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This is a collection of my Blackwood/Coward 100 word drabbles from the incomparable [ profile] unsettledink's wonderful drabble-rousing post here.

The majority of these are stand alone, some have a little continuity between them. I've tried to arrange them by how explicit the subject matter is (from least to most) but as a GENERAL WARNING - there are mature themes throughout, including dubcon, d/s, gore, etc.

I would avoid reading all the way to the end of the list if you're squeamish at all.

G - PG-13

- - - - - 
- - - - - 

"Does it bother you so much?" 

"Specifics, Watson."

"I know you've been visiting Coward." 


"It does, doesn't it? You can figure out everything else, but not him. Lord Coward, of all people, his station, his future. Cheerfully setting out to dismantle that which he's profited so well by. Especially when-" 

"On the contrary, it's-"

"-he knew that Blackwood was a charlatan. Well it's madness, Holmes. There're no hard answers to the mysteries of the human brain you realize."

"I suppose one could call love a socially acceptable form of insanity, yes. Perhaps the medical community should seek a cure."

- - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - 

"Was something I said unclear, Dredger?" Coward sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Outside, London murmurs, restless and feverish from the still weeping wound of Blackwood's crest now branded upon it. Coward has slept little these past two nights. 

"Well?" he snaps. 

Dredger reaches across the desk and touches the bruise on Coward's jaw. 

"He should not do that," Dredger says. 

His hand is huge, calloused, shockingly gentle; his words slow and solemn as an oath. Coward flinches, muted by the sob caught behind his teeth. 

He swallows it. 

"He may do as he pleases." 

"But . . . he should not."

- - - - - - - - - 
- - - - - - - - - 

Coward finds the flower amidst his morning mail, folded up in a yellow scrap of paper. 

'Mon coeur est à toi.' Letters large and round, carved carefully in thick, black pencil. 

The flower is a bluebell, twisted off at the stem. Petals crushed, already wilting; it's left a small, dark stain on the note, the last of its life and its sweet, spring scent. 

Coward smiles. Bluebells are blooming in the park across the road. Later he will burn the note, but the flower he will press between the pages of a book and keep safe. Small thing, it is priceless.

- - - - - - 
- - - - - -

"I told you already, Coward. He has returned to Boulogne." 

Coward's fingernails dig into the soft wood of the window sill. He squints into the murk of evening, picking through the dwindling crowds on the street, the faces of strangers. 

He would not, Coward thinks, the sickness of his failing hope starting to curdle into something far worse. He turns from the window. 

"He did not speak to me of it." 

Blackwood's smile is instant, springing forth sharp and vicious as a bear trap. 

"Is there any reason he would?" he asks. 

Coward shivers, bows his head. 

"No. My lord."

- - - - - - - - - - - -
 Faith Healing
- - - - - - - - - - - - 

"I'm not sentimental," Coward says. 

Outside the asylum once more; Coward is smiling, terrified blind, at the white sky. His fingers twitch at his cravat, the buttons of his coat, reassuring details of this world. 

He should forbid these vists, Blackwood thinks. He should forbid Coward from even thinking of it. 

"It's waiting for me, in me, sometimes in the dark, in the quiet, I can hear it, I can-" A button snaps off in Coward's hand. 

Blackwood slams him up against the railings, unable to control himself. 


Coward clings to him. 

"You won't let it have me, Henry."

- - - - - -
- - - - - -

There's something about the way Coward is starting to look at the others. 

The revelation of his first sacrifice has kindled a fire in Coward that burns away at the edges of his smile, wider, bright eyed. A new grace to the way he moves, unpinned amidst his fellows. Subtle signs of metamorphosis. 

Blackwood keeps his hands clasped behind his back, working his thumbnail against his wrist bone. He longs to rest his hand on the back of Coward's neck as they move about the room. 

But such a leashing touch would change things irreparably. The risk is too great.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
Family Honour
- - - - - - - - - - - - 

"Papa?" Cecelia nibbles at her thumbnail. 

Coward takes her wrist and tugs her hand away from her mouth. It's her thirteenth birthday. It does not seem so long since her first. The bones beneath his grip still feel so small, weightless. 

"This is an honour, Cecelia," he hisses as they stand outside the door. "Don't you dare disgrace me. You will do exactly as you're told." 

They enter the chamber. His hand on the small of her back, pressing her forward. 

"My Lord," Coward bows. Cecelia trembles as she curtsies. 

Blackwood rises and Coward turns to leave.

"No, Nicholas. Stay." 

- - - - - - - - - 
- - - - - - - - - 

Four fingerprints spot the pallor of the girl's neck with bright, fresh crimson. Blood in milk - something savoury to grow fat on.

Coward smears his hand-print, sighing, lovestruck. 

"Pampered fool," Blackwood sneers. "You know nothing of death." 

Strips him to his skin and forces him, shivering, to a squat, plain door.

Ordered thirteen steps down. The bodies here are not frozen, sleeping beauties. They writhe with life, burst open. A soup of greasy offal oozes between his toes. The air is furred and thick with rot. 

Blackwood locks the door. A murmur of skittering rises with the dark. 

Coward screams.


- - - - - -
- - - - - -

He offered this to Blackwood. 

The clammy press of a palm against his mouth. The mild humiliation of penetration, the pain during, the discomfort afterward. His eyes closed, not to easier imagine himself elsewhere, but to keep the face of Blackwood's humanity eclipsed. 

Regardless, his faith endured. 

He offered his mouth if Blackwood desired it, and kisses were harder to bear, he would rather have his lips touching the stones between Blackwood's feet and the cold, voluminous purity of worship.

The air is sweet as he's lead to the noose. He smiles. In Hell, spirit is all there will be.

- - - - - - - -
Well Bred
- - - - - - - -

Coward's breeding is a liability to him, his blue blood anaemic and -

That's a salad fork, not a desert fork, Henry. 

- so foolishly offhand in correcting his master's manners. 

The bottom of the box is covered in the tines of a hundred forks and Coward is made to kneel on their sharp, unforgiving points; head pressed down between his legs, wrists tied high behind his back. Already he begins to bleat and fidget against the strain with no hope of relief. 

Blackwood closes the box, crushing Coward's knees against his chest, pushing the ache in his shins deeper. 

Ten hours.

- - - - - - - - - - - 
Gothic Horror
- - - - - - - - - - - 

The night loves Coward, clinging to the twist of his limbs, hiding in the creases of his stomach as he writhes above Henry, flexing, lean. 

Darkness spills in, ravenous through the open windows, over the hunched row of ravens on the balustrade, terrible stars burning in their beady eyes, bearing witness to the two of them in sin and the curtains swell and crack in the wind, phantasmagorical.

Coward tips his head back and laughs, lost in the frenzy of the shadows and the whip of white lace; spreads his arms out wide like wings and cries for his familiars.

- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -

"Oh this game, Henry?" 

Coward pulls against the restraints, grinning as they bite into his flesh like teeth; gnawing at the tip of his own tongue, wiggling it at Henry trying to look all stern and serious above him. 

"Let me loose. I'll lie so still for you, you'll think I'm d-d-dead." 

He rubs a raw, iron line of blood across his tongue and fingers push into his mouth, keeping his teeth apart. He closes his eyes, whines, licking at them. A hot, heavy weight crushes him tight. 


Blackwood nods at the doctor as the orderlies take Coward away.

- - - -
- - - -

His love for Coward is a dense, smoking ember - white with ash, cracked with seams of fire, blistering his heart. 

Your soul is worthless without it, the demon says. And you have laid him out as bait so often in your invocations, we must have his flesh. That wanton will be our broodmare, his thighs shall never close.

The demon is foolish, Blackwood is sure, for when he is full in his power, he will bring all of hell to heel. He will pull Coward out of the abyss. 

There is no other way to broker this deal. 

He nods.

- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - 

Coward has a taste for the scrawny, stone-eyed youths who crowd the orphanages of London. Tattered and unfriendly and fiercely proud of their little lot of nothing, arrogant in the way only those with nothing can be. Alley cats, domesticated by their hunger, he likes to watch them eat warily from his hand. 

Those are safe prey, for Coward is a respectable man and a friend to a great many other respectable men and those boys are nameless, lost property of no significance. 

Now, Lord Blackwood, Coward smiles as he offers his hand, he may have to keep this one.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Civil Discussion  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Coward's tongue is poised on the tip of one incissor, the needle glinting as he turns it between finger and thumb. Henry feels muscle flexing in the thighs either side of his waist, Coward rocking his weight back and forth. 

"I want to be inside you," Coward murmurs. 

He sets the needle at the tip of Henry's nipple, rolls it with slow, incremental pressure until the skin blanches. 

"Let me fuck you, Henry." 

Henry's cock throbs, full and slick between their bellies as Coward leans over him and pierces his flesh with biting, leaden heat. Takes another needle. 

"Say yes."

- - - - - - - - 
- - - - - - - - 

"Is this what you want, Henry?" 

Blackwood wets his lips and though only his own sweat dampens his tongue, the tang of salt has him shivering. He is heavy with craving, desire like tar poured down his throat, packing him full; his breath shallow and catching. 

Coward touches himself, rolling his hips. He gathers the dew pearling at the head of his cock on two fingers and, after a moment's regard, wipes them clean across Henry's mouth. 

"Daniel, please." He licks his lips and his own cock twitches. 

"Excercise your patience," Coward says. "Master your will. A king doesn't beg."

- - - - -
- - - - -

Coward pulls the knot at the base of Henry's cock tight and hums, gratified at the sight of silk cutting into silk; the blue ribbon wound tight round that delicate, flushed flesh, so very dark with blood. He makes a mock-sympathetic noise. 

"Can't have you finishing before I'm done with you," he says. 

The, again, hangs unspoken in the air. Blackwood's pale cheeks flush. His arms lay beside him, exactly where they were put and Coward watches them tremble as he impales himself slowly, groaning, on Henry's cock. 

Sets one hand at Henry's throat and begins to ride his toy.

- - - - - - - - - 
What More?
- - - - - - - - -

Coward slides down in the chair, cupping the back of Blackwood's head, scratching his nails across the little hollow where his skull meets the nape of his neck. 

"You must make an appearance tonight," he says. 

Blackwood's eyes water, his tongue flutters, sublime and wordless against Coward. 

"I know you weren't invited, that's the entire point. You will need something suitable to wear though." 

He produces a banknote and leans forward, tight grip on Henry's hair, holding him down as he chokes on his cock and tucks the money into Henry's coat pocket. 

"See to it, there's a good boy."

- - - - - - - - - - -
 Silver Spoon
- - - - - - - - - - - 

He cannot stand that proud, certain smile, the brazen twist at the corner of Coward's mouth when he bows or nods, that says - I made you

He needed Coward's patronage once. 

No longer. 

Coward never earned the wealth or status he put to work for them. Now Blackwood will see him learn the worth of both those things. 

Collared and tethered in place outside Blackwood's reception. His mouth open for use. The men may tip a shilling, no more than that. Nothing if he displeases. 

Coward gave him twenty pounds when they first met. Now he must do it again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Economies of Scale
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Blackwood sets the dish before him. 

"The House was most generous with its contributions," he says. 

The bowl is half full. Glistening, translucent, off-white and yellowish, a swampy mix of semen. Thick, watery, strings and clumps like gelatine. It smells worse than it looks, like something dirty and organic left to rot in salt-water, sharply acidic in the back of his nose. 

Blackwood drops a sovereign into the bowl. It sinks, slowly. 

"Yours if you clear your plate like a good whore." 

Coward stares at the cold, congealing mess. One pound. He lowers his face and sticks out his tongue.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Training Wheels
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Blackwood says it's for his own good. Nipples pierced and chained to his shackles. With his hands fixed at his breast in constant supplication, he cannot commit the insult of touching these men. 

The pain from the rings is a dull, unrelenting burn, the metal so thick and heavy and he can't help tugging them, struggling in blind panic when his throat is filled with cock. 

Sometimes they hold him down, letting him gag over and over until he passes out. His nipples will be stretched red and raw when he comes to and lifts his aching arms once more.

- - - - - - -
- - - - - - -

"You slut," Blackwood spits. 

Coward puts his hands up but Blackwood just shakes him by the hair until the world spins and hits him again and again blood clogging his nose and filling the inside of his mouth, all torn up on his own teeth and the hammer of Blackwood's knuckles. 

He falls backwards, half on top the warm, wet corpse of his dead lover and Blackwood pins him to the gore soaked sheets by his neck, plucking the knife from the other man's body. 

He presses the tip of the blade between Coward's legs. 

"Well, if you need fucking . . . "

- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -

Coward, that haughty, truffle-fed creature; a great orator, a mind as sharp as ice, full of grand ambition. Blackwood has conquered this little aristocrat and for his keeping, every submission must be greater than the last. 

Blackwood uses a pair of tongs to coax each slippery, wriggling leech inside Coward, his hole twitching futilely around the speculum holding him open. The gag muffles his screams. The first will have latched on by now and Coward will have to wait until they swell, grow fat and heavy with blood, before they slither out. 

He has such plans for keeping Coward subdued.

- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - 

What a ridiculous lie, Blackwood says. 

Coward is quaking on the floor, his mouth swollen, his stomach painted with a funereal particolur bouquet of bruises. 

Of course you wanted it, Blackwood scoffs. You like to be fucked.

It had been dark. He had not noticed the men until they had the knife to his throat. 

Blackwood drags him to the bathtub and forces him kneeling into the icy water. A boar bristle brush tears at his skin, he chokes on the soap in his mouth when Blackwood scrapes it between his legs. 

How dare you let other men touch you, you're filthy.
. . .

Date: 2011-09-25 06:08 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]

These...all of these! I think that last three hit me the hardest because...just because. I should know better than to read your fic and think I can find the appropriate words to worship them with.

Date: 2011-09-26 08:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Thank you! You're FAR too kind.

The last three hit you the hardest because you're a TERRIBLE person who enjoys seeing poor, poor little Coward suffer. Tut tut. For shame. etc. etc. :D

Date: 2011-09-27 02:39 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
...Isn't that the whole Blackwood/Coward fanbase though? Hahaha.


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