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ghosstkid · 3 years

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i’d be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love (imagine being loved by me)

title from the song ‘talk’ by hozier

goes hand in hand with this short, this short, this short and this short <3

Gentle light will ooze through the windows. It was murky and cold grey. It is a soft grey from the warm, springtime rain pattering against the tall windows.

A blanket will lay over dewy, worshipped skin. It was a scratchy navy issue blanket. It is a warm, heavy quilt.

The sounds of the morning will wake him. It was the creaking of the great ship, the call of seabirds and the lieutenants yelling orders. It is a small bird singing in the tree outside the window, the clock on the mantle ticking and the muffled footsteps of the maid in the hallway.

No matter the light, the sounds or the blanket, he will roll over, arms outstretched only to find the other side of the bed empty. With a frustrated sigh, he will pull the blanket, thin or heavy, back over his head, hiding a mess of strawberry curls.

“James, dear. Will you help me?” The voice was heavy with a deep, lovely brogue. The voice is soft like the songbird outside the window.

No matter the voice, James will push back the blanket. He will sit up, his unbuttoned white shirt spilling over his freckled shoulders.

He will kick his long legs over the side of the bed. It was the cold wooden floorboards that his feet rested on. It is the soft, red rug and warm slippers he slides his feet into.

The sound of swishing fabric will bring a smile to his face. It was Francis who made him get up. It is Ann who will come to him.

Ruffles, silks and linens. Golden buttons and snow white lace. Francis was struggling with his buttons, his shirt was still untucked from his trousers. Ann’s long hair cascades down her back, the blue laces of her corset hanging loosely from golden grommets.

James will gently brush aside fidgeting fingers, his eyes sweeping over the soft fabrics and smoothing away the look of frustration on his lovers' faces. The buttons of Francis’s shirt glinted in the murky, Antarctic light streaming through the cabin windows and into the small berth. Ann’s curls are silky to the touch as he brushes them over her shoulder.

They will sigh under the attentive touch. At night they could be rough with him all they wanted but come morning, he would be gentle as much as he wanted. The buttons slipped easily into place and the starchy collar flipped up without protest. James reached for the neatly folded navy blue cravat, running it through his fingers the same way he will run the soft blue laces of Ann's corset over his knuckles.

They will watch him as if lulled into a trance. The cravat settled around Francis’s throat. His icy eyes were locked on James’s concentrated face. Ann peers over her shoulder, looking down at him through lowered lashes.

James will straighten the fabric, no fold or twisted ribbon will be allowed. Francis mumbled about how it needn’t be perfect, not in this cold place. Ann smiles as James plucks at the laces of her corset, laying them neatly so they might be as straight as the whale bones embedded in the plush, white satin.

He will smile as he begins to tie the perfect knots, his knowledge put to good use. The navy blue cravat folded neatly, just where James wanted it to. The ribbons wrap around his calloused hands, as soft as kisses.

The knot will tighten and he will be rewarded with a sharp inhale and flutter of eyelashes. The cravat became snug around Francis’s throat. The corset's laces grow taut as James pulls them tight, slowly tying them in a way only he knows how.

Yet as beautiful his work is, he will pull them close by those ribbons and laces, finding a soft place to kiss. “Come back to bed,” he will whisper.

“James,” Francis said firmly, a reminder of the hard work and untrustworthy sea that waited for them.

“James,” Ann sighs gently, a reminder of the late morning hour and the busy house that waited for them.

He will let them go reluctantly. He will watch them tuck away unwanted fabric. Francis pushed his shirttails into his trousers. Ann tugs at the sleeves of her chemise.

He will watch them reach for other beautiful things, wool and silk, linen and tulle. James will playfully snatch the clothing from their hands; this is his duty and he will do it well. He took Francis’s dark blue gansey, rolling it up so he can pull it over his head. He takes Ann’s crinolines, smiling at the snowy white lace as he holds it open so she can step into it, her hand gripping his shoulder tightly.

He will smooth away any wrinkles. He gently held Francis’s hand as he pulled the gansey’s sleeves in place, pressing a warm kiss to his fingertips. He bends sweetly to tie the cage crinoline around Ann’s waist, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder.

They will let him reach for the next item, surrendering to his worship. The gold buttons on Francis’s waistcoat glimmer as James slips it over his broad shoulders. The soft ruffles of Ann’s petticoats and then her skirt swirls around her as James pulls them over her head and gently fits them into place, fluffing them over the crinoline. Her soft blouse comes next, fitting neatly on her pale shoulders.

The buttons will frustrate him. He will glance at them, a blush on his cheeks, almost embarrassed for his frustration. Francis smiled back at him, as bright as the gold buttons. Standing behind Ann, the small pearl buttons of her blouse nearly too small for his fingers, Ann reaches her hand over her shoulder, gently brushing his scarred knuckles as he does up the last few buttons.

He will find the last few things to complete them, as though they were a puzzle waiting for him to solve. James helped Francis into his tailed coat and then his heavy greatcoat, all buttons and deep navy blue, as deep as the dark, angry sea. He finds Ann a shawl, a soft sky blue for today, and wraps it around her shoulders.

He will urge them to sit. He pushed Francis gently into his little chair. He raised an eyebrow at him. Ann sits on the chair by the window, her soft hands gently pulling up her ruffled skirts.

He will reach for shoes. He will kneel down on one knee, his hand gently cradling stockinged heels. Francis’s boots were heavy, the leather creased and worn, but fit snuggly. Ann’s dainty slippers look like they are made of cake, blue and decorated with small pink flowers. Only once both shoes are on will he let them stand, helping them up with a gentle hand.

“Oh… One last thing,” he will say with an adoring smile. He reached for Francis’s hat resting on his little desk among maps and plant and sea life specimens, placing it neatly atop his red curls. The brim glinted in the murky light. He plucks a pink rose from the vase on his bedside table, cutting the thorny stem before gently placing it among Ann’s dark hair.

“James,” they will protest.

“All this is hardly necessary,” Francis laughed as James plucked a loose string from his coat.

“A rose for today?” Ann laughs, as James pins it safely into her curls.

"You do not have to do this," Francis insisted as James frowned at a loose button on his greatcoat, the gold button dangling precariously on its threads. He looked around for a needle and thread but none could be found in his cramped, little room.

"My love, I can take care of the rest," Ann insists as James rummages through her drawer for a pair of lace gloves which he hands to her with a smile.

“Yes, I know,” James will say, pulling them close fingers running over warm wool and dreamy silk, gold buttons and snow white lace. A glowing smile will pull at his lips. “And yet I will gladly do it again tomorrow.”

#my writing #the terror #annrossier #sir james clark ross #lady ann ross #francis crozier #i spent way too long googling various clothing items to make sure i had the right names #also this is all hozier's fault talk is such a sexy song wtf

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