WHO: The Sheriff of Nottingham, Michael WHEN: Up to Saturday WHERE: Michael's WHAT: Life as a prisoner WARNINGS: Wanking talk
A little over a month ago, Malcolm had shown up on the parsonage doorstep, begging for mercy and he had been shown very little. Now that his head was clear he had to wonder what in the fuck he had been thinking, though at the time he knew he had been somewhere in the realms of 'face the enemy you know, not the enemy you don't'. The Merry Men were no match for the cruelty of Artemis. That was for fucking sure.
And now he had spent a month confined to one room in the house of an angel and he had to admit...it was alright. After freezing and starving and running and being terrified, now he was fed every day. He was clean. Sure he was clothed in far more beige than he cared to be, but he was warm. And the angel never hurt him. He was safe here.
And the more he healed, the more other needs started to reassert themselves. The need for fresh air. He was able to open his window ever so slightly, and he would sit there, just breathing. The need for distraction. Once his mind was preoccupied with terror he had found himself...bored. Out of his mind. The angel had been kind enough to provide books and even a television, mostly to try to keep the sheriff from talking his ear off from his room, just to have something else happen for once.
Of course there were other needs too. Now that he wasn't in mortal terror and he was putting weight back on...god, he wanted someone to touch him. He could feel desire coiling in his belly and he would dream of Marian at night. Or even just...random women. Boobs. Vaginas. Sex. His Netflix watching habits went from documentaries and cerebral shows to ridiculous things like Too Hot to Handle because there were scantily clad women in it. Every single time he took a shower his hand strayed southward and he was pulling himself off desperately.
The angel knew too. Malcolm could tell. He would switch the telly off and head towards the bathroom to shower, and Michael would watch him pass by the doorway, his eyes full of judgement. Was it his fucking fault he hadn't had another human touch him in kindness for over half a year?! He would pay someone just to hold him right now. But he was stuck behind a ward. And he definitely wasn't going to get any action from the angel.
He was on his way into the bathroom again, after several episodes of Love Island. When Michael saw him pass by the warded but open bedroom door he said, "you shower a lot." And Malcolm snapped.
"Let here me of out. Let of me fucking goddamn of shit piece here you out!" His words were still scrambling at points of high stress and he groaned and threaded his fingers into his hair, sinking to the floor. Michael just watched him, his eyes wide.
"I uh- I wasn't- Shower all you want, guy."
Malcolm looked up at him, miserable. He was going to be stuck here with this ridiculous beefcake forever, dreaming of Marian and making shower babies, wasn't he?