middle-ans

[middle-ans]

What about the itching with snippet game, did it help or another new stuff coming soon? 🙂‍↕️

It diid, it did help a lot with some wips - I wrote the Ancient Egypt AU snippet and agreed with myself that I’m not really there right now for that much of specific wording, Roman/Egyptian mythological and cultural contrast, so no, no, not for now with this baby. Most of wips were immense amount of fun - light, easy, quick, I mean they’re instant dopamine. Firefighter, blind date, arranged marriage, retired agents and teacher George - all exquisitely fun and sweet.

But I only teased the itch for WW2 one more, I write the lore for it every day ever since and I know the exact moment I break down in that story, I don’t know how to fight it gently. The worst part is that even when it eventually gets to the good times, I still just can’t, it hurts in peace too. So, whether I’ve done myself a favour or not with it, I dunno, but I tried.

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Love love having movie night with my mum, like we sitting there scrolling tik tok for a while and she shows me some video with George doing desperate hear eyes at Lewis and says “Oh they always look at each other with such warmth, so much love and respect (professionally)”

Natalie, I’ll hold your hand when I say this…

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Im sorry but wdym 61% of eight crowns finished? 😳 is there even still something happening, fyi even slow burns has limits, i just don’t want it to become completely unreadable

Woow, hi sweetheart, haaaarsh, where were we before hello even happened. What should I even say here, thank you for your feedback? 😅 Ah, alright, I do realise I can’t realistically receive only nice stuff, but, well, if the word count overwhelms you, I’m sorry you consider it as a loss of time, probably I should add a tag for it. P.S. things are indeed still happening there, they started to happen actually just recently and it’s more to come, so. To continue read it or not - always your choice, whatever makes you happy most

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you went on your own eras tour didn’t you - 90 bc, okaaay?? ancient egypt ➡️ tribal wip (also don’t know which is sooner but ok) ➡️ nurse george and major lewis in 1940s ➡️ cherrywood taking place in 1960s ➡️ royal and wedding fics!

This is funny, gosh, it looks a bit concerning - me whoring two men around throughout human evolution history, oh what a therapist would say? 😅

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omg just wanna say ancient egypt au sounds so insanely interesting (sorry i just loved ancient egypt as a kid and i'm a bit of a history nerd now) so i'm ready to learn anything about this story!💫

Good for you, precious, I’m very much the same that way! I had so many thoughts on this idea, so I came up with this precise world picture - 90 BC, Roman Emperor shares a world domination with Egyptian ruler, came to rather fall into another war or build peace with him.

Don’t let the names confuse you - Lewis is the inheritor to the Egypt’s first ruler and God of the Sun - Ra, given the name Lewsaen (Sa-En-Ra meaning “Son of Ra”). George has a more Roman-like version of his name, Georgián, a son of Roman Emperor Octavian, so that he’s taking a family name tradition with its ending. (2202 words)

A caravan of ships parted the deep waters of Nile in a lavish gold framework, dozens of them traveling upstream, from the port with sails of Roman Empire to the very heart of the Egyptian ruler's domain. A palace of which the Emperor Octavian's majesty could not help but squint his eyes in resentment. A bright blinding white stone in the middle of the desert, a diamond cruelly cutting an eye in the sprawling freshness of the oasis around it - gardens, labyrinths, tangled paths with fountains and statues, all raised in honor of the ancestors of the ancient Lewsaen dynasty. It was as if the great Pharaoh was trying to signify his superiority even before the very encounter.

He did not wear a crown like the kings Octavian had met, nor did he frame his head with the gold of elaborately wrought laurel branches, but shone brighter than the sun itself, named as the son of God Ra, the Sun God, the first ruler of Egypt. Chest proudly exposed in painted steady ink, woven into the history of his peoples and armies, cloak in richly embellished weaved designs of the finest fabrics, kept in place by stones and a wide necklace holding his neck to the collarbones. A belt bearing the symbol of the celestial daylight, all glory of his heritage with wings majestically spread open around his waist, a heavy leather skirt fell in strictly cut wisps down to mid-thigh. Bracelets and anklets with lapis lazuli as a token - as soon as he sets foot on foreign soil, all its goods belong to him. He is death and life itself, creator and destructor, having swept half the world under the soles of his sandals. And yet, unable to live in peace while the other half would so persistently seek out the cracks in his power to hit the fractures harder.

Octavian had been bathed in luxury more than any other ruler who had stepped onto the desert sands before the gates of Pharaoh's palace, and yet he had the most meticulous eye to catch the imperfections in the mosaics on the floor and the shapely engraved columns of every hall he walked down. A whole wing was given over to the entire delegation that had arrived as part of the Emperor's court, and even with canvases in Roman designs over the beds, Octavian was unwilling to submit to hospitality.

His tongue was a vial carrying poison, releasing a drop into every dish on table, loose and unleashed even before the servants fed them wine. Something sadistic in his nature reveled in the tension of every muscle in Pharaoh's face, and though they sat at different ends of the long table, the message was unmistakable. Both Alphas, both greedy for every bit of power that threatened to slip from their grasp. Pride played skillfully against the other, and one could find themselves in a state close to what they should have been trying to steer away from - one word dividing the world between war and peace.

“Enough,” Pharaoh growls, pushing the chair back to bump against the milky marble.

He storms out of the hall, staring straight ahead as none of the guards' gazes dare rise to his firmly striding form. He had stepped on the throat of his own pride, arranged things as no one had ever been welcomed into his richest of creations, his palace, the heart of the kingdom, the walls that held the greatest honor to his essence, and this very guest was insolent enough to continue his manipulative games with him even here. Pharaoh could not be humiliated so openly and defiantly. Rushing through the hallways past the rooms of Romans, Alpha sought warm flesh and blood as a snake coiled in the garden, in need of quenching its thirst by shooting venom into a fortuitous victim. All the doors in the wing closed except for one.

Pharaoh peered inside through the slightest gap, seeing the Roman banner on the walls and Octavian's scattering of jewelry, must be someone of supreme importance to the Emperor. A figure stood at the neatly paved column leading to the balcony, a slender, tall form curved in a relaxed stance, a Roman tunic girt at the notable waist and among the jewels around his wrists and ankles, Pharaoh suddenly caught sight of bare feet gracing the marble of the rooms of his palace. None other than Omega of beauty and elegance such that any harem would pale against him was turned with his back to the door and surveyed the rich realms of the Egyptian ruler right up to the horizon burning with flames of setting sun. Lewis didn't hesitate as he pushed the door open wider.

He thought the silhouette startled him, but when Omega turned around at the sound of his footsteps, Pharaoh could find himself nowhere but already captured in the depths of blue eyes.

“Pharaoh,” a voice so soft and calm, as if the Alpha's very figure did not inspire a shiver of fear in him. “I did not expect such company.”

“And who can you be?”

Lewis took a few steps toward him, drawn to the slightest motion of hands that circled the curve of his hips against the column of the balcony.

“Georgian. Son of the Roman Emperor Octavian.”

Yes, now Lewis could match the details. His posture was noble, every breath Omega turned into words radiated regality, he was no ordinary ornament to the overall picture, rather the one and only center of it. Touching him phantomly with only cautious sweeps of his lashes in shifting glances, Pharaoh already wished he could see his profile carved in stone on the walls of his palace.

“He brought you here?” Alpha hummed intrigued. “Into the heart of the kingdom of his sworn worst enemy? While so shamelessly and carelessly playing with me, urging me to war?”

Omega sighed, letting a faint breeze ruffle his curls. They framed the well-defined and sharp edges of his face with angelic curls, falling low down the back of his head, supported only by a laurel wreath of shining gold around his head. Not beautiful enough to match the fair youthful appearance of the young heir to the throne of Rome.

“My father is no doubt a great ruler. Managing to conquer more lands than his predecessor, but great men like you, Pharaoh, know well what power does to minds. He sees no other way but war to keep force. The more he takes, the more he demands.”

“Do you assume my ambitions aren't soaring higher than his?” Lewis teases him with the curve of a smile, mesmerized the moment he sees the answer on a face made of milky rivers and rose petals in the blush of lips.

“You are a man of deeds, not words. You have no need to voice your ambitions when you can show them by expanding the boundaries of your reign.”

Georgian leans on the column fully, winding his arms behind his back and gliding barefoot across the stone floor as if the air itself obeyed his grace, cradling the hem of the tunic molded to his figure.

“I rarely have the pleasure of someone speaking so wisely and freely,” Pharaoh follows him like a bewitched man, always within a stone's throw of the invisible boundary from the tips of Omega's toes. “You don't know fear at all?”

“Fear is such an aimless waste of emotion,” from an outsider's mouth he'd regard it as flattery and braggadocio, but Georgian is sincere, in every opening of his mouth, he of all people wouldn't need a chant to his father's nightmare. “Besides, should I fear a man who offers hospitality so generously even to his obvious enemies? We expected swords and soldiers in the harbor; in lieu of that, you sent five dozen of your ships, trimmed in gold, to carry us down the Nile to your home. Chose this very palace, open as a palm in the middle of pyramids, rather than imprison us in an impregnable fortress as hostages and seize the chance to end Roman rule. But here I am. In the richly adorned rooms you have provided for us. I owe you no fear, only gratitude.”

“I find myself one step away from questioning the generosity,” Lewis drops his voice to commanding lows, willing to carry even a shadow of threat, rustling the hem of his cloak as he breaks the first boundary of their unspoken distance, taking a step closer. “With the way I am treated in my domain, I must take this as a direct declaration of war from the Empire.”

“Then I see it as my duty to ask you to give your thoughts another turn. Like deep waters of Nile, you can let a different channel flow, looking toward peace.”

“Peace,” Pharaoh exhales almost contemptuously, his tilt casting a shadow over Omega's form and obscuring him from the flickering glow of candlelight. Touching him in that way, too - at least with his shadow. “You speak of peace, but you make me want to start a war. For you.”

His features don't flinch, as if day after day the rulers are ready to throw world domination at his bare feet. Georgian softens in his gaze, tilting his head so that the fall of his curls to the side beckons Pharaoh even closer to him.

“If you truly desire me, son of Ra, you will make every effort to see peace prevail. War is easy, it requires weakness of a character. Peace asks for strength.”

Alpha's nostrils flare in greedy wisps of Omega's sweet scent, Lewis sees no impediment to putting his hands on him, pressing him close and planting him on the armrest of his throne, having him, losing himself in him, but Georgian is not something he can easily get his hands on. Omega grabs a hunch of his movements and shuffles aside, leaving the cold white stone of the column for the man's greedy palms instead of his skin. He retreats into the depths of the room with a gait not inferior in the slightest to the grace of his nature already so temptingly on display for Pharaoh.

“I see the way you look at me,” he says, even the flutter of his lashes from the wary glance over his shoulder calculated to the last detail. “But I am the bearer of nothing of yours. Until I do so, your hands can't claim what isn't theirs yet.”

Lewis closes his eyes, clenching fist against the wall and transferring the strength of his muscles to ground himself in dignity, to keep from falling into the shameful abyss of intoxicating power and authority.

“Very well,” he turns his back to the balcony, dancing his steps on the borders of proximity to Omega. No one has caught his breath with such bold defiance before, he would not have found another of such a spirit of openness and honesty if he had traversed the conquered lands with his army again a dozen times. “I will bathe you in every fiber of me. I will give you the finest robes, I will wrap you in the choicest silks, you will wear the greatest of Egypt's gifts, each one that pleases your eye. Rose quartz, turquoise lapis lazuli, the rarest of the treasures of my lands, things that no one can give you but Pharaoh. And then, by letting them become part of what adorns your being, you will know that you belong to me.”

Omega smiles knowingly at him, tangling his fingers in the ties of his belt. He didn't even falter for a second, as calm and collected as he was, whereas even the most noble Omegas of Egypt would have fallen into the ruler's bed without any resistance. Still, none of them had still managed to become his Queen.

“Belonging has very little to do with being bestowed with silks or treasures. I may wear them if they please me. But that will not make me yours.”

Lewis felt something that was unfamiliar to him even in the moments when he had been closer to death than life, holding the cold metal of the sword in his hands - a shiver tickling his fingers. He gazed intensely at Omega, studying every curve of his shape, seeing the imprints of his lips everywhere around him, not there yet, but in his dreams Georgian no longer had anything of Rome, only the gifts of Egypt on his shoulders.

“I'll let intentions speak louder,” Pharaoh was trapped between the delicate rise of his collarbones, letting out a shuddering breath. “I will make everything from my possessions yours. And then, precious Omega, we will have our bodies to speak for us. Not the trembling and fallacy of our words.”

A stirring blossoms with noise from the hallways, denoting that there is still life beyond the door of these chambers. Lewis steps toward the entrance, catching every flutter of his eyelashes following his steady steps.

“I cannot deny hope,” Georgian lingers him in the open passageway. “But I wish to talk to you at length, since I find such great pleasure in the way you speak, Pharaoh.”

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Anastasiia / Ana

26 🇺🇦 she/her

Ao3〰️Middle_Ans

Some extra content you might like to see for my LH/GR fics:

Eight Crowns On Royal Family Tree Tales of Cherrywood Village The Wedding Whisperer

Wips and plots live rent free, so I could treat some of them nicely and write a short snippet here and there, here’s ones that itched too much:

A/B/O Ancient Egypt AU

A/B/O Island Tribal AU

A/B/O ww2 AU

Retired Secret Agents AU

Firefighter Lewis & Barista George

Blind date at a dance class

Arranged Marriage AU: CEO Lewis & Model George

Dad Lewis & Teacher George

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what breed is your cat? so cuuute

Ooh, my dude, my dearest, he’s a rescued kitty who developed into the biggest spoiled, worshiped arse at my mum’s, don’t get it wrong - he has no particular bloodline, ancestry, whatever, just a huge ego and this attitude, he enslaved us

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I’m so so pissed at you, Baximilian, watcha think you’ve been doing at groomer’s, I took you there to get your nails done, bastard, and you went on a full fledged Broadway show for free!! A woman didn’t ask for that! Yelled at a chihuahua, hissed at poodle, we don’t do that! Embarrassed me in front of a whole room of pets (a parrot at least talked to me sympathetically) and then bit me on the cheek? I won’t be nice with your new passport picture, nah ah, Imma put one with your balls out, and your pretty silly face doing 🥴 at them, aha, embarrass you for your favourite vet to see, you shmoll cheeky whore. Alright, we got combing on Thursday, jesus christ lord baby angels please help me

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omg firefighter lewis and barista george pleaseee 😭💖👀

I’ve got a several requests for this one, so here we go, dearest (2328 words)

“Not at all about rescuing cats and getting kisses on the cheeks from some hottie, huh?” Sebastian groans tiredly, flinging his helmet off a sweaty face.

Lewis sighs in a chuckle, too exhausted to continue the joke. He knows that if he takes off his helmet, he'll have to dispose of his balaclava and top protection as well, so he only has enough to take a deep breath without a threat of being poisoned by the soot. Smoke and fire on the tip of his tongue are constant companions, nothing new, and he steps as far away as possible from the five-story brick building they've spent three hours of tight, hard work on. Sebastian falls to the curb of the sidewalk as soon as they reach the edge of the road, but his fella takes his time to collapse on the pavement, turning to his right.

“Hey, I'm dying for coffee. Want me to grab you something?” Lewis says, throwing off his gloves and tucking them behind his belt.

“No, man, I'm fine where I am.”

“On the edge of the sidewalk, sprawled out like a dying turtle,” Lewis snorts, quickening his step away from the man so he can't pull some kind of stunt in retaliation.

He's barely familiar with the neighborhood, something the kids call authentic these days, but Lewis is sure there must be at least one decent coffee shop in the row of stores and restaurants squeezed into tiny glass panes. The man almost misses it in the glut of commerce, but unmistakably jerks back in a recognizable reflex, letting out a whiff of relief at the sign and the inviting lettering on the window. The bell rang sparkling over his head as soon as he pushed the door open, the warm aroma of coffee beans and crisp pastries soothed his thumping heart. Behind the counter spun a busy guy with an apron tied in a neat knot at his back, curls a color of homemade caramel as they bounced in his hurried motions placing the tea jars on the top shelves. Barista turned to his guest, quickly wiping his hands on the edge of his apron.

“Hey,” he stretched out softly, offering Lewis a tentative smile. “Long day?”

“I'm pretty obvious like that,” the man shakes his head in a quiet chuckle, having a few ideas how his appearance might have tipped off the stranger. “Three hours putting out someone's apartment. Dying to have something to get me through the rest of the day.”

“Oh, I think I can oblige,” the guy smiled lightly, as if it wasn't a burden on him at all to become a pair of ears for Lewis's complaints. The fireman hummed into the tight protection of his helmet, unbuckling it under his chin. “Black coffee, should be fine?”

“Perfect,” Lewis sighs, yanking his helmet up.

He sets it aside on a vacant table nestled right next to the counter and pastry display, slides his fingers under balaclava and with a liberating exhale pulls it off too, breathing in air that doesn't smell like smoke at last. Barista can't help but be enthralled by the action at the edge of his vision, but when the firefighter appears before him in the full glory of his face, not even a trace of soot makes him doubt that he's worthy of having his hands fumble away at the perfectly coordinated work of making coffee. The guy sighs, averting his gaze and blinking rapidly at the protestingly beeping bean grinding machine, cheeks two gentle touches blusher than they were before the stranger entered the coffee shop.

“This is a nice place,” Lewis looks around, unhooking the velcro on the top of his uniform. “Never caught a glimpse of it. Not that I'm a regular in the neighborhood, but, you know. With my job, I know pretty much the whole city like the palm of my hand.”

Barista smiles fondly, taking a neat cup from the tall stack.

“Uh, thank you. I own this coffee shop with my friend, Alex. We're not front-running entrepreneurs, more of a nightmare for any mild tax audit. But it's good to have something of our own.”

“Wow, you look young for your business,” Lewis doesn't do his best to control the curious gaze coursing over the intriguing figure. He bites his lip, pulling down the sleeves of his uniform and remaining in his undershirt down to the waistband of his fireproof jumpsuit. “I'm Lewis, by the way.”

“I'm George,” barista quickly turns his head for a second to introduce himself, handling behind the counter. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Lewis.”

“My pleasure, for the most part,” the man grins, folding his hands on the countertop next to the cash register, tucked between two display cases of pastries. A cup of hot coffee is placed in front of him, long fingers lingering a little to hold the drink out closer, and with how quickly Lewis takes it in his hand their fingers almost smear against each other in one brief instant.

“On the house,” George waves his hand. “Thank you for your service.”

“You don't have to. I really don't mind paying.”

George shakes his head, blue eyes so big their gleam can't be hidden. Lewis is drawn to him as if by his ears, wouldn't tear him away even if his entire station pulled him out of this warm place.

“I insist. You deserve at least a free coffee once in a while for what you do. The very least I can offer.”

As Lewis settled behind the counter in one of the high chairs, the top of his fireman's coat falling loosely around his strong thighs, tattoos peeked through the neckline of his undershirt, so many of them that George sighed cautiously, busying himself organizing the display case to occasionally cast glances at the man. He could've been more subtle, but Lewis was nothing but genuine interest, tired, strong and gorgeous in the curve of his back with the way he sat nearby, sipping his coffee. George wanted to believe that the deepening mesh of wrinkles around his eyes was a sign that the coffee he'd made really took the firefighter's fancy.

“Did everything go safely today?” he asks, nibbling the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah, everyone saved. Except for the vintage dresser in the living room, listened for about fifteen minutes about how antique and valuable it was.”

“Irreparable loss,” barista chuckled, leaning on the counter. “It must be hard, being responsible for other people's lives every day.”

“It's not always such a big burden,” the man set aside his empty cup, his face a few tired lines lighter now, a smile and amusement playful at the bottom of his dark eyes. “Can be lucky to run into a pretty face at the end of the day sometimes.”

“Oh,” George nods, raising his eyebrows. He feels silly for being willing to giggle at the man like a high schooler in awe. “Undeniable perks in the workplace.”

“Who said just in the workplace?” Lewis winks so effortlessly and casually that George barely has time to realize it's actually happened. And as he unravels the mystery of that expression, eyes gingerly exploring the face opposite, he notices the traces of soot on his cheeks, black dust clinging to the skin tight and gravely.

“You've got a little something here,” he points to the cheek in bewilderment, trying to guide Lewis's hand to that particular spot, but the fireman misses, rubbing a bit higher on his cheekbone. “No, a little lower, that's just right-”

George leans over the counter, suddenly holding out his hand to do it himself. He holds his breath, suddenly confronted by the beauty Lewis radiate so close, the man didn't recoil from the closeness, rather the opposite - pulled himself a little forward in his chair, making them inches deeper into each other's private space. He found extreme pleasure in the way George's lips parted slightly, all of the barista's focus on his cheek, to which he pressed his fingers and gently wiped away a trace of dirt, rubbing the colors back into the firefighter's skin.

“I think you should give it a kiss, too. For luck and all.”

Missing a blink, George peers into his eyes warily, trying to see if he's joking. Though everything in the color of dark chocolate whispered flashes of amusement, Lewis gave him a slight nod, presenting his cheek expectantly. Warm breath caught it in a tiny gasp and George swallowed, bumping his nose against the cheekbone before pressing a soft kiss there, the barely audible wet sound of his nuzzling tickled Lewis's ear and the fireman couldn't help the wide smile blossoming along his mouth with tenderness.

“I have to go,” the man said regretfully once the distance between them was decent again. “But I'll definitely be back. You have magic in those fingers, George, the coffee was excellent.”

The way he blushed and tried to hide behind the hiss of the coffee machine only convinced Lewis that this was a special boy, and he owed him a bit of all his time. The next afternoon, finding himself nearby in the neighborhood, Lewis jumps off the high step of the fire truck and hurries to the flower store on the street corner, scaring the florist with all the finery of his outfit. He rushes too briskly to a coffee shop one block away from their temporary stop, and when the bell rings over his head as he enters, the man is already grinning like a fool a few steps before the counter. But instead of a familiar and missed figure, he sees a tall, dark-haired guy with eyebrows creeping upward as soon as he spots a customer. It's lunchtime, in just half an hour there will be too many people here, but for now the other guy, Alex, is busy sorting through the delivery, and allocating a share of his interest to the fireman too.

“Hello there,” he greets him, setting a notebook of records aside. “I suppose you were expecting to see a different face here.”

Lewis chuckles, nodding lightly. He places the flowers on the counter, nothing flashy, a simple soft introduction to George's tastes wrapped in kraft paper, and Alex hums with a playful smile at the gesture.

“Was hoping to catch him today. Not my luck, apparently. Mind giving him this for me? If he asks from whom-”

“I'll hint transparently enough that it's from a firefighter suitor who gave him a brief strip performance the day before, don't worry,” Alex winks, pulling out a blank note card. “But in return, I'll ask for your number for him. You know, to say hi and thanks, I think he'll want to do that.”

“Do you think he'll like it?” Lewis asks as calmly as possible, jotting down the digits of his number in cursory handwriting.

“Gallantry dies faster than romance. He'll be impressed, trust me.”

“He must be getting attention too often,” the man bites his lip, leaving the note securely between the flower stems.

“Oh, George doesn't let a lot of people bother him.”

Lewis doesn't wipe off his smile even as he returns to the driver's seat of the fire truck to the loud outrages of his waiting partners.

George pushes open the coffee shop door a little later than usual the next morning, stuck in traffic and sleepless laziness, breathing in the coffee smell of his place full-chested. He unravels his scarf around his collar and freezes when he notices the proudly displayed flowers in a vase he didn't even realize they had. Carefully leaving the scarf on the back of the chair, George touches the petals catching his attention, begging to slip into the tenderness of their multicolored entanglements, all so delicate and thoughtful that barista is still in his coat, leaning over the counter.

“Looks like you made quite the impression,” Alex pulls teasingly, stepping out of the back room.

“Alex. Who-”

“Your firefighter-fan, of course. As if you let the other men that stare at you hungrily through the whole coffee shop even talk to you.”

George rolls his eyes, undoing the buttons of his coat. He occupies himself with leaving his outerwear in the closet of their small backroom, and when he goes back behind the counter, casts wary glances at the bouquet.

“I also took his number for you,” Alex sits down on a chair on the other side of the display case, fishing a note out of the flowers. “The handwriting is questionable, but the hands-”

“You did what?” George shrieks, thank God for empty tables this early, his voice betraying all the heights of his panic.

“He's so obviously infatuated with you,” Alex throws up his hands, sighing heavily. “And you didn't shut up about him my entire evening shift that day. So text him. Tell him how grateful you are for the flowers and what he'd prefer to name the baby if he had a daughter.”

George covered his eyes with both hands, rubbing them stubbornly. It wasn't until Alex slid off the chair away, heading off to sort through the supplies in the backroom, that George glanced at the note. The handwriting is quite lovely, he thought. Hovering his finger over the keyboard, he took a long bite of his lip before he could begin.

“Hey, it's George. It was very nice of you to bring flowers, I guess you've surpassed the cost of the free coffee by about three times. But I really liked them.”

He thought he could forget about the fluttering heart for at least a few hours, but four minutes later his phone buzzed on the counter, a new message incoming.

“In that case, I feel obligated to raise the stakes further. Do you find yourself free sometime during the week? And any particular cuisine in preference? It's a date, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

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Island tribal AU 👀👀

Hellew, anon, I’d add that in broader take it’s also a bit of a fantasy AU, but I already ran out of brevity with this one so I put everything I could in here to provide at least some world building (4259 words)

He ran as fast as his heart pounded in chest open to the raindrops that burst through the thick foliage of the palm-tops. With each successive thud against his ribcage, George tries to land the width of his foot on the wet ground, tears trembling in his eyes but barely lingering on lashes, flying away with the hopes of having his usual measured life in the only tribe he had known all the years of his young fate. Omega stops as he crosses the second river from the borders of their pack, leaning against a mahogany tree post in a brutal squeeze of his lungs. They flare, his throat dry and striking him with flashes of breathlessness, but George doesn't rest for long. He knows Alphas will be twice as fast as him, already sent out to find him. Pressing a trembling palm to his face, he wipes away tears, knowing that if he succumbs to the crushing force of his misfortune he will fall prey even easier.

It was not his decision, to leave, to run away in the middle of the first day of what was meant to end as his mating ceremony, like the Alpha to whom the tribe leader had promised to give him. Like the will-less puppet the pups had made from liana vines and feathers of the Paradise birds in the evenings around the common fire in the center of the village. George would miss the pups of the tribe so much, being the one who cared for them, knew some better than their own parents, with the uniqueness of his gift. As unique as it was, so cursed was the only reason how he ended up in a position where he was considered more than body and soul in their small pack, but a prized exhibit, half-god, half-human, the center of an unspoken competition between unmated Alphas for the right to have him. The hem of his ceremonial skirt, woven of light hide, girt with sedge, carefully shredded, woven by a pack Omega expressly for him, the feathers of Ara, who had given them willingly, flying over the thatched roof of his hut, all dripped with the dense rain and dirt from his run, but the colors from the fruit juices remained indelible on the weave of his belt. Marking him as an Omega on the prowl.

Once he lost track of the Alphas' scent from his pack, George switched to fast walking instead of panicked sprinting, climbing over natural dams on high rivers, traversing gorges and chasms, clinging to the bark of trees with hands dirtier than he would have been allowed to carry in his tribe. They lived in the highlands of the islands, he realized from his steady descent as he went on, and all his stomach could feed on were berries and edible plant shoots, water from the streams that broke off from the mountain rivers - only those that were clean and fresh. He couldn't count if he tried, but the sun had blessed and left him at least three times since he'd left the village. Omega had managed to sleep in the dense veil of moss near riverbanks or in open waste areas with no sign of large predators in the glades. But it was a restless sleep, shaky and intermittent, and every bird call made him jump up and grab the stick he'd managed to make into something resembling a spear, sharpening it with a stone he'd cut his leg on while crossing the stream. Not many pleasures were open to him in the pack, but the sweetest was the freedom on the tip of his tongue with each successive gulp of air. Without a clear path mapped out in his expectations, he walked as far as he could, straight ahead, believing that the lowlands were also inhabited by his kind.

When he smelled the homely odor of a fire for the first time in several cycles of sun and moonlight, George thought he'd gone wild or caught a fever in the woods. But with the smell came the sights - he'd reached the coast of an ocean he'd only seen impossibly far away, always dreaming of getting to know it up close. Omega breathed out wetly, clearing a path eagerly through the lush foliage. It was a beach, sandy, warm even in the middle of the deep night, drenched in the silver of the moon, and he fell to his knees incredulously as soon as the sand tickled his feet. After days in the forest thickets, this was a gift from Gods, and he squirmed, raking whole piles to himself with his hands, burying himself up to his elbows. But life was not forsaken here for the glory of nature alone, curls of smoke wafted welcomingly up above the palm branches deeper into the jungle. Omega approached the heat springs cautiously, flinching at the crunch of leaves and branches around him, not letting go of his spear. It was a small settlement, maybe a little smaller than their people high up in the mountains, the huts looked different and he couldn't clearly identify which one the Leader slept in. Almost all identical in size and finery. Shells and stones of rocks unknown to Omega, picking up the walls of the houses, smoldering fires here and there, apparently the way the local people kept warm on chilly nights and whatever such nearness to the ocean might be conveying. George didn't dare peer through the windows, sneaking around on all fours to hide the full height of his stature from the eyes of those who might remain on guard.

One hut seemed to be what they used to call an occasional lodge for the lost, or a place where he sometimes slept with pups whose parents spent the cycle together. Empty, with a lush bed cobbled from bamboo at the base and made up with reeds. A shaggy hide tossed at the footboard, George didn't question the gifts of fate, not in his position. He collapsed onto a tangle of palm leaves on top of the reeds, wrapping himself in the hide and shivering as he tried to warm himself. Sleep came unusually quickly of these days for him - with a gentle hand on his forehead in unconsciousness, phantom mutterings and something wet on his face, clean, which he frowningly reached for, sure it was all the tricks of his exhausted mind, lounging in the warmth until the sure rays of sunset.

A giggle teases him while George snorts and rolls over onto his other side. The pups must have come to wake him up early to catch a run before breakfast, they've done these games all too often, knowing he has a soft spot for them. But he hadn't heard children's voices in so long, long lonely days of wandering through the jungle. He shouldn't have been in such a warm and soft place, it strains his reflexes finally when Omega blinks sluggishly and notices movement at his unexpected bedside. George jumps up on the bamboo support, clinging to the hide with his fingers. He wraps it around him, covering his body up to the chin, haggardly breathing until he finds himself face to face with the stranger. His skin is a warm brown, sun-kissed far more generously than his own, eye soft and sympathetic, a small smile pulls the plump pink lips up by the corners, and as much as George tries to recognize the threat in the scent, he smells nothing but a rich dense blend of banana wood and ocean breeze.

“Now, now, calm down,” Omega, likewise himself, muttered to him, shushing him soothingly with his hand on the scrap of fur George had so defensively wrapped himself in. “You're such a jumpy one. How did you ever manage to trust a place to spend the night here.”

“I haven't slept in three moons,” he blurted out with trembling lips, carefully pulling the warm fur back under him as if the stranger was trying to take it away. The other Omega only laughed, shaking his head.

“It is notable. But, whether it was your wish or not, you've made some noise in the village. The Leader wants to see you, so do the counselors.”

The way his eyes widen in horror gives the tribal Omega a hunch, and he presses his lips together in thought.

“That's not necessarily a bad sign. But you are an unmated Omega, strayed from too far away, and that is uncommon. We've never had travelers nomadic before, and also on their own. So, if you'll allow me, I'll take you to the Leader,” he rises from his knees, shaking off his garments. So different from what they wear in the mountains, George thinks, examining his form avidly. “I'm Alex, that's my tribal name. Do they give names in your tribe?”

“George,” he exhales, hesitantly leaving the comparative safety of the bed.

“Good. I'll take the hide, George, I don't want the Leader to think you're stealing without being in the tribe for a day,” Alex smiles playfully, carefully tugging his only shield into his hands and stepping gently outside, leading him in.

He really should have been a big deal - just stepping out of the humble shelter of the hut, George finds himself in full view of the people ogling him with genuine interest and wonder. All of them are dressed in cloths washed to a soft white, gleaming gold in their belts and jewelry on their forearms, even a few gold stones were an incredible luxury for the highlands. Omega tries not to glare too obviously, looking detachedly at the footprints after Alex's feet and the hem of his skirt. The hut in the center of the settlement turns out to be their destination, and probably his personal trial, when the veil of leaves is pushed aside and he is let inside, in front of a circle of hard breathing Alphas and the Leader's throne directly across from the entrance. Omega gulps, stepping into the center of the parted crowd, and kneels down so he can only see the bracelets around the ankles of the man must be the Tribe Leader.

“Name?” a low husk is addressed to him in the abruptly cut short mutterings and fiddling around, he flinches, unaccustomed to obeying the call of a strange Alpha, and closes his eyes before answering.

“George.”

There's a rustle of footsteps nearby, and put in a position of complete dependence already as it is, George doesn't decide to lift his head, but notices a familiar hem and warm skin while Alex stops with him, settling a hand on his shoulder.

“Where were you born, George?”

A tap of fingers on the prominent bone of his clavicle from Alex, and he folds his hands on his knee.

“In the Highlands. It's four days' walk from here.”

“Too far a walk for a lone Omega, don't you think?” The Leader sighs, his voice soft even with all the force of the lows and rasp, rumbling pleasantly like a mountain stream, George squirms restlessly in his position in front of him. But the Alpha sounds as if he's not speaking directly to him but somewhere off to the side, George hesitates to test the hunch all the same. “Omegas in the Highlands aren't familiar with decency?”

A flash of indignation cuts through him and George thrusts his chin up faster than Alex could stop him - he opens his mouth with a few harsh words already burning on the tip of his tongue, looking at the Leader for the first time. And Omega stops with his mouth dropping open in a foolishly naive way, taking in the whole, not excerpts, but the entirety of the Alpha's view. He is strong. In the sweep of his shoulders, the hardness of his muscles, but most of all his strength strikes a chord in the unconquered core of his dark gaze that clings to George only partially. The Leader has his chest proudly painted in ink and adorned lavishly with his tribal necklaces, arms spread wide on the armrests of his chair, fingers with heavy rings and tribal seal gleaming brightly gold in the dawn sunlight from outside.

“I may be an unwelcome intrusion,” George masters the art of speech again only when he averts his gaze back to the bracelets around his feet. “But I am not willing to listen to the insults of my people.”

“Why then do you appear here insulting mine?”

“I do not-”

“Demanding my attention and my word when I can't even look at you. Is this how you honor the Leaders back home? By stealing their words? Alex.”

Omega nods to the Leader, throwing the pelt over George's shoulders and hurrying him to wrap himself tighter in it, binding the ends with a clip to cover his chest. George is resolutely unaware of anything he's involved in. But once Alex leaves his side, the Leader finally turns his gaze to his entire form, carefully passing his eyes over the confusion on the young face.

“Omegas don't show their upper parts in my tribe. It's only for their Alphas to see. And you don't have an Alpha, do you? You don't smell mated.”

George blushes involuntarily, this is where his troubles might truly begin. He remains silent, staring wide-eyed at the Leader. Does something that tears his pride and importance to shreds - flutters his lashes and reveals the full depth of the blue of his gaze, begging. Desperately pleading for Alpha's help.

“Stand up,” the Leader commands, rising from the throne himself.

Once he finds himself steady on wobbly legs, with trails of dirt and sand from his fingertips to tangled curls, he's in full view of everyone present. A few hungry growls shake the fumbling atmosphere, George shrinks back and squirms, but the Leader shushes his men to the side, holding out his hand in an imperious gesture. He's not his Leader, Omega knows, but with the first stroke of his fingers on his spotless neck, his eyelids flutter, the air grows thicker and George puffs out, the slightest sway of his hips echoing with the jingle of the shells on his belt. He bites his lip when Alpha winces and irrevocably turns his attention to his skirt.

“Show me,” he demands, holding up the edge of the hide.

The pre- mating colors on the vines of his belt the man recognizes unmistakably, apparently it's what unites their traditions in the most mismatched way.

“You wish trouble upon my tribe?” The Leader growls, grabbing his chin.

“Lewis,” one of the counselors takes a step forward, but Alpha raises his palm again, stopping his intentions.

“Shush,” his eyes grow darker, nostrils flaring indignantly, and the Leader once again directs all his attention to him alone, George barely daring to look at his face.

“Are Omegas really held in such high esteem in your tribe, Alpha?” he whispers, sharing the same breath with him with the closeness between the tips of their noses. “I was to be given in marriage against my will. To an Alpha who didn't care about me. Do the people in your pack have a voice?”

He's flushed and breathless in the heavy scent of a man. Lewis. But if he had a chance at a life far from willlessness and blind submission, he would accept the opportunity to at least try.

“Ask,” the Leader hums, the streams of breath from his mouth pouring out slower, smoother than before, and George gingerly grabs the sight of the patterns on his shoulder.

“Give me a place,” Omega says quietly into the private air between them, meeting the deep brown gaze again. “A roof over my head. A seat by the fire. And I will live and work by your laws.”

“How do I know they won't come after you with war?”

No one could know, but George could have nothing else.

“They lost my trail the first day. That I made it here in the end is my proof.”

The Leader sighs, backing away from him to his men. He doesn't consult them aloud, he doesn't question or mutter, bowing his head to the crowd like their pack Alpha did back home. It was enough for Lewis to cast glances at each to squint and catch snippets of their thoughts. George watched mesmerized as his fate was decided in absolute silence, impressed by their bond. They were a true pack. The skin on his fingertips tingled - telepathy. He could feel it - streams of thoughts flying here and there, inaccessible to him for the obvious reason of being an outsider. The Leader breathed out heavily when Alex flinched as if about to move toward him. Omega threw George a reassuring glance - he was trying to tip the scales in his favor. George nodded gratefully, even if it didn't work out, he owed Alex a thanks for his help. Carefully hiding his hands in the folds of the hide around his form, he hoped to keep his not obvious secret longer. Magic rumbled within him, unused to being held back for so long, but he couldn't give it an escape now, one step away from salvation.

After what looked like a silent council, the Leader abruptly ripped off one of the bracelets on his wrist and turned to him. Held out his palm demandingly, and George clenched his hands into fists to ward off a shudder and gave him one, stroking the man's open palm with his pads. The gold locked onto his wrist and Alpha looked at his face in intense contemplation.

“Alex will give you our clothes. You can wash up at the waterfall in the forest, take in our appearance, and then I'll let you in for breakfast. The rest is up to you.”

George inhales convulsively, closing his eyes and nodding in obedience. Alex takes his hand the second Alpha finishes speaking, but Lewis squeezes his wrist under the gifted bracelet, pulling Omega back to him.

“I'll show, Alex. Go find some clothes for him.”

It wasn't that he was giving him too much choice, pulling the hide off his throne and onto his back, heading away from the hut, silently bidding him to follow his steps now. George moved only after one of the counselors gently nudged him towards the outside. The jungle around them felt suffocating as the sun rose steadily higher, and Omega pushed forward through the dense leafage, keeping pace with Alpha's figure ahead. He preferred to leave at least a few strides of distance between them. Partly, he was grateful that their path remained quiet. The Leader only stopped when they reached an azure oasis with the noisy gurgling of waterfall streams, the pool not as large as imagined, but it caught the direct sunlight for most of the day, heating it to a pleasant condition of freshness. Though his mission should have ended here, Alpha stood still and waited for something unspoken again, giving no clear instructions until Omega stopped beside him.

“You can bathe here. It's too early, but the water shouldn't be too cold. Then I'll check you for mating bites.”

George froze, frowning at his calm unwavering profile. His hands flew up to the edges of his clothes, clinging to them protectively.

“What?” he shook his head pleadingly, drawing Lewis's gaze finally back to his own. It couldn't hurt that much, looking at him directly.

“It's safety, both mine and yours. If you're going to be part of my pack, I need to make sure you don't carry a threat. I have a tribe to protect, one escaped mated Omega could spell harm for us.”

“I told you I escaped before the ceremony was over, I didn't-”

“I believe you,” the Leader cuts him off heatedly, shocking George more. This man, from the mysterious ink on his skin to the depth of his cloaked eyes, everything about him was something Omega had never encountered before. “But I have a duty to make sure.”

George sighed, looking at him with concern.

“Do you have a duty to look?” he cast a glance at his clothes, hoping to claw at the remnants of dignity hanging by a thread, but the Leader was unwavering, even if there was a flicker of something akin to understanding in his eyes.

“You must learn to trust,” Alpha instructed clearly, never leaving his face with his glare. “I know your men have shaken it. And I'm not asking you to give yourself to me.”

George felt his cheeks flaring unbearably, he could imagine the look he had after spending so much time on the run, but if only it could hide his embarrassment. He knew of these cruel customs - his tribe had once taken in a runaway Omega, rather displaced from another part of the island and not coming from such hopelessness as George. But Omega had been forced to give himself to the pack Alpha on the first night, only so deserving of the right to have a place among them.

“You're not the only one bent on something you didn't want. I did not seek responsibility, but here you are, the flesh and blood that should be my concern. If only you will accept me as Leader. With a handful of trust in return.”

Omega exhaled, letting go of the edges of his pelt. It was something that wasn't considered unseemly in his home, being bare-chested in front of another Alpha, but Lewis' gaze was momentarily averted as soon as he noticed the movement. So soft, so inappropriate for what he was about to pay very special attention to the private parts of his body later to check for bites. With the sound of waterfall and the clean smell of fresh leaves between them, George caught a slight shift in the Alpha's scent, his first overt notes seeping through the guard. Omega bowed his head, unfastening the belt of his skirt.

“You're not mated either?” he asks quietly, letting a tangle of vines fall at his feet.

“No,” Alpha replies calmly, scrutinizing the lines of his face lining up into a curious expression.

“Is that allowed?” George shifts his hips, bidding farewell to the cover of his skirt as well. He draws in air sharply when Alpha's eyes shift downward for a moment. “A Leader not to have a mate?”

“I don't force mating on anyone in my tribe, and so no one disapproves of me. I have not found my true mate, until then I do not wish to share a bed with anyone else.”

Omega tilted his head, nodding lightly. He looked out at the water, its luscious, whispering murmur of seductive purity, and stepped gingerly onto the first rocks of the bottom. Eyes were solely on him, George felt it, but diving into the cool azure after days on the run, he squirmed, holding his breath before surfacing back out. The movements are more natural, without too much careful thought, he rubs his pale skin in soothing circles, washing away dirt and being gentle with scratches, standing waist-deep in the water facing the babbling waterfall and completely oblivious to the presence of the other, whose attention was on him alone the entire time until he emerged from the water, clean, ruddy and fresh. Omega reaches for the fabric of his skirt to regain some cover to his form, but Alpha steps closer, stopping him with his commanding hand gesture.

“It's dirty. And bears the symbols of your former tribe. From this day forward, you will wear my symbols if you are to become part of my pack.”

“I don't have any of yours now,” George blurts out, folding his arms in front of him to at least somewhat hide from eyes now not fixated solely on his face.

The Leader runs his fingers into the ties at his hip, unraveling the vine and shell belt, unhooking part of the hide wrapping around his side up to his shoulder, shrugs it off to release his hand from the garment and holds it out to Omega. With his warmth, smelling like him, George hesitates before accepting it as a favor.

He'd almost forgotten their other condition, flinching with the breadth of Lewis's palm on his thigh. Mark. George gulped, standing still as the thoughts in his head shook. Never before had he been touched by an Alpha like this, examined so thoroughly, the Leader leaning over him, fingers on the inside of his thigh pushing his legs slightly apart. Omega let out a startled sound, biting his lip immediately. He didn't mean to appear weak. Alpha shushes him reassuringly, his face right in front of Omega's, pads tracing over the scent gland. All clean and untouched. Lewis closes his eyes, letting out a relieved breath.

“If you've been chased, I'm not willing to risk leaving you as live bait here,” he utters, pressing his wrist uncovered against the exposed neck. George's mouth falls open, almost ready to ask. “For a few days you will wear my clothes. Before each moon you will come to my hut and dine beside me. I must suppress your scent.”

The pelt is thrown lightly around his shoulder, his form far more frail and slender than the Alpha's strong span, Lewis managing to wrap him in just that scrap of clothing that was only a partial cover for him. With one last glance to check, the Leader nods to him, turning back towards the village.

[middle-ans]

do you have those snippets already written somewhere, sometime? 👀

I genuinely love how many asks regarding this whole snippet game have this 👀 particular emoji, like we’re having our secret whisper shpspspsh OKAY being serious - noo, if only I already had them written you’d get them in no time, right the minute you asked, but I write them as I get these asks, plus if they aren’t anonymous it’s fun to write it FOR the person who asked, give this little part of a story some character, oh I like when art gets personal sometimes.

I have two asks now about Firefighter/Barista and A/B/O island AUs so as soon as I get out of work (yeah, Sunday) I put my hands on them 👐🏻

[middle-ans]

im sorry if this was already taken—but the model George and ceo Lewis one please? 🥰

Hi sweetie, sure; it’s been asked for already, may read this here - https://www.tumblr.com/middle-ans/771572607335153664/may-i-ask-for-arranged-marriage-ceo-lewis-and

Also to sum up what’s left (and do forgive me, I’ve been having a half an hour break at work today so I maybe added more?) here are some open options (wow, what are we, a dating app now?)

- Firefighter Lewis & Barista George ✔️ done

- Omegaverse Island tribal AU ✔️ done

- Omegaverse Ancient Egypt AU (Lewis the Pharaoh, George a Roman Emperor’s son) ✔️ done

- aka Magic Mike/stripper AU (if we do consider ‘magic Mike’ concept as a mere mention for Lewis to be a… adult genre sort of dancer, also a huge AU for this man being capable of actually dancing)

[middle-ans]

I can’t get over how much of a multi brain genius you are - put a list of C O M P L E T E L Y different ideas, nailed each one in snippets worth a ny bestseller, really, how is that even, it was so much heart and soul in every single one of them, and I just want to know more about major Lewis/nurse George because this bit got me choking, the magic of this universe is just immaculate

Now, that’s not true, ah, I can’t take compliments for real, I’d be like “is this a jooooke 🤭” but this fic idea is such a soft spot.

It’d be practically everything here - courtship, romance, pregnancy, tragedy, years apart thinking they’ve lost each other, Andrew Shovlin as an ultimate mother-Omega, our saviour and guide, the whole oscar-winning drama of meeting after years, I mean it really, precisely, 100% a happy ending but God can I have the strength of pulling it out till good times come? It’s an itch so insisting, I don’t know how to treat it right. Also, with any idea, I feel very much guilty about Eight Crowns On still in progress

[middle-ans]

Why, wha- why are you putting me through this @russilton I’m so indeed need to write it, can’t write it, doubt my mental capacity, also how’d you know about 100k, this was the only number in my head when I made up the plot from first to last, how did you…

[middle-ans]

I figured this would get asked for sure, but it hasn’t yet.

Major Lewis Nurse George please!!

Will you believe me when I say I feared this one, but also waited the most? Absolutely smashed me even though I have this particular idea sketched in my head from start to end, and zero chances surviving writing it. But it scratched the itch so perfectly, so thank you very much for asking! (3478 words, I knew it’d be one of the longest)

Also - tw war, tw mentions of blood and injuries, tw air raid alarms

October, 1940, Canterbury

Amidst all the human burdens, his personal sleep being absent for the third night in a row seemed ridiculous. George leaned his elbows on the desk piled with paperwork, rubbing his red eyes and sighing with fatigue. Another night shift, understaffed and they had exhausted the tea supply, waiting now for the next shipment by the end of next month, if they were so lucky. So far the wing had been uneventful, he sat at his post in the main hall, the hospital building looked like a separate battlefield with large rooms occupied by rows of beds and soldiers constantly arriving. No private wards for even a few people, they couldn't afford such a rarity.

The lamp on his desk blinked faintly before fading out entirely, and George held his breath, quickly shifting his clear gaze to the window. Quietly, even too much so, his lips fell open, moving soundlessly in an outline of counting - four, three, two, one. The hum of aircraft and the howl of the alarm siren was as always late, with the first deafening blast coming Omega was already under the table, shuddering with the entire building when a bomb was dropped a few dozen miles from the hospital. They remained almost untouched by most, a small building nearly at the edge of the city, but every so often George shrank into a ball and squirmed, wondering if this night would be an exception. He can hear the fiddling from the beds, triggered traumas screaming desperately in the throats of some of the soldiers, and as frightening as it is, Omega crawls out from under the only rickety shelter to run to their beds and offer a hand to squeeze, to claw at the faint connection to reality amidst the agony and quench the pain just a little. It's Private Peters, clutching at the bandage on his head that nurse notices will need to be changed as soon as the Luftwaffe are done with today's raid, and his old green eyes on a young twenty-year-old face one of the most striking displays of the madness they've been caught up in.

“Sh-h, it's okay Peters, you're in the hospital. I'll go over to the others for a bit and come back, alright? Don't look out the window, the flashes might annoy you.”

With a lingering warmth, George leaves him to run over to the other bunk, three further down the row from Peters, to Alan curled up in a ball and sobbing into the bend of his elbow.

“Now, now, no worries, I worked so hard to heal your arm and you ruined all the bandages by crumpling it under you.”

They must have thought he was resistant to such things, had developed an iron rod and shut off the heart, leaving only the head, but that was too far from the truth. George was trembling as much as they were, but having controlled his voice he was at least seemingly calmer, confidently promising them what was forbidden by any wartime ethic - safety.

“We've got warbirds coming in, lots of them,” Alex slipped past him in the aisle, darting off at a run. As the last German plane buzzed toward the sea, the bustle returned to the hospital in a triple storm of chaos. “They said to vacate as many bunks as we can.”

“From where?” George scolds as he tosses a stack of folders and fixes his coat. Perfectly white, not for long apparently.

“You think I asked questions? Hurry up, I need sheets, preferably clean ones.”

And Alex wasn't lying by labeling the number as 'lots', because not since George joined the volunteers in the nursing society in late 1939 had he seen such an overflow of wounded in the scroll of a single night. All types of injuries he couldn't look at when he started, rips, burns, shrapnel, on his first such tour of duty with a dozen wounded after midnight he'd cried helplessly on the hallway floor, far from being able to help anyone, least of all himself. Now he clenched his teeth, holding his jaw stiffly in tension as he waltzed from one bed to another in the barely lit hall, the power having gone out as soon as the raid began. With any luck, it would be fixed by tomorrow night. Omega's breathing was infrequent and short, letting in blood odors in snatches while his head spun steadily from the density of the air, but George dared not complain. If he was given a choice of which ability to shut off while he worked, it would be hearing. Those screams would haunt him until his last day.

The sheets oozed dirt in no time, they weren't a first class hotel to have their patients complain about the quality of the fabric and its immaculate whiteness, so pushing a cart with first aid supplies and a kerosene lamp, George got the trembling in his fingers under control and kept working. Far past midnight, close to the first rays of dawn, the whole room finally fell quiet, the silence diluted by occasional quiet moans from the occasional bunks at different ends of the room, and Omegas around drifting exhaustedly from one bed frame to the next.

George sighed, straightening his gown and lowering himself into a chair next to the nearest bunk, lamp burning weakly on the bedside table where he'd placed it, and his attention followed tiredly over the soaked bandages around the arms of a man sleeping in a restless slumber. The nurse reached out to see if the soldier's fever had broken purely automatically, running his fingers under the black hair falling over the forehead. His eyebrows twitched at the touch, and George almost thought it best to leave the man alone, but his head reached up to follow the escaping warmth of Omega's fingers. The nurse blinked, returning the uncomplicated dance of the pads back to those rare patches of skin that were free of scratches and wounds. Above on the top of his head was a wisp of hair clumped together from congealed blood, the wound itself washed and sanitized, but that was probably the source of fever plaguing Alpha in his sleep. Alpha, no doubt, his scent seeped even through the deadly odor of the ward. Their job teaches them to be immune to things like weak instincts and primitive pleasures, such as sniffing a handsome man and blushing at the sight of him staring back at them. George examines his hand on the grayish sheets, the bandage applied hastily and carelessly, but the man begins to frown and flinch in his sleep so he's forced to take his fingers into the warmth of his palm and coax them there until Alpha exhales relatively calmly. Omega blinks tiredly, mindlessly rubbing his skin where it won't hurt, and Alpha's scent only flows more intensely into George's fluttering nostrils, the tartness of walnut wood and freshly cut grass in May, crisply breezy, an anomaly in their lost reality. He flinches when fingers embrace his own in return, and gently breaks their contact to attend to the bandage on his arm.

There is little pleasantness in this, he imagines, frowning sympathetically at the painful groans in the hoarse voice still unknown to him, trying to spare him what pain he can, holding the soldier's wrist and shushing him quietly while he removes the dirty bandages. He sometimes sang, barely audible, just mumbling a soft tune and it smoothed the wrinkles on the patients' faces, distracting them from what he was busying his mind with. George had to leave his bed to grab a bowl of warm water and clean gauze, blotting it and wringing it out to apply gently to the man's elbow. He protested louder, twitching in the sheets, and Omega tried desperately to quiet the agony, pressing his palm against his cheek and mumbling confused reassurances. Alpha breathed raggedly, poking his nose into his palm, and it was the only thing that allowed nurse to finish with the bandage, bent in an awkward position over the bed in the low light, fighting the man's disgruntled sighs every time Omega was forced to withdraw his palm and pick up the bandages with both hands. Just as he was finishing up with the first rays of dawn and the kerosene lamps burning out on leftover fuel, the soldier squinted his nose, fluttering eyelashes persistently and restlessly. George wasn't sure he'd be awake this early, and it could hardly be called consciousness - Alpha looked at him with a blurry stare, unaware of anything but what for some reason made the corners of his lips creep up his haggard face.

“Angel,” he wheezed, staring at George. “You're an angel.”

Omega sighed, they were all like that. Saw him in semi-conscious hot flashes and came back to fight it further in deep sleep, then sang odes to him of their love and gratitude until they were discharged, healthy and ready to return to the battlefield. He glanced at the uniform jacket hanging on the edge of the top headboard of the bed, a patch with a blood type and a rank stained with dirt that he couldn't make out, but George discerned the name - L. C. D. Hamilton.

“Sleep,” he whispers to him, adjusting the sheets over his undershirt, the cotton fabric in scarlet stains and three tiny buttons under his collarbones. “The fever should break by dinner.”

When Omega gets to the room on the second floor of the house he's rented by an old lady who sings in the church choir and occasionally helps out at the radio factory, his strength is enough to take a quick shower with the remnants of hot water and collapse onto the creaking bed in a dreamless sleep. He hears the rumble of sirens and can't make out if it's a scrap of his imagination or actually an alarm, but doesn't care either way, rolling over onto his other side and getting the last hour of sleep before it's time to get up and get ready for the next shift.

“Almost everyone's stabilized,” Alex jumps up from the chair at his post in the hallway as soon as he sees him pacing exhaustedly through the ward. “We're still short on blood, almost all the staff donated some more today, but I'm not going to ask you, you already look one step away from dropping dead in here. And we're short on nurses, so-”

“You're so encouraging, Alex,” Omega rolls his eyes, wrapping himself in a white coat from the closet of their small storage room, straightening the lapels and tying his belt. “Did they fix the power?”

“Yeah, but in an hour it'll be time to turn out the lights anyway - light cloaking and all that. Speaking of your looks - it still managed to catch someone's interest even in such a deplorable state. One soldier-”

“Oh, Alex,” George sighs tiredly, checking the previous shift's records. Not again.

“Called for you all the time in his sleep.”

“How do you even know it was me?”

“Angel,” Alex shrugs. “You're always Angel, darling, and he mumbled incessantly. Almost knocked poor Logan's eye out when he came over to change his bandages.”

George shakes his head stubbornly, but can't help but drift his thoughts to the man. Apparently the fourth night shift is working wonders on his guard.

“How is he?” the nurse asks quietly. “Has the fever gone down?”

“Go and check, it's your shift now, not mine,” Alex pushes him further down the row of bunks before rushing out towards the exit and waving goodbye.

George keeps his face emotionless as he walks through all the patients in the room, because there are no special ones, there are all of them, needing if not a bandage or injection, then at least a drop of sympathy in the middle of this pantomime theater. In the semi-darkness of the room, he doesn't notice when he walks over to the bed with a jacket on the headboard, sets down the lamp, and hops in place as his hand is grabbed, tugged insistently, something he's not quite used to in the emergency room.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” he breathes out, closing his eyes for a second to catch his breath. “Sir, you can't just-”

“Angel,” a glance, this time absolutely clear and unequivocal, lingered on him with sheer fondness and a glare of amusement, the man pulling himself up higher on the pillow. “So you weren't a vision? I thought I'd gone to heaven, since I saw you.”

George swallows, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and starting to unwind the bandages on the man's arm, slowly, and this time Alpha holds up much better, no gnashing of teeth or groans.

“Have you had the wound treated? With ointment, or just peroxide?” he asks as casually as possible while he feels the gaze of dark eyes solely on the side of his face turned toward the soldier.

“I think with ointment, too. Not as carefully as you did, of course.”

The nurse snorts, hiding a smile and blush behind the curls that have fallen over his forehead.

“You were barely here last night, with a fever and delusions. How can you remember what I did it?”

“I remember you singing,” Mr. Hamilton says, plainly and calmly, a confidence in his voice that is lacking in those brash flirtations of the younger soldiers. And they're probably a lot lower in rank than Alpha. “And if I may?”

George looks up cautiously, averting his gaze from the wound when the man takes his hand and opens his palm, pressing it against his own cheek. The tendons in Omega's neck tighten in tension, he feels a small tremor in his fingers where they are gripped between the soldier's light grasp and his cheek.

“Yes, I definitely remember that,” the man smiles, loosening his grip so George can bring his hand back to the bandages. Lost for words and lost for breath.

“Good thing you remember so much,” he flutters his eyelashes, finishing the knot on his forearm. “Strong. Means you'll be better soon.”

“Will you sit with me?” Alpha lets out brokenly, a second before the nurse would have gotten up and headed for the next bed. George opens his mouth to say he still has a lot of work to do, but the soldier grazes his fingers on the sheets with a sore hand, shivering against the warmth. “Please.”

Omega glances around the rest of the room - it's night, dark, and most are asleep, a few nurses walking past the beds to adjust pillows and bandaged limbs. He didn't really have any real reason to refuse, and hesitantly he agrees, moving to a chair to retain some modicum of willpower.

They talk until morning. Extremely negligent of George, he should've left the soldier to sleep, gone to the paperwork that littered the desk at the duty station, done something, but they just kept talking, hiding from the prying eyes of the other staff in the shadows of the dimmed lamp. George said that he had been orphaned in the first month of war after the raid on his home town, he didn't mention what it was exactly, and his sister had been able to catch the last ship to America, which he was incredibly glad about, but he was all alone and so had decided to devote himself to working at the hospital. Lewis had been in the army before the war, something to do with his father's silly insistence, and had had several successful sorties behind enemy lines in France, his careful choice of words and thoughtful narration suggesting a rank with a few badges on his epaulettes and men in his command. He was skilled at playing the piano and baking homemade bread with recipes from his mother's family. George giggled as the man described the intricacies of mixing dough, certain he'd never heard Alpha talk about cooking before. When with the peachy rays of the quiet dawn outside the window, no Luftwaffe raid this time, he yawned in the midst of his own mumblings, Omega glanced down and found Lewis sleeping peacefully, head bowed on the pillow a little uncomfortably, and mouth slightly open in quiet breathing. George leaned over, holding his neck under the bandage and correcting the dislodged fluff in the pillow, gently bringing Alpha's head back, smoothing the hair on the back of his neck.

He's discharged before George returns to the hospital the next time, fresh from a day off and having slept one normal night in what seems like months. He only nods to Alex, trying to smile as he did before, and goes on his evening rounds without long chats in the back room.

After about a week since he last saw Lewis, he finally gets the day shift. George is settling in at a table in the common room, filling out paperwork and reports as accurately as can be observed in wartime when the sunlight from the window is blocked by someone's shadow and he pulls away from files, frowning at the intrusion.

“Good afternoon, Nurse George,” a smile, almost devoid of the mesh of scratches on his face around, shines brightly to him from above, Lewis standing in the full glory of his uniform and with a cap on his head. “I was told I might find you here today, even during daylight hours.”

His hands are placed sternly behind his back, Alpha stands as steady as a ruler in the army-like poise of his posture, and George opens his mouth silently, unable to find anything to say.

“Lewis, it's good to see you're well,” he gulps, rising from a seat so as not to feel so tiny under the shoulder span of the army jacket.

“That's why I came, to thank you properly,” Alpha winds one of his hands behind his back forward, clutching the stems of a bouquet of wildflowers and holding it out for George. “I didn't know which ones you liked, figured we could start with these.”

Oh, in front of everyone, the wing will be buzzing about this forever. Omega hears the commotion and giggles behind the man's back, blushing awkwardly under his scrutiny, but Alpha takes a step closer, blocking his view of the fiddling behind. Having no idea what else he could have done, George takes the bouquet into his hands, briefly meeting the stroke of Lewis' warm fingers' touch and lowering his eyelids immediately in humble awe.

“Thank you, that's quite unnecessary. It's my job, after all. No one gives you flowers for your service, for instance.”

Alpha smiles, tilting his head to pick up the visor of his cap and pull it off, revealing black hair styled back. Out of habit, George studies the spot where the wound was with a quick glance - it all looks healed and barely bothers the man.

“I think it's very much necessary. Might ward off some of the pushy admirers? Peters, you're expected at the barracks as early as tomorrow, so don't think about taking up residence here for long,” it's a misterie how his voice jumps from softness and reserved ease to iron command, Alpha turning around for a moment to glance at the subordinate in the row of bunks. “Are you enjoying music, George?”

“Music?” Omega blinks confusedly, shaking his head in a lack of comprehension.

“The pub near City Hall is having a dance this weekend. If it doesn't interfere with work, I'd like to say I'd be happy to see you there. The wine at Bert's isn't the most exquisite, but I'll make sure a case from our stock is delivered.”

Pulse racing ahead of his heart's capabilities, George swallows thickly, not knowing where to find the answer.

“He's free this weekend,” Logan rounds on his figure, hurrying from the entrance to his turn to make rounds. “I'm on duty Friday, have you forgotten?”

No, he'd absolutely seen the schedule, and this Friday was George's, but Logan winks at him and disappears into the pile of huddled white coats, hurrying them back to work.

“Well, then,” Lewis cleared his throat, viewing him like a tangled mechanism of an armored car gears. “I'll see you there, I suppose?”

The man nods at him with his chin knowing exactly the angle and duration in which it should linger, leaving George and allowing him to finally fall back into his chair, exhaling heavily.

“A whole Major, Georgie!” Alex slams a palm on the table, scaring the hell out of him. “Bringing you flowers and claiming his rights in front of this bunch of silly young Alphas, huh? Oh, I'll lend you my tweed pants for Friday and you will undo two buttons of your shirt, you hear me?”

[middle-ans]

https://www.tumblr.com/autumn816/771590491209875456?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/autumn816/771589513702162432?source=share

ummmmm all these pictures coming out now. after your model george x ceo lewis wip. mayhaps this is a sign🤭😁

Now look at you who herself asked for secret agents (and football) au 🧐

[middle-ans]

Can you post the Blind date at a dance class please 👀

Sure, thank you for asking! Ah, this one even took longer to write somehow, hope you’ll enjoy it (1915 words)

It's so stupid, he can't even chase the doom away from his face, standing in front of who should be their coach-coordinator for the day, since no one here has come to dance really. A tall man with hair generously styled with gel claps his hands, drawing all the attention in the room to himself, quickly adjusting the headset on his head.

“Now, you will all be divided into pairs at first, completely random, it doesn't matter if you don't like the first partner, you will switch them every few minutes on my command,” his smile is wide and charged with an enthusiasm that George doesn't remember having in himself for a long time. How does it feel to actually be excited about something, after numerical failed dates with guys from dating apps and zero interest in wasting his time on this nonsense any further.

His friends apparently thought otherwise. Alex was persistent, Logan soft but determined, Oscar played along with the general hilarity, and it eventually led George to that particular moment - standing in front of a stranger with his arms spread out in invitation until George himself decided to finally move. Blind dates are a bygone age if it's just a certain number of people hooking up at a table with each other on the whistle like players on a soccer field. But if you take away the tables, gather those hopeless couple-seekers in a dance hall with mirrors, a coach and salsa motifs, Alex said, at least it's more fun. Hardly, as George tries to smile plausibly and accepts the invitation of another man's hand, settling one palm on the man's shoulder, the other in his arm. He wasn't a confident enough dancer to dare lead.

“So, I'm Isaac,” the man tells him, smiling a little too broadly, almost maniacally. “I'm thirty-two, the proud father of two kids, if we regard cats as such.”

Isaac laughs to smooth the edges, but George is already flinching in his confidence to be in this room and can barely keep smiling so studiously. He swallows, nodding detachedly and peering over the man's shoulder to see who will be his party for the next three minutes. God help him make it through two more.

“I'm a lawyer in my father's firm,” the next one, Jack, John, Jake, whatever, grabs his waist the way he'd grab a judge in court by the collar, probably, George shudders, letting his breath pass over Jack's shoulder. No, he has to be Jake after all. “Dating isn't my thing, but I need a serious partner. You don't really play games when you're 28, one has to look forward to a future with a family now.”

George is 26 and is more than happy to play games, if only a decent second player could be found. He's so eager to play games that he even lasted three whole months with a strange type named Aaron, who though caused too many question marks in his head, sometimes with bright red flashers, was muscle and face attractive enough to occasionally swallow it mixed with moaning in bed with him. Hugely interested in sports, too little percentage of his brain separated for anything other than that, he barely talked to George anymore except for the times they went to the gym or for a run together, most of it still spent muttering about calcium and protein and cardio.

“Ed,” he's greeted by short hair, deep-set eyes, and a husky voice with an accent pronounced enough that it slips even into his quick retorts. “Wow, you're tall. Ever considered a modeling career?”

George sighs frustratedly, this is going nowhere. He lets go of his partner's number six or seven, knocking the whole round of pairs out of rhythm and backing away, pressing a palm to his forehead and digging his fingers into his hair. The door is right there, a few steps away, so George exhales his frustration and moves confidently toward the exit until his arm is trapped in someone else's grip and he's abruptly turned back around, caught in the soft press of his ribcage. He blinks in surprise, grabbing his partner's shoulder more out of reflex to stay on his feet, but the view revealed besides those shoulders mesmerizes him enough to stiffen and claw at the exposed skin almost to the mark in the shape of his fingernails.

“You're not going to deny me a partner, are you?” the man grins, chuckling as he makes him move just a little, pulling back a few inches so George can breathe. And he takes the opportunity with the full force of his lungs.

“Sorry, I-” he shakes his head, suddenly ashamed of his almost successful escape. “People here are so-”

“Not the most interesting conversationalists, I'll agree,” the stranger nods, settling an arm around his waist and casting glances at the coach to check how they should move. “But here we are. And I'm Lewis, by the way. Unless you're planning on running away from me too.”

Letting out a nervous chuckle, George shakes his head, smoothing out the marks he's managed to leave on the skin of Lewis's shoulder.

“I'm George. And no, I think I'm going to stay a while.”

“Really? I'll take that as an honor, George,” he winks at him, pulling him a little closer to tear George off the floorboard and spin him around in the air, definitely not something the coach has been showing them all this hour. “Not a big fan of dancing?”

“Not really.”

“Why the dance blind date then?” Lewis smiles, bowing his head as if this interest in him is actually genuine and natural. George can't find any flaw in that face though he's been looking at it for a second minute.

“It's my friends, probably too tired from my unsuccessful rounds of dating apps.”

“Oh,” Lewis drawls understandingly, nodding. His voice, George can't figure out its mystery, leaning closer to catch where the velvetiness pours from, wrapped in huskiness and softness, so mesmerizing and warm. Like the strength of his hands on George's body, be it elbow, then wrist and palm, waist, middle of his back, one bold slide to his hips when Lewis should give him a spin and catch him back. “I can see that. Can't say I'm sorry those attempts failed, but.”

George grins amazedly, raising his eyebrows.

“Subtle,” he mutters, submitting to his lead easily. He could actually negotiate George's body in its minor maneuvers on his form, all on the thin edge of propriety.

“And, we're switching!” the coach announces loudly, clapping his hands.

It's unfortunate, George questions their hiccup, but Lewis slides his hand farther down his waist, entwining them more instead of letting go.

“Stay,” he murmurs above a flushed ear, and George drops his eyelashes to flutter across his cheeks, nodding coyly.

The coach casts an odd glance at them but says nothing, and one pair has to go around them to move on to the next partners. When George dares to look up, Lewis has that killer smile that dazzles in the sunlight bouncing off the mirrors around him, satisfied and confident, leads them further around the circle.

“You have a lot of tattoos,” George exhales into the golden grid of pre-sunset light between them, examining the intricate designs scattered in no doubt deep meaning across the dark smooth skin.

“Do you like them?” Lewis reached his hand on his shoulder, taking it in a cautious direction and lowering to the beginnings of the ink on his neck, just below his earlobe. George is certain his cheeks are already giving him away with gusto, but he tentatively tastes the proffered patch of skin for softness, warmth strikes his pads and he traces a neat ornate script of letters lower down the tendons of his neck. “I still have a few blank spots I plan to fill in.”

“It's beautiful,” George hums, all too melting in his hands as if they'd met not half an hour ago but years earlier.

As the music let them flow on with the smooth rhythm of their acquaintance, they ignored every next call to switch, sometimes the dance itself too, making it all just about touching and spinning here and there, Lewis holding him in the ring of his arms and looking straight through his eyes, too attentive and sincere for George to object.

“What do you do for a living?” the man asked, tucking a curl tickling George's cheek behind his ear.

“I work in PR. Boring as it sounds.”

“Oh, partnered with any restaurants ever?”

“A few. Why, do you own one?”

“Actually, yeah, in Soho. The Green Spoon, ever heard of it?”

George faltered, breaking out of a rhythm that was already going radically at odds with what the other couples were doing.

“That's yours? Really? I was there,” he tries to get the mumbling under control, licking his lips and slowing his speech. “The mushroom risotto is fantastic.”

Lewis spreads a smile even wider than the ones he's already given, his palm creeping higher up the spine with a gentle circling of his thumb over George's shirt.

“My signature recipe,” he shrugs his shoulder as if there's nothing to it. “And you seem to excel in the art of dancing.”

There must be something to do with a partner, George doesn't voice it, leaning shyly against Lewis's shoulder and letting go of the tension in his eyelids while a warm, husky laugh vibrating in the man's chest against his own after they've taken step after step closer together.

“You're good at that,” he states simply, feeling a breath sneaking across his skin higher as Lewis lifts his head.

“The dance?”

“At... This,” George gulps thickly, gesturing with their intertwined fingers between their bodies. “Making people feel like they belong.”

“Maybe because you do.”

They talk, and laugh, and even manage to dance in the midst of it all, melting into chatter and giggles until the final call stops them, the coach having to clap his hands a few times to get their attention. Lewis returned his gaze once he was sure the class was indeed over, everyone heading to their belongings at the entrance.

“Would you mind if we continued this sometime after? Dinner, at my place?”

George laughed softly, shaking his head. He couldn't realistically find a reason to say no.

“I'd love to,” he murmurs, lowering his head until a finger taps under his chin, guiding him into the sight of other's gaze. Lewis digs through the pockets of his pants, pulling out a pen from there.

“I'd be flattered if you took one of the empty spots with your number,” he points to the scraps of skin not occupied by tattoos, and a blush blooms a deep carmine on George's cheeks as he picks a place on the man's forearm, tapping his fingers gently before writing his number. It's so silly, he bites his lip giggling until he finishes, handing the pen back to Lewis.

“I'll be looking forward to the call, I suppose?”

Lewis grins, leaning over his face and pressing a fond kiss to his flaming cheek. George shakily says goodbye to the air as the tip of his nose traces the wet imprint of lips and the facets of piercings teasing his patience.

“I don't think I'll last much longer than until tonight,” Lewis winks, retreating to the greatest distance that separated them today. “So check your phone, George.”