well yes!

1 Prologue: Under the Greenwood Tree

2 The Estate Problem (Volt)

3 The American (Eddie)

4 Breaker Hall (Volt, Eddie)

5 A Week Later

6 Groundskeepers

7 The Hill

8 The Cottage

9 Into the Woods

10 The Solicitor

11 The Letter

12 A Town Outing

13 Interlude: Come Hither, Come Hither

14 The Solicitor, Again

15 Good Lord

16 My Azizam

17 Coda: Into the Greenwood

18 Epilogue

—

a/n:

This fic is an ode to all the English lit I read when I was younger. While I think of the idyll of the English country estate very differently now, I (unfortunately) still have a fondness for it that’s stayed with me all these years (to this day, a solid English novel can take me out of a reading slump). Of course, the idea of the English greenwood as a pastoral paradise is an elusive concept because it’s not actually real, though it retains a kind of romantic appeal anyway. This fic stages that idyll as a faux paradise, one that in reality is a site for a declining aristocracy post-WWI, class conflict, imperialism, and sexual awakening against societal norms.

Anyway, this is all preamble - this fic is really about Volt and Eddie fucking their way through an English estate and its surrounding woodlands, crazy style 🙂‍↕️

We have stories we hold closer to our hearts more than others, and for the moment, this is mine. (hands the fic to u with a kiss) pls enjoy 🫶

PS - updates will generally be every 2 weeks (fridays), general tags for future chapters have been added but any spoilery tags will be added later

PPS - any relevant historical/character context and date everything references will be found at the end of each chapter

“Fuck, Eddie…”

He runs his tongue through your folds, eager, unyielding, lapping at you in relief, like you’d finally fulfilled his wish, like he’d been waiting to taste you all his life.

Seeing Eddie on his knees like this was intoxicating - made you feel right, like he was made for you. Fuck, you think, you like seeing him like this. He starts tentatively sucking your clit - you buck into his mouth in surprise, tightening your grip, “Oh, fuck-“

“Live wire…,” Eddie whines, needy and breathless, like he’ll die if you stop. You almost laugh at the absurdity - the thought of stopping is more than you can bear.

“D-don’t stop, baby.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

His tongue wastes no time exploring its newfound freedom, exploring every inch of your cunt, moaning like he’d been allowed to taste nectar for the first time.

You hear how wet you are, slick noises where Eddie’s tongue flicks - a rush of wetness where you feel the heat pooling between your legs - but it doesn’t even matter. He’s lapping at you like a man starved, like he wants you to make a mess, so he can clean it up - savoring it, like this is the last time he’ll be permitted to taste you.

Slowly, Eddie reaches down to unbutton his own pants, the snap echoing in the small room. You moan at the sight of him palming himself. You’ll die like this, you think, to the image of Eddie on his knees like this, desperately touching himself as he laps at you, eyes closed so tight like he didn’t want to focus on anything else but the taste of you.

Then you remember what he said.

“… yeah I… I wanna fuck your mouth.”

The ends of his hair flicker, and he looks up at you, momentarily undone by your words. It takes him a moment to speak, words stumbling together, “… yes please, please-“

You rest your thigh on his shoulder, his hand pinning you in place. Panting softly, he looks up at you, lashes slightly wet. He pushes his tongue out and keeps it still, lips shiny where they meet the light. You start to move, bucking your hips up tentatively, dragging your clit across the length of his tongue.

You throw your head back in a whine, “God, Eddie…,” hips moving in a slow, undulating rhythm. You tighten your hold on his hair, riding his tongue in earnest.

He doesn’t hold back a groan as you do, eyes falling closed in pleasure, feeling every inch of you on every ridge of his tongue. Then he moves, tongue meeting the rhythm of your hips - you were undeniably fucking his mouth now. You give his hair another tug - he moans obscenely, brows knit tightly, tears forming on the corners of his eyes, tongue in perfect cadence with you. His hands start to tremble slightly, fingers gripping you harder as you move faster and faster.

Fuck, you think, he likes this, likes being manhandled like this.

It was intoxicating, Eddie letting you use him like this. You felt drunk on the moment, drunk on the influence you had over him, drunk on his obedience, how he wanted you to just take and take and take.

“Eddie-“

You start chasing your orgasm, your climax building as you look down at him, a rolling movement of your body against his mouth.

You slowly knew what you wanted from him. The next time you pull at his hair, you tug - your hand was sure - his eyes look up at you in surprise, tiny sparks falling to the floor. You like seeing him desperate like this, you realize.

He seems to realize this too, by the way he starts to grow pliant under your touch, like a marionette whose strings had been cut and handed over.

“You’re so pretty…” you whisper.

You chase a fervent rhythm, with an urgency that surprises even you. Eddie lets you dictate the pace, his tongue moving in complete unison with your hips.

“Fuck, Eddie, you give it so good…”

The impending orgasm, low on your belly, suddenly seemed unfathomable to you, but the idea of slowing, of stopping, of not hearing the low whining coming from Eddie’s throat anymore, of not feeling the heat of his tongue on your cunt, was even more unthinkable.

You felt like some figure being worshipped, his lips and his tongue and his mouth paying you a filthy, debased kind of homage.

You feel the last traces of control dissolve into pleasure - oh fuck, you weren’t gonna last.

You try to let him know, tightening your hold on his hair, “Eddie, I…”

In response, you feel his finger prod at your entrance, the wetness making it easily slip inside. He sucks on your clit as he curves the finger inside you, starts fucking you.

You tighten around his finger in response.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck-“

He moans and hurriedly pushes his pants down his thighs with his other hand, prying his cock from his pants, stroking himself in time with the finger inside you.

Absently, you hear the music quiet down outside the door, but they could be making a racket and you wouldn’t have given a damn.

Eddie starts to whimper, the finger inside you moving faster, the hand around his cock losing its rhythm, his hips trying to fuck his fist.

That’s what brings you to the edge - the vision of Eddie under you, with his brows knitted in concentration, desperately fisting himself, letting you do whatever you wanted.

Moaning like he was made for you - moaning like a whore for you.

You roll your hips and tug at his hair, pulling as hard as you can, coming in his mouth. You ride your orgasm on his tongue, moaning through the aftershocks.

He can feel your heartbeat on his tongue, a frantic pulsing beneath your skin, pulsing just for him, the closest he can get to you, and that’s what sets him off the edge - he comes hard in his pants, groaning against your cunt.

A stuttering crackle cuts through the air, as a final burst of sparks leaps from his hair, scattering on the back room floor. A faint metallic smell fills the room.

You pull one last time, bringing Eddie to meet you, his legs stumbling as he tries to get up. He pulls you close in a searing kiss, arms wrapping tightly around your neck. You taste yourself on his tongue.

You chuckle, “I’m not going anywhere, you know,” you tease.

He looks at you intently, his gaze searching, taking in your face. His hands move up and down your sides as he leans in to kiss you again, “…I know.”

Suddenly, the door clicks.

Volt stumbles into the room, a little breathless, bright hair framing his face, hands shaking a little on the door handle like Eddie’s was just moments ago.

Your eyes fall to his hair - the closer he got, the more you could see that it was crackling, pale little white sparks snapping lazily around his head.

“I closed early,” he says simply, his eyes flickering, flitting back and forth, seemingly undecided whether to look at you or Eddie. His eyes travel to your cunt, where Eddie’s hand was resting.

“You’ve both made me quite distracted tonight…,” he trails off, letting his jacket fall to the floor, hurriedly making his way over to you. A hand trails down your arm, the other cupping the underside of Eddie’s jaw, “…I was getting a lot of drink orders wrong.”

Eddie places a small kiss to Volt’s palm. He mutters, “Now you know what it’s like.”

You let your fingers drag down Volt’s torso.

His eyes flutter shut, sighing, “I… I think it’s about time you understood just how connected we are, live wire.”

You slip a hand in his pocket, stroking where he was hard, like you’ve dreamt of doing countless times over the last few days. He stifles a moan. You couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

He blushes, “I’m glad you find my desperation funny, darling.”

“It’s not that…” You trace his cock more slowly, feeling yourself get wet over the promise of seeing it for the first time.

“I’ve just… kind of been thinking about this for a while.”

“I see,” Volt smiles, “Making me beg, then, are we, live wire? Fortunately for you, I’m not… not above begging right now.”

You bring your hand to the side of his face. he nuzzles into your touch, his cheek resting on your palm, gaze surrendering to you completely. You’re taken aback, breathless - you’ve never seen Volt like this.

You felt like you were getting away with something.

You look to either side of you, and found yourself admiring the absolute certainty of their attention, so rounded and finished, with no loose ends.

It’s Eddie who speaks first.

“Fuck, let’s… this is-“

“…Yes, quite,” Volt laughs, a little breathless, “Would you like to come upstairs with us, live wire?”

—

You take his hand, give the back of it a little kiss before trailing your tongue along the line of salt, not breaking eye contact as you continue on along his middle finger, sucking on it, moaning around it, closing your eyes in mock pleasure.

Volt’s mouth parts a little. He leans closer to you.

You pull away with an obnoxious pop, momentarily breaking eye contact to down your shot and suck on a wedge of lime.

Volt reaches for the salt, dipping a finger in the cellar, and crowds your space, quirking a brow as he smirks down at you. He drags the finger along your neck, and you feel the coaxing caress of his hand on the back of your head. He pulls at your hair, giving himself better access.

He leans in, licks the stripe of salt, and continues along to the side of your face, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear before gently sucking on your earlobe, nipping a little at the skin there.

You moan, “Volt…”

He pulls away, downs his shot, sucks on his lime. “Yes, live wire?” He says lightly.

You pull him by the neck towards you, “Come… come here-“ You part your legs and he steps into the space between them, fingers lazily roaming through your hair. “Your turn, my darling,” he murmurs.

You reach for the salt and run your fingers down his chest. You undo a few more buttons, give yourself better access, and lean in, licking the stripe of salt, pulling him closer to you. You mouth at his shoulder, suck a mark on his neck.

His other hand lightly clutches your waist, “Mm, my sweet spark…” 

You pull away for a second, reach blindly for a shot, downing it without a lime. Then you pull him back to you, and start to trail a line of kisses along his neck, along his jaw.

He captures your lips in a heated kiss. You slip your tongue inside. You start gasping softly into his mouth, and you feel his erection prodding against the top of your thigh.

“F-fuck, Volt… the next place I wanna lick might taste better without salt, actually.”

His breath hitches softly, those bright, glowing eyes flickering as they linger on your lips.

“Me too, darling.”

—

a little running series about cocktails & other recipes - this one’s tequila shots 😛🧂🍋‍🟩

You take the bottle with you to the other end of the bar, filling the highball glass with ice and putting in a shot of gin.

“Hmm? Ah, yeah. Here, Tony.” He quickly takes the cap off the bottle and sets it on the counter, atop a cocktail napkin.

He walks to the bar sink to wash his hands. You put the bottle of gin back on the shelf and step beside him, putting your hands under the tap. You run your fingers across his knuckles under the running water. He turns his palm up to hold your hand properly.

“Always wash your hands,” he says, looking up at you. You turn off the tap and reach for a hand towel. “It’s so important…” you mutter.

You attempt to run the towel across your palms. Eddie keeps your hands in a loose hold, his fingers intertwining with yours. You lean in and kiss him on the cheek, feeling his stubble against your skin. 

“I’ll finish the drink now.”

“Mm, okay.” He reluctantly lets you go.

You go back to the bar counter, top the glass with tonic water and gently stir.

You move behind him to get a garnish from the other side of the bar, pulling slightly on the orange wire running down the side of his torso. He stiffens a little under your touch, a sound catching in his throat. He turns his head and captures your lips in a kiss, his hand curling around your wrist.

“Hu-llooo? What’s the use of the no sex on the bar rule if the bartender just breaks it?” Tina gives you a look of derision.

You chuckle, give Eddie a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll stay with Volt.” 

He gives you a smile, shakes his head at you, “See you later, baby.”

Eddie turns to Tina. “My bar, my rules.” He raises his eyebrows. 

“And if memory serves right, you haven’t even ordered yet.”

—

i’m starting a lil series about cocktails & other recipes - this one’s on how to make a gin and tonic 🤭🍋‍🟩

As time went on, his father became more insistent about teaching him the ways of his inheritance, and the estate became a noose slowly tightening around his neck, culminating when his father passed away a year ago, during the first week of the Season in London. He had come back to Breaker Hall to bury him, but had been adamant to leave on the same day, as soon as was proper.

It had been one of those uniquely perfect summer days, but the sun on that day seemed merciless, a rotten heat that seemed to happen directly to him—against him. And however much he liked to say that he and his father certainly had nothing in common, the grief he felt on that day surprised him, a riotous internal pain. But the thing about grief was that in some ways, it can blur one’s days to a crushing sameness. What was actually important was what happened after.

A few months later, he turned twenty-one. Before the War—when the estate was still solvent, when having one actually meant something—it would have been occasion for a proper coming of age. Houses such as Breaker Hall had, after all, been built for that sort of thing: entertaining on a scale meant to accommodate every single person an heir has ever met.

Instead, the week was spent in London in a flurry of meetings with solicitors, estate managers, and ledgers, formalizing the transfer of his inheritance.

Among the matters discussed was a peculiar stipulation in his father’s will: that the patch of greenwood on the right side of the river, accounting for a quarter of the land, was to pass to an American named Mr. Eddison Watts, the son of the estate’s late groundskeeper.

The solicitors had initially been convinced it could be contested, but the stipulation proved iron-clad; Mr. Watts would be staying on as de facto groundskeeper until Volt could assume responsibility for the land, after which ownership would pass to him in full as soon as Volt was able.

What Volt did was this: postpone the responsibility for a few more months, urging the estate managers to continue their stewardship while he finished his last two terms, going up to Cambridge to do his most valuable and undisturbed work for the tripos.

He figured that was enough time to decide what he wanted to do. He weighed his options, but fell short of finding a real calling. At one point he fancied that he would have liked to have been an English don, but even that didn’t feel quite right. When he graduated, the solicitors summoned him again, and discussed the particulars of the estate after a brief perfunctory congratulations. On the long meeting table lay an imposing pile of ledgers.

“We have taken the most stringent measures to ensure you have a chance at restoring the solvency of this estate, managing it with the utmost economy for the last year, reducing expenses where necessary.”

He was made aware of the temporary domestic arrangements they had made since his father’s death (a single housekeeper that attempted to maintain the house twice a week, in lieu of the small retinue of servants and a butler his father couldn’t bear to part with), which he was encouraged to make decisions about as soon as he took residence. The solicitors reminded him that his father had only paid to keep them on retainer for three more years.

They made one thing clear: that the most important thing was to find a way to keep the estate from going bankrupt.

Of course, now that he needed to solve this estate problem—and carry out the stipulation in the will—he found himself in a really false position: that of an estate owner who had doubts about the value of owning an estate.

He set the ledgers down on a console table. A loose sheet, with figures neatly totaled, slid half an inch out of place: Locke & Keith, Solicitors to the Breaker Estate since 1848. He could still hear the solicitor’s voice.

The estate can be made solvent under certain conditions.

Volt sighed, feeling his collar sit too close to his throat.

He looked in the mirror by the foyer, smoothed the lapels of his coat, and let out a long exhale. He untied the ribbon keeping his hair back, so carefully put together when he was out in society. In truth, he preferred keeping it like this: flowing around his shoulders, framing the angles of his face. But such were the demands of propriety. He gazed at his reflection, straightening his posture while he admired the portrait in the mirror. He grimaced and chided himself—he wouldn’t have minded any remarks on his appearance nearly so much if he didn’t let himself be so affected by them.

With his pedigree came a peculiar inheritance passed down through the heirs of Breaker Hall: hair that whitened with such speed that it scarcely passed through grey in youth. By the time he was twenty, it had become a shocking mane of white which, coupled with its length, gave him what some considered an uncanny look, and others an otherworldly beauty.

Volt took compliments with grace, though always with a desire to get rid of them quickly. People often mistook this for arrogance or coldness, when in truth he was simply unwilling to reveal how much any praise pleased him—how much he liked to be looked at.

Because even his beauty, another inheritance he never asked for, felt so accidental to him as to be faintly embarrassing.

He walked away from the gilt mirror, took the ledgers with him.

For two pins he would have thrown his hat over the estate fence and declared that there wasn’t a single principle among the aristocracy worth defending. But anarchy cannot be tolerated among the upper classes, and rebellion among people like Volt had always been carefully managed into harmless subversions. He had read English instead of Classics, History, or Law, had grown his hair long after Eton, and was irreverent through wit and humour instead of real anarchic threat.

He crossed the threshold of the foyer, and noted the trunks filled with most of his belongings, by the drawing room door. He brought the heaviest one in the drawing room and started unpacking, setting up a makeshift study by the mahogany desk near the picture window. He set the ledgers down and started going through all the beloved volumes he had acquired over the last few years—welcome additions, he thought, to the library upstairs.

Uneven stacks of books quickly accumulated across the desk and the nearby armchair—Forster, Conrad, French novels in translation, loose notebooks filled with lecture annotations from Cambridge.

Then he heard the rumblings of an engine outside. He walked back to the front door to meet it.

A motorcar came up the drive and stopped without flourish. A man stepped out—he wore no jacket and his sleeves were rolled, as though his day had already been underway for hours. He opened the back, and lifted a small wooden crate. Volt stepped forward before quite deciding to, the gravel shifting under the thin soles of his Oxfords.

“I was told someone had been seeing to the grounds.” He spoke, in a voice that he hoped conveyed some authority. “I hoped we might speak.” The man shut the car door with his hip.

“We can,” he said easily, a casual drawl. He’s the American, Volt registered absently. “I’ve been keeping the south side. And the woodlands on the east. Your father had it done a certain way.”

Volt nodded as though he understood. He didn’t.

His eyes went briefly to the car. It was beautiful, if surprisingly modern. Was it something the solicitors recently bought for the estate? He wanted to roll his eyes. Didn’t they just talk to me at length about making monetary concessions and the bloody insolvency problems?

“They sent you to come in with supplies from the village?”

“No,” he said, “I came from the lower road.” He paused.

“Car’s mine.”

That was not at all what Volt expected. A little taken aback, he looked at him again, properly this time.

The man had on a poplin shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves pushed back unevenly. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, but not carelessly so—it was neither frayed nor shabby. Nothing about him seemed contrived or meticulously tailored, and yet he looked unexpectedly handsome all the same.

So.

Not a servant—no livery, no deference. Not a tenant either—there was no hesitation in how he stood, and he didn’t glance toward the house or to Volt for permission to do or say anything. If he answered to the estate, it was not in any way Volt understood. He couldn’t really place where he belonged. It made him uneasy.

“I don’t drive,” Volt said, before he could stop himself.

The man’s mouth shifted—almost a smile, not quite.

“No,” he said with ease, “didn’t think you would.”

He tried to regain a semblance of an upper hand. “You’re Eddison.”

“Yes, Eddison Watts. You can call me Eddie,” he hesitated, “Lord Breaker.”

Any sense of control Volt regained disappeared completely.

“Oh, heavens, no! Lord Breaker… was my father. Not… not me. Please call me Volt.”

“Volt,” Eddie repeated, as though the name amused him.

“Yes.” Volt smiled indulgently, though he really was used to this by now, “My mother was quite taken by the advent of electricity when I was born.”

“Right,” Eddie politely replied.

Volt’s smile faltered a little. That quaint little anecdote usually went over much better with people. Instead, Eddie seemed more intent on observing him rather than responding properly. Well, no matter.

He adjusted his coat. “I assume you’d like to talk about the stipulations of my father’s will?”

“Sure.”

He finally looked directly at Volt, his gaze lingering a fraction too long. He had startlingly lovely grey eyes, Volt thought. Which were currently watching him with bemusement. He coloured deeply.

“Well. Right this way.” He led Eddie to the drawing room.

It occurred to Volt that bringing the groundskeeper inside the house was not considered proper.

“You haven’t… you haven’t been here, have you? Inside?”

“No,” Eddie said, “the most your father brought me was the foyer.”

Eddie’s gaze flicked briefly toward the uneven stacks of books Volt had been unpacking. Volt glanced at them.

"I'm terribly sorry about the mess. I'd only just begun unpacking.” He changed the subject, “You can… you can put the crate on that table.”

“They’re just eggs—the housekeeper mentioned you might not have any supplies, but I figured these kept well enough.”

Volt’s eyebrows raised a little, a little startled by this small kindness. “Thank you. That is most kind of you.”

Eddie shrugged. Volt glanced at the stack of ledgers on the desk.

“Right. I believe my father named you in a stipulation in his will, for the parcel of land east of the river. I assure you, I intend on making good on the transfer, as soon as I’ve made the proper arrangements.”

“Suits me just fine. I’ll be in England until the end of July.”

“Marvelous.” He looked back toward the desk with visible trepidation. “Actually, Eddison?” he said, distracted.

“Eddie.”

“Eddie. Yes. Would you mind returning tomorrow afternoon instead? Now’s not a very good time for me, I’m afraid.”

“Sure.” There it was again, that bemused look. Was he mocking Volt?

“Perfect. Let’s plan for then? After luncheon? I have to meet with the vicar, you see, so I’ll have to sort that thing out in the morning.” Volt had no idea why he was telling Eddie this.

“Great.”

“Great. Well! I shall see you tomorrow. Please close the door on your way out.”

“Right.” He let out a small smile. “See you then.”

As Eddie drove away, Volt watched the car from the drawing room, and decided that interaction hadn’t been a total disaster.

Should he have allowed Eddie to call him Lord Breaker? He was already exhausted from a week of inhabiting these little formalities, but he decided that yes, tomorrow, he would try. Try to carry out the responsibilities expected of him, try to govern the estate in his own way, try to become ‘Lord Breaker’—whatever that meant.

But that was for tomorrow. Today, he would simply settle in and unpack. He removed his coat, along with his waistcoat, set them on the chaise, and went back to organizing the novels on the desk, finally emptying the trunk.

The last thing he pulled out was a cloth-bound book, a volume from a series of Persian poems. This one was filled with poetry by Hafez.

He cracked it open, and saw the note he had made on the first page a little over a year ago, hastily scribbled in the margins soon after he received the book:

azizam - means ‘my dear’

His fingertips lightly traced the ink, and he wondered how much time it would take him to forget those two years—the chief problem, of course, being that he didn’t want to.

They met in his first year, in the middle of a lecture about the art of the novel, “The chief function of a novel is to express the romanceful side of human nature, sa partie romanesque ou romantique, the pure passions which politeness or shame prevent us from mentioning…”

“Pardon me.”

Volt looked up to find a man in a suit more impeccably tailored than his own, cut from a dark navy serge—a finer weave that seemed almost fluid compared to his heavier wool. His eyes fell to a dark tie, lined with a subtle silver geometric pattern, its silk finer than anything he would have ever thought to buy for himself. For the first time in his life, Volt felt clumsy in his own clothes.

“May I?”

“Oh, by all means,” he gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Thank you,” the man replied, in a vaguely French-sounding accent Volt could not place. He smelled faintly of rosewater, and his long dark hair seemed to have a sheen of its own, even in the dim room. After the lecture, Volt lingered a little, gathering his belongings with more care than necessary. They both suddenly decided to shake hands. “Volt.” “Amir.”

As they walked the halls, somebody greeted Amir in passing—he glanced back with a murmur of acknowledgement so fond and well-mannered that it seemed to include Volt in some harmless conspiracy. Volt liked him straight away. He learned that Amir was Iranian, reading Moral Sciences, and a year his senior. They parted on King’s Parade, neither knowing that it would be the first of many other similar afternoon goodbyes.

It took him much longer than he would have liked, but he eventually got it out of Amir that his father was a senior official attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Tehran, that he spoke perfect French and Persian in addition to English, and that he was expected to take up a diplomatic post after graduation.

By that point, he was enamored.

They only had one other class together after that Michaelmas term, but they found that they had lots of things in common, and so spent the next two years practically inseparable. Because Volt preferred to receive guests rather than seek them out, Amir was often the one paying visits to him. What Volt liked most was that with Amir, he could forget that he was legally to be the next Lord Breaker.

In the spring of 1920, a few months before he was set to graduate (and a few months before Volt’s father abruptly passed away in their Mayfair townhouse), Amir came back from a day trip to London with something in his hands. He tried to present it to Volt unceremoniously, but the clothbound book was too intricate not to be given proper notice. “How beautiful! What’s this?”

“I went down to London yesterday. The V&A is having an art exhibition in a few weeks—‘Persian Decorative Arts,’ they are calling it. The gift shop is currently stocked with a wide selection of Persian poetry. I thought you might like this one, it is filled with poetry by Hafez.”

Volt ran his fingertips over the embossed foil on the cover, then started leafing through the pages. “So these on the right are the original passages, and on the opposite pages are the translations?”

“Supposedly. I must say, I don’t find these to be particularly perfect translations. May I?”

Volt handed it to him, and Amir flipped through the page before stopping at one.

“The translation they put here…” Amir let out a tiny scoff. “This ghazal, I would say, was not translated particularly well. But Persian poetry rarely survives translation intact.”

He traced the passage lightly with his finger, “But it’s about… encountering something beautiful, without expecting it to remain. And how one must learn not to hold such things too tightly.” He gazed directly at Volt.

“How we need to learn to let go.”

Then he changed the subject, glancing at Volt’s desk.

“And what have you been up to today?”

A book with green calf binding, its spine stamped with gilt, was spread open on Volt’s desk. “If you must know, I’m practicing my French by translating Le Rouge et le Noir.” He showed Amir the page he had been working on. Amir saw a mistake in the first sentence straight away. “Oh, no, not like this—azizam—” He paused a fraction too long, but recovered quickly, grabbing a pencil from Volt’s desk. He leaned in, went through the passages, his eyes raking over Volt’s careful handwriting. He made a small correction beside the last paragraph.

“Well, this translation is not a complete failure, at least. Perhaps with a few tweaks…” Amir teased.

Volt rolled his eyes. “Now listen here, darling.”

“Yes, yes, I am very impressive. You may tell me so some other time.”

He went over to the other side of the room, helped himself to some of the tea Volt had steeped. Volt spoke. “You mentioned an upcoming Persian art exhibition next month?”

“We do not have to go, Volt.”

“Don’t be absurd, darling. Of course we should! What with this being our last few months together. I’ll pick up the train tickets.”

—

In the Victoria and Albert Museum, the docent led them to the exhibition room. It occupied a whole floor. At the time, they were the only visitors.

On the walls, there were photographs upon photographs of Shiraz shrines, Qajar palace interiors, and mirrored muqarnas ceilings. In the corner of the room was a reconstructed panel of an intricate mosaic made up of broken mirrors.

“I suppose this is meant to be a recreation of all the great Persian mirror mosaics. Ayeneh-kari. Do you know much about that?”

“Nothing at all.” Volt blushed, a little embarrassed by his naivete. The awe he often felt around Amir made him feel good, permeable to wonder, but also shamefully provincial sometimes, unworldly. “Can you tell me about it?”

“A few centuries ago, these Safavid explorers brought large Venetian mirrors to the Persian court, to the shah himself. Along the way, in transit, the mirrors shattered. They arrived damaged after the long journeys. The shah’s men had no choice but to break them further, into a million broken pieces, these tiny little fractures, and refashioned them instead into these decorative mosaics.”

He walked toward the panel. The mosaic was carefully arranged into geometric stars, hexagons, and floral patterns.

“When daylight shone on the mosaics it scattered the light, creating these palaces and shrines that glowed from within.”

He ran his fingers over the small shards, and said in a softer voice, “In truth, I sometimes feel like these ayeneh-kari. A mirror simply cut into shapes and rearranged, sent to Cambridge to become a useful mosaic for Iran, for the British empire.”

He glanced at Volt. “I suppose in some ways it is not unlike you and your estate, your being Lord Breaker.” Volt gave him a sad smile. They never spoke of his inheritance.

Amir bent down on one knee to examine the intricate details at the bottom of the panel, brushing against Volt’s leg as he did. “I… it’s a beautiful tragedy,” Volt whispered.

He moved toward the right side of the panel, nearer to Volt. Volt froze—this was the closest they had ever been physically. From the short distance, he could smell the rosewater scent emanating from his hair.

Then Amir moved his head, and Volt’s crotch brushed the back of it. He felt the beginnings of an erection stir in his trousers and panicked, pinned by a jolt of shame so debilitating, so absolute. He balked at the prospect of Amir knowing (this of all ways), and at Volt’s body betraying him without permission.

Amir didn’t move away.

Instead, he turned his head a little, then looked up, and Volt felt his breath hitch, felt the thud in his ears quicken.

Eventually, he helped him back up, and they exited the museum. They traveled back to Cambridge almost wordlessly, parted ways that evening on the corner of King’s Parade like they usually did, and went back to their own rooms. That evening, Volt allowed the impulse to touch himself to take over without shame, and he spilled himself wantonly on the sheets, harder than he ever had before.

The next day, Amir behaved with such perfect composure that Volt almost convinced himself he had imagined it.

Amir never spoke of it again—not once during the remainder of their final term together. It was almost like he wanted whatever was going on between them to remain suspended within the V&A itself, alongside the other works of art on display.

It was as if nothing had happened at all.

—

His fingertip traced the scribble again. Azizam—Amir only ever let himself slip once outside of that museum. He didn’t repeat it again, didn’t translate it like he usually would. Volt struggled to even remember the word that evening, jotting it down in haste as soon as Amir left the room. At the time, after he found out what it meant, it felt like a small, private victory. Now, it seemed to be mocking him in earnest.

He closed the book, and placed it on the far end of the table.

He didn’t want to be bitter, especially not with the volume in his possession, which was now so obviously some sort of romantic gift. But he now understood its significance, and understood why Amir had chosen that specific passage to translate.

“How we need to learn to let go.” Amir had said.

Volt sat with this new realization. He realized that Amir actually never spoke of it as something that would continue. In retrospect, he was never uncertain. He was always precise about what they were.

But if he let himself indulge in the bitterness, if he remembered only that moment in the museum, then all he could think of was that he had looked on Amir as something almost sacred, but in turn, Amir had regarded him as maybe something pleasant but dangerous, a temptation to be yielded to briefly, carefully, and only on his own terms.

Even in Cambridge, Amir had always spoken of the future with preciseness, with a real reticence. About the post waiting for him back home, about going back to Iran after graduation. Volt realized now that he had never truly imagined whatever existed between them to continue beyond those two years.

Volt wasn’t sure who he pitied more: Amir, because he never let himself act on what his emotions obviously were, or himself, because he let him dictate the rules of their entanglement—for it wasn’t just a friendship, was it?

For a long while, he sat there, staring at the book. Then he shook his head, pulled himself out of his reverie.

Well, it was no matter. He needed to attend to other things now.

He got up, and decided to put the egg crate on the kitchen counter, selecting a few to cook. He figured that was his supper sorted, at least. As he cooked them, he started to make a mental note of everything he would ask the groundskeeper, this *Eddie—*about the estate, the stipulation in the will—tomorrow.

Maybe he’d come up with a few questions of his own, to try to get to know him a bit better. Surely there was more to his story—how was it possible that the groundskeeper seemed to possess all the visible habits of a gentleman—well-made clothing, an air of easy-going irreverence, and the obvious means to buy a car?

Who was this man exactly?

—

Onto the period notes:

In the 1920s, the Labouchere Amendment, which criminalized ‘gross indecency’ between men, was still fully enforced in England. And among upper class men with reputations to lose, Oscar Wilde’s trial and downfall remained a potent cultural warning, even decades later.

And so. Oxford and Cambridge were really the only places for homoerotic friendships among British upper class men to bloom and die—not just in a romanticized way, but in a realistic way. They were given, by their Oxbridge education, the venue and the network to understand their desires, but after then any social permission to live them openly with each other, to any degree, was really gone (though there were, of course, considerable exceptions, it was still dangerous).

In here, Amir is Iranian (as in canon), sent to Cambridge to study after the Constitutional Revolution. The Hafez poem in the book is a common translation, hence Amir wanting to translate it for Volt himself.

Volt would have been born at 1900, and would have narrowly avoided conscription by the time he was 18. So he does not have any firsthand experience of the war, and instead has a sort of survivor’s guilt, being among older students who did serve in it.

Volt’s major: the English tripos would have been fairly new at Cambridge around 1918, which is when he went; reading/majoring in Classics would definitely have made more sense. So this is a quiet rebellion in the sense that he chose it purely for aesthetic and personal reasons. Amir’s major: the Moral Sciences tripos combines philosophy, political economy, and logic.

sa partie romanesque ou romantique, ‘its romantic or romantic aspect’, is from Système des Beaux-Arts (Fine Arts System) by Alain, published in 1920, a year later than the story

Le Rouge et le Noir - The Red and the Black, Stendhal

And finally, the date everything allusions, just for fun:

Breaker Hall - The Breaker Box; Eddie as maintenance guy - Eddie as groundskeeper; the river bisecting the property demarcating Eddie’s parcel of land - the split; the will stipulation to be resolved - the faulty wire; Volt as new club front-of-house - Volt as new estate steward (heir); Volt’s privilege/power - his literal power as electricity; Amir as mirror - Amir as proverbial ayeneh-kari, a mosaic of shattered mirrors, cut into shapes useful to the empire through his colonial education

That’s it! I think this first chapter may have the longest end note, so ty if u read this far xox

His legs bracket your hips, an arm holding himself up as he looks up at you. You take his hand and suck a finger into your mouth, wetting it, saliva dripping down the knuckle in excess. Your tongue circles the tip, like you would have sucking his cock, your gaze keeping him in place. He tries to speak, the words coming out fractured.

“Live… live-“

You drag his finger against your bottom lip, slowly - letting it tug, letting your mouth fall open. “What did I say, baby?”

“T-that you’ll let me… let… i-if I kept q-quiet.”

“Poor baby, you can barely speak anymore.”

You bring his hand between your legs, let the spit-coated finger play through your folds, getting it wetter, coating it completely. He watches, enraptured, jaw falling open as he pants softly. You move forward, folding his right leg, knee towards his chest, and hold his wrist to push the slick finger toward his hole. The side of his foot presses against your hip, and he pushes it in, the wetness letting it breach the puckered muscle with ease. He starts working the finger into himself in shallow thrusts.

Eddie gasps and quickly bites his lip, trying to hold back the moan threatening to escape his throat.

“Oh, good boy. You can taste me after you come.”

You lean into his space, push his knee closer to his chest. You grab the back of his neck, and he moans into a messy kiss as he curves his finger into himself, fucking himself faster. Soon, he was whining into your mouth, tongue moving clumsily against your own - he could barely reciprocate the kiss anymore.

You wrap a hand around his cock, use the precum that pooled on his abdomen to ease the movement of your fist, squeezing the base of his cock. He keens, jaw clenching as he tries to stay silent.

You collect the spit in your mouth, and let it fall, let it drip, let it travel down the length of him. He hisses, hips bucking at the contact, the spit like a salve on the warmth of his cock. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches it drip down, feeling the wetness travel down to his balls.

You spread it along his cock, thoroughly wet him, pump him a few times, the slick an obscene sound in the small room. “Okay, Eddie, let me hear you now.”

Eddie starts audibly panting through his mouth, brows knitting as he looked up at you. “F-fuck, ah…ah-“

You start to move faster, hand sliding easily up and down his cock, coated with so much wetness now, glistening. He starts moaning, the finger in his hole starting to press against his prostate.

“Can you use your words, baby?” you whisper, knowing he couldn’t really; he was starting to fall apart. You smirk at him, “Oh, you just can’t, can you? It feels that good?”

You speed up your hand.

He moans louder, and tries to nod, his words unintelligible, his eyes hooded, the finger he had inside him moving faster faster faster, hitting the same spot over and over without mercy. He starts whining, the sound echoing in the small room.

You sit up a little to bring your other hand between your legs, not slowing the pace around his cock. You slip two fingers inside you. The wetness gushes down your hand, and you pull them out, your fingers glossy in the dim light as you bring them to Eddie’s lips. “Here you go. Suck, baby.”

He does, hungrily, moaning around your fingers, hopelessly starved. “Fuck, just like that, Eddie.” You speed up your fist, and the room fills with the sound of wetness. The squelch of his finger fucking his hole, your hand spreading his precum and your spit all over his cock, and his tongue desperately lapping at your fingers, saliva mixing with your slick.

Tiny sparks start falling from his hair, start dancing on the floor, a modest flickering display just for you.

Eddie wasn’t trying to think anymore, devolving to a depraved moaning mess, focusing entirely on the taste of you, on the finger chasing his own pleasure, on the tight feel of your fist around his cock. All that remains of him is instinct, want, desperation.

Good.

You press your fingers against the roof of his mouth, and he was coming, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he moans around you, his tongue clumsily moving against your fingers. He comes in steady ropes all over his stomach and his chest.

You slow the hand around his cock, keeping the pressure of your grip, letting him slowly ride out his orgasm. His hips jerk up as the last of his come spurts against your palm, dripping down to your wrist. He withdraws his finger from his hole, a wet sucking sound filling the room as he does. You start to retract your fingers from his mouth, but he quickly grabs your wrist to keep them in place.

“Fuck… fuck, Eddie.”

He starts lapping at your fingers with fervor, making sure he wasn’t missing a drop, sucking eagerly at each one, thoroughly cleaning them up.

A helpless moan leaves you at the sight of Eddie greedily lapping at your fingers.

“Eddie, baby, baby… it’s all yours. There’s more where that came from, don’t worry-”

He finally looks at you, slows his tongue, starts coming to, and you still your hand, retracting it, and finally let go of his cock. You lick a stripe through the trail of come on your palm.

You cradle the back of his neck, tugging him closer until his breath ghosts your lips.

“Come here, baby, come-“

He leans up to meet you in an aimless openmouthed kiss, all teeth, all tongue. Then he pulls away, finally speaks.

“Live wire… c-can… can I taste you now, please-“ He pants softly against your mouth. “Was good… was good for you.”

“Yes, baby, yes, you were so good, coming for me.” You give him a soft kiss. “How do you want me?”

“I… I don’t…” He chuckles weakly, grey eyes gazing intently at you. “My face, sit on… my… please-“

You kneel above him, and he wastes no time gripping your hips to meet his mouth. “Oh fuck, Eddie fuck-“

His tongue laps at you, mapping every inch of your folds. He takes your swollen clit into his mouth and sucks, and you lurch forward, hands barely catching yourself against the floor.

He feels so good, the pleasure almost too much, too soon. You feel the hot rush of an orgasm start to creep up on you. You moan, hips bucking into his mouth slightly, almost like you were fucking into it.

“E-Eddie…”

It’ll take no time at all, you think. Fuck, you’ve been soaked since before you even made it into this back room, could already feel the slick clinging to your underwear, your folds sliding easily against the damp fabric-

Eddie slips his tongue inside your hole, his thumb working your clit, the soft, wet sounds overlapping.

You let out a long whine, and start riding his tongue in earnest, feeling him inside with every thrust of your hips, deep and dirty, feeling the quickening thud in your ears.

“Eddie fuck Eddie I’m gonna oh fuck-“

He pinches your clit, and you’re gone.

Your come paints his lips, dripping down his chin, the drops pearling on his stubble. He licks you through it - licks every single drop, licks you everywhere. His tongue plays through your folds, around your cunt, around your hole, around your clit. You moan through it, undulating your hips to meet the movement of his jaw as you ride it out.

Your breathing starts to slow, and he licks his lips before pulling back, his head falling onto the floor, his hands grasping your hips tightly, steadying you as the aftershocks slowly fade.

Your arms tremble slightly where they brace on either side of his head.

You look down at him, breathless, still catching your breath, a faint chuckle on your lips. You move down, settling just below his chest, and lean in to give him a slow kiss - you taste yourself everywhere: his tongue, his lips, his chin, his jaw.

“Holy… holy shit.”

He laughs softly, eyes heavy-lidded and warm, grey eyes blinking slowly as he looked up at you. His thumbs brush along your jaw.