain of messy curls.

"And I don't need some stupid papers to call him my kid. If he wants me to be his Dad, I'm his Dad... I'm just a little on edge about the whole thing, being a good role model."

"You already are. I don't see him causing issues or breaking any laws." Eddie grins, knowing what you mean, but that same sinking feeling won't go away.

"He's 4. I think the most I've seen him fuss about was going to bed at 8. I guess I just don't want to be like my old man, swore I'd never be like him."

"You aren't your father, Ed. Far from it. You love Ollie and treat him like pure gold compared to what you've told me about how you were treated. I'd be happy for you to be his Dad when the time comes."

Eddie beams, his chest going warm with love and endearment. You lean in to kiss him on the lips sweetly. Returning the kiss, he pulls you closer to his body. Almost like he's trying to become one with you.

"You think the Town Hall's closed because of the snow storm?" He asks, pulling away from the kiss.

"Maybe?" You look at him inquisitively, trying to figure out what he's thinking. "Why?"

Eddie moves his arm from around your calves, pulling off one of his many rings and looks at you.

"I know it's just a piece of paper, but I really do want to marry you. So, why don't we go down to the courthouse first chance we get an make it official. Make you Mrs. Munson. Would you like that?" Holding up the ring, he gestures it towards you.

You stare in shock, knowing your answer as you take the ring and slide it on your finger. The black band was way too big for your digits, but you didn't care. A rush of warmth washes over you, making your cheeks burn and your smile brighter.

"I'd like that."

[precious-little-scoundrel]

| Ida’s Law

Introductory Part

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlisting and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life, if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Warnings: disturbing content- if you made it through last one this one should be a breeze, however it picks up where we left off so expect mentions of war, wounds, illusions to past rapes, Nazis being racist fucks, possibly some internalized misogyny about it all and some hopefully very 🥹🤧 reunions

A Note Going Forward: With this part now published, I am happy to open this series up for prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. You’re welcome to come up with your own prompts, too. All are welcome, none guaranteed but let’s be real -I’m obsessed with this AU so I’ll likely do it. For now I’ll be keeping all writing to POW Camp and Liberation and Post-Liberation timelines.

“Well, what do we know?” Ida Brady asked the first officer out on the other side as they began to filter through the laborious processing of the camp. She counted them down, one familiar face after another appearing through the doorway again with no worse indignity than the new identification tags hanging from their necks.

“I hate a guy named Johann, and I like a guy named Fritz, and the lieutenant guy wasn’t bad.” Maureen declared, straightening her precious cap atop muddy auburn tresses. “Who went and named their son Fritz after the last war? I mean really? Who does that to a kid? It’s like he’s making up for it now, though, awfully nice.”

“Mm, I thought so, too.” Ida hummed, “Might keep an eye on that one, work on him a bit. You think, Kendeigh?”

“Work on him yourself, Ida.” Maureen scoffed.

“Not much to work with.” Ida retorted, the first general reference to her disfigurement she’d made. “What do you know? What’s up?” she left off to inquire after Tallulah Smith who came out the other side of processing looking more than exasperated.

“Know? They don’t know squat.” she said, “Never heard of a Cherokee.”

“I’ll be.” Maureen was grinning sharply. “Wasn't enough being a woman for ya Smith, ya had to go and be a brown one.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” She griped, “They kept insisting I was a fighter pilot. That’s what all the ‘dark ones’ are, according to them. Told them I’d rewire their insides and maybe then they’d take my engineering degree seriously.”

“I’d like to see that.” Maureen murmured, drowsiness beginning to take over at the comparative calm of their new surroundings.

“Looks like we got everyone, yeah?” Ida peered over the heads of the crowing room and counted out her charges in a silent tally.

“Looks like.” Smith agreed. “Got billet assignments?”

“I do. Colonel Clark, most senior prisoner here, said the combines are strict but the rooms aren’t. Let’s try to behave until we feel our way, then we can swap, if they allow.”

“It’s going to smell like feet no matter where and who we share it with.” Smith pointed out and Ida heaved a great sigh as if that were the hardest prospect she’d yet encountered.

“Mm.”

“Buck is out there!” Maureen suddenly cried out, grabbing at Ida’s arm, pointing out the window at the muddy yard.

“How nice. Gotta get this sorted first, eyes in, Kendeigh.”

Maureen reluctantly tore her eyes away from her dearly missed pilot. “Yes sir.”

“All right,” Ida’s voice carried as well as it ever had, commanding immediate quiet and attention, “those in the 350th, 419th, -the hundredth!- on me. Gather ‘round. That’s it, come on. Alright, well, we made it, well done. Truly, well done to all of you. Now I know you well enough to not accuse any of you of being pure idiots, just because we made it to where we wanted to go doesn’t mean any of what’s ahead is going to be easy. Be wary, don’t let your guard down, you don’t know plenty of these men and they don’t know you, I’m sure there are measures in place for spying already. Be sensible. I am certain we can rely on the kindness of those in the hundredth, but even then keep in mind, if you are cold, they are too, if you're hungry, you best believe they are hungrier, the last thing we need is a crisis of chivalry in here. Rely on them, except their help, but don’t ever take from them. Understood? And one more thing, since the human spirit is irrepressible I feel it’s warranted to make one more housekeeping note. None, and I do mean none, no inner relations at all are allowed. I don’t care how cold you are, how sweet he’s been, or how much you’ve missed him. The Red Cross aren’t sending rubbers, and don’t ever take the promise of a pull out. Do you want a one-way ticket to a death camp or a bullet to the head? Get pregnant. Simple as that. You think the Jerries think poorly of you now for being female? Try being a matron. The point is to blend in as much as possible, keep that in mind. Whatever you do, keep that in mind. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

“Colonel?” One voice demurred, raised hand and respectful title only forerunners for an obvious objection incoming.

“Yes? Sanchez, isn’t it? You’re not one of mine, I think.”

“No, sir, 55th -fighters.”

“Yes, well, welcome. What’s your question?”

“No offense sir but- what about the guards?” Sanchez asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Brady replied with typical candor, “I believe so far we’ve seen a mix here. I’m sure our friends can give us tips on who to watch out for.”

“No sir, sorry I meant-“ Sanchez kept her teeth clenched until her thoughts seemed to form better, “-you said no relations. What about the guards? No disrespect meant colonel and I don’t know about yours, but mine -they weren’t pulling out.”

“Mm.” Maureen thought that if Ida smashed her lips together any tighter they’d turn whiter than her skin, the bent aviators she had managed to preserve this entire time did a remarkable job of masking whatever feeling was stiffening her spine to the current degree, but all the same, her spine was stiff, “no offense taken, an excellent point. I’ll inquire about any possible…remedies. Anyone else?”

A multitude of hands shot up and Ida Brady scanned them with bewilderment until she realized her lapse in specificity. “Anyone else with questions, I meant! Saints alive. No? Good, let’s claim our bunks and see about a wash.”

After the dark interior of the building, being processed for hours, the hazy late afternoon light of outside glared painfully against Ida’s bloodshot eyes as she stepped out, leading the way down the three wooden steps to the muddy yard. Monochrome, this place, brown wooden buildings and brown earth and a muddy sky and brown flight jackets one after another.

And there in the midst of it, waiting for them with ever constant patience and thinned stateliness was Gale Cleven and his lost blue eyes and an alarmingly symmetrical set of facial scars.

“Major.” Ida felt her face soften into an odd expression she realized was likely that of relief. Cleven had that way about him, it was better suited to her preferences than Egan’s blustering warm hearted concern, Colonel Harding’s gruff joviality or her John’s perpetually intense concern. Her little brother was, oddly, nowhere to be seen now and that was a comfort in this wide open, highly observed space.

“Colonel.” Gale Cleven’s eyes weren’t a lost blue anymore but a pair of stormy seas and Ida steeled herself for pity. She found smoldering rage in his face instead. Another relief.

“How was it?” he was nodding to the command hut.

“Fine.” she assured.

He was searching for something in her face and Ida was sure it was easily found skin deep along her puffy, purpled left cheek, but if she had anything to do with her expression alone, he’d be kept guessing for ages. “Good.” he decided at last but his smile was tight, “Made John wait in the combine, he’s in there pacing like a madman. They make a note of who’s attached to whom, Colonel,” he explained, “a more discreet reunion seemed in order.”

“We’d appreciate all the direction you—“ Ida had begun but was cut short by Lt. Kendeigh who broke ranks from the processed group and came out of the hut behind Ida like a bat out of hell, running up to Cleven and tackling him in a hug, rather like a dog with their long lost master.

The Major’s lanky frame staggered under her surprise attack, perhaps more from shock and ill preparedness than poor rations and a weakened constitution. Or at least Ida, hoped that was the case.

Well, there went all intentions for discretion about partiality on their part, five seconds had gone by and Maureen still hadn’t let go, her valued cap about ready to knock off her head and his too. Seeing the gig was up, Cleven even belatedly brought an arm up to hug her shoulders, his pleased face bashfully pacifying her intensity. “If it isn’t my favorite bombardier.” Cleven mumbled, his lips failing not to tug upwards in the tiniest of smiles, and he gave her a pat on the back.

“Buck!” Smith was coming in hot behind Kendeigh and knocked Ida’s shoulder in her haste to get around her and join in. “Thank Jesus you’re here.” she grunted as she squeezed him and Kendeigh both, “I mean -we’re sorry you’re here but since we’re here-“

“Glad you’re here, too, Smith.” he assured her gently, another pat on another back and Ida watched Cleven’s composure began to flake as he took stock of their roughened appearances. “It’s gonna be ok now.” he offered, and coming from someone else that statement would’ve sounded a great deal less impressive than it did coming from him. It also sounded hollow without Bucky’s typical parroting of the upbeat sentiment. “Let’s get you girls sorted.” he nodded at Ida who fell in alongside him, if only to distance and displace Kendeigh and her over familiarity just a tad.

“What’s your Kommandant like?” Ida asked by way of conversation as Gale directed them in a trudge along the brown paths towards his specified hut.

“Think I know him as well as you.” Gale admitted, “Tried to stay low, been no reason for socializing. Wouldn’t advise a trip to the camp doctor though.” He added the last part after a beat.

“Why?”

“Your Johnny says he’s got an experimental mind.” Gale smiled wryly but there was a grieved look behind it that made Ida’s pulse pound in alarm, “If you go in with a cold, you might come out with a radioactive arm instead.”

“Noted.” Ida muttured with a shiver, wishing to god her jacket hadn’t been taken off her a couple stops ago, the sun was waning in the dull sky and the breeze was frigid without it. “Speaking of doctors,” she decided to go for it, “is Johnny -my John- is he alright? At the gate it was such a racket, was he…standing?”

Gale paused in his step up into the combine, brows knitted in surprise and she noticed along with him that their little march had drawn quite a little audience from the fellow inmates. Females in a Stalag -what a novelty. “Yeah, John’s fine. He’s fit.” Gale still had that quizzical look on his face.

Ida swallowed hard and gave him another curt nod, one she wanted to come across as grateful but wasn’t sure it did, her battered cheek was responding less and less to her mind’s commands. “Right. This us?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d try to keep as many close as possible.” He explained, “Welcome to paradise.”

“What did y’all name this shack?” Maureen asked him as she stepped over the threshold, it was dark inside and smelled of lumber and smoke.

“We haven’t.” Gale admitted, forlorn at the realization that things like that didn’t occur to people like him. If Bucky had been here, he’d have had it named in an hour, and something awful, too. Something that would make them all laugh.

“Damn oversight, Gingerale.” Maureen teased merrily but Cleven noticed the dimming light in her eyes as she took in the cramped, uninspired utility of the place. One wooden doorway after another.

“Talked it over with Colonel Clark during your processing,” Gale said, “decided it were best if we mingle you all among the men we know. Boys from your squadrons, friendly faces. A few of you in each room.”

“I call dibs on yours.” Maureen unabashedly grinned up at Cleven but Ida saw how a heartbroken look of protectiveness skittered across his features.

“Alright.” he muttered without a fight for once.

“Mm, Smith, Sanchez, Tong, you in here.” Ida decided and having snapped her fingers she was moving on to the next stuffy room. Asking Cleven at each about their current occupants, and with the precision of memory required of a woman who had to memorize her opponents on the promotional ladder, chose their new bunk mates accordingly.

“And where’s Johnny bunked?” she asked him in a low tone as she watched the next set settle in from the doorway.

“In with me, further down the hall, Demarco, Hambone, a few others.”

Ida seemed to hesitate as she eyed up an extra bunk in the current room that the last of her girls were settling into.

“Don’t be a stick, colonel,” Maureen spoke up gently, a surprising liberty even for her, “you need friends right now. Bunk with us. Everyone’s going to be fine. Can’t be all places at all times, ya know?”

Ida didn’t reply but after a moment she admitted, “I should go see John.”

Gale and Maureen exchanged a look and then moved in unison to catch up to her as Ida Brady walked, brisk as if she were back home at Thorpe and about to pick a fight with Jack Kidd, down the long hall to one of the last rooms. “In here?” she asked Gale, pointing at the closed door -they liked to keep it so for warmth and privacy, and to acclimate the guards to it being closed when the radio was out.

“Yeah that’s us.” Cleven replied, reaching out and snagging Maureen back a step as Ida turned the handle. “Let’s give ‘em a minute.” he suggested, referring to the Bradys.

He held her jacket sleeve for a brief moment before turning it to grab her hand, he’d missed those hands. To his horror their usual calloused elegance was a swollen paw of bruises. “The hell, Maureen?” he whispered in shock, turning it over to examine it, grip strong around her wrist before she could pull away. “Who did this?”

Maureen did her best to shrug, “Some bitch stood on them.” she said simply, and surrendered the other hand for a similar heartbroken inspection.

Kendeigh was indeed not as visibly marred as Ida Brady or a few of the others, but still, Gale kept turning her crushed hands over and over, recalling with vivid agony the way he’d admired them at all manner of work before. To hurt them that way, to restrain her so meanly- “Maureen,” she’d never heard his voice dip so low, and his eyes were simmering where they cataloged her hurts, “what’d they do to you?”

“What’d they do to your face?” she shot back, perhaps more perturbed by the immaculately symmetrical scars on his once porcelain face than her own condition. Women expected the treatment they’d gotten, in some twisted way, but this on the other hand, it disturbed her.

Gale looked taken aback by her question and quickly dropped her hand to touch his right cheek as if to remind himself the scar was obvious to everyone. “Flak.” he replied a beat too late.

“Awfully precise.” she snarked.

“I asked you first.”

“I told you, a bitch stood on them.”

“I’m your superior officer.”

“Who it looks like someone had some fun with,” Maureen snapped back, “who did this?”

“What happened to you?” He hit right back but his voice quavered.

“I’m fine now. I wanna go see the boys. Come on.”

“Just- give them another minute.” Gale insisted, pulling her back away from the doorway again, “It’s a lot.” He reminded, “For a brother to see his sister like -that.”

Maureen couldn’t argue with that, besides Gale looked so sad and more fragile than she’d ever seen him, and the gentle hold he had on her jacket was as needy and scared as a child’s. “I’m glad we’re in this together.” she whispered.

“Me too.” he admitted, guilty and sad over how true that was before letting her press her lips to his.

Ida Brady didn’t know what she expected when she opened the door, not much she supposed, just a living brother with any luck. It was a decently tidy room, plates stacked on a rough hewn board at the far end, eight bunks lining the walls, stacked three tall. A table was in the middle and there sat dear old Crank and Hambone too, Murph with Benny. A card game was ongoing.

They looked so fine, quite normal, all in all.

All motion in the small room stopped upon her entrance. Cards were dropped and cigarettes forgotten in open mouthed shock.

“Holy shit -colonel?” Demarco didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his disbelieving horror over her appearance came through loud and clear in his greeting. She hadn’t seen him at the gate.

The same for Hambone’s face, one that had never bothered to be discreet in pleasant circumstances, much less in shocking ones like seeing a notorious superior officer come in looking about as battered as a body could get -although his torn cheek was one to talk. Crank recovered first, in his mild, stammering sort of way, glancing at the lean figure who still stood looking out the lone window.

“Well, if it isn’t Ain’t Pretty Brady.” Crank clapped uneasily, summoning her nickname from basic just to cut the tension, it served to startle John.

He turned from the window abruptly, blank faced and unblinking as he realized the sister he had been watching for had already arrived. If their ole nan from the motherland had suddenly materialized before him he could have hardly looked more haunted or aghast, wide fringed fox eyes and that straight fold of a mouth -always so very held together, her little brother. Even after his third belly landing.

But those startled unblinking eyes...

Ida wanted to tell him to blink, that it was all alright now, that they were both alive and that it was good enough, it had to be. But she seemed to have fully lost all power over her throbbing cheek at last, she could feel her lips move in a motion she realized with supreme panic was likely a wobble of emotion. She ripped her aviators off, as if seeing her eyes might help his to come alive.

“John John?” she croaked in greeting, oblivious of the childish endearment tumbling off her lips in a room full of soldiers. If it were something their family was in the habit of doing, Ida Brady might have rushed him like Maureen did her pilot, or held out her own hand to be held, asked for a gesture from him -after what she’d gone through, surely it couldn’t have been weakness to want a clap on the shoulder, a flick to the bicep, a little “well done” for staying alive.

But she just stood there and watched him clock her shame. She could feel her swollen lip splitting in real time as the swelling and incessant trembling tore the taut skin apart, they’d passed around a single canteen in processing and it wasn’t enough, the walls of her throat felt collapsed together. Maybe she should have asked for a mirror first, maybe Cleven or Kendeigh or Smith should have told her she’d bring a whole room to a frozen standstill by her looks alone. They’d seen her at the gate -were these meager lightbulbs really so much more illuminating?

“Eye-eye.” Johnny let it out in a breathy rush as if he’d suddenly come to, and then he was in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her neck, thumbs hooked gently under her bruised jaw. A calloused pad swiped away the ticklish trickle of blood sliding the crease of her mouth.

Eye eye -his onetime baby babble for Ida, and she’d never let him forget it.

She could have wept at the useless sentimentality of it, of the gentle familiarity of familial hands, at the seething loyalty storming across his face.

“The fuck did they do?” he articulated at last, voice gravelly as shit but also reminiscent of the squeaky olden days when his castrato role suddenly no longer served one Sunday in choir.

“You’ve got legs.” she answered instead, sounding maniacal in her happiness.

He looked at her like she’d gone fully crazy as well as beat, “Yeah? Yeah I do.”

“They said, they said you didn’t.” she chuckled, a bizarre merriment trying to take hold in her relief, “During interrogation, that bespectacled cunt told me you had your legs crushed when you crashed.”

“No? No- no I jumped.” He insisted, then let go of her face to step back and gesture to two fit legs, as long and lanky as she remembered, as long and lanky as her own. “I jumped, I’m fine. They told you that?”

“Yeah.” Ida said, “Told me the longer I didn’t comply the longer you were without medical attention. I -I’ve been so…uneasy…about you.”

“I’m fine.” He repeated, hands back on her shoulders and she was grateful for it despite the bruises he was gripping, grateful for the way he kept touching her like he was going to hold her together with his own two hands, same blood, same flesh, same memories, maybe whatever she’d lost he could supply back like a blood donation. “Those sons of bitches.” he cursed them.

“Plasma for planes.” she agreed.

He kept looking at her, at her cheek and at her ragged hair and at the missing buttons, “You didn’t tell them anything did you?” he suddenly asked, wide eyed. “You know i’d rather die than have you tell.”

Ida scoffed, and gave him a grin, the best one she could manage with her cheek and split lip, “What do you take me for, Johnny?”

“A cold hearted bitch, I hope.” he returned the small smile but his voice cracked, still that hint of something long gone and juvenile.

“That’s what their Lieutenant called me.” Ida confirmed, a little proud, and sensing a renewal of his inquiries, Ida chose to take the offensive and call out for a conspicuously absent Kendeigh, “Candy! Didn’t you want to tell Johnny about your charming admirer? The Lieutenant?”

Kendeigh came round the doorway hastily, her lips puffy and cheeks oddly red. Cleven followed after and matched her, and his blush did nothing but highlight those scars of his. “Brady.” Maureen greeted, boldly hugging Ida’s very stiff brother without care —due to his red cheeks and rigid shoulders Ida concluded Cleven had given his own inner-relations talk to the men—, “Yes, I wanted to -oh hello Crank, Benny you son of gun- wanted to tell y'all about my ticket outta here -hell Hambone, how’d you manage to get uglier? -see my integrator, he found me fairly fetching. I think one of these days he’s gonna roll up in his shiny car and take me away from here and you’re all gonna wish you’d taken time to learn a little know-how about Alligators and their hibernation tactics in the winter. He was enthralled.”

There was an awkward silence hanging in the room, Crank grimaced a smile out of sheer generosity of heart and Benny Demarco still sat with his cigarette neglected on his open lip. Cleven, used to her preening brazness kept a tight lip, though a thousand questions seemed to swirl in his eyes.

“He the one who stood on your hands?” John Brady asked her without hesitancy.

Maureen whirled round then, comedy hour over and an angry flush creeping up her neck at his directness. “No.” she snapped. “Can’t some of them be alright?”

“A German’s a German.” he countered.

“There’s Fitzs and then there’s Johanns.” she disagreed nebulously and only Ida got her reference.

“And a shower is a shower,” Ida butted in before this became an experiment in an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force “which we need, badly. We’re…filthy.”

“We’ve got working sinks, trough sinks.” Cleven clarified with an apologetic look as if it were his fault the showers only ran once a week and poorly at that, and the water they had was frigid already in autumn.

“Water is water.” Ida reasoned in return, wondering when Johnny was going to finally let go of her arm.

“We’ll clear it out for ya.” Cleven said.

“And we’ll guard the entrance.” John added emphatically.

“Thanks.” Ida muttured, “Some of us could use to mend our uniforms.” she added, refusing to blanch at the subtle inventory of her jagged tears and crusted blood being made by every man in the room.

Maureen at least had her jacket intact. Her cap, too.

“Here, you can have my trousers while I stitch yours.” her John decided and was unbuckling his belt before she even registered the hand gone from her shoulder.

“What?” Ida balked, “You’re going to go ‘round in your skivvies?”

“Not as uncommon around here as you’d think, Ida.” Gale said, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid order and decorum has gone to shit without you.”

“Well I’m here now.” she replied sternly but didn’t stop Johnny as he stripped.

“And so am I.” Kendeigh grinned and all Ida could do was to bless the saints for having let only one terror into the camp, were Bucky Egan to be here too, things would become intolerably lax. As soon as she thought it she repented it, sending up a prayer for the poor, absent bastard.

“Say Benny, you’re shorter, can I have your pants?” Maureen pleaded.

“Why mine?” Demarco protested, only offended at the height implication.

“Because Cleven’s too tall and I’ve already been in his pants.”

“Maureen!”

“Ida, order somebody to give me their pants.”

“You can have mine.” Crank offered kindly, and then stood up and bashfully began to unlayer. It left him in skivvies, a snuggly sweater and his flight jacket.

“It’s a good look, Crank,” Maureen grinned at the finished product as he handed the trousers over. “I’m seeing you in a different light.”

“Maureen!”

“Just sayin-“

“Take the pants with you to the washroom!” Brady interjected desperately as Maureen looked ready to strip right here and now. “Jesus, Kendeigh.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Maureen ribbed him, out for blood in her tired state and if she couldn’t have that of the Germans she would of her friends’.

“Alright let’s - let’s settle down.” Gale implored, a tired expression firmly etched onto his face and Ida herself considered giving up on the wash altogether and tumbling into the available bunk to court the oblivion of sleep. Were it only blood and dirt she just might, her usual tidiness be damned.

As it was -it was, there was…the filth was so much worse.

And if Ida thought on it too long she’d go mad and want to pour boiling lye on herself to wash herself clean and to kill the shame of it. She’d have to scrub the pants before she gave them to Johnny to be mended, it was bad enough for a brother to see the blood and busted seams.

“Yes, settle down for God’s sake.” she echoed Cleven, and something about her hoarse voice compelled Maureen to temper herself more than any direct order could. “A wash, come on, let’s get the girls. Oh and one more thing, Cleven-“ Ida turned to Gale and found him alert, eager to help. She was afraid she was only setting him up for failure but she had to make an effort to find those “remedies” she’d promised Sanchez. “There any lemons around?”

The incredulous look on his face suggested he thought she knew better, but he was ever polite in his reply, “No, colonel. No lemons.”

“Mm. Nutmeg?” she tried to recall each wicked trick she’d heard condemned when a girl got herself in the family way without the needed family in place.

“No, no nutmeg.”

“Mm.”

“Nothing but potatoes and cigarettes, ma’am. Do you- why?” he asked.

“Nothing.” she assured, “Just, a hot toddy sounds good right about now. You know?”

“Uh,” he floundered, half in suspicion and half in genuine confusion, “never had one.”

“Well then,” she grinned as she passed him, “that’s something to add to our to-do list for when this is all over. Jameson, though, none of that Kentucky stuff.”

“Yes ma’am.” his tone was vacant, smiling concern brittle, “You uh, you alright, Colonel?”

Ida gave him a withering look and then Gale too, had cause to be repentant.

“Come on Kendeigh, let's get the rest.” Ida gestured as she followed Gale back into the hall, aware of Johnny’s eyes still on her, still taking stock, “They better not be in bunks without a wash. Come on, showers, everyone! Out, come on out. You can sleep afterwards. Out! Would one of you be so kind as to wake us up in time for roll call?” she inquired of the male officers straggling behind her in the hall.

“Course! Yeah, for sure.” about five offers went up.

“You wake Me up.” she clarified coming to a full stop, wary of the enthusiasm, “I’ll wake up the rest.”

“I’ll get you up.” Her John said.

He’d probably sit and watch her sleep, too, needle and torn pants in hand, like a creepy little owl but that was one of those things she figured make or break a family, you either find it endearing you have a brother who rarely blinks or you go mad. Today, after all of it, she didn’t mind having a guardian Angel. Or a watchdog. Speaking of-

“Hey,” she asked him, “you two flew out together, where’s Bucky?”

But no one had an answer for that, not even Little John.

💋Hope you enjoyed AND REMEMBER -prompts are now open.

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[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

The Greatest Gift

Sherlock still remembers the day like it was yesterday. The sixth day of July. He turned seven and a half years that day. And every birthday gift up until then had never come close to this marvellous surprise.

“Open your eyes, darling,” Mummy said, her voice filled with restrained excitement.

He did as she asked, but slow because he didn’t know what awaited him when his eyes were wide open. How could he have predicted that his life would change forever after that moment. He wonders if his parents knew all those years ago, that they literally gifted him his first best friend.

Sherlock opened his eyes and on the floor in front of him was a basket. Inside the basket was a dog. A living breathing dog. His dog he realised after a while. When those chocolate-brown eyes met his, Sherlock zoomed out anything but the puppy who struggled to get out of his prison.

His fur was wavy and some places curly. The colour of it was auburn. An Irish Setter.

“What will you call him?” Father prompted.

Sherlock startled, having been totally engrossed in watching the dog’s pathetic tries to get his small frame over the top of the basket.

“I get to name him?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Of course, Sherlock. It’s your dog,” Father told him. 

“Do you like him?” his mother coaxed.

By the tone of her voice, Sherlock discerned that it wasn’t the first time she had asked the question.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

“You can pick him up, you know,” his father said mirthfully. “It’s clear that he won’t be able to get out of there by himself.”

Careful, so he didn’t frighten the animal, Sherlock sat on his knees and leaned over the basket to lift the dog up. Seconds after an eager tongue licked his face and Sherlock giggled.

“It tickles!” he exclaimed.

His parents chuckled and told him he had to train the dog to obey, to teach him what was allowed and what wasn’t.

“In due course. Today you can play all you want with him,” Father assured him when Sherlock looked sceptically at his parents by the mentioning of rules.

Every morning after that, when Sherlock opened his eyes to a new day, Redbeard was there, ready to follow him wherever the day would take them. They became inseparable and Redbeard was quite obedient and didn’t need all the training and commanding his parents had mentioned. The dog was happy to follow Sherlock everywhere and if his master told him no, Redbeard refrained from doing whatever shenanigans he’d been up to at the time.

***

“Open your eyes, love,” John whispers.

Sherlock gets a sudden flashback to a certain July day almost six decades ago. Just like then, he opens his eyes slowly, and just like then he’s gobsmacked by what awaits him. At his feet, in their Sussex cottage, is a basket with an English Cocker Spaniel, red in colour, inside, looking expectantly up at Sherlock.

“John.”

It’s all Sherlock’s capable of uttering. In a fluid motion, unsuitable for his age, Sherlock seats himself on the floor beside the basket and stretches out his arms. The puppy comes eagerly and just like Redbeard did all those years ago, licks Sherlock’s face with fervour.

“Easy, my sweet,” Sherlock coos burying his hands in the soft and curly fur.

He looks over at his husband who’s seated himself beside Sherlock, with a bit more effort. 

“The kiss will have to wait, I’m afraid,” Sherlock says, his face still damp from the greeting.

John chuckles.

“You always make it up to me. Do you like her?”

“Oh, yes, John. She’s adorable. How did you keep this a secret?”

“A puzzle you can figure out later, my heart,” John teases. “What will you name her?”

“Hudders, would be appropriate, but I’m afraid our former landlady’s ghost would hunt me for eternity if I did. Hm…how about Queenie?”

“Perfect,” John agrees. “One drama queen and one…what role would she…”

“John!” Sherlock exclaims affronted, which makes the puppy bark.

“Ah, I see…she’ll be your protector,” John quips.

“Mm. I guess one more couldn’t hurt,” Sherlock ponders.

“Agreed,” John says emphatically. “Now, let’s get up and you can wash that beautiful face of yours so I can get that kiss you promised me.”

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[terrestrialnoob]

Time and Information

She was walked through the halls of Bel Rev Prison by four guards down an unfamiliar passage. She was soon joined by a younger woman with blonde pigtails who was happily chatting to her escort until she saw her fellow prisoner.

“Oh my gosh! A new face!” She cheered in a heavy Brooklyn accent, “Better be careful or it’ll get blown to bits!”

The two were taken into separate rooms and there was a sudden jolt of horror at the chair in the center of the room. It looked far too familiar, straps and gaps for easy access to specific parts of the body – the soft, weak parts. It was similar to something she’d once made when she was younger, dumber, and too scared of the unknown – no, too scared of being wrong about the unknown to see what was right in front of her. She struggled against the guards, but one punched her in the gut and she was forcefully strapped down into the chair. She was warned not to move before there was a sharp pain at the back of her neck. She sat frozen as something was forced under her skin, she could feel it anchoring into bone. After that, she was unstrapped and furiously asked what they’d done to her. “They’ll explain it soon enough.”

She was lead out of the surgical room and into a large concrete room, with 2 metal crates. She spotted the girl from earlier standing next to one of the crates. She looked up at her from pulling on a red and black diamond patterned leotard over fishnet leggings. The girl waved and shouted, “You made it!”

She waved back to the blonde then one of the guards lead her to the other crate and opened it. Her eyes stared to tear at the sight of her old aqua jumpsuit. There were also her goggles, utility belt, respirator mask, and a handful of non-compacted weapons.

She followed the implicit instruction to change into her jumpsuit, and it felt like putting on her real skin on again. It had been so long, she was starting to see silver in her auburn hair that had grown so long her braid went all the way down to her back. But the suit fit, just like it always did.

“Awooga!” The girl cheered and shouted, “I’m not usually a MILF kinda gal, but you look tight.”

She almost laughed at getting catcalled by the other woman and even flexed her arm to show off her prison muscle. The two were soon lead to a new room and she saw three other non-guards in the room, all in their own colorful costume. A large man had on a bear-skin cloak over body armor while another seemed to be dressed up like an airline pilot. A humanoid tiger creature was also there, they were already wearing a sleeveless Chinese-style martial arts uniform.

“Boomer!” The girl shouted and waved at the airline pilot and he smiled and greeted her in turn.

“It’s good to see you Harley,” He said with an Australian accent, “who’s your friend?”

Before she could answer, a door slammed open. A woman entered; thick and sturdy who held herself like a pillar of The Acropolis, like if she fell, the whole of civilization would fall with her. At her side was a man dressed up in his own custom red, silver, and black body armor.

The woman stopped and glared at the prisoners like they were less than human and took time to memorize all their inhumanity before she spoke, “Ladies, gentlemen. For those who don’t know, I am Amanda Waller, head of Task Force X, an off the books strike team of convicts used as expendable agents working for the U.S. Government. You are now members of Task Force X. Succeed in your mission, and you’ll get time off your sentences. Any questions?”

“A few, ma’am,” She rose her hand.

Waller raised her eyebrow and nodded, but before she could ask, the man in the bear skin shouted, “The Bear fight for Mother Russia, not U.S. Pigs!” His accent was thick and he stomped his heavy boots up to Waller, towering over her in an attempt to intimidate. “I will not work for you.”

Waller glared up at him and waved at the door behind her, “Be warned, there’s a small explosive in your neck, and if you do any little thing I don’t like, your head will be blown clean off. Take one step out that door, and you’re dead.”

The Russian growled at her, then pushed past her. He took one confident step through the door - the explosion was bright but quiet, and eviscerated the man’s head in seconds.

Waller turned back to the others, “Did that answer any of your questions?”

“A few yes,” She smiled and gently rubbed her neck where the small lump was indicating which of her questions had been answered. Then she continued, much to the horror of the Australian. “Are the terms of this – arrangement negotiable?”

Waller answered before she even finished, “You can’t refuse.”

She nodded her head, “I assumed as much. But, there’s something I want more than time off my sentence.”

“Oh?” Waller gave her a scrutinizing look, the kind that a woman who’s always looking for a better deal has.

“It’s about my son. Last I saw him, he was being experimented on in a government lab. The thing I want is unredacted copies of the files. I want to know Every. Single. Thing. any research lab anywhere has ever done to my son. And his current location.” Her voice shifted from relatively polite to absolutely deadly; almost like she now blamed everything the government has ever done wrong on Waller as a representative. The man next to Waller seemed to flinch, but the two women didn’t break eye contact.

“Might be difficult, given that most of the facilities that would have that information were destroyed. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Waller stared her down, or at least tried to. There was silence, and for a moment several people in the room expected a head to explode. But then Waller said, “Do the mission, and I’ll see what I can get from the guys in white.”

The woman who stood up to The Acropolis smiled dangerously as she said, “I’m sure a woman of your standing and reach can get her hands into any government office.”

Waller smiled back, “You flatter me, Ms. Fenton.”

“Doctor Fenton,” She corrected, “One doesn’t lose their education simply because they’re imprisoned.”

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The question of discipline and prisoner policing continued to be the object of debate among the prisoners in the early months of the league’s activities. The [Mutual Welfare] League [MWL] officials began to grapple with the transition to a new disciplinary regime almost immediately upon taking office. One of the earliest problems to arise was the relationship between the prisoner grievance committees and the prison’s formal disciplinary apparatus. Since 1870, formal punishment had followed the procedure by which guards stationed in the workshops cited prisoners for transgressions (whether real or imagined) and reported them to the principal keeper. The principal keeper would then determine if and how the prisoner was to be punished, and record the name and number of the prisoner, the guard’s explanation of the offense, and the prescribed punishment in a hefty, leather-bound tome, which bore the title, Punishment Ledger.

Early in 1914, the Governing Body of the League passed a new bylaw that required delegates to report to the league clerk (Richards) any and all reports made by the guards to the principal keeper. As a result, prisoners who were punished by the principal keeper were now also liable to punishment by the prisoner grievance committee. Consequently, double punishment for the same offense happened on a number of occasions: One of the first cases the grievance committee dealt with involved a league delegate whom a guard had reported to the principal keeper for fighting with another prisoner. The grievance committee decided that both the delegate and the prisoner should be immediately removed from office, and that neither be allowed to attend the upcoming entertainments on Lincoln’s birthday. This punishment was in addition to that meted out by the principal keeper: According to the entry in the principal keeper’s Punishment Ledger, these prisoners had already been punished in accordance with the Rules for State Prisons by losing sixty good conduct marks each.

(Initially, the principal keeper’s Punishment Ledger and the typed minutes of the grievance committees generated very different kinds of accounts of offenses. The inmate grievance committees had an air of secrecy; the records consist of reports typed up by Richards which were then presented to the governing body. Whereas the principal keeper recorded the character of the offense, sometimes to such a degree of detail that the “vile language” attributed to an prisoner was recorded word for word, the grievance committee minutes and reports rarely recorded the alleged offense with any specificity. Wheras the principal keeper wrote up prisoner offenses, the league records instead noted the existence of prisoner complaints – that is complaints of one prisoner against another or against the league. In the case of the sparring delegate, for example, the minutes convey no sense of the circumstances of the transgression. Even when the former delegate came to appeal the grievance committee’s ruling, a description of the character of his actions was markedly absent from the minutes; his sudden withdrawal of the appeal under pressure from Osborne further testifies to the careful and selective reporting of the MWL’s grievance proceedings. Although the former delegate appealed the case to the governing body, Osborne prevailed upon him to accept his punishment and withdraw the appeal. Osborne, who represented the delegate before the governing body, told the delegates that the former delegate’s withdrawal was a “manly straight forward exhibition of courage.” Given that in the middle of discussing the former delegate’s case, the governing body voted to prohibit “political faith” and “political principles” from league proceedings, it seems likely that the former delegate’s conflict was connected to a conflict over politics. After a few weeks of operation, and once the jurisdiction of the prisoner tribunals had been established, however, the grievance committees became more specific about most of the more mundane cases. More serious cases, such as those involving sexual relations, continued to be reported in a vague manner.) In the days following the formation of the league, prison guards continued with the traditional practice of reporting prisoners to the principal keeper, while the league delegates also began to report prisoners to the prisoners’ grievance committee for breaking the rules. In order to prevent double punishment, Warden Rattigan ordered the principal keeper to turn over disciplinary cases described as “minor” to the prisoner grievance committee for deliberation. The warden’s plan generated a hybrid disciplinary mechanism whereby both guards and prisoner officers were instructed to report transgressions to the prisoner grievance committees. This constituted a highly significant alteration of prison disciplinary procedures. Furthermore, the manner in which the change was brought about illuminated the way in which authority operated within the league, and between the league and the administration. The idea originated with Warden Rattigan; Osborne then called the Executive Committee together in order to “air the authorities’ plan.” The Executive delegates, implicitly accepted it by resolving to ask the governing body to amend the league’s constitution so as to accommodate the new plan. The next day, when Executive delegate Shea explained the plan to the delegates of the Governing Body, and asked for their support, he was effectively presenting the legislative body with a fait accompli. As he informed the governing body, the administration was already in the process of setting up a detention room in which prisoners who had been found guilty by the principal keeper would await a grievance committee hearing. Shea’s request that the delegates amend the league’s constitution was hence a matter of form – an interesting and important matter of form, nonetheless.

The delegate legislators were given twenty-four hours to consider the fait accompli. The next day, the governing body underwent the first of several crises over the issue of discipline and the relationship of the administration to the league. Notably, the meeting began not with a debate about the proposal, but with a vote in favor of the new disciplinary regime. This was quickly followed by a telling resolution: Any delegate who detrimentally criticized another delegate, or made any “unwarranted criticisms” of the governing body following a meeting of that body, should be reported to a grievance committee for disciplinary action. Therein followed considerable, but predictably unreported, discussion of the new system. Within a few days of its inauguration, the governing body was threatening to fragment over the question of police powers. In the course of the meeting, it emerged that delegate Norton of state shop “A,” together with certain other unnamed delegates, had questioned the legitimacy and fitness of some of the Executive delegates. Upon hearing this, the legitimacy of the Executive Committee was put to a vote, and affirmed by thirty-seven votes to nine. Then, in what must have been an action designed to intimidate the dissenting delegates (in light of the censorious new rule), the Executive Committee (or, more probably, Richards) asked each delegate, one by one, whether or not in that delegate’s view, the Executive delegates were fit for office. Not a single delegate took issue with the fitness of the Executive delegates.

There is little in the way of archival material to suggest what the prisoner population in general may have been saying and doing about the disciplinary changes at Auburn at this point. However, evidence of considerable consternation about the operation of the grievance committees seeped through Richards’ carefully constructed minutes and reports of the meetings of the Executive Committee and governing body. According to Osborne, in the early, precarious days of the prisoner discipline system, prisoners were refusing to attend the grievance hearings both as witnesses and accused offenders. Osborne explained the prisoners’ refusal of the grievance committees as a protest against double punishment, which had occurred with some frequency in the first four weeks of the grievance committees’ operation. The grievance committees were aware of the problem of double punishment, and tended to be more lenient on those prisoners who had already been reported or punished by the principal keeper. Typically, instead of suspending these prisoners from the league, the committee reprimanded them and elicited promises of better behavior. On at least one occasion, the prisoner committee reprimanded two prisoners who had already spent three days in the dark cells and lost ten days good time. In the same session, the prisoner jurists announced that they would ask the principal keeper to treat two other prisoners, who had been reported for fighting, leniently. (It is likely that the principal keeper accepted their recommendation, as no record of the prisoners’ offense was entered in the ledger). Although the grievance committee’s punishments were light, evidence from the Punishment Ledger and the grievance committee minutes lends support to Osborne’s argument that the prisoners were resisting the new system because of its tendency to punish offenders twice over.

However, a speech given by the prisoner Osborne had befriended during his investigation of Auburn – Jack Murphy – suggests that the prisoners were objecting to something much more intrinsic to the new prisoner policing system. The prisoners of Murphy’s weave shop met on at least three occasions to air their concerns about the new disciplinary system. At one of these meetings, Murphy implored them to accept the new system. It is clear from his speech that the primary point of conjecture among the prisoners was the very existence of prisoner police powers. Prisoners were protesting that regardless of their shape or form, the prisoner police apparatus engendered “ratting,” or reporting fellow prisoners to the authorities. In his explanation of the system, Murphy passionately refuted this charge and insisted that reporting other prisoners to a prisoner delegate was not equivalent to “ratting.” Ratting, he argued, was pernicious because it was secretive and anonymous; the league system of reporting an offender to a delegate was ethically defensible because the complainant would have to sign his name to his complaint, and the charge – and its source – would thus be transparent.

Judging by what Murphy had to say to the prisoners next, the prisoners also objected to the system because it appeared to be aimed at punishing transgressions of the more minor prison rules, which, under the old system, might not be punished. In other words, extending police powers to delegates constituted more than a transfer of authority: It meant an expansion of policing and surveillance. Murphy assured the weavers that he would only ever report them for the serious offenses of fighting, stealing, and “acts of degeneracy”; he would never report them for what he himself would not want to be reported for. In addition to defending the prisoner self-government as ethical, Murphy also told the prisoners that reporting was dutiful because it served the interests of the league to suppress and discipline those who broke the rules. If fighting, stealing, and degeneracy (sexual relations among prisoners) were allowed to go on under the new system, he reasoned, the league (and all the privileges that accompanied it) would fail. Like Osborne and the league leaders, Murphy had a keen sense that the publicity that the league had already begun to generate in the mass media would affect its future. He argued before the prisoners of the weave shop:

The league now in its infancy is the cynosure of the eyes of all the prison authorities in the U.S. and also of those in the more progressive lands of Europe. If our league ends in failure, which we are determined it shall not, the promotion of the prisoner’s welfare in all penal institutions will be woefully retarded. An opportunity such as that now within our reach, an opportunity for aiding the unfortunate prisoners everywhere, will not come again, perhaps, for a whole century.

If Murphy had one eye fixed on the publicity of the mass press, the other was focused on the men’s conduct – and their sexual relations in particular. “I’m not blind, fellows, as to what is going around in this prison,” he insisted, “and let me tell you, no set of degenerates is going to turn this League into a red-light League, if I can prevent it.” He argued that if fighting, stealing, and sex continued under the liberalized regime, newspapermen would write stories of gangs and degeneracy at Auburn based on the tales of former prisoners, and the state would have no choice but to destroy the league and return to the old system. (Murphy was appointed sergeant-at-arms in July 1916. He received many letters of congratulation from prisoners upon being appointed.)

Shortly after Murphy addressed the prisoners, Osborne was prompted to call a special general meeting of the entire MWL membership (ninety-five percent of the prisoners), for Sunday, February 22, to discuss the arrangement. According to an essay Osborne wrote a few years later, he called the meeting because the prisoners whom the guards and delegates had reported to secretary Richards for rule-breaking had been refusing to attend the grievance committee hearings. Furthermore, other prisoners were declining to appear as witnesses, on the grounds that some of their number were being punished twice, and some of the grievance committees had refused to hold hearings when the cases involved prisoners who had already been disciplined by the principal keeper. After three short weeks of operation, many prisoners, according to Osborne, wanted the league to relinquish all disciplinary authority, on the grounds that self-government had simply intensified punishment.

The refusal of prisoners, and even some of the delegates, to proceed with certain cases had created a crisis of legitimacy for the league, and threatened to arrest the entire program of so-called self-government. As Osborne had reiterated to the prisoners, recreational privileges and other liberties were to be extended only as fast as prisoners (by which Osborne meant the league officers) assumed disciplinary responsibility for themselves: The failure of the new apparatus of prisoner discipline would diminish the likelihood that athletics, shows, and movies would continue. This moment of conflict between many of the prisoners on the one hand, and Osborne and the league leadership on the other, is highly instructive about the relationship of the league to the general prison population: Unlike the impetus for the new system of government, prisoners’ resistance to the novel disciplinary arrangements originated among their number. Instigated from above, the league was confronting resistance from below as a result of the intensification and extension of policing that the new hybrid disciplinary system was engendering. As well as disrupting Osborne’s vision of a system of prisoner government based in liberties and responsibilities, the prisoners’ refusal threatened to overturn the founding myth of the league’s democratic origins, and hence its legitimacy. Prisoners’ opposition to the policing arm of self-government required Osborne, the league leadership, and the warden to act swiftly.

At the special mass meeting called by Osborne, 1,300 prisoners debated the question of prisoner policing for three long hours. Although they met without the presence of guards, what they said never made it onto the record; secretary Richards, consistent with his previous excision of much of the discussion pertaining to prison discipline, did not transcribe the substance of the discussion – though he did remark, perhaps with unconscious wit, that the discussion constituted “something unheard of in history.” As a result of the long discussion, the prisoners concluded the meeting by voting for a disciplinary system that would ensure prisoners would not be punished twice for the same offense: The grievance committees were given jurisdiction over all cases of prison discipline other than those of deadly assault on one prisoner by another, assault on a guard, refusal to work, strikes, and attempts to escape. Both guards and prisoner delegates were to report minor transgressions to the grievance committees. Osborne and his league supporters hoped that this division of disciplinary authority would end the problem of double punishment and secure the support of the mass of prisoners for the league’s disciplinary tribunals.

With the formal transfer of minor disciplinary cases to the prisoner grievance committees in late February, the committees set up a revolving schedule whereby one committee convened between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. every work day. Typically a grievance committee would hear cases three to seven days after the incident. In practice, cases involving workshop behavior such as shirking, fisticuffs, talking on line, and bad language tended to qualify as minor, whereas cases in which prisoners were thought to be challenging the guards or threatening the general order of the prison were dealt with by the principal keeper. The vast majority of formal punishments administered by the principal keeper were related to discipline in the workshops: Refusal to work and fighting in the shops were the most common grounds for official punishment. He also continued to punish prisoners for possessing contraband, and any prisoner who created a serious disturbance among the other prisoners. In the ensuing months, the principal keeper disciplined far fewer prisoners than usual: For example, in the month immediately following the transfer of minor cases to the prisoner committees, he disciplined only eleven prisoners; in each of the previous months he had typically disciplined thirty. (Four of the eleven prisoners were punished for violation of parole; the others were punished for transgressions including refusal to obey orders, threatening to “punch (a guard’s) face off,” fighting, making a knife, abusive behavior and walking out of court, and causing trouble in the mess hall.)

As the prisoner grievance committees became part of the everyday life of the prison, the committees began to develop their own bureaucratic procedures, by which they produced standardized reports of the hearings. The reports of these sessions were framed in a paralegal language, and made use of certain of the inventions of the carceral bureaucracy – most notably, the prisoner identification numbers. Secretary Richards recorded the substance of each complaint, the reported prisoner’s explanation or admission of guilt, and the action, if any, taken by the presiding grievance committee.

Upon first view, it would appear that the grievance committees had a limited range of sanctions they could apply to prisoners they found guilty. The committee often extracted a promise from the offending prisoner that the offense would not be repeated; sometimes they reprimanded and warned the guilty prisoner. More frequently, prisoners were punished by being barred from attending an upcoming concert or show in the chapel. Working on the principle of withholding new-found privileges, the committee also began to suspend prisoners from the league – and, in some cases, expel members altogether. This effectively excluded the prisoner in question from all recreational activities. Most significantly, suspension or expulsion placed the prisoner in a separate system of discipline: The principal keeper’s discipline of dark cell and loss of good time. One prisoner, who quit the league following a confrontation with his company delegate (in the course of which he reportedly tore his MWL membership badge from his lapel and threw it in the delegate’s face), was subsequently interned in the dark cell on at least three occasions by the principal keeper. Had this prisoner remained a member, two of his three offenses would most likely have been heard by the grievance committee, and he would not have spent so much time in the dark cell.

It appears that the first prisoner to be suspended indefinitely from the league was a prisoner who was found guilty of writing and passing what Richards described in the minutes as a licentious note to another prisoner (who, incidentally, had been recently suspended for three months for fighting). In suspending the note writer, the Committee remarked that the content of the note, which was read aloud at the hearing but not reproduced in the minutes, was of “such a nature as would tend to create a continual disturbance in the shop,” and that the prisoner should also be transferred to another shop. Other prisoners were suspended indefinitely for fighting and one prisoner, suspended for being “simple-minded.” Prisoners brought before a grievance committee developed certain tactics to minimize their punishment. Invoking their manliness by drawing attention to their honesty, a number admitted guilt (sincerely or otherwise) and were rewarded by more lenient punishments. After a few weeks, the grievance committees also began handing over prisoners found guilty of certain offenses to the principal keeper for punishment: For example, in June, a grievance committee asked that the principal keeper lock up one prisoner. (The nature of his offense is unclear).

Despite the new division of disciplinary authority between the committees and the principal keeper, as might be expected, tension between the two disciplinary arms persisted. After a few weeks of the new system’s operation, the principal keeper began to punish larger numbers of prisoners on the grounds that they had been insolent to guards: This offense was clearly considered to be a more serious offense, though it was not formally listed by the warden as an offense punishable by the administration. (The guards recorded that one prisoner attending school, for example, allegedly called his teacher a “god-damned liar” and told him “‘to go fuck himself,’ as teacher wasn’t trying to instruct him.” Other times they simply noted that the prisoner had used “vile language” or “indecent language” to an officer.) Insolence typically consisted of a prisoner swearing at a guard or back-chatting him. A prisoner who not only refused to work but swore at a guard was likely to end up being penalized more severely than the prisoner who would not work.

The principal keeper also kept track of the grievance committee proceedings, and upon occasion requested permission from the warden to further punish a prisoner who had already been punished by a grievance committee. For example, just days after the new disciplinary division was instigated, the deputy warden asked the warden’s permission to further punish by fine two prisoners who had already been disciplined by a grievance committee. When they were alerted to this request, the league’s Executive Committee struck a compromise by which the principal keeper would fine the prisoners only if they got into any more fights during the proceeding two months. The principal keeper agreed to this compromise. But judging from a comparison of the official punishment ledger and the grievance committee records two months down the road, although the majority of prisoners reported for rule breaking were being disciplined by the grievance committees alone, some prisoners were still being punished twice: The principal keeper was locking some prisoners in the dark cell for offenses for which they had already been punished by a grievance committee.

The arrangement by which both guards and prisoners now reported minor infringements to a committee of prisoners put the guards in an unusual relationship to the prisoners. Both Osborne and the league’s leadership understood that the cooperation of the guards would be as crucial to the success of the new disciplinary system – and to the league – as was the cooperation of prisoners. By early March, tensions between guards and delegates were mounting over the division of disciplinary authority, and the situation was exacerbated by the quarantine of Auburn Prison following an outbreak of small pox in the central New York area. Recognizing the guards’ mounting disaffection for prisoner self-government, the governing body of the league acted to appease them by holding a benefit show for the guards and civilian employees of the prison. Once the small pox quarantine had ended, some 800 guards, employees, and their families attended an evening show in the prison chapel, where they were treated to a round of minstrelsy, an olio of songs and skits, and a performance of the official MWL march by the league orchestra. League officials ushered the audience of law enforcers and their families to their seats, and secretary Richards appealed to the audience for donations. The program offered up the evening’s fare as a token of “appreciation for the co-operation of the official force” and a step toward establishing “more cordial relations between (the officers) and the MWL.” In his report of the evening’s activities, Richards proclaimed that the show “marked the beginning of a new spirit among both officers and men, and will be long remembered.” A few days after the benefit, the governing body followed up on their effort to secure the support of guards by asking Osborne to meet with the prison officers and employees to determine their views and suggestions about the league. At the same time, the Executive attended to their relations with the guards’ chief executive – Warden Rattigan – who had fallen ill, by sending him flowers and a get-well note.

As the league delegates attempted to secure the support, or at the very least, the acquiescence, of the guards and employees, they also began to quietly pressure the administration to change the kinds of punishments meted out to prisoners by the principal keeper. On March 31, the Executive Committee passed a motion condemning the conditions endured by the prisoners who were locked in their cells (or “square chalked”). It is unclear what the condition of life was like for these prisoners, beyond the fact that they were held continuously in their cells; what is certain is that the league leadership was concerned about the condition of these prisoners, and they took a number of steps to reform the conditions of their punishment.

The alliance between the administration and the league leadership was further cemented in the summer of 1914. Summer was traditionally the season in which prison discipline broke down and in which riots and strikes broke out. In 1914, the threat of prisoner restiveness fused with the emergence of socialist activism in the prison workshops to produce the specter of immobilized prison industries and a militant prisoner body. In the face of militant resistance, the league officials joined the administration in crushing socialist organizing in the prison shops. Judging from secretary Richards’ elliptical reporting of one incident in particular, at some point during the summer, Warden Rattigan had prohibited prisoners from subscribing to certain socialist publications, and the Superintendent, Riley, had written a letter to the league affirming Rattigan’s action. In June, one prisoner reported to the governing body that certain MWL members had been seen wearing the red lapel ribbon of socialism and another reported that “socialist agitation” was occurring in some of the prison workshops. Upon hearing this news, the governing body voted unanimously that socialist organizing be stopped, and further, that any member who would “infuse into our League political, racial or creed prejudice shall be guilty of conduct unbecoming of League members.” Such conduct made a prisoner liable to expulsion to the segregation company, and certain suspension of all privileges. As well as prohibiting socialist organizing, a majority of the delegates on the governing body recommended that any prisoner who refused to work or fought with another prisoner be automatically expelled from the league for six months.

The allusion to “racial and creed prejudice” is not illuminated anywhere in the archive, and it appears that what was of utmost concern to the governing body was not racism or religious intolerance, but the presence of socialist activism in the prison. The week following the governing body’s prohibition of socialist organizing and prejudice, an unusual number of prisoners were expelled from the league: Thirteen of twenty-six men who appeared before the grievance committees were permanently removed from the league. It is not clear exactly why they were expelled, but it seems probable that they were punished for promoting strike activity. It was at this point that the league leadership moved to tighten its disciplinary hold on the prisoners.

At the same time as cracking down on prisoners they viewed as subversive, the governing body also made it much more difficult for prisoners who had been suspended or expelled by a grievance committee to appeal to the governing body. The body also made a formal request to the warden that a section in the North wing of the prison serve as a segregation unit for expelled members. The administration followed the recommendations of the governing body and set up the segregation unit in the summer of 1914; prisoners in this unit became known as the segregation company. All prisoners who were suspended or expelled from the league were hitherto consigned to this company as part of their punishment, and they had little or no contact with the rest of the prison population. They were deprived of most of the activities organized by league membership, which effectively meant that they could not participate in any of the sports and other recreational activities going on in the prison. Up to 100 prisoners occupied the segregation unit. The league leadership did not, however, abandon the segregated prisoners entirely. They took steps to ensure that conditions in the segregation wing met certain standards: Within two months of establishing the segregation company, the governing body set up a committee to investigate it. The leadership also made provision for the re-entry of suspended (but not expelled) league members back into the general prison population. They recommended to the governing body that all “sentences” handed down by the grievance committees be indeterminate and that a prisoner “parole board” be set up to interview the suspended prisoners on a weekly basis, with the view of integrating the disciplined prisoners back into the general population.

Following the election of a new set of delegates in July, 1914, the governing body investigated the possibility of relieving the idle boredom of the prisoners in the segregation company, by establishing some kind of labor for them. Following the Executive’s suggestion, they also created a parole board, which began to parole the prisoners back into the general prison population. The parole boards were composed of three delegates who met with the suspended members of the segregation company once a week, in order to make recommendations to the Executive Committee about who, if anyone, should be restored to the league (and hence, the general prison population). In its first week of operation, the board recommended that nine men be restored; the Executive Committee accepted six of the nine prisoners, and placed them on probation back in the general prison population.

As well as being a critical element of the Osbornian program of prisoner self-government, the development of the prisoner grievance committees and the parole board was understood by many of the leaders of the league to be a model system of how the American criminal justice system of police, courts, and prisons should work. In a reversal of the fiction of rehabilitation whereby the state undertook to reform convicts, the prisoners of Auburn attempted to reform the state – and its courts and prisons – by demonstrating that indeterminate sentencing, probation and parole, and healthy prison conditions would effectively rehabilitate prisoners who had transgressed the rules. Hence the league leadership adopted the principles of the new penology in its treatment of transgressors. As one delegate put it, "This is the plan that we prisoners are trying to have the people of the outside world adopt and it is up to us to show them that it is the proper method of handling the subject.”"

- Rebecca M. McLennan, The Crisis of Imprisonment: Protest, Politics, and the Making of the American Penal State, 1776-1941. Cambridge University Press, 2008. p. 362- 372.

Image is a postcard from Bill Burton's article on postcards related to mid-1910s Sing Sing - the postcard at the top, showing the MWL at Sing Sing, would also be applicable to Auburn Prison as well.

[aghostiewitdahoodie]

⟣ Synopsis: Being away from you, Simon is feeling blue.

⟣ Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F! Reader

⟣ Warnings: None, Just Fluff

⟣ This is my work, my writing. Do not steal or repost elsewhere.

A stone cold of a wall he has.

A heart so numb, so idle.

A routine so monotonous.

A life as dull as it could be.

Grey as grey could be.

A day to waste.

A day to come to an end.

A day to repeat.

Over and over again.

The man spread long on the bed, insomnolence dominating the vessel of his, orbs fixated towards the rectangle that shelters over him, a mind deprived and starved of affection, appreciation.

Stir and stir.

Nictate and nictate.

No matter.

A hurricane of thoughts.

A serene reflection.

No difference.

A vessel he puppets, a vessel to put on a show, a vessel empty behind closed doors. So shallow and yet a depth so cavernous you can sense the bed.

A soul tormented on a pathetic prison of a life, longing for the infinite gloom. Finding the isolation closest to obtaining serenity.

Simon reached his palm towards his temples, caressing them in a circular motion, yearning to put an end to the day despite it only being halfway over. Being active and engaging in warfare delays his mind from forming a thought, no wonder he despises being inoperative.

A plain sound of a slipped letter under his door removed the traces of his declining character. In a hurry, he extended his hand to collect it, eager to read and receive his antidote.

Simon ambled to the desk which averts his quarters from being bare, his mask- his persona settled between him and the lamp. Adoring the envelope that rests on his calloused hands, he moves it closer to him, yearning to sense the existence of his strength and his weakness.

Reminiscing the memory of you imprisoned in his embrace, never wanting to pull away from you. Your heavenly scent overwhelming him yet he could never get enough.

Simon’s rough digits gently glide through the letter, diligent about your creation despite his growing desperation.

Reminiscing the memory of his digits slowly caressing your soothing skin while his lips paint your neck with his very own art.

Simon unveiled the letter, his hands on either side, his auburn orbs carefully read your passionate words.

Reminiscing the memory of you declaiming a novel to a-minute-close to a slumbering him, regardless he hears every word that is departing from your lips. It was a music to his organ of hearing.

My dearest Simon,

I long for time we meet again. I see you, I smell you and I hear you everywhere I go. I miss you greatly, no words can compare. I await for your orbs to gaze at me. I await for your touch on my skin. I await to hear your voice responding to my needs. I await for your lips to fall on mine. How have you been, my lieutenant?

Your love, Y/N

Simon is situated by his desk, a palm clasped on his mouth as he finished reading the letter of yours. A mere moment had passed before he picks up a paper and a pen, eager to respond to you.

You are why he continues. You are why he finds the strength despite everything. In a world so cruel and unforgiving, you are his ethereal.

[inlovewithprettyboys]

a/n: another heizou fanfic! This man has been on my mind and I can't help but write for him again!

pairings: Heizou x Criminal! Male! Reader

cw: Overstimulation, use of toys, mean Heizou, ooc heizou, bondage(?), slight cock stepping, sadism/masochism, top heizou, bottom reader

“ Alright, I’ll be heading off now! Don’t miss me too much! “ The young man exclaimed, giving a huge wave to the Traveler as they parted ways, his smile big and bright, like it always had been.

-

You hated Shikanoin Heizou. He was irritating, to say the least. Despite being a criminal mastermind yourself, his antics would annoy you to no end. That was why you had set up a trap for him, one that would secure him as your prisoner while you pranced around Inazuma doing various deeds. The plan was foolproof, you were sure of it. But now that you thought of it, perhaps you had been the fool all along. You should’ve noticed the signs that information got out, you should’ve noticed the little, subtle changes to your trap, and you should’ve never gotten too cocky. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been in the situation you’re in now.

-

Heizou hummed as he made his way toward an abandoned shack on the outskirts of serai island, twirling a ring of keys on his finger as he took in the sight of the area, a variety of purple scattered throughout as electricity buzzed gently in the air, making some of his hair stand on end. The detective walked with a skip in his step as he stopped at the front door, inserting a key into the keyhole before twisting, a small ‘ click ‘ sound being heard. 

“ I’m home~! “ He called out, looking around the almost barren shack, grinning when his eyes caught his object of interest. He gently shut the door behind him and locked it as he placed the keys into his pocket. His green eyes lit up as he looked down at a puddle on the floor which he had stepped on, a small tsk coming from him. “ You really made a mess, didn’t you? “ He asked, receiving no response before shrugging and squatting down, face-to-face with the only other person in the shack, you.

Long, shaky breaths left you as your legs shook, trying to hold yourself up. Your wrists were restrained above your head by a rope from the ceiling while you had multiple toys strapped to you, one even inside you. Every time your legs gave in, the rope would dig into your skin, making it difficult for blood to flow there and causing extensive pain, which was why you were on the brink of collapsing. The detective was a cruel man, his hollow laughter filling your ears as you tried to ignore it, unfocused eyes looking at anywhere but him. Heizou’s hand came up to your cheek to stroke it, his gentle touch contradicting the one from his other hand as he tugged at your cock, bringing your whole body forward to him as well as making hot pain rush up your entire body, a gasp escaping you in the process. 

“ I asked you a question, didn’t I? “ He muttered, low and downright menacing as his soft touches changed and he was now grabbing you by the jaw, forcing you to meet his dark, narrowed eyes. A whine came from you as you tried your best to remember the question, your memories murky, even though he asked that question a minute ago. With a huff at your silence, the auburn-haired man stood straight up and walked a few steps back, he brought one of his hands into his pocket and took out a small rectangular device, the slider on it currently at its lowest setting. Your eyes widened at the object as you bit the inside of your cheek, preparing for more pain than pleasure as his finger slid the slider up so that it was now on its highest setting, ten.

A choked sob left your mouth as you felt intense vibrations on your cock, the sensation bringing agony to your lower half as fresh tears fell down your previously tear-stained cheeks. From the corner of your blurred vision, you could see the man walk around you, observing the way your hands clenched and unclenched, the way your legs trembled and the way your entire body seemed to shake as an orgasm struck you like lightning, Instead of feeling pure ecstasy like you were supposed to, you only felt red, hot anguish as you screamed, your voice coming out raw and raspy. 

You didn’t realise it, but he had stopped in front of you when you came, droplets of white which you shot out landing on his foot as he blankly stared, face unreadable while your eyes met with his. He lifted a hand as your flinched, tired eyes closing as you expected a beating, only for him to gently lift your chin with his finger. You could feel him press a kiss to the corner of your lips as you exhale through your nose, his lips burning your skin. “ Hey now, “ he started, breath fanning against the side of your face, “ it seemed as though you got something on me just now. “Your confused eyes said everything as he motioned downwards, your gaze following. Ah, his foot which was covered in droplets of white. He removed his finger from you before making his way behind you, you could feel his warmth by your back as the restraints on your wrists went from unbearably tight to loose before you crashed onto the ground, your arms struggling to hold yourself up as your entire body trembled. 

You looked absolutely pathetic, soft pants coming out from you as the dildo in your ass came out due to your fall, covered with a thin sheen of liquid as your hole clenched around thin air, too used to having it stuck in you that now you felt empty, yet you were also relieved. Heizou gave you a few seconds to collect yourself, you finally managed to get your body up as you leaned against one of the four walls, its coolness seeping into your warm back and making you shudder. You had your eyes shut, glad that you could at least take a break now, well, as much as a break you could get. The vibrations on your sex did not lessen at all but you were too preoccupied with the sudden drop to notice, but now that you weren’t doing anything much, its vibrations became apparent as you came again, a silent cry leaving you as your fluids covered your tired legs. 

The soft tapping of his footsteps approached you as you opened both your eyes to stare up at him. Heizou bent down to face you, a gentle smile on his face as he reached for your cock, a sigh fleeing you as you readied yourself for another round of pure torture. Only for him to remove the toy on it, as tenderly as possible, doing the same to the others that were strapped onto you. 

To say that you were dumbfounded was an underestimation as you watched him like a hawk, though you knew that you had no power to stand up to him. Not when your wrists were red and you could barely feel your hands, not when your legs were overworked and shaking, not when every part of you shook at the lightest touch and certainly not when your cock was still red and throbbing, leaking out its translucent liquid. You collected your confidence as you decided to rasp out a question which had been flooding your mind since the beginning, “ why? “ 

The once gentle smile on his face had long since faded as his eyes peered at you, face devoid of anything before he pushed himself forward, caging you to the wall, the only emotion was in his eyes, his intense gaze making you quiver. “ You fascinate me. I’ve heard about your deeds, no other detective in Inazuma could catch you and when I heard that you had planned to seize me for foiling your plans, I had to turn the table on you didn’t I? “ Heizou’s usual grin returned as he leaned in and spoke softly near the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps up your neck, “ after all, no one’s been able to outsmart Shikanoin Heizou. But you had come close, too close. And now, I suppose its time for your retribution, isn’t it? “ 

With that, he stood up and pressed the sole of his sandals to your burning cock, a groan escaping you as he gazed down on you, his face switching from grinning to unfeeling in the blink of an eye as he applied more pressure, your pained sounds and expression fueling him. 

-

You despised Shikanoin Heizou, but, you also couldn’t help but love him. Because, just as you had caught his obsession and attention, so had he to you.

[malmiele]

genderbent theon already compels me in its usual setup (i.e. she is still the hostage) but tbh in a world where theon was born a girl (teora? theia?), asha would be the one sent away as a hostage because she'd be the heir.

she'd be 13-14 when she arrived at winterfell, still young, but old enough to have her psyche mostly shaped by the iron islands. alannys raised her to be bold. how would she handle her new position in a foreign society? she'd be a good deal older than sansa and arya, but i would like to see how they interact. maybe besides jon, arya could see asha as someone she related to. as the heir to the iron islands the crown would definitely look into getting her married off, arguably more so than theia. but the starklings are too young, and benjen took himself out of the equation. would robert consider another great house? edmure? willas or garlan? would she then have been sent to riverrun or highgarden instead? (maybe not the reach, though, since baelor blacktyde was already sent to oldtown.) i am beginning to like the idea of asha being sent to be part of catelyn's entourage in winterfell in preparation for her eventual marriage to edmure.

meanwhile balon would raise theia as his heir. most likely she'll be similar to asha in the original timeline, although she wouldn't have had her own crew for as long. maybe she'll still have a fondness for fashion, which she probably won't be as mocked for, written off as a young woman's acceptable frivolity. i also think if asha is getting married earlier balon might also want theia married if he's serious about theia inheriting over asha (which he probably would be, the thought of greenlander grandchildren ruling his throne would drive him crazy). one way to ensure theia's inheritance would, as unsavoury as it sounds, be marrying her to one of her uncles, probably victarion. otherwise allying with another major house would also be good, maybe one of the goodbrother triplets? they're about robb's age. wouldn't it be cute if they were also redheads.

asha tully-greyjoy travels to meet her father to offer an alliance against the lannisters, insisting to her husband that she can go alone. theia sits in the place of honor beside their father, with a tall auburn boy that reminds asha of the boy who sent her here. while theia is sent to capture deepwood motte like asha in the original timeline, our asha is not trained at arms and probably stays on pyke.

winterfell is never sacked. robb never marries jeyne westerling. the red wedding still happens, but at robb's wedding to a frey daughter rather than edmure's. the freys do not have their paper-thin excuse this time, and they will be even more reviled by westeros, if that is even possible. edmure will be held prisoner, which could be good news or bad news for asha depending on how much she likes him.

asha is probably one of the first to know of balon's death at pyke. she quickly moves to claim the seastone chair while theia and victarion are away, but euron suddenly returns, and aeron calls for a kingsmoot. which euron probably still wins. and the greyjoy sisters will have to work together to save the situation...

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Yes please writte this historical Au cause you'r writing is already amazing but medival enemys to lovers for Susie and Demarco would be a real gift to us .Lots of Love and a Happy week to you

Thank you so much anon - and extra thanks to everyone else who's messaged me about this AU! <3 hope you enjoy!!

@xxluckystrike @p-polaroid

wars of the roses au -> susie lamb x bernard demarco

The carriage swayed uncomfortably from side to side against the uneven road below, the only sound the constant rattle of wheels and braying of horses as the boy and his father approached their destination. Bernard DeMarco slouched in his seat, staring back at the elder man across from him, a sour frown contorting his expression.

"Stop sulking like a child and sit up straight," His father snapped, tearing his unimpressed gaze away from the window. "It's bad enough we have to grovel to these people, do not arrive looking a fool."

Bernard rolled his eyes. "I still do not understand this. My brothers married Ladies - you are an Earl. And who is she? Her father had no title - her brother may be a Baron now, but he was not born one. Why have I had to fall so far?"

"Your brothers may have married Ladies, but their families are now outcasts from the court of our new King Henry. We need influence and new alliances, and her sisters have married well - this will connect us to the right people, son."

Suppressing a sigh, he leant sideways against the inside of the carriage, staring out at the red-brick chimney pots and they pulled into the courtyard of the Lamb family's home, the walls encircling him like a prison. As the carriage rolled to a halt, he and his father stepped outside, the fresh country air a balm after so many hours inside the wooden box. At the door, an older woman awaited, closer in age to his father, skin pinched at the corners of her eyes, dark hair pulled tightly back beneath her cap. "Welcome, my Lord. My son is waiting for you inside."

Watching as his father fell in step with the woman - whom he assumed would soon be his own mother once this business was over - Bernard trailed closely behind, taking in his surroundings as they filed through the corridors towards the house's main hall. The place was plainer than he was used to, although not entirely without its charm. As they crossed the entryway, a girl appeared at the top of the stairs, staring down at them, warm brown curls framing her face, a pink flush tinting her cheeks as she sent him a sweet smile. Although not the most handsome girl he had seen, she was certainly pleasant.

"Father?" He called as Mrs Lamb disappeared in search of her children. "Who's that, up there?"

Following his gaze, his father nodded. "Eleanor. The youngest sister."

He was sure his disappointment was visible. "Can't I marry that one instead? She seems agreeable."

"Hm, the King thought so too. Which is why she is already betrothed to the Earl of Leicester's son."

"So I am truly to take the scraps?"

"Unfortunately," A voice echoed from the other end of the hall. Bernard and his father turned simultaneously, peering at the woman as she approached, loose, auburn locks bouncing over her shoulders with each movement, footsteps echoing against the polished wooden floor. She eyed him closely, with the scrutiny of a fox assessing its prey, and he felt sweat begin to bead at his brow.

"Ah! Susannah!" Her mother exclaimed, a younger man at her shoulder as she returned, his gaze skittish, never meeting the eye. But there was a distinct resemblance between the two, and he found himself suppressing a snort as he realised the man must have been the Baron. "Wonderful. My Lord, if we may talk in the drawing room? We can leave these two to make their introductions."

In that moment, Bernard wanted nothing less than to be left alone with this woman. Nevertheless, his father had soon vanished, and the pair stood silently at the base of the stairs as he tried not to flinch under her gaze, so penetrating it was as if she could see straight through his clothes and flesh all the way to his very bones. Eleanor let out a giggle from upstairs, and soon she too was gone.

"So," Susannah Lamb began. "You truly are desperate."

A prick of indignation stabbed at his chest, pushing his shoulders back to tower above her even more than he already did. Her lips were pursed in a thin smirk as she waited for his reply, and he realised that - as irritable as her expression was - her face was far from unappealing to him. If anything, at least their children might appear personable.

"Madam, I am doing you a favour with this match," He grimaced.

"Oh, certainly. But it humiliates you to do it - to marry so below your birthright, all because your father chose the wrong side."

"It's surely telling that no one on your own side would take you as a wife - although I can't confess to being surprised."

At this, she began to laugh, and Bernard bit at the inside of his cheek so hard that he almost drew blood. He certainly hadn't intended for such a reaction, and worse still was the melodious warmth with which she did it. It was a laugh that, in itself, he could have surely come to love. That it came from Susannah was... confusing.

With a final dry chuckle, she finally spoke. "Well, you have confirmed my every expectation, Sir." Susannah nodded, still smiling.

He scoffed. "And you're pleased by that?"

"Oh absolutely. If you'd been agreeable I would've found you so much harder to dislike."

"You're very resolved to dislike me, aren't you?"

"Well, it certainly makes my life easier," She shrugged, her skirts rustling as she turned on her heel and began to walk away, the rhythmic drum of footsteps parting the tense quiet. Bernard watched on for a moment before letting out an irritated huff as he began to pursue. Up ahead, her dress swayed side to side with each step, all at once infuriating and disgustingly hypnotic.

"In what way?" He yelled.

"There's no expectation that I see you beyond what is strictly necessary," Susannah called over her shoulder, the sunlight through a passing window casting shadows across her profile. She had just made it around the next corner when he caught up, seizing her wrist and tugging her to a halt. Expression contorted in distaste, she yanked her arm sharply from his grip, yet made no effort to flee. "Until the very moment we are wed, you do not touch me."

"Do you truly think I want to marry you?" He sneered.

"Do you truly think I care what you want?" She shot back, mimicking his own tone in a way that made his blood boil.

"My brothers wed Ladies-"

"And I'm sure they were very pleased with themselves at the time."

With his jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth may shatter, Bernard searched desperately for some scrap of wit he could hurl back in her face, only for his mind to come up devastatingly empty. It wasn't until the pair had fallen silent that he realised quite how close they'd become. With each insult, they had inched forward to better spit their venom, but all it seemed to mean now was that there was barely a gap between them, their breath fanning each other's cheeks, heads tilted towards one another, lips mere inches apart. Susannah's expression was cold, unyielding, and it seemed to take her a moment to realise this herself. Suddenly clearing her throat, she took a decisive step back, and the air around him seemed to clear, suddenly absent of warmth.

"Bernard!" His father's voice echoed from somewhere back down the hall.

"Off you go," She whispered, that ever-present tone of mockery still lining her voice. "He's tugging your leash, pup."

Taking a step back towards his father, Bernard took one last scornful glance at the woman, a beam of sunlight streaking through the window and lighting her hair a fiery orange.

"Milady," He bit, turning his back on her as he returned to his father, who stood waiting for him at the base of the stairs, brow raised in question. At the sight of his son's dour frown, he nodded, seemingly entirely unsurprised.

Susannah's mother uttered her thanks, and they were out the door almost as swiftly as they had come, the gravel in the courtyard crunching noisily beneath their feet as they returned to their carriage. Swinging the door open, Bernard's father climbed in first, looking back at his son once he'd taken his seat.

"So? What do you think of her, then?"

Turning his head, he took one last look at the house. Movement in one of the upstairs windows caught his eye, and he glanced up as Susannah took a seat upon the sill, attention so captured by the book in her hands that she never spared a glance for the man who was to be her husband. When peaceful, she appeared an entirely different woman. With a huff, he clambered inside, sitting down opposite his father.

"I think we'll make each other miserable."