#my.writing

Hob approached the nearest passenger waiting for an outbound train—a brown-haired woman in a black parka, boots, and grey slacks. He scraped his iron shackle against the ground near her, generating a grating noise loud enough to echo off the walls of the tunnel. The woman gave no response—she probably had earbuds in.

Hob sucked in a breath and approached her feet. He patted the toe of her right boot, then kicked it, not gently. Still, nothing.

The rumble of an approaching train grew until Hob could no longer hear himself think. He watched the lights of the carriages stream out from the opposite end of the station, his hair ruffling slightly from their preceding winds. As he watched, the first of Hob's pursuers emerged from the stairwell, nets in hand and heads on a swivel.

Shit. Ten more seconds and they’d have him.

Hob sighed, took a silent oath, then threw politeness to the wind. He clambered up onto the lady’s boot and ducked under the hem of her slacks, hiding everything but his calves from view.

That she felt. Hob clung to the Doc’s laces as the giant woman shook her right foot, lightly at first, then violently when Hob pulled himself up fully into the pant leg. At the lip of the boot, his hands reached up and felt something other than skin—a vinyl sock? Leggings? He could grab it, so he kept climbing up and in.

“Hey! What—” the woman exclaimed—London-worn, but a hint of Aussie? Hob felt the flesh under his hands shift as she readjusted her weight balance. Her hand smacked and pulled at him through the trousers a few times, but he would not be deterred.

After a few seconds of this, she gave up the struggle and Hob could loosen his grip—he thought, until the woman started walking. Her first earthquaking step shook him enough to dislodge everything but his right hand, from which he hung flailing as she stomped again and again, threatening to launch him to the floor by her simple act of locomotion.

By the time Hob’s arm was on the verge of giving out, the woman had stopped her thunderous stride and raised the leg with him inside. With an almighty kick, she flung him from his purchase within her slacks, sending him smack into the toe of her boot before tumbling off onto the station platform. He landed on his ankle on the hard tile, sending bolts of pain through his calf and left flank.

Hob could see those pursuing figures moving towards him through the throbbing haze. They didn’t announce his presence by shouting so at least he would know when they saw him. They moved in quietly, quickly. Like owls.

The train was within spitting distance, but the drop had immobilised him. He needed a miracle. He reached in far for a favour from his patron—himself. He cast his bucket into that well long dry. Up, Hob, up.

That cursed iron shackle stifled his flame like a ring of ice, a bulwark against his power. He gritted his teeth; his panic bloomed brighter. Hotter. They would do worse to him once they caught him. Ship him off to the U.S., sever his ties to his homeland for good. Hide him from nature and the sun for the rest of his many days—a fate worse than death.

Impossibly, through the bulwark, the energy surged. His old wings gave an almighty heave—up he rose, bellowing in pain, in a split seconds’ flight, over the threshold—and crash.

He was onboard.

The doors slid shut a full second before his pursuers got to them. Frustrated feet and fists pounded against them, but the driver (or lack thereof) was having none of it. Never in his life had Hob been more relieved by the sound of electric motors spooling up.

As the train accelerated through the darkness with a good deal of shrieking, Hob dragged himself across the floor, aiming for the safety under a chair. He got to the edge of the divider between door and seat before collapsing. All energy gone, he lay defeated in the carriage aisle, letting the agony course through his battered bones.

===

Lara brushed off the tops of her slacks as she settled into a seat on the Tube train. Well, to be sure—the vehicle she’d stepped inside was probably the least tubelike thing to grace the tracks, but the naming conventions of a two-century-old railway die hard.

She watched her window reflection as the doors slid closed. That was something.

Faeries—or “tinyfolk” as they were known under the law—were a mystery to Lara. There wasn’t much magical about them, besides the fact they’d survived so long under humanity’s near-total disregard for their wellbeing. Even England, a supposed safe haven for enterprising tinyfolk in the modern day, betrayed to her few direct encounters of the fae kind. By now she’d all but forgotten the handful—pun unintended—of little people introduced to her by university friends.

In the absence of extenuation, she applied the same standards of polite society to them as she did to regular people. Hold heavy doors, respect the queue, don’t speak when not spoken to. And if she caught one making a run for her calves without permission, well—

Lara did a double take. There he was, on the floor across the aisle—the perverted little mite who’d tried to scurry up her pants. (Apparently that term was derogatory here—not surprising.)

She shuddered instinctively, a second away from seeking out another seat—but the tiny person’s unmoving body gave her pause. He looked exhausted, powerless. As she would a dead insect, she took a long, close look at him.

Including his shapeless brown mop, the faerie was about the height of her hand—a good deal smaller than he’d felt while clinging to her. He was sprawled facedown, unmoving, and what of his face she could see was bruised and battered by dirt. Clearly he hadn’t seen a shower in days. Some sort of tech-y metal clamp was fastened around his bare torso, tight to the point of cutting off circulation to his feet underneath.

No, that wasn’t right—the left foot was twisted and swollen, as though from a fall. Most certainly the one caused by her.

Lara winced. Poor guy. Perhaps she'd been a bit harsh . . .

She rose from her seat and stepped towards him. It didn’t feel right just leaving him there, giving him the silent treatment, after causing him pain.

Seeing her approach, the little man sucked in a fearful breath, picked himself up, and turned to run. But he couldn’t manage more than a stumble—he kept getting knocked off his good foot by every judder and jolt of the train. After a painful aeon of scrabbling at the ground, the faerie disappeared under the edge of a seat, flattening himself against the wall underneath.

After she’d stepped over to the same seat—a laughably small effort by comparison—Lara knelt on the floor of the train and cocked her head to peer down at him. Her shadow snuffed out the light in his eyes and he cowered in earnest, digging his face into his knees. Not that she blamed him—she must have looked terrifying.

“Hey, mate?” she beckoned to him, as kindly as she could. “Can you look at me?”

He raised his head off his knees—slowly, as though it was a hundred times his weight. His tiny, tightly-wound body shook with the motion of the floor.

“I'm sorry for earlier.” She tried to say the same thing with her face and hands. “I promise I won't hurt you any further. Can I help you?”

That probably didn’t sound very comforting, given how at this point she had to shout over the noise of the train. He kept shaking his head at her, visibly terrified.

Lara glanced over her shoulder, self-conscious. The nearest passenger gave her a strange look through their glasses, but eventually decided that their e-reader was more interesting. Over the howling din of steel on steel, the train’s cabin speaker kicked in to announce that “the next station. Is: Turnpike Lane.”

She had a decision to make. Either she could wait out the rest of her ride east and forget she’d ever seen a faerie, or do something now to give him the chance to communicate his grievances. Finally, as the lights of Turnpike flashed across the carriage windows, her beating heart chose the latter option.

She knew which one her mother would’ve picked.

As last resort, she tried speaking to him again: “Please don’t be afraid. I’m going to take you off the train so you can hear me better. Is that alright?”

His eyes were still glazed over in panic, not comprehending. Like a deer caught in a bear den: utterly paralysed.

Lara cringed at what her heart told her to do. The faerie was about to hate her so much more.

The train doors slid open behind her. As a Band-aid, she quickly signed sorry to him—shaking a curled hand across her mouth—then cupped both hands beneath his body to lift him from the ground.

“N-no!” The man batted at her fingers as they clawed at his tiny form, trying to find a comfortable grip on him. Lara settled for pressing him between her palms like an ocarina, pinning his arms to his sides so he wouldn’t squirm free and fall out. She hated the idea of manhandling his body like it was a toy—who treats a person that way?—but she hated the possibility of leaving him crippled and alone on the train more.

That was nothing compared to his struggle, though. The train’s HVAC was loud, but Lara definitely heard some curses being directed toward her belt buckle as she stood up and raised him to stomach level. The amount of fear and hostility she instilled in him just by virtue of being bigger was unnerving, and more than a little heartbreaking. Being six feet tall, she pretty often felt like a bumbling ogre in human society, but when interacting with tinyfolk it was something else entirely.

“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform,” advised the carriage speakers. “This is: Turnpike Lane.”

As Lara stepped out onto the platform, she felt a tiny set of jaws snap onto the space between her thumb and forefinger. It hurt like hell. She grit her teeth, but not before a pained yelp slipped between them.

Jesus, you’re not making this easy . . . Part of her considered flicking the little guy across the room as a reprimand, but she opted to rub his back with the fingers of her other hand, just to keep her promise and keep him calm. Calm-ish.

As the train started back up behind her, she did a quick survey of the station for safety. Few other people had disembarked; they were all out of sight within seconds, leaving the platform deserted save for Lara and her unwilling passenger. She clutched him anxiously nonetheless, listening to the fading noise of her train until silence replaced it entirely.

The tiny man’s thrashing started to subside as she gently patted him with her fingers—though his teeth remained firmly hooked into the skin of her one hand. She’d never dealt with panic attacks from grown adults (like she assumed he was), and it felt strange to pet him like she would a kitten, or mouse. Still, if it worked to calm his terror, she wasn’t going to complain.

Lara claimed a bench in a nook near the end of the platform—somewhere he wouldn’t run away from, but wasn’t enclosed. She unwrapped her hands, coaxed his jaw out of her skin, and set him gingerly down on the bench.

The instant his feet touched solid ground, a switch inside him flipped back into life preservation mode. He made a frenzied survey of the bench like a cornered animal; seeing it had no path to escape, he leapt over the side, landing with an abject holler of pain, and made a beeline away from Lara as quickly as his gait would allow.

She stepped alongside, making no move to placate him even as his laboured breathing became pained gasps for air. It took her until it was almost too late to realise where the little man was going: the edge of the platform.

“Hey! No—no.” She scrambled onto her knees and put both hands out to block his path. “I can’t let you do that, mate. No.”

He sure tried to, at her hands’ expense—punching them, scaling them, biting them, punching them again. At every attempt she repositioned herself to keep him from the platform edge—it was like trying to trap a gecko. He kept this up for twenty seconds solid before collapsing against her palm, harassing it with sobs and fragmented curses.

“I’m sorry! I don’t want—just—I’m sorry.” Lara scooped him up with much less resistance this time. He was a piteous sight; every few breaths was sharply drawn as though the metal circlet was cinching him. She set him gently onto the bench once more, positioning herself towards one end so she had a view of any intruders.

When the faerie did not run, Lara knelt down again and looked him over. His face was pale as a Post-it, and his bad foot looked even worse with her rough handling and his running away. His eyes were set in a bloodshot glare, but otherwise he seemed receptive to hear whatever had prompted her to corner him.

“Alright. Hey.” Her face softened in sympathy. “My name is Lara. I’m . . .”

The little man abruptly pointed at her with his left hand. With his right, he touched his pointer nail to his forehead and flicked it towards her, so it looked like he was pointing at something above him to his left.

Lara was caught off guard. She didn’t recognise it right away, but that one-second motion was so familiar. She twirled one finger: Do it again?

The man performed the same gestures again, more slowly. Finally, they broke through a disused part of Lara’s brain and manifested as a question:

You, understand?

Auslan. Or some adjacent sign language from the Commonwealth. The man’s simple few hand gestures brought back a wave of memories from half a decade ago, and two oceans away.

Seeing her lack of response, the man paced on the bench and shook his head as though to clear it. After some thought, he faced Lara again and asked her another question in sign language: Colour of blood? Spell.

Alright. He was for real. Without realising it herself, Lara had tipped him off to her Auslan fluency by signing sorry to him on the train. If she spoke to him in his preferred manner, perhaps she could more easily build his trust.

So she did. The first letter was a curled pointer finger in her open palm: R.

Next she turned her palm to face right, straightening both pointer fingers and tapping their tips: E.

Lastly her right thumb and finger formed a semicircle, placed against her left pointer in the shape of the last letter: D.

The last time she’d used Auslan regularly was back home in Melbourne, where she’d tutored primary schoolers who were hard of hearing or just there to learn basic signs. The kids and staff there liked her more than they did most other hearing people, due in no small part to her patience and proficiency. That being said, she was rusty—she could practically hear her joints creaking.

How could she have known it would come in handy again?

Lara started to formulate a reply in sign language, but his hands whipped up: I hear fine. Speak.

“Okay. Got it.” She licked the blood off her fingers and buried them in her pockets, again self-conscious. “I’m—you know what? I’ll stand back here.”

She stepped back a few feet until the bench was no longer within her arm’s reach. Anything to make her seem less like an angry god. “I’m sorry for kicking you. I—I don’t have any excuse for doing that to tinyfolk, especially not when you’re hurting already.”

What about— He quirked an eyebrow in questioning and made a sign she didn’t recognise.

“Come again?” she asked.

He pointed at her, then at himself, then spelt it out one letter at a time: K-I-D-N-A-P?

She gasped and averted her eyes. “Christ no! I mean—yeah. No. I’m sorry about that too. It’s just . . . it looked like you were being chased, and if more of them were on the train I didn’t want them to—to grab you.”

So your solution was to grab me? rebutted the tiny man—at least, that was Lara’s best guess after some interpretation. Then: Show me phone.

“. . . I’m sorry?”

He glared, shook an upturned fist at her.

“Gosh, okay.” Lara obliged, turning the screen to face him. Her lock screen was a selfie with a friend she hadn’t spoken to in months. The time read 23:17.

She couldn’t make heads or tails of this exercise—but whatever the case, the man seemed convinced of her innocence, if disappointed. He motioned for her to lower the phone, then signed, Fine. Yes, I was being chased. Special people.

She gave both of them a few seconds to breathe. Talking to him was progress. Now she wanted to learn about him.

“Hone then, why were they chasing you?” Rent? her brain predicted sardonically.

Being honest? he replied. None of your business.

“Then why were you hiding in my pants? That is my business.” She gave him a weird little smile, to let him know she wasn’t angry.

Because they were chase— The man grimaced, realising his catch-22. After a while he decided on a response: I stole.

That was a sign Lara knew well: a quickly-closing fist rushing towards the man’s chest. Exactly what you’d expect it to look like.

In past. Small, but powerful; information. They wanted to study me before.

That stirred up ideas in Lara’s mind. Maybe he’d escaped from some restricted government department that he was anxious to blow the whistle on. Maybe he was a spy, or carried out corporate espionage. Maybe he really was a pervert, peeping in places he shouldn’t be for “information”. Either that, or he was putting on quite the show for burglary.

What was the deal with those blokes chasing him? From what little Lara saw of them, they weren’t police—they more resembled Men in Black-esque vigilantes. That further affirmed the theory that he was no petty thief or peeping tom—his crimes were ones the law did not concern.

The station filled with metal thunder as a second train approached from the west, temporarily killing any hope of speaking. Lara decided to test the waters by stepping within arm’s range of the bench. The man flinched but didn’t bolt.

She pointed to herself, then to him, and signed hide in Auslan, hoping he got the idea. It had just occurred to her that the sign language she knew probably differed in quite a few ways from his. She’d gotten away with Auslan when signing single letters, but beyond that she was ill-prepared.

In any case, she’d been as obvious as she could have—but as she sat down on the bench next to him, he audibly gasped and retreated towards the far side of the nook.

A split second later the train tore past and struck the man head-on with its slipstream, all but knocking him over. Lara reached out and placed two fingers under his shoulders, trying to stabilise him, but he slapped them away, unyielding.

Ouch. Okay. The kids Lara had worked with only got physical when they were in a positively terrible temper, so even this small touch spoke a thousand words of anger to her.

And who was she to blame? The worst thing you could do to someone deaf (or nonverbal) was constrain their means of communication—their hands. From the moment Lara had decided to defend the little guy, that was exactly what she’d done.

The train groaned to a halt at the platform. Mostly out of instinct, Lara crossed her legs and pretended to scroll her phone absently—passersby would figure she was waiting for a friend, perhaps. In reality she was using her body to hide the faerie, in case his chasers were about to come pelting out the doors. Fortunately, the train pulled away without letting out a single passenger.

Lara looked away from her phone to see the faerie hunkered down in her long, unzipped parka, just beside her thigh. He started extricating himself the moment he saw her looking.

“It’s okay.” She tried for a comforting smile, offering him a hand out. “They weren’t on the train.”

Again, her offer for help was refused—he struggled alone and fell into a heap on the other side. Again, she couldn’t blame him—no one would be proud of having to use their kidnapper as camouflage.

Lara held her tongue until the last carriage had disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, its red taillights staring back at her like the eyes of judgement.

“How much did I—” She grimaced. “How much are you hurt?”

The tiny man looked up at her impassively. Only sprained, he signed. Pain, but not much.

Lara’s eyes went down to the metal brace. “In theory, could I slip it off if you were really, well—slippery?”

He nodded. Just tight. Like a ring. Nothing sticking in. He added: Would not be so lucky where you come from.

Lara’s brain lit up. There was this old string trick her mother had shown her to get rid of tight rings. As luck would have it, Lara was the kind of person to carry a sewing kit wherever she went. Sure, here was a computerised back brace worn on something not quite so uniform as her finger. Still—it was worth a shot, right?

“Okay! I have an idea.”

Once her kit was out and open, she ran some of her thinnest thread through the eye of a needle, tying it fast; the faerie balked as she brought it close, but realised what she was trying to do and let himself be picked up between her left-hand fingers.

His eyes followed the tip of the needle warily as Lara guided it between his torso and the shackle’s inside. Muttering a quick prayer that god willing she wouldn’t pierce his flesh, she inched—no, millimetred the thing—into the shackle. Her gale-force sigh of relief washed over the poor guy as the needle’s tip reappeared, bloodless, on the other side.

“Oof—sorry.” Despite the disparaging look he gave her, she still couldn’t help but laugh a little. The significant portion of hair that had just flown up from his face certainly didn’t help.

For good measure, Lara coated the rest of her thread in hand sanitiser. She told him to hold his legs straight down, which he did, then wrapped the line in a corkscrew down his body. Setting the needle aside, she took hold of the thread’s tail end and wound it around her finger, ready for pulling.

“I’ll try to be gentle, but this’ll probably hurt,” she warned. “I’m sorry in advance.”

He shrugged, his face turned away in anticipation. Lara decided to get it done and over with—no “3 2 1” before the jab, just go.

At first, nothing—so she applied a little more power. The brace went askew against his body—he yelped in shock.

“Just hang tight! It’s moving!” And it was. A few firm tugs and pained exclamations later, the cursed thing got past his hips and fell swiftly over his legs.

She unwrapped the little man from her coils and set him down to gauge his reaction. A new bruise tracked its way down his torso from the circlet’s imprint. When he raised his head, though, his mouth was a flat line, which to her may as well have been an ear-to-ear grin.

“Lara?” The first word he’d willingly said to her out loud. His voice made the fact of him seem bigger, more concrete—it got her attention. He touched his closed hand to his chin and held it there, as though savouring how it felt: Thank you.

“Oh! It’s no trouble,” she smiled. “Will they still be able to find you like this?”

He shook his head, not before delivering a disdainful kick to the shackle that once held him. Very hard. They have other ways. CVR, maybe.

Lara recalled his pursuers, how dead-set they looked on catching him. She could have just snuffed the city’s lead on a dangerous criminal. Maybe he was actually positively awful. Maybe he was on the hook for arson or domestic abuse. Maybe he was in on a plot to crash the economy, or bomb the London Eye, or lure some unsuspecting young person like herself into a cult, drug run, meditated manslaughter . . .

Maybe he was. She had no good answer to that—but her beating heart told her she had done something right.

“Do you want to come home with me?” Not what Lara was ready to suggest; she added quickly, “I mean, I’m happy to—if you need a bite to eat, a shower, summat like that. If there’s somewhere else you know, I can take you there.”

The faerie raised an eyebrow at her extension of hospitality. This is not your stop?

“No.” Lara considered. “Yes. It isn’t.”

You live further east?

“Yes.”

His ears perked up at the sound of an approaching train—coming from the east this time.

Other side, he signed quickly. Carry me. He retrieved the metal brace and sat erect, for the first time waiting for a lift from her.

Lara felt strangely honoured; she scooped the little man back up and quickly marched through the stairwell to the station’s opposite platform. She used her other hand to shield him from the train’s slipstream as it whipped past them—and he let her.

As the train ground to a halt, the faerie tapped her wrist for attention—now it was her turn to jump at their physical contact. He set the shackle down in her palm and pointed at it. He signed three letters to her: G. P. S. Then he pointed to the opening doors.

Lara understood. With a smirk, she stepped inside and sat down, discreetly dropping the ring under the nearest seat, then made a big show out of realising that silly her, she wasn’t actually supposed to get on this one.

The doors closed behind her with no additional throughput—this train was even emptier than the last. The faerie graced it with a derogatory gesture as it sped off towards the city.

He looked up at Lara once the station was quiet again. She saw something new in his face—acceptance, action. Something like trust.

Lara released a relieved lungful of air—she felt like she’d been freed of something.

“Right then! Where to?” she asked the faerie.

Even has a bottom Vil is a powerful one, he will find ways to try again being the dom one and having fun seeing y/n trying to assert her dominance

As a dorm Vil is more a hard one, liking to punish y/n for her bad behavior. He won’t be gentle with his words either, not going into very hard dirty talk, he doesn’t really like being so dirty

I think that Vil would love the idea of practicing shibari on y/n, especially if they had to go to lesson afterward

Mostly because Vil likes to keep his personal life really private as well as his sexual one, but he can’t really say that the idea of doing something so sinful and getting caught isn’t exciting

However outdoor sex is a big no. He may get caught doing that and it would ruin his reputation, so it’s a big no, I think that anywhere around the house is fine for Vil, just try to keep it inside

Also mirror sex. Yes yes yes. He simply loves seeing himself fucking y/n and her body and most importantly, her face. He adores seeing how she react to simply by him touch her body, and also how he can ruin her.

And yes, I totally think that, only for sex, he loves being both ruined and ruin. Both of them with their makeup down their cheeks, their hair mess up… Maybe y/n cover up with his semen… In front of a mirror so they can both see…

But it’s only for sex, Vil would be disgusted right after he stops being horny lol

✧˚ · . Rook Hunt

I… I don’t why but he seems like such a soft dorm for me??? I can imagine him being such soft for y/n

Rook doesn’t dirty talk that much, he doesn’t like it, he’s more into praising y/n for how good she is, how amazing she feels, how pretty she is. Rook is never going to use really harsh words on her, not even when they had rough sex

And yes, Rook is into rough sex. He likes going hard on y/n, and like Vil, he likes making a mess out of her, like a lot. He’ll overstimulate them over and over again, whispering other compliments right when she cums…

The only time I can imagine Rook being much harder with y/n is when they act like a brat. He wouldn’t mind giving her a little punishment for her bad behavior with spanking and orgasm denial, but after a while, he can’t help himself and when Rook feels like y/n finally learn their lessons, he’s the soft dorm as before.

Rook has very good eyes, and its something very useful when he needs to find out y/n secret sensitive spots and what makes her feel good or not. Y/N can’t lie to him, he already knows.

While I say that Rook is a dom, I can imagine him being a switch; but as a sub, he’s much needier and a little bit whinier. He wants y/n full attention, love, and praise and he will get it in any possible way.

I also think that he is pretty vanilla. Rook doesn’t really mind doing BSDM stuff, but for him, sex is much more something intimal and sentimental you know, so often he would make sex very kinky, but I see him being very open with experiment new stuff

However much harder stuff makes him very uncomfortable, such as hitting y/n on the face or chocking her, he won’t find it sexy, and even if y/n tried to convince him Rook is going to refuse. It’s just a big no for him.