#I don’t think that’s how you roast the leg of lamb

[mossiestpiglet]

I love it when there’s fireworks in my neighborhood at 11:23pm for no apparent reason

[repulsiveliquidation]

Playing Cards || Kika Nazareth

warnings : smut (18+), bondage, vibrators, cunnilingus, fingering, oral sex, rough sex, thigh-riding. mentions of alcohol consumption, alexia is the DD, obviously.

a/n : thanks to the one and only spicy anon who kickstarted the whole idea!

summary : kika slips you a playing card that doesn't look like the others...

You’re not sure who pulled out the game of cards you had in front of you. There were bottles of liquor open on the little side table you had, limes and tonic waters left open to dry out.

Charlie sat in his crate, eyes drooping as it was way past his bedtime. He had gently nudged your knee earlier, the best puppy eyes he could muster plastered on his face. You cooed and nearly gave in, sadly telling him that it was time for him to go to bed by himself just tonight and that you would make sure that he got the bone from the leg of lamb you roasted in the morning.

Kika rested her head on her shoulder as Mapi went her turn. Kika wrapped her arm around yours, softly tilting her head up to kiss along your jaw. All the girls that sat around your dining table were a little tipsy, giggling amongst themselves when you looked slightly smug with the affection Kika was giving you. You hadn’t told the girls about your little secret but they came up with the conclusions themselves, especially with how touchy Kika was with you since you joined the team.

“Baby…” you whispered, smirking when Kika pulled away and pouted. 

“Can you make me another gin and lime please?” she asked adorably, handing you her glass that still had a little gin in it. You take it from her and nod, drinking the last of her drink for her. You watch as her eyes sparkle and go a little dim, before walking to the little table at the side to make her drink just the way she liked it.

“Ha! Kiss the girl you think is the prettiest in the room,” Mapi grinned, reading her card out loud. She giggled and looked sheepishly at Ingrid, who was across from her. Mapi, now about 4 shots of tequila in, stood up and walked around the table. She intended on teasing Ingrid, the whole table watched as the Norwegian went through all 5 stages of grief as Mapi went around examining all the girls.

Ingrid pouted, arms crossed in front of her chest grumpily. Mapi got to her last, turning Ingrid to face her, the swivel chair she sat in made that look infinitely hotter than it was.

“Hmm,” Mapi smirked, tilting Ingrid’s face to look up, “found her.”

Mapi leans in close and kisses Ingrid, the whole table erupting in cheers and calls for them to get a room. Mapi sat back down in her seat with a smug look on her face while Ingrid was redder than a beet.

“Next!” Aitana called, throwing the dice over to you. You take them, rolling a three. Kika reaches over the board and takes a card from the stack for you, Aitana moves your pawn over three spots.

You read the card and you admit, you had to readjust your eyes a little cause you couldn’t believe what it said. You read it out loud once the words made sense.

“Ask the girl on your right to give you a lap dance.”

Kika, who was mid-sip, chokes on the sour drink. Alexia’s motherly instincts kick in and she’s hitting Kika on the back enthusiastically, while the other girls grin and giggle at the two of you.

“Come on, chop chop. I’ll set a timer,” Aitana said over the hacking, tapping her watch as she set a timer on her phone. You made a mental note not to make her game master ever again, standing out of your seat before reaching for Kika.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Ellie called, Mapi wolf-whistling as you two walked into the master bedroom behind the table.

You sat on the bed as Kika closed the door, drumming your fingers on your thighs as she sat beside you.

“Amor,” she began, fiddling with her fingers too. “We can pretend if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No,” you whispered, before looking at the door. The girls had all lined up and opened the door, peeking through the crack. You stood and pushed it closed before locking it, hearing Aitana cursing you out because you hit her head.

Mapi, simply because she was drunk and an asshole, turned on ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael, pressing the speaker to the door. It was soft but the unmistakable saxophone made you both cringe. The music suddenly stopped after a loud smack and a Mapi sounding “Ow!”, Alexia’s voice muffled through the door as she scolded the girls for being mean.

“As I was saying,” you fumble, walking towards Kika again. “I’d love that dance, Kika.”

She stands, wrapping her arms around your neck. You hold her waist, leaning in to kiss her softly. She kisses you back and you smile, feeling her hands tangle in your hair.

“Everyone knows how good of a dancer you are,” you whisper against her lips, feeling her pull away gently. She takes your hand and guides you to your reading chair by the window, nudging her chin towards it to get you to sit.

You do, making you to keep your arms on the armrest and your legs spread. She walked over to the stereo you had in the tv console, pushing in your favorite album.

She moved with grace and poise, there was something in the way her hips swayed to the music. The eyes fixed solely on you, there was no one else on earth but you and her.

She twirled and gave you a spectacular performance, sitting in your lap to finish her routine.

She ground down teasingly, gripping the front of your shirt for stability. Your hands itched to hold on to her but you remained professional, wanting to tease Kika too.

She leaned in and teased her lips on yours, feeling her warm breath join yours. You looked up at her through your eyelashes, watching as she disintegrated right in front of you. Her hips ground down into yours gently, skin pricking with goosebumps as your hands slowly trailed up her torso to hold her waist.

“Is this what you wanted, princesa?” you tease, thumbs rubbing the skin under your fingers. “Was this your pretty little plan all along?”

She doesn’t say anything, hips now grinding in tight little circles. She’s biting her lips when they suddenly turn up in a cheeky smile.

“No…”

“Then why was the card you handed me definitely not a part of the set I know I bought?”

“Umm…”

“And why,” you say, suddenly picking her up. You walk and place her on the bed, watching as her hair frames her head perfectly.

“Why did it have your handwriting on the bottom telling me to check the box underneath the bed?”

You step back and reach under the bed, looking puzzled but grin when you feel a cardboard box against your fingers. You pull it out and open it, pouring the contents out on the bed in front of Kika.

A neat roll of rope and several vibrators fell on the bed. Kika reached out for them, fingers trailing over the red rope before picking up the wand to feel the weight of it in her palm. She waves it at like a real wand and you pretend to get hurt before trapping her for a little tickle fight.

The girls outside can hear her giggling and are too drunk to care, helping themselves to the food in your fridge and more rounds of tequila.

“Shh, shh,” you coo at Kika, leaning in to kiss her. She gets lots in your lips moving on hers, not realizing you start to unravel the rope. You gently tease her clothes off, the little tank top and pretty skirt she was wearing were soon in a pile on the floor.

You kiss lower, lips leaving a wet trail along her neck. She whines, hands tangling in your hair. You’re sure to leave a few marks, nibbling at her warm skin in ways that make her head spin.

“Baby…” she whimpers, thighs wrapping around your hips. You give her a teasing thrust forward, core pressing tight against hers. She moans, heels digging into your back to keep you there.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

You clear your throat and run your hands down her smooth thighs, leaving one last kiss on her lips.

“I’m going to tie you up, you naughty girl. Then I’m going to keep this wand pressed right up against your pretty clit while I get the girls home safe hm?” you whisper, lips slowly moving to rest on the shell of her ear.

“You’re going to count how many times you come and when I get back, I’ll double it, entendido?”

Kika merely nodded slowly, the mix of alcohol, adrenaline and sheer arousal in her system was pushing her way past comprehension.

“Use your words, doll.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.”

There was mumbling outside the door, muffled laughter that you smirked to yourself about. Knowledgeable hands maneuvered the rope around and under Kika like it was nothing, pulling her hands behind her back and her calves pressed tight against her thighs. She sits pretty on the bed, eyes a little hazy from watching your expert fingers throw the rope together like it was nothing.

Having dated for only a while, this was a MASSIVE turn on for the Portuguese national. The way your slightly cold hands trailed over her skin made her hair stand. The soft kisses you left on her skin when you pulled a little too tight. The soft groans in your throat as your work was getting close to completion.

Kika pouts and you give in to her, kissing her pretty lips as you turn the wand on and slip it between the ropes around her tummy. You turn it on to a comfortable medium setting before stepping back and leaving a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll be quick, pretty girl.”

You saunter out of the room and she hears Mapi cheer drunkenly, already asking questions a mile a minute.

“Kika’s passed out so I’ll let you girls get home, it’s way past your bed time,” you say sadly, petting Mapi on the head as she clung to you. Alexia, who was the self-appointed designated driver, ushered her mumbling and stumbling teammates into her car. They all waved drunkenly and as evidenced by the picture Alexia sent you as they waited at a traffic light, they all passed out as soon as she started the engine.

You take your time with cleaning up, putting all the glasses in the dishwasher and clearing the game on the table. You can hear Kika whining and moaning in the bedroom. She got louder when she was close, and, if you were counting correctly, she was at 3 by the time you locked the front door.

“Can I come in, princesa?” you ask teasingly, walking into the room and closing the door behind you. You watch as she mumbles a delirious yes, an obvious sheen of sweat on her skin.

She’s on her stomach, grinding her hips into the wand. You turn her over and turn it off, much to her annoyance. She begs, eyes filled with gorgeous tears.

"Por favor, eu estava tão perto!"

“Mm, I know you were close baby,” you say, leaning in close to her, “that’s why I took it away.”

You slowly begin to untie her, watching as the mark the rope left of her body start to go red. She looks perfect, the deep gashes left on her skin magnify her beauty.

“You look stunning, amor,” you compliment, stripping down to your t-shirt and underwear. You reach under your pillow for your strap, groaning when the leather tightens against your skin.

Kika lays on her back in the middle of the bed, legs spread and core soaking wet. You kneel before her, wrapping your arms around her thighs to pull her closer to you.

You press her thighs open more, kissing along her inner thighs. The smell of her arousal floods your senses and you feel yourself get a little intoxicated, eyes rolling into your head.

“Fuck,” moans Kika, looking down at your with admiration in her eyes. She sat up on her elbows, breathing through her mouth as you kissed closer and closer to her core. You moan when your tongue licks a fat stripe over her core, fingertips digging into her flesh.

Kika starts to whine and fidget when your tongue flicks over her clit, hands reaching into your hair to pull. She grinds up into your mouth and starts to shake, whining louder when your tongue slips into her wet cunt.

“I’m close,” she tells you breathlessly, chest heaving as her orgasm gets closer and closer. You double down, knowing Kika had three orgasms to fulfil her debt.

Two thick fingers push into her cunt and she comes, thrashing about on the bed as you push her past pleasure and into a little pain. You pull away just before she passes out, grabbing her chin with your pruning fingers to kiss her.

Kika melts in your arms, hands reaching for your biceps to hold on to. You kiss her soft and slow, free hand slipping between her legs to rub at her folds. She shivers and giggles, grinding into your palm. She spits in her hand and lathers it all over your cock, watching as your eyes rolled into your head in pleasure.

Kika turned and spread her knees wide open before bending forward. She arched her back just a little and you moaned out loud, slapping your strap on her cunt. She bit her lip and begged to be fucked, cunt aching for your to fill it.

“I’ve been a good girl, I came so good for you…” she pleaded, pushing her ass out a little more for you. You oblige, grabbing her hips to push the toy into her cunt. Kika’s thighs shake in pleasure, a satisfied grin on her face.

“You look so good princesa,” you compliment, spanking her ass hard a few times. You thrust deep into her, pulling out a little to spit right on your strap. You fuck it back in and feel her get wetter, the resistance barely noticeable now.

“Being left here to come all over yourself felt so good, didn’t it baby?”

“Much better with your help…” she moaned, jaw slacking when you hit her sweet spot. She reaches back to hold your hand and you interlace your fingers, thrusting into her harder. She’s close, you can tell, feeling her pussy clench up around the toy.

You reach underneath her and play with her clit, feeling Kika tremble in your arms. You’re sure she’s drooling all over the bed, her voice muttered and muffled as she bites the sheets from pleasure.

“Come for me baby, one more for me, that’s my girl,” you coo, thrusting into her cunt harder and faster. She’s seeing stars, breath stuck in her throat. She stutters hard as she comes, shaking like a leaf as the shocks go through her.

You pull out and pull her into your arms, walking back to sit in the arm chair by the window. She’s still shaking but gets the message, wrapping her arms around your neck and looking deep into your eyes.

She straddles your thigh and grinds down hard, moaning when her clit catches the hard muscle underneath her. Her hands tangle in your hair, hips grinding down harder and harder.

She’s leaving a right mess on your thigh but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, watching as the forward spurred herself towards her sixth orgasm of the night.

It didn’t take much, as the alcohol ran through her system and the insanely sexy girl she was riding talked her through her orgasm, she came faster than she ever did before.

Kika kisses you hard and hot, tightly rocking her hips on your thigh as she comes down from her high. You smack her ass one more time before carrying her into the shower for some much needed aftercare.

Feeling clean and loved, Kika crawled into bed smelling like your bodywash and cologne, stealing one of the shirts from your closet. You pulled her into your arms, feeling her body fit into yours perfectly.

You guess the rest of the girls can come over for game nights more often now. Your phone pings and its Alexia, telling you everyone was home safe. You smile and thank her for being a good friend, deciding to make fun of Mapi and Aitana, whom you were sure would come into work tomorrow with a hangover and a half.  

[nico-di-genova]

In My Mind, You are Safe

Chapter 4

Read on AO3

“Be safe,” Lance says, leaning down into the car enough that Fernando will hear him through his helmet. It is a bit like Deja vu, pulls at the dregs of a memory, Lance’s last moments in his own car that are still muddled.

Fernando glances up at him through his visor, nods, “Be back soon.”

It is a promise, soothes at the anxiety that prickles along Lance’s spine. Fernando is exceedingly careful in the car these days, in all the ways he can be when he’s doing 300 kph, because he knows Lance is sitting in the garage waiting for him.

Lance cannot race anymore, he’s prone to migraines, his right leg can’t withstand the force required to push down the pedal, the g-forces are a threat to his body that he’s so carefully spent a year putting back together. The FIA will not clear him, no matter how much money his father had tried to throw at them. Instead, Felipe has taken up permanent residence on what used to be his side of the garage - permanent until Yuki replaces him next year. The number 18 exists now only on the small decal Fernando has added to his own helmet, beside the victory cross. The gesture had only fueled the rumors about them, Lance being the first person Fernando greets when he gets out of the car now hadn’t helped.

They’re not subtle, but Lance has earned the luxury of not needing to be. Silverstone especially owes him this, considering it has tasted his blood, nearly claimed him like Lance was the sacrificial lamb brought to the alter. This was the race they had been preparing for, mentally, since Fernando first sat Lance down and explained he wasn’t ready to give up driving.

——————————————

There is an itch under his skin, one he can’t quite reach, when he sits behind a wheel - even if it is the leather wrapped wheel of his Aston Martin as he drives Lance to his physio appointment. His grip tightens around the brown leather, his foot presses harder on the pedal, Lance shoots him a look like he understands. Fernando thinks it looks a lot like jealousy.

They don’t talk about it, the F1 sized car that follows them like a backseat companion, the silent elephant in the room. But Fernando knows the further he pushes the gas, the more Lance looks like it physically pains him. He eases off, lets the speedometer drop back down to a safe range, grabs Lance’s hand that had been tensing around the fabric of his sweat pants and squeezes reassuringly.

Lance doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, Fernando can see the tick of his jaw out of the corner of his eye and knows they are close to the breaking point anyway.

———————————

“I want to go back,” Fernando says over dinner, when Lance is chewing a mouthful of roasted veggies and cannot immediately bite back. He tries to be gentle about it, even as he sees Lance’s shoulders tense.

They have been toeing this for months, Fernando snapping because they’ve been stationary in his London home for too long and Lance snapping back because it’s his body that is broken, not Fernando’s, as he likes to point out with spitting frustration. There have been fights, small at first, growing in the past few weeks. Fernando tries not to be mean, but Lance is good at cutting to the bone. They’ve been sleeping in separate rooms.

Lance swallows, stays quiet, his grip on the fork in his hand goes white knuckled. He does not meet Fernando’s eyes, but instead stares down at his plate with resolute defiance.

“I have talked with Lawrence-.”

Lance scoffs, drops the fork so it clatters against the glass top of the dining table. It skitters across the surface before reaching the edge and falling to the ground. Last week it had been Lance’s plate, glass shards exploding across the wood flooring. They’d been fighting about something stupid, the dishes Fernando had left in the sink, a distraction from the conversation Fernando is starting now.

“Lance-.”

“Fuck you,” Lance spits, shoves back from the table with enough force it shifts along the floor, scrapes the hardwood. Lance has been leaving his mark on Fernando’s home like he is trying to prove that he is still there.

“Lance, please-.”

He’s speaking to the retreating back of the man, standing himself because Lance is heading for his room and he wants to stop him before he’s speaking to a locked door.

“Lance-.”

He gets one hand around Lance’s bicep, the fabric of his hoodie, before Lance is jerking away and turning to face him.

“Don’t,” he warns, eyes already dark with the promise of a fight, lips already twisted into a pained scowl. Fernando can see the hurt in his expression, hates that he’s the one to keep putting it there.

“Please, let me explain,” he pleads, reaching for Lance again, needing to soothe the pain from him.

Lance steps back, shakes his head, “Fuck you, Fernando.” His voice is thick, clogged, promises tears even if they haven’t appeared yet.

Fernando swallows back the rising tide of his own.

“You said you wouldn’t go back until I did. You said that.”

“I know-“

“So you’re a fucking liar.”

“No-“

“You talked to my dad. Behind my back. To what? Set up another contract? Was it easier to negotiate now that you could hold caring for me over his head?” Lance wants to hurt him, is trying, stabbing with brutal efficiency because he is tired of being the only one hurting. Fernando gets another hand on him, Lance jerks back away from it like he’s been burned. They’re standing in the living room with their dinner forgotten behind them and Fernando can see the tears forming in Lance’s eyes but he doesn’t know how to stop them anymore.

“I would never Lance, you know this.”

“Do I?”

“Lance-“

“Just stop! Stop. I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Go back to racing, I don’t fucking care. Crash your own car into the wall and then maybe you can join me here again.”

Fernando swallows, blinks, sees Lance’s blood seeping between his fingers in the millisecond of darkness. Lance is still bleeding, and Fernando cannot stop it.

When Lance walks away again Fernando lets him go, jumps at the sound of the door slamming and tries not to think of the way it sounds like an Aston Martin crunching into the concrete.

——————————————

Lance does not go with Fernando to his first race back. Instead, he flies to Montreal and cries in his mother’s arms when she opens the door to him.

He couldn’t drive himself here from the airport, the sun had been too bright and his head had hurt too much and so he’d been forced into the backseat of a tinted SUV and dropped off on his mother’s doorstep. He’s wearing Fernando’s jacket, stolen from his closest as a final fuck you, or maybe a promise that he would be back to return it. It smells like the man, makes the sharp stab in his gut hurt even more. When his mother answers the door he crumples.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she soothes, as Lance sobs in her arms and tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg.

Right now Fernando is probably sliding into his race suit. Right now he is thinking of plan A, thinking of winning. Right now he is speaking with Felipe who is driving Lance’s car, with Lance’s team. Lance wonders if Fernando will fuck Felipe too, tell him he’s doing a good job, crash into him and send his whole world spiraling out of control along with his car.

“It hurts,” he cries, unable to tell if he means his body, or his head, or the gaping hole Fernando has left in his chest. It’s all the same at this point, indistinguishable.

———————————

“My son is with his mother,” Lawrence accuses.

Fernando, hair still damp from his shower, skin still flushed from the podium, has the decency to look ashamed. It only makes Lawrence angrier.

“He flew to Canada. Alone.”

“He is cleared to fly, Lawrence-”

“I told you. If you stayed you better mean it. So why is my ex-wife telling me Lance was crying on her doorstep?”

Lawrence can be an intimidating man when he means to be, when Lance isn’t around to make him appear only as a doting father. He makes sure to stand to his full height, tower over Fernando in his temporary office in the Aston Martin motorhome. Claire had told him Lance had only just fallen asleep, after the migraine pills had soaked in enough to make the rest come easier. She’d FaceTimed him while she was lying with Lance in his bed, the brown tufts of Lance’s hair just barely visible from where he was passed out in Claire’s lap. When she spoke, it had been in a berating hush.

Fernando must know about the flight, he doesn’t look shocked to hear Lance is not where he left him.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, hangs his head. “Racing, I am good at. It is what I know.”

“Yeah. It’s what Lance knew too.”

Fernando jerks like he’s been punched, looks up at Lawrence with shame and hurt.

“I wanted him to come back. I want him in the car beside me. I thought- I wanted to think he could.”

Both he and Lawrence know it’s a lie, both knew there was no chance of Lance racing again. Delusion could only go so far, and the scar on Lance’s abdomen was too large to ignore. When Fernando had asked for his seat back, Lawrence had given it to him on the condition that Lance agree. Instead, Lance is in Canada and Fernando is alone.

He’s wearing a hoodie that’s too big for him, is clearly one of Lance’s, Lawrence almost demands it back. But he is not cruel, and Fernando is hurting in much the same way his son is.

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Lawrence sighs, “he’s stubborn, you’re hardheaded.”

“He is upset I came back,” Fernando mumbles, “I do not blame him.”

“He’s hurt that you could,” Lawrence corrects, places a hand on Fernando’s shoulder. It might be a comfort, or a threat, he isn’t sure which yet.

On the FaceTime Claire had demanded he fix this, while her hand was soothingly working its way through the tangled strands of Lance’s hair. He’s still trying to decide just how he’s going to do that. Fernando has been his friend, someone who he once would have trusted his son’s life with, and now he is the man who has nearly ripped Lance away from him, who Lance loves.

“You have time before the next race?” He asks, less of a question, more of a demand that he make the time.

Fernando thinks it over, nods.

“Book a flight to Montreal.”

——————————————

Lance sleeps a lot now, has little else to do to pass the time. He sleeps because the sheets he’s wrapped up in smell like home, because when his mom sits beside him he feels small and safe, because when he dreams it is the one place he can still be behind the wheel.

He dreams of winning, and wakes to the soured taste of failure. In the end, everyone was right, Lance is not a victor and he will never prove them wrong.

At some point he falls asleep and wakes to Fernando pressing a kiss to his temple, isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming. The scratch of his stubble, the scent of him, like rubber and pine, is strong enough that Lance chases it. His head lifts, his eyes flutter open, and Fernando is staring back at him.

“Nando?” He asks, groggy, reaching a hand blindly for Fernando and finding himself slightly startled when it meets his chin and doesn’t phase through. Sometimes he dreams of chasing Fernando, in the car, or on legs that sometimes don’t support his weight, watching the man slip out of his grasp when he does manage to catch him.

Fernando grabs his hand with his own, leans into Lance’s touch where he’s cradling his cheek. He’s kneeling beside Lance’s bed, in a position that would have Lance aching in two seconds if he tried it. Sometimes it’s funny to remember that Fernando is the older of the two of them. Ironic that Lance is the one who complains of sore joints now.

“Hey, churri,” Fernando greets, smiles softly. In the morning light filtering through Lance’s closed blinds his smile is muted, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The nickname is sweet, soothes over the cracked edges of Lance’s ripped open chest.

“How was the race?” He asks, as the last bits of sleep keep his mind foggy, makes him forget to be angry. Instead he is focused on how warm Fernando feels, on the fact that he is wearing one of Lance’s favorite hoodies - the one with the string pulled out because Lance had messed with it so much it had become frayed, made more sense just to remove it entirely.

Fernando grimaces, shakes his head, “I will tell you later.”

“Okay.”

“Can I lay here?” He nods at the sliver of empty space on the twin mattress behind Lance.

Lance nods, closes his eyes because his head is starting to ache again and sleep is the only way to stop it. Water too maybe, if he bothered to stay hydrated enough.

Fernando climbs onto the mattress beside him, nuzzles his nose against the nape of Lance’s neck and presses another stubble rough kiss there. His arm wrapped around Lance’s waist is gentle, hand splaying across his scarred abdomen like he’s trying to protect him from further harm.

Lance feels him breathe, the warm press of him along his back. It lulls him quickly back into unconsciousness.

———————————

Lance’s shirt rides up enough in his sleep that when Fernando wakes it’s to the rough edges of his scar against Fernando’s calloused fingers. Gross fascination has him tracing it, all the way up until he meets the end of it just below Lance’s ribs. He can feel the ghost of Lance’s heartbeat here, hear him snoring softly in his sleep. It’s healed now, the wound, which means that Fernando has not seen it since he stopped having to change the bandages. Lance doesn’t like him looking at it, avoids seeing it himself.

They stopped showering together, and they haven’t slept together since Lance’s accident. Fernando blames himself partly for the latter. Despite how much he wants to, he is afraid to hurt Lance further. Instead, he jerks off in the solitude of his room now and bites his hand to stop Lance’s name from spilling out of him.

“You don’t fuck me anymore,” Lance had complained one night, before the fighting had them sleeping separately, and Fernando hadn’t disagreed.

He is scared, afraid of the damage he has already caused, terrified of wreaking more. The scar under his fingers is proof, unfading, permanent, makes him feel sick with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and presses another kiss to Lance’s neck. Lance has told him to stop apologizing, but he doesn’t think he could ever say it enough to absolve himself.

Lance will never race again, and Fernando is already back in the car. Because he is selfish, because he does not know how to sit still, because racing is all he knows and in caring for Lance he is scared he has only hurt him further.

Lance moans in his sleep, shifts back further against Fernando. Fernando holds him, fully, wholly, and hopes it will be enough.

—————————

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he says to Lance later, when they are sitting in the sunroom of Lance’s mother’s house. It’s warm only because of the heater set to high, the snow piling against the windows doing little to help.

Lance, bundled in a blanket and a beanie on the couch beside Fernando, stares at him. Looks hurt for only a second before his brows furrow and it becomes anger.

“What?”

“I’ll retire, if you want me to, I will do it,” he means it as a gesture of trust, as proof that he does not want to lose what they have. Even if not being in the car would make him a little crazy, even if he would always yearn for it.

Lance stares at him. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, ducks down further into the fabric. It’s the comforter pulled from his bed, dark blue with grey stitching. Fernando wonders if it’s the same bedding he slept under as a teenager. Wonders if this is what Lance might have looked like when he occupied this space as a child.

“You mean more, Lance. More than racing, you know this.”

He isn’t sure what to expect but Lance’s response of, “Go fuck yourself, Nando,” certainly wasn’t at the top of his list.

“You don’t get to put this on me. Retire if you want, but don’t blame me for it.”

“That is not what I meant-“

“Yes it is, of course it is, because you don’t want to stop. You know you don’t. You just want me to tell you to and I’m not going to trap you here. I won’t be responsible for that.”

Fernando watches him, watches as the dim sunlight through the clouds catches the shine of tears in his eyes. Watches as Lance pulls the blanket impossibly tighter, like he’s trying to vanish inside of It. He wants to reach out, pull Lance to him, but is scared to shatter the feeble ground they’re resting on. Too many conversations between them have turned to arguments these past few weeks.

“Because it fucking sucks, man,” Lance sniffles, wipes at his eyes with the fabric of the comforter, “being on the other end, knowing you’re done. I won’t do that to you.”

But I did it to you, Fernando thinks. I did this.

Lance’s blood will not wash off his hands, will not stop dripping through his fingers. He is pressing as hard as he can and Lance is still looking up at him with fear blown eyes and a silent plea. He is mouthing Fernando’s name and all that is coming up is crimson that stains his lips.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers into the quiet space of the sunroom. More of you because so much has already been taken by Fernando’s own hands.

“I won’t tell you to retire. Please don’t make me.”

“What do we do then?”

Lance shrugs, muffles his response against the comforter he folds further into, “I don’t know.”

———————————

Fernando races in Jeddah and Lance stays in Canada. His mind is scattered, unfocused, thinking of a kiss in the fresh snowfall that had felt like goodbye. Which is maybe why he taps the wall on lap 6 and ends his race in the barriers of turn 23.

Lance is the first missed call on his phone when he gets back to the garage. He calls him back immediately.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks, answering after two rings, sounding panicked in a way that is new. Fernando hates it, hates how he can hear the hitch in Lance’s voice.

“I’m fine, cariño, don’t worry. It was small.”

Lance sighs, shaky across the line, “you’re sure?”

“Already cleared by medical. About to go to the media pen now.”

Lance should know this, if he’d been watching as he so clearly had he would have seen how insignificant of a crash it was. Barely anything.

“But the wheel snapped hard, your hands-“

“Lance, I am okay. Promise.”

A bit sore maybe, from the straps digging into his chest, but no more than he’s already used to. Lance still sounds worried, his breath still hitching.

“Lance?”

“Sorry- fuck. Sorry,” he sniffles and it’s a wet sound, thick with snot.

“Baby,” Fernando soothes, feels the familiar guilt at the back of his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening,” Lance continues, breathing worsening. “I thought- it was- I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Lancito. You’re okay. Breathe baby, is okay.”

He’s standing with his race suit around his hips in the garage, hadn’t even made it to the privacy of his drivers room because he didn’t think this would be much of a phone call at all. His handler is standing in the back trying to flag him down for the media duties he’s probably currently missing. Lingering engineers keep shooting him confused looks. Lance is panicking on the other end of the line though, safe in Canada wrapped in the security of his childhood blanket and it still isn’t enough to quell his choked breathing.

“Lance. Listen to me. Please. I am okay.”

“O-okay.”

“Completely fine. Some bruising maybe, but is all.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to come home, you can see yourself?”

Home meaning to Lance, he doesn’t care whose house it is, as long as it’s Lance who’s opening the door for him.

There’s static on the other end of the line, Lance’s muffled hyperventilating and then, “Y-yeah. Yes, please.”

“Okay, let me finish up here and I’ll get on the next flight. It’s alright. All okay.”

“Okay,” Lance repeats.

Fernando thinks of blood, Lance who’d been choking on it, how Lance wouldn’t have been there to pull him from the wreckage if that’s what it had come to. He wonders if Lance is thinking the same thing.

“Breathe,” he commands one last time, waits until he can hear Lance drawing air into his lungs, and then promises to be home soon. In the media pen he is short, curt, excuses himself with a speed that is unlike him off the track and then rushes back to his drivers room to change. His assistant has already booked him a flight and sent the details to Lance, all handled while Fernando was explaining to SkySports how he had ended his race in the wall.

He thinks about retiring on the plane, has a text to Lawrence drafted, but can’t bring himself to hit send. After all, the crash hasn’t scared him, just made him hungry for the chance to do better in the next race.

————————

Lance doesn’t remember his crash, not outside of the YouTube footage and Fernando’s own account. He doesn’t remember being scared, feeling his body failing him as he bled out steadily on the gravel. But he maybe feels the ghost of it when Fernando crashes.

He tastes copper at the back of his throat, far enough back that it can’t be blamed on split skin when he bites at his bottom lip too hard. They replay the crash, slow it down to discuss the details and Lance feels sick.

He calls Fernando, even though he knows the man is still in the car, only just climbing out of it, and swallows down vomit when it goes to voicemail.

It’s only the front wing that’s damaged, buried in the tire wall. And Lance can see that, but he can’t stop shaking anyway.

His mother sits with him, holds his hand while Lance tries to breathe around his tears. It is perhaps the most vulnerable he’s been with her since he was a child, with anyone, usually trying to hide away on his own before he breaks down. But the panic coursing its way through him glues him to the couch and then keeps him there long after he’s off the phone with Fernando.

He drifts in and out of sleep, takes pills that are offered to him and sips water from a glass with shaky hands when it’s pressed to his lips. At some point someone brings him food, crackers and fruit that he picks at numbly before growing disinterested and falling back asleep.

When he wakes up next it’s with a pounding headache and to the darkness of night. His phone is the only light, bright and harsh, making him squint as he paws for it on the coffee table.

There are two missed calls and six texts from Fernando, the last of which reads ‘here’ and sent two minutes ago.

Lance, barefoot and in a thin sleep shirt, stumbles to the front door with blind relief. Throws it open, despite the snow and the harsh wind, and then flings himself into Fernando’s arms.

“See,” Fernando soothes, cradles the back of Lances head, “All okay.”

————————

“I will retire at the end of the year,” Fernando promises, once they’re back indoors and warming themselves by the fire started by the staff and left running for Lance’s benefit.

They’re curled up on the couch, Lance having stripped Fernando of his shirt so he can inspect the bruises left behind by the straps of the car. Fernando sits with his back sinking into the plush pillows beneath him and Lance sits straddling his lap. He’d buried his face in the crook of Fernando’s neck after inspecting him, ensuring the bruises were just that, and then cried silently while Fernando traced patterns along the ridges of his spine. And then they’d stayed like that because Lance had gone slack against him and his breathing had evened out.

“Give me the year, yes? And then I am done.”

He’d thought about it on the ride from the airport to here, fingers picking at the edge of his phone and biting the inside of his cheek. He’d weighed the cost of his career against the cost of losing Lance and found that F1 would never win in the end. Besides, there was always endurance racing, other series he could entertain himself with. Other things Lance could maybe even take part in. He’s thinking about taking Lance karting, loops around a track, just the two of them, where Lance can maybe start to build back toward something. Because he knows Lance is the same as him, deep down, misses the feel of a wheel in his hand in the same way Fernando had during his brief breaks. When you are raised on it, when it is the only thing you know, you grow to miss the taste of it.

Even if the taste has gone sour with fear.

“One more year?” Lance asks, chapped lips moving against the soft part of Fernando’s neck, “That’s what you want?”

“I want you, Lance. That’s it. It is not the same if you’re not there.” Which is true, Felipe does not race the same, is not as sensitive to the finer bits of the car, does not have the same easy presence that Lance had. It all feels wrong, not at all like the team Fernando had signed on to, even most of Felipe’s engineers are new. And sure, their results are better, but only barely. Lance could drive the car to its limit, Felipe is still too reserved.

The grid is changing as a whole too, enough that Fernando finds himself searching for familiar faces in a sea of strangers. But being here with Lance is easy, feels right, even if the man is heavy against him and the weight of him is making the bruises on his chest ache.

He would hurt for Lance, do anything for Lance, knows that it isn’t the car he wants to be with in ten years time, but the man in his lap. Lance has been here just as long as racing has almost, once as a child who had clung to his father and looked at Fernando with adoration, now as someone who Fernando would consider an equal. He means just as much as a championship might, more maybe.

“It’s you. Always you, okay?”

The car can crash, Fernando will always pull Lance out.

————————

Lawerence has been working his whole life to make Lance smile, and yet it is still Fernando that manages it so easily. Fernando who wins in Silverstone, who stands on the top step of the podium and showers first Max and Charles in champagne, and then turns to douse the crowd below him. It is Lance he aims for, stood beside Lawerence and beaming up at Fernando as the champagne spray showers them in sticky drops.

Lawrence watches his son, the way he cheers Fernando’s name with the crowd, the way he’s sporting Fernando’s team cap backwards on his head, the new one, with the 18 embroidered along Alonso’s number. Because it is not just himself the man is racing for this year, but Lance as well.

The FIA hadn’t wanted to allow the duel numbers at first, but while Lawerence could not buy Lance his health back, he could do this. So 18 finishes next to 14 on the podium, because both numbers are present on Fernando’s suit as well. It is Fernando who will earn the points, but it is Lance who Fernando celebrates.

Lance laughs beside him, and Lawrence cherishes the sound, lets it replace the fading memory of a heart monitor and silence. He lets the champagne soak into his suit, watches it coat Lance’s hoodie and Fernando, and he envisions it soaking away the blood that was spilled here a year ago. Envisions crimson giving way to sweet champagne and the audible sound of Lance calling Fernando’s name.

Fernando is no longer hooking a finger around Lance’s pinkie, praying he wakes up, afraid to touch any other part of him, instead he has slid a metal band onto his ring finger and it glints in the sunlight.

It is nearly as bright as Lance’s smile.

[contemplatingu]

Your blog makes me so horny and wet. I edge to it all the time.

Would you write about what you would do to me in the kitchen with only an apron on? I just want to know

Absolutely. Please preheat the oven to 425. Here are some garlic bulbs. Remove the outsides and carefully remove and discard the tips. Now slice each piece of garlic vertically into thirds. I’m going to slice holes into this leg of lamb. Take each slice of garlic and press it deep into each hole to maximize the flavor when it’s roasted. Once you’ve finished that I’d like the small potatoes washed and halved - make sure to keep the skin on. Let’s set those aside, we’ll add them to the roasting pan once we have reduced the heat. Finally, please peal and halve the onions. Let’s also set that aside. I’ve applied the rub of oil, spicy mustard and a dash of Worcester sauce to the lamb. So let’s get it on its rack and place it on the baking pan. Is the oven at 425? Great. Let’s put the roast in. Let’s wait 45 minutes to an hour before we reduce the heat and put the potatoes and onions in.

I’ll take care of that for you, but I think this would be a good time for you to finally pick out your skirt and shirt for our guests. I just don’t think the apron alone look is the type of impression we want to make on them and I know how long it typically takes you to put your outfit together. Thanks for the help in the kitchen.

[forget-you-morelike-fuck-you]

Heartwork- E.M. Pt. 2

I guess I should make it known that this fic is taking place in the Summer of 1991 around May/June just in case anyone was wondering. Love you all, Jess <3

1 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - Epilogue

Masterlist

You and Eddie go see a movie together.

TW- vague mention of drinking, cursing

Pairings- Eddie x Reader

Word Count- 1,581

(Gif not mine, credit to owner!)

You spend the day at your desk thumping your leg on the floor, not knowing why you’re feeling so anxious. Maybe it’s just because the night before, you were out so late with Eddie, and a little hungover. You shuffle your papers and try to stay focused on your work, but by the time the clock hits 5, you’re racing out the door, thankful that you can put your mind at rest for the rest of the day. You get yourself home and flop onto your couch to turn on your TV, but after a while, you find yourself flicking your eyes to the clock ticking on the wall every few minutes. Why are you so antsy today? 

Your heart leaps in your chest as the phone rings, and you jump up to get it. You pick it up and hold it to your ear. “Hello?”  

“Y/N! Honey! How are you?” It’s your mom.  

“I’m good! Just settling in,” You tell her. “Oh, guess who I ran into at the bar last night?”  

“Who? Was it Y/BFF/N!?” She asks excitedly.  

“No, apparently, she moved. It was Eddie! Eddie Munson!”  

“Oh! How is he? You know, he gave us a discount last year when your father needed to get his car fixed!” You smile at that. It’s so Eddie of him. 

“He’s good! Yeah, we just hung out and caught up all night. The bartender had to kick us out, actually.” You chuckle.  

“Oh, really?” Your mom laughs. She always used to tease you when your best friend and Eddie weren’t around. She thought you had a crush. Of course, even if you did, which you didn’t, there was no way you’d ever tell anyone. Eddie was Y/BFF/N’s. 

“Come on, mom! It’s not like that, and you know it! Eddie’s just a friend!” You assert, one hand going to your hip. 

“Well, all I’m saying, Y/N, is that Eddie is a very nice, caring young man. You could do a lot worse.” 

“Mom!” You laugh incredulously.  

“That’s all I’m saying! I’m done!” Your mom exclaims defensively. “Anyway, I was just calling to see if you want to come to dinner this weekend. I’m making pot roast, if you’d like some.”  

“Yeah, that would be great, mom. I’ll be there.”  

“Good! And if you see Eddie again, tell him I said hello. Bring him with you, if you want! I miss having all you kids around for dinner!” You chuckle, rolling your eyes. 

“I’ll think about it,” You mumble dryly, thinking of all the comments she’d make about the two of you. “I’ll talk to you later, mom. Love you.” 

“I love you too, sweetie. Have a good night.” You hang up the phone and breathe a sigh, looking to the clock again. 7:04. You feel your stomach grumble and trudge to the kitchen to find something for dinner. You decide on some chicken and a bag of frozen broccoli and start preparing it, turning on the radio to keep you entertained while you boil some water and season the chicken. After a little while, tongs in your hand as you prod the chicken in the pan, the phone rings again. You go to answer it, assuming your mom forgot to tell you something on your call a few minutes ago.  

“Hello?” 

“Y/N?” It’s Eddie. You smile. 

“Oh, hey, Eddie! What’s up?”  

“Not much, I just got home from work. Listen, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but me and a couple of friends are headed to the movies. We’re going to see Silence of the Lambs. You wanna come? It’s supposed to be really good.” He asks.  

“Yeah, sounds like fun! And it is, I saw it opening weekend a few months ago.”  

“Great! You wanna meet there or I can come pick you up if you want,” He offers.  

“I can drive, don’t worry about it. What time does the movie start?”  

“Eight.” You glance at the clock, just about 7:30 now. You’ll have to leave soon. “So, I’ll see you there?”  

You start smelling something burning, and gasp. Your dinner! “Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ve gotta go, dinner’s burning! Bye!”  

“See you—” You feel bad as you slam the phone down and run to the kitchen, but it’s too late. The chicken is completely blackened. You take the pan off the burner and set it aside, fanning smoke away with your hand. You can eat after the movie, you decide, and so you scrape the chicken and broccoli into the trash before going to put on some clothes to go to the movie. 

Thankfully, the movie theater isn’t too crowded on a Monday night, and so you find Eddie easily among the passers-by. Next to him, you spot another curly haired man. He’s a bit shorter and his hair is a lighter brown, and as he turns around you see a familiar face, more matured, but you’d recognize that wide grin anywhere. “Henderson?!” You shout as you approach. He turns to look at you, his million-dollar smile on display as he sees you. You rush to him and give him a hug. You haven’t seen him since he was a freshman in high school, and now look at him. All grown up.  

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you!” You take his face in your hands, your heart swelling at seeing how much he’s grown. His head is above yours now, not by much, but it’s still a big difference from when you were in school together. 

“Oh, my god! Dustin, you’re so big! How are you!” He laughs as you step back.  

“I’m good! I’m home for the summer from NYU. I got into the engineering program there.” You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. 

“Of course, you did! I wouldn’t expect anything else, you brilliant man, you!” He waves a hand dismissively.  

“Oh, stop. I’m not that great. The competition is definitely tougher than it was here,” he says. 

“Oh bullshit!” Eddie interjects, arms crossed over his chest. “You were just telling me how you were working on a project with Motorola for a digital portable phone. That’s insane!” Dustin’s face flushes with red as Eddie turns to you. “He got into this internship as a freshman, which is apparently unheard of.” You beam with pride at Dustin, and another familiar face rounds the corner.  

“Hey, Gareth! How are you?” You wave. 

“I’ve been good! I’m getting married!” 

“I heard! What’s her name?” You can practically see his eyes turn into hearts at the mere thought of her. 

“Nicole,” he smiles. “We got together right after high school. Met her at a concert, actually. She’s great! You should come meet her sometime!” You nod. 

“I’d love to! Maybe we can get the gang back together for a Hellfire sesh,” You suggest.  

“Oh, man. I haven’t played in so long. College keeps you busy,” Dustin laughs, and you nod.  

“Don’t I know it!” You all laugh. You glance at the clock, and it’s almost time for the movie to start. “I’m gonna go grab my ticket and something to eat. I didn’t get to eat my dinner earlier. You turn to walk toward the ticket stand, but Eddie stops you. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got your ticket,” he says, pulling two out of his jacket pocket. You raise your eyebrows in surprise, taking one from his hand. 

“Oh, thanks,” You say smiling. “Well, since you got me my ticket I think it’s only fair I buy the popcorn.” Eddie shrugs.  

“Well, I haven’t eaten dinner yet either. If you want, we can just go somewhere after.” You nod eagerly. 

“Can we go to the diner? I’ve been craving a good burger.” Eddie laughs, both of you start walking behind Dustin and Gareth toward the theater room.  

“Yeah, sounds good to me.” You suddenly remember the conversation with your mom from the dinner talk, and you giggle. Eddie looks down at you in question. “What?” 

“My mom called me a few minutes before you did. I told her I ran into you last night at the bar and she wants to know if you want to come to dinner this weekend. She’s making pot roast.” Eddie laughs as he takes the door from Dustin’s hand, allowing you to go in first.  

“Yeah, that sounds great. I miss having dinner at your place. Your parents have always been so nice to me.” You remember the days when most of the town hated people like you and Eddie. The outcasts, the freaks. Your house was always a sanctuary, and Eddie’s. Y/BFF/N’s parents, on the other hand, they were cordial, but they weren’t… warm, like your parents and Wayne.  

“Yeah, my mom mentioned you gave my dad a discount last year when you worked on his car.” You walk up the steep steps to find a good seat at the top, toward the center of the row next to Dustin and Gareth.  

“Ah, yeah I think I remember that. It’s the least I could do, really, for raising my best friend, and all.” He shrugs as he sits next to you. You grin at him, nudging his shoulder with yours.  

“So, I’m your best friend, huh?” Eddie shifts but doesn’t lose his easy smile as he looks back at you.  

“Of course, you are. Always have been.” You look down at your hands as heat rushes your cheeks. Then, the previews start, making both of you look toward the screen. 

@corrodedcoffincumslut @haylaansmi

[theplightofthevelociraptor]

Hansel and Gretel

“Hansel, could you braid my hair?” 

His sister gazed up at him imploringly, hands folded under her chin. His eyes darted guiltily to the thick locks of golden hair that haloed her head, like sheaves of silky wheat. He wanted to braid it, oh yes he did. He wanted to fist it in his hands and pull it into his mouth and taste it on his tongue-

“No,” he said sharply, turning away. “Do it yourself.”

Hansel didn’t remember when he’d started avoiding his sister. Perhaps it was when her round cheeks had started pinking, like the shell of a ripening apple. Or perhaps it was when he had sat down for breakfast and realized he would rather taste her fingers than the sausages on his plate. And Hansel slowly got fatter, because no matter how much he ate, there was an aching hunger inside him that refused to be satiated.

“Hansel,” Gretel whined, sidling closer to him. “Please. Mom and Dad are busy.”

“I said no, Gretel,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go away.”

The sweet scent of her sweat was oozing into his nostrils and saliva was pooling under his tongue. He forced himself to back away.

“Please! I’m going to the bakery and I can’t go looking like this! I’ll buy you a sweet roll, I-”

At the mention of food, his resistance snapped and he backhanded her across the face. The sensation of her soft cheek against his hand sent a ripple of pleasure through his body, and he snatched it away as if he’d been burned. 

What was wrong with him?

Gretel was crumpled on the floor, clutching her cheek. Tears were leaking from her eyes and she was whimpering, but all Hansel could think about was how tender her flesh would feel between his teeth. 

“Asaargh,” he groaned, falling to his knees. “Stop it.”

His sister looked frightened, but his hunger was overwhelming. He wanted to bite her.

“Stop it,” he hissed, pressing his palms to his eyes. “STOP IT!”

“Brother,” he heard her say. “Brother, what’s wrong?”

Her voice was choked with fear, but she approached him, brave little girl that she was. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she knelt beside him, and saw her face coming into bleary focus as she removed his hands from his eyes.

“Hansel, are you alright?”

She smelled like pork roast and leg of lamb. She was venison and turkey and honeyed ham. 

“Hansel?”

“I’m so hungry,” he moaned, leaning into her open arms. 

“Brother, I don’t know what you mean,” she said sweetly, her hand ghosting over his back in a motherly caress. 

But Hansel wasn’t listening. His eyes were trained on her neck, young and supple, dusted lightly with peach fuzz. Suddenly he was sure that if he didn’t feed himself soon, he would die. 

“Hansel? Hansel! What are you doing?” 

He had bitten down gently on her neck, barely hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Hansel, get off!” 

The salt of her skin was sweeter than ambrosia, filling him with an ecstasy he had never felt before. He wanted more. He needed more.

Heart leaping wildly with delight, he lunged.

Gretel screamed when he forced her to the floor, one hand pinning her head to the ground, exposing her golden neck. Drool ran in revolting rivets down his chin, but he hardly noticed. It was as if something had been cut loose inside of him, a wild dog let off its chain. 

He bared his teeth, unhinged his jaw, and bit down.

Gretel squealed, high pitched and desperate, nails scrabbling over Hansel’s arms, leaving marks in their wake. He felt the skin of her neck resist, then give way. 

Yes.

The first bite made him dizzy with joy. The second bite made him want to take a third, and the third made him want a fourth, until he lost count. There was meat and blood beneath his fingernails, and his vision was blurred red where blood had splashed into them. He forgot where he was, who he was. The only thing he knew was this delicious meal before him and the thought that he had to finish eating. 

Then he felt his teeth collide with something hard and realized it was Gretel’s spine. 

Sanity crashed down upon him like the vicious pounding of a waterfall. Something tough and rubbery was stuck in his throat and he spat it out, where it bounced once, twice on the floor. A glance downwards told him what he already knew: Gretel was dead, and he had killed her.

He didn’t want to see her mangled body, so he kept his eyes glued to the ceiling.

“What have I done?” he sobbed, rocking back and forth. “What have I done?”

It was only later in his cell that he realized he was hungry again.

[rainhadaenerys]

When people say that Dany can't be Azor Ahai because it would be too obvious… I don't think they notice just how many "obvious" prophecies and visions GRRM writes.

1) He wrote a very obvious vision of the Red Wedding:

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal. - Daenerys IV ACOK

It's not obvious to Dany when she sees this vision, and it might not have been obvious to the reader the first time they read it, but once you see the Red Wedding happen, it's VERY obvious that this is what the vision was about.

2) Jojen's vision of the Ironborn attacking Winterfell is also very obvious:

"I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. Drowned men were floating in the yard. When I first dreamed the dream, back at Greywater, I didn't know their faces, but now I do. That Alebelly is one, the guard who called our names at the feast. Your septon's another. Your smith as well." - Bran V ACOK

It's not obvious to the characters what this means. Bran thinks that the sea is too far away from Winterfell. Mikken dismisses the warning. But it's VERY obvious to the reader what this means, because we know that Theon is coming. And once it happens, it becomes obvious to both the reader and the characters what the vision means.

3) The Ghost of High Heart has some very obvious prophecies:

"The old gods stir and will not let me sleep," she heard the woman say. "I dreamt I saw a shadow with a burning heart butchering a golden stag, aye. I dreamt of a man without a face, waiting on a bridge that swayed and swung. On his shoulder perched a drowned crow with seaweed hanging from his wings. I dreamt of a roaring river and a woman that was a fish. Dead she drifted, with red tears on her cheeks, but when her eyes did open, oh, I woke from terror. All this I dreamt, and more. Do you have gifts for me, to pay me for my dreams?" - Arya IV ASOS

The shadow killing the Golden Stag is obvious (Stannis' shadow killing Renly), it in fact already happened when the woman tells this dream.

The man without a face is not as clear, but not as obscure either. It seems to be a faceless man under the direction of Euron (the drowned crow on his shoulder) to kill Balon (who we know died by falling off a bridge).

The woman who is a fish and has red tears on her cheeks who wakes from the dead is not obvious to the characters or the reader at the moment we read them, but once we get to the end of ASOS, it's very obviously Lady Stoneheart.

The Ghost of High Heart also has this very obvious vision about Sansa:

"[...] I dreamt of a maid at a feast with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow." - Arya VIII ASOS

~

"Did you make the snow castle, Lord Littlefinger?"

"Alayne did most of it, my lord."

Sansa said, "It's meant to be Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" Robert was small for eight, a stick of a boy with splotchy skin and eyes that were always runny. Under one arm he clutched the threadbare cloth doll he carried everywhere.

"Winterfell is the seat of House Stark," Sansa told her husband-to-be. "The great castle of the north."

"It's not so great." The boy knelt before the gatehouse. "Look, here comes a giant to knock it down." He stood his doll in the snow and moved it jerkily. "Tromp tromp I'm a giant, I'm a giant," he chanted. "Ho ho ho, open your gates or I'll mash them and smash them." Swinging the doll by the legs, he knocked the top off one gatehouse tower and then the other.

It was more than Sansa could stand. "Robert, stop that." Instead he swung the doll again, and a foot of wall exploded. She grabbed for his hand but she caught the doll instead. There was a loud ripping sound as the thin cloth tore. Suddenly she had the doll's head, Robert had the legs and body, and the rag-and-sawdust stuffing was spilling in the snow.

[...]

"It was my fault." Sansa showed them the doll's head. "I ripped his doll in two. I never meant to, but . . ."

"His lordship was destroying the castle," said Petyr.

"A giant," the boy whispered, weeping. "It wasn't me, it was a giant hurt the castle. She killed him! I hate her! She's a bastard and I hate her! I don't want to be leeched!" - Sansa VII ASOS

It might not be obvious to the reader at the moment they read it, they might expect the vision to mean something grander than it is, given the wording of a maid slaying a giant. Our expectations are subverted when it turns out it was just about Sansa "killing" a toy giant, but GRRM words everything in a way that makes everything very obvious and clear, that this is what the vision was about. You couldn't get more clear and obvious than "Sansa killing the giant that was destroying the snow castle".

In fact, the giant turning out to be a toy reminds me of an interview from GRRM in which he talks about a lord that was prophesied to die beneath the walls of a castle, but ends up dying in front of a painting of that castle:

Prophecies are, you know, a double edge sword. You have to handle them very carefully; I mean, they can add depth and interest to a book, but you don’t want to be too literal or too easy... In the Wars of the Roses, that you mentioned, there was one Lord who had been prophesied he would die beneath the walls of a certain castle and he was superstitious at that sort of walls, so he never came anyway near that castle. He stayed thousands of leagues away from that particular castle because of the prophecy. However, he was killed in the first battle of St. Paul de Vence and when they found him dead he was outside of an inn whose sign was the picture of that castle! [Laughs] So you know? That’s the way prophecies come true in unexpected ways. The more you try to avoid them, the more you are making them true, and I make a little fun with that. (source)

Just like in Sansa's example, the prophecy comes true in an unexpected way (in a rather silly way), but once it happens, it becomes obvious how the prophecy was fulfilled.

You can see that all of the prophecies above follow the same pattern: they might not be obvious to the characters (the sea invading Winterfell) or to the readers (the Red Wedding, Catelyn becoming Lady Stoneheart) at first, or they might come true in unexpected ways to the reader or the characters (the sea being the Ironborn, the giant actually being a toy giant), but once they happen, it's very obvious that they happened.

And this is why I find the argument that Dany being Azor Ahai is "too obvious" to be a bad argument. In fact, Dany being Azor Ahai follows the same formula of the other prophecies and visions: it's unexpected to the characters and the readers in a few ways, but in other ways, once you think about it, it becomes obvious. Lightbringer being a dragon instead of a sword is unexpected, but it becomes obvious once you see that the dragons are described in identical ways to Lightbringer, and that Dany pulled Lightbringer from the fire just like the prophecy said. Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa being gender reversed is unexpected, but it becomes obvious once we see that Dany used Drogo and Rhaego's lives for the birth of the dragons, and that Dany "woke dragons from stone beneath a bleeding star amidst smoke and salt" just like the prophecy said. It becomes obvious once you see the sheer amount of evidence that Dany is Azor Ahai.

And by the way, this is valid for other prophecies regarding Dany as well. Dany antis keep trying to twist these prophecies into something else, like insisting that the Sun's son is actually Aegon, or that the mummer's dragon is Jon (which makes no sense anyway, given that Jon is not posing as a dragon, he is posing as a wolf, so if he was a mummer's anything he'd be a mummer's wolf), because they want Jon to hurt Dany. One of their arguments is that the Sun's son being Quentyn is "too obvious", and that GRRM never writes characters being right about prophecies. but this isn't actually true. Let's remember Jojen's vision of the sea invading Winterfell. At the beginning, Bran doesn't know what that means, but once it happens, he correctly identifies that the prophecy was about the Ironborn taking Winterfell:

Jojen told it true. I am a beastling. Outside he could hear the faint barking of dogs. The sea has come. It's flowing over the walls, just as Jojen saw. Bran grabbed the bar overhead and pulled himself up, shouting for help. No one came, and after a moment he remembered that no one would. They had taken the guard off his door. Ser Rodrik had needed every man of fighting age he could lay his hands on, so Winterfell had been left with only a token garrison. - Bran VI ACOK

~

One of the ironmen handed Reek a sword, and he laid it at Theon's feet and swore obedience to House Greyjoy and King Balon. Bran could not look. The green dream was coming true. - Bran VI ACOK

Just like Bran, Dany initially has no idea about what Quaithe's prophecy means and gets frustrated with the riddles:

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal."

"Reznak? Why should I fear him?" Dany rose from the pool. Water trickled down her legs, and gooseflesh covered her arms in the cool night air. "If you have some warning for me, speak plainly. What do you want of me, Quaithe?"

Moonlight shone in the woman's eyes. "To show you the way."

"I remember the way. I go north to go south, east to go west, back to go forward. And to touch the light I have to pass beneath the shadow." She squeezed the water from her silvery hair. "I am half-sick of riddling. In Qarth I was a beggar, but here I am a queen. I command you—" - Daenerys II ADWD

But once the prophecy starts to come true, Dany correctly identifies that it's happening, just like Bran correctly identifies that the green dream was happening:

She found herself remembering her nightmare. Sometimes there is truth in dreams. Could Hizdahr zo Loraq be working for the warlocks, was that what the dream had meant? Could the dream have been a sending? Were the gods telling her to put Hizdahr aside and wed this Dornish prince instead? Something tickled at her memory. "Ser Barristan, what are the arms of House Martell?"

"A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear."

The sun's son. A shiver went through her. "Shadows and whispers." What else had Quaithe said? The pale mare and the sun's son. There was a lion in it too, and a dragon. Or am I the dragon? "Beware the perfumed seneschal." That she remembered. "Dreams and prophecies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me, ser. Tomorrow is my wedding day." - Daenerys VII ADWD

There's no reason to believe that Quentyn can't be the sun's son because it's "too obvious" or because Dany guessed it right, because GRRM wrote plenty of other prophecies that become obvious once they happen, and because we already saw another example of someone guessing a prophecy right once they see it happening (Bran).

So all these theories denying the obvious because it's "too obvious" and trying to come up with far-fetched different theories really make no sense. GRRM's prophecies and visions are unexpected in certain ways, but they tend to be really clear and obvious once they happen. Dany's prophecies are no different. Quentyn being the sun's son is unexpected to Daenerys, and unlike you would expect, Dany should beware of him not because he had any ill will towards her, but because he ended up trying to steal a dragon and causing problems for Dany. Him fulfilling the prophecy is unexpected in these ways, but his identity as the sun's son becomes obvious once we see him and once Dany meets him. Dany is Azor Ahai might be "obvious" in terms of all the clues we are given, but it's unexpected in several ways as well: like Dany being a girl and Lightbringer being dragons.

GRRM puts his twists and subversions in his prophecies, but he is very obvious and clear with the foreshadowing and clues. And this is actually something that shows he is a good writer: he writes foreshadowing, he sets up his plots, and he follows through on what he sets up, instead of just changing everything at the last minute to "surprise" his readers.

[nelapanela94]

The image of Levi getting you on all fours had been loitering in your wildest dreams for quite a while. The stage was always alternating, though; sometimes it took place in his office, or your room, even in the middle of the forest, and definitely with much less clothes involved. Just your subconscious screening your inchoate feelings and carnal desires.

But it was nothing like this. Absolutely nothing like this.

You stood on your knees for a quick break and wiped off the beads of sweat off your forehead. “Don’t forget to clean behind the toilets” He nonchalantly said as you watched him leaving the bathroom.

A growl escaped from you. “How is tea supposed to taste, then?” you shouted. With a tight grip, you furiously grabbed the brush and continued scrubbing the mud off the floor, wondering why men were so gross. “Stupid shorty” you clenched your teeth. “Just for that stupid tea.”

He drove you crazy, yet you liked him. You just could not take him out of your head; not that you wanted, though.

“Why that shitty face, Levi?” You teased. “If you do your bit, we’ll have a wonderful weekend together” The rattling noise of the wooden wheels hitting the cobblestone was getting on your nerves, and the ravenette was your only source of distraction.

“Tch” He didn’t bother to glance at you; the view from outside the window should’ve been more appealing. “You always so loud and obnoxious, brat.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re in a mission not on vacation. The lump of shit you have for brain already forgot?”

“Ouch” you placed your hand on your chest, near your heart, and faked a hurting look on your face. “Why are you always so mean, Levi?”

“It’s not like you’re special” He finally turned his head towards you, crossing his arms over his chest. Because of Erwin, he was stuck with you on this mission. Your task was to formally request to Mr. Weber the funds to carry out the next expedition, and Levi was there to guarantee its success.

“I think you like me” You shot blatantly, and a black, thin eyebrow lifted at you.

“When will you stop pestering?”

You took a seat by his side; traveling sitting backwards in the carriage was worsening your motion sickness. Levi growled and moved the closest he could to the window.

“Once you admit you want to get under my pants” You drew right next to him, your thigh touching his.

“As if” He snorted, glaring at you. “Who’d like that?”

“There’re some guys in line” A smirked bloomed on your lips.

“Then ask one of them and leave me alone” He changed seats, and he was now sitting at the bench in front of you.

“You are no fun, Levi” you whined, and shifted your position leaning your back against the window, your legs stretched out along the seat. “The one I want is you” you muttered for yourself.

“What was that?”

“That you’re a pain in the ass”

Upon your arrival in Ehrmich District’s, the driver informed that due to a foreboded storm for the night, you should stay over and resume the journey to Mitras the next morning.

“I don’t mind sharing a room with you, Levi” you toyed with a lock of hair and winked at him. Levi rolled his eyes; you were exasperating.

You entered a small tavern near the inn as a low growl roamed in your belly and you were glad the loud atmosphere disguised your hunger. The eyes of the diners landed on you; military police officers, businessmen, craftsmen and workers frequented the place. A pretty woman in such place was a weird specimen. Their mischievous grins and lascivious glances soon faltered when they realized who your companion was.

Your eyes traveled over the menu again and again; everything looked good and you were indecisive.

“What do you want to eat?” Levi shot and you glanced at him, your chin resting on the palm of your hand, while the waiter was rocking back and forth on his feet next to your booth. “You would be my first option”

Levi ran his fingers through his hair and sighed in frustration. “Tch, roasted lamb for her” The young waiter nodded and jotted it down. “And an ale” you added.

Leaning back in the seat, you rubbed your belly when you finished your meal. “I don’t think I can move”

“Let’s go” Levi came back and offered his hand to help you to stand up. “Wait, I still need to pay my...”

“Let’s go”

“But... wait, don’t tell me you...” Your eyes beamed in excitement. “Is this a date?”

“Not even in your dreams” You walked side by side down the street on your way back to the inn.

“You know what? Under that armor, I think you’re a sweet guy” you confessed, your cheeks turning slightly pink. A snort left from Levi, and glanced at you searching for the last shred of sanity you had left. He needed to put an end to your madness.

Levi stopped on his tracks, and you turned around cocking your head slightly to the side, throwing him a questioning look.

“Listen carefully” He placed his hands on your shoulders and leaned closer, his intense gaze piercing through your soul. “I would never fall for a crazy, loud, obnoxious woman like you.”

You blinked twice at his harsh words; petrified for a moment everything you longed for began to shattered in your heart. You snapped his arms off of you and swiveled around, wiping off your tears with the sleeve of your dress. “Go get ahead” you maffled. “I’ll take a detour”

“Don’t be foolish” he snarled and tried to grab your wrist, but you shoved his hand away. “I’m being serious, Levi” and you resumed your way, taking a longer path.

It was far from a rich girl’s whim; maybe it began like a whim, but soon later, your feelings for that stupid shorty grew stronger and you needed him. Like everything else in your life, you either bought it, stole it or took it by force; nonetheless, you realized that the heart didn’t work that way. Thus, you attempted to learn about his interests; you tried to make tea even when you grew up without setting a foot in a kitchen, and despite having servants who helped you get dressed and comb your hair every morning you did your best on cleaning days. You read every book in his collection to take a glimpse at his soul, and paid attention to any detail that could reveal his odd habits and unique fixations.

You wanted to break into that shell and discovered his mysteries.

Maybe in another life.

He’d never regret what he said. It was for your own good he swore. Somehow, Levi had grown fond of you, but he’d never admit it. In fact, he wanted to lock those feelings away from him, he wanted them to leave him alone. But his head was playing tricks in his head, and the image of you always smiling at him invaded his mind anytime.

You were the granddaughter of a nobleman, surrounded by fine clothing, delicacies and jewelry; and him, on the other end of the spectrum, was a boy without a name who grew up not knowing if he would have food on his plate or clean clothes for the following day. He had nothing to offer you; someone like him would be a disgrace to your family, and doubtlessly you would end up out of the will.

He knew he had acted like an asshole, but it was for a good cause; without him you’d be better off.

However, this time he had a hunch, a bad feeling took over him, and he needed to find you.

A man in his forties and with a very dreadful appearance had you up against the wall, in a dark, dead-end alley. "For one like you they would pay very well" His deathly breath hit your face and you just wanted to vomit. With one hand he covered your mouth, while the other held your hands prisoner over your head. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and you just cursed yourself for the stupid decision to walk alone on those unknown streets.

Everything happened so fast. In seconds, the man was lying on the ground, blood gushing from his mouth as his insides became victims of Levi's merciless kicks until his crying ceased.

Levi ran towards you and took a quick look at your bruises “Are you ok? Did he...?”

“I...I’m alright” your voice was weak. Seeing you crying was breaking his heart but he was not the best when comforting others. His arms awkwardly wrapped around you and he let you rest you head on his shoulder.

Holding you so close to him and feeling your warmth was electrifying; his heart and body were yearning for more. It hurt to have you so close, yet so far.

Maybe one day he’ll let his heart win, maybe.

“You’re safe now” he whispered.

[ka-za-ri]

Press Play

It’s lunchtime somewhere. Have a sandwich. Pairing: Lucifer x Reader x Simeon Genre: PwP Smut Wordcount: ????     Tags: Smut, porn without plot, Demon sex, Angel Sex, Threesome, Toys, hand jobs, spit roasting, Sex Toys, Dom/Sub Undertones, sensory deprivation, temperature play, body worship, double penetration, size kink Summary: Lucifer and Simeon give you reason to look forward to movie nights with them.

Movie nights with Simeon and Lucifer became a rather regular occurrence once Simeon discovered just how large Lucifer’s backlog of unwatched movies had become. The angel made sure Lucifer set aside time once a week for at least one meet up. It took some persuasion, and a lot of pouting from both you and Simeon to get Lucifer to agree. The meetups started off innocent enough. Lots of cuddling and laughs were shared between bowls of popcorn as Lucifer slowly got caught up to date with the movies he missed due to his hectic schedule. It was a time for all three of you to relax, to enjoy each other's company and to forget about the stresses of the world outside. It was hard not to look forward to the movie nights especially after a week of study and corralling rowdy demon brothers. On that couch, you were safe between the two of them. There was no chaos, just a movie and their arms around your shoulders. From time to time, Lucifer would feed you from the shared bowl while Simeon offered you sips of his drink. It was pure, innocent and comforting. Until one day while were fully invested in the film and not paying attention to what they were up to, they slowly guided your hands to their crotches. By the time you noticed what they had done, they were already half hard and using your hands to stroke their lengths. “Oh, don’t look away, the best part is yet to come.” Lucifer said, making sure you focused on the flashing images in front of you instead of the growing bulges beside you. “Yes, you don’t want to miss this.” Simeon agreed, curling your hand around his shaft and encouraging you to stroke him. Lucifer mirrored the action and as the movie reached its climax, you realized you had a more interesting climax at hand, literally. It wasn’t until the credits started to roll when you were allowed to turn your attention to what the men had started. They leaned in, kissing you at the same time while your hands groped and stroked their lengths through their pants. Eventually Simeon won out, claiming your lips while Lucifer trailed his kisses elsewhere, down your jaw, to your neck where he greedily sucked at your pulse point. Their hands guided your own, showing you how they liked to be stroked and you were overwhelmed by the information overload trying to keep up with the differing paces they preferred. “Wait, Is this... alright? I mean, Simeon, you’re... an angel and all.” Simeon chuckled softly, kissing your cheek and nipping your ear. “Oh Little Lamb, how cute you are. Do you think a little sex is a crime punishable with a Fall? Humans are so gullible.” He rolled his hips into your hand encouraging you to keep going. “Why would the Heavenly Father find something natural a sin? There are crimes more serious than pleasure.” “Something like a rebellion?” Lucifer joked, squeezing your breast and he was rewarded with a gasp of pleasure when he pinched your pert nipple through your top. “Hmm Something like that, yes.” Simeon agreed and he let out a breathy moan when your fingers squeezed the tip of his cock harder than he had anticipated. “So, you shouldn’t worry about me, Little Lamb. You should be more concerned about how you’ll make us cum at the same time.” At the same time. You weren’t sure how you were going to manage the different tempos they demanded, and your arms were starting to get tired of the repetitive motions; but you were definitely interested in seeing them both come undone by your hands. Just touching them through their pants wasn’t enough. Almost as if they shared one mind, they had divested themselves of their pants and both of them were kneeling beside you, their cocks tantalizingly bobbing in front of your face as you went back to pleasing them with your hands. Without the barrier of clothes, it was much easier to pull a reaction out of them and they no longer needed to guide your hands into doing what they wanted. Simeon preferred a lighter touch and long, careful caresses while Lucifer loved it when you gripped him tightly to go hard and fast on his cock. Though their rhythms differed, they worked in tandem somehow with your hands and came at the same time after you fondled their balls and traced the heads of their sensitive, dripping cocks. Their seed, covered your face and your hands in thick, hot ropes as their dicks pulsed and they groaned in unison. “Your turn.” Lucifer declared, licking the mess on your face while Simeon cleaned off your hands. Once all trace of their loads were gone, they turned their hungry gazes to your own aching crotch and they parted your thighs as they settled between your legs. “I’m hungry.” Lucifer announced before delving into your soaked core. “Snacks weren’t enough.” Simeon agreed before letting his tongue join Lucifer’s and you writhed as they greedily lapped at your essence through your panties. When they couldn’t get enough of you, the soiled scrap of cloth was wrenched to the side unceremoniously and their tongues licked up your juices, probed at your entrance and circled your clit. The combined heat of their breaths and the lewd, wet sounds coming from between your legs brought you to climax much faster than you had anticipated. “So soon?”Simeon asked, his bright eyes held a fair bit of glee. He pulled away and you could see your essence glistening on his chin. “The credits haven’t even finished rolling.” Without any further preamble, he dove back in with Lucifer to continue their post movie snack until the credits and the extra post movie scenes were over. “So, same time same place next week?” Lucifer asked once silence fell over the room and you were reeling from your third orgasm that night. “Y-yeah... that sounds like a plan.” ~~ To say that you were eager for your ‘movie nights’ going forward was an understatement. It was the driving force that got you through the weeks. The thought of being between Simeon and Lucifer again occupied your mind and often you were caught daydreaming about what you could get up to in the upcoming meetups. You came to know their desires very quickly. Simeon was a tease. He loved watching you squirm and writhe under the lightest of touches. He was a romantic, full of kisses and cuddles once you were doing being used. The angel had a mischievous side to him, preferring to take slow, deep strokes inside of you, forcing you to feel the bulbous tip of his cock drag itself across your walls and memorize just how good his cock could make you feel. He loved you on your back, sprawled on the couch and disheveled, moaning for him as he took his sweet time fucking you. All the while Lucifer would occupy your mouth, muffling those pretty moans with his member. He adored seeing your throat bulge with the outline of his cock as he fucked your face. The way you would always gasp for air after he came down your throat was so erotic to him and never failed to get him going for another round, switching places with Simeon who would kiss your bruised lips so tenderly before encouraging your tired jaw to open up and accept his own length into it. Lucifer was a rougher lover. He pounded into you without abandon anytime he got the chance to sheath himself in your pussy. You always needed to nurse bruises during the week after he was done with you; not that you really minded. Shameful as it felt, you loved the feeling of his nails digging into your flesh, marking you and reminding you of the times you shared with the two of them. Different as they were, they were passionate lovers and never ceased to have you reeling in pleasure every week. While the movie played in the background, they found new ways to please and tease you until the very end of the film. With how long they had been alive for, they knew just how to play you like an instrument, drawing out your pleasure for as long as they wanted. Some nights, they would fuck you without abandon from the beginning to the end, other nights, they would pass you back and forth until you were ready to pass out and your pussy was filled with their seed. Yet other nights, the three of you would be stuffed full of your favorite toys, riding and grinding down on them, passing the remotes to the vibrators to one another and teasing each other until you all were over stimulated messes on that couch. Pretending to pay attention to the movie on the TV was difficult when you had two exceptionally attractive men moaning beside you and stroking their cocks in time with the hand held fucking machine thrusting in and out of your pussy until the three of you came at the same time and indulged in copious amounts of cuddles and kisses before deciding to do it all over again. Their methods of pleasure was as varied as the movies they chose and every week it was a surprise until you swore you had experienced it all with them. You had a good grasp on what they liked and pleasuring them came easily to you now. As soon as the door closed and the movie started, the three of you would spend at least the first ten minutes kissing each other deeply, fondling each other through clothing before everything inevitably came off by the time the first act was over. From there, you could almost predict what would happen depending on how the week had gone. Some weeks, Lucifer would have you and Simeon bound and kneeling before him, demanding that he be pleased first before he even thought about allowing either of you to think about pleasure. Other weeks, Simeon would have you tied down and spread on the couch so he and Lucifer could spend the whole film kissing every inch of your skin and counting how many times you could cum before the movie ended. You were more than happy to adapt to their whims, listening to them without question and following their lead. You thought knew them like your favorite movie. That comfort and routine had you falling into complacent lull which was how you ended up making the mistake of thinking nothing they did could surprise you anymore. ~~ You should have known better that there was something off when Lucifer lead you to a more private quarter that week than the room they used for your regular movie nights. You should have noticed how well padded those walls were, how the dim light illuminated everything. It should have been an indication of how that they had plotted this for some time now when Lucifer cast an extra strong spell of privacy over the room. It wasn’t until you heard the rustle of clothes and feathers that you realized what you were in for. Both of them were glorious and their massive wings seemed to encircle you in a cage once they both approached you sandwiching you between them. “A proposition.” Simeon started, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look into his eyes. “How about we make our own movie this week?” He glanced to the side and your gaze followed his. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the recording device set up on the dresser. You swallowed hard, unable to deny how much that thought turned you on, but also how much it intimated you. Being on camera, being recorded with such beautiful men felt wrong. “Oh, I know that look, Little lamb.” Simeon cooed, kissing your forehead softly. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Just follow our lead.” Behind you, you heard the rustle of clothing as Lucifer disrobed. He took your hand and brought you to the massive bed. You didn’t remember Simeon’s room being this spacious, nor the bed so large, but you didn’t have time to think about your whereabouts as your hands were tied above you to the headboard. Your legs were spread and tied to the posts at the foot of the bed. Once Lucifer was sure you weren’t going anywhere, he sat down next to you, his fingers brushed through your hair and his wings gently caressed your arms as he directed your attention to the angel in front of you. “Watch.” he commanded, and you could only obey. What followed was the most sinful strip tease. Simeon dropped the cloak he normally wore around his arms and let you drink in his angelic form. The white wings framed his body, keeping your eyes on him and only him as he traced all of his dips and curves through his skin tight clothes, peeling them off slowly, enticing you with every new inch of skin he revealed. You were practically drooling when his pants finally came off. You gasped when you saw his girthy cock and you shuddered, wondering if you could take something like that in you. Which suddenly brought the thought of Lucifer’s dick to the forefront of your mind. Glancing to the side, you took stock of his member and gulped at the monster between his legs. The demon chuckled, his fingers still stroking your hair gently and he leaned in for a soft kiss. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you’ll be properly ready for us by the end of the night. For now, relax.” You nodded, but you were unable to take your thoughts away from the tapered tip of Simeon’s cock which gave way to a massive swell. You unconsciously clenched just imagining how wide he would stretch you out before you could get to the base. The swirling ridges and thick veins of his member were unlike anything you had seen before, at the base, you could make out a substantial ring of taught muscle you could only imagine being used to lock him into place once he was inside of you, similar to the hefty knot that sat at the base of Lucifer’s cock. “You’re thinking too much.” Simeon chided coming over to grace your lips with a soft kiss. “I promise you’re in good hands.” He reassured. Your body was still tense with intimidation, his words did little to alleviate the fear and he could see it in your eyes. Beside you, you heard Lucifer sigh and pad across the room looking for something. “I suppose we’ll have to find other ways to relax you.” He came back a moment later with a silken blindfold. Carefully draping it over your eyes, he made sure it was securely on before dipping down and kissing you deeply until you moaned into his mouth and were breathless. “Better.” There was a moment of silence between the three of you while the angel and the demon contemplated just how to relax you. Lucifer had been so excited to get you tied up, he had forgotten to take your clothes off and so the first step was working together to undress you, undoing the ties only when it was necessary to slip your clothes off. You visibly shivered when you were left bare in front of them, in front of that camera. “Better.” Simeon finally agreed now that all three of you were in a similar state of undress. You heard a soft popping sound followed by a sharp gasp from Simeon. You heard it again but this time followed by a quiet grunt from Lucifer. Confused, shook your head back and forth, trying to figure out what had happened. Your confusion stopped when you felt the softest tickle of a feather caress your skin. There was the sound of wings flapping as they adjusted to fit you in a feathered cage. “Did you know....” Lucifer drawled, dragging his feather across your skin and watched as you twitched under the light touches.  “You’re absolutely adorable when you’re at our mercy?” “You are.” Simeon agreed, teasing your spread pussy with the tip of his feather. “You’re so cute when you’re an incoherent mess for us. I can’t help but look forward to seeing what kind of faces you can make tonight when our cocks make you scream.” You shivered, struggling against your bindings but to no avail. The knots held tight and you were helpless. You could only focus on the tingling sensation that followed in the wake of their teasing. The feathers felt different from each other. The one Lucifer dragged across your body to tease your nipples left a trail of warmth, like a soothing touch on heated skin after being spanked. The tip of the feather prodded your nipples until they were aching and sore, the heat intensifying until it was almost unbearable. As soon as it got too much, he would move to your other breast, repeating the process in a cycle that had your mind reeling. Simeon’s lips were practically attached to your neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there while his feather toyed your pussy. The cool, tingling sensation spread across your nether lips and down your thighs as he drew errant patterns across your skin, watching in awe as goosebumps appeared in the wake of his feather. Your clit was toyed with until it was almost numb, your essence coating the feather, soaking it as he continued to toy with your body. Then, they switched. The heat moved to your core and the chill traveled up your abdomen to tease your nipples. The drastic change in temperatures had you wailing and thrashing as the heat from Lucifer’s feather felt like a brand against your sensitive core. The cold on your nipples made them pucker and stand painfully erect. “Adorable.” Simeon cooed, admiring how you heaved and writhed under him. He reached to the bedside drawer and picked up one of the candles that had been illuminating the room. carefully hovering it over your chest, he watched with glee as the hot wax dripped from the candle and splattered against your skin, welting the skin and making you cry. You were too hot and too cold at the same time. The assault of sensations made your mind go blank and all you could focus on was feeling good, sounding good and letting them play with your body to draw out every sensation they could from you. They weren’t done yet, far from it. While Simeon focused on wax dribbling down your chest and carefully let hot droplets tease your oversensitive nipples, Lucifer had reached to the ice bucket which housed a bottle of wine. Finding a suitably small piece of ice, he dragged it across your thighs after his feather, making you shiver and moan. Pausing at the apex of your thighs for a moment, he let you catch your breath before sliding the melting ice into your waiting hole. His finger pulled back the fleshy hood of your clit and he pressed the feather directly against the bundle of nerves, rubbing it roughly, coating it with your essence and overwhelming you with heat and cold at the same time. “You can cum when the ice is melted.” He stated, assaulting your clit with the feather. His teeth found your collarbone and he bit down, hard, kissing your skin after he left his mark. Watching you come undone from their combined efforts was nothing short of a treat. The chill of ice within you faded as your own body heat melted the cold object. It felt like it took eons to do as Lucifer asked, but as soon as you no longer felt the ice in you, your whole body shuddered in completion, your inner walls collapsed clenching around nothing and your clit throbbed almost painfully as you rode out the waves of pleasure from your intense climax. Both the angel and the demon descended on your lips when you came, kissing you deeply thrusting their tongues into your mouth, moaning as they drank in the sounds of your orgasm. The blindfold was ripped off your face and you blinked to adjust your eyes to the light once more. They kissed you until you were breathless, tired and dizzy, but the night had only begun. You knew matter how tired you were, the two of them would push you past whatever limits you had until they too were satisfied. “There, nice and relaxed.” Simeon purred, carefully peeling off the dried wax from your skin and admiring the patterns it had left across your chest. He dipped between your breasts, pressing soft kisses on the tender skin while you were still wrapped in the afterglow of your climax. The ties that held your arms and legs were undone and Lucifer cradled you in his lap, fondling your tender breasts. Your limbs slowly regained feeling and your bleary vision cleared just in time to witness Simeon in front of you, stroking his length, eyeing your drenched pussy, licking his lips and dreaming of the moment when the two of you would become one. “I know you probably don’t feel ready, but I know you want this...” He leaned in to kiss you. Lucifer moved his legs to lock with your own, and spread you open for the angel. “I’ll make sure to go slow so you can feel... everything.” With one last reassuring kiss, he pressed the tips of his cock to your entrance, hissing from the residual cold from the melted ice. Your canal warmed up soon enough as you could immediately feel the swell of his cock push into you. There was no time to adjust, his shaft was nothing but a series of thick bulbous ridges that only got wider until it tapered off just a bit at the base where the muscular ring sat. You were stretched wider and wider with every inch, losing your breath at the sensation of taking Simeon in this form. “There, now. You’re doing so well.” Lucifer praised, pinching your nipples to keep you conscious of the current moment. “Look at that, he’s almost all the way in.” Lucifer guided your gaze down between your legs and your heart skipped a beat when you saw that he was correct. There was maybe an inch or two left before he would be fully seated in you. You took a deep breath and allowed the angel to make the final push to sheath himself within your walls. Simeon let out a low groan, nipping at your shoulder and he held you close to take in the sensation of being surrounded by you. “You’re so hot.” He whined, “So tight, so perfect...” He grunted, rolling his hips into you and your body shuddered at how deep he was able to reach. You let out a breathless whine grasping at the sheets below you, reeling at the sensation. “I’m so proud of you, I knew you could do it.” Lucifer praised, trailing kissed down your neck. He glanced over at Simeon and gave the angel an imperceptible nod, egging the angel to move more. Simeon didn’t need any more encouragement, slowly sliding his length in and out of you as he was wont to do. He never fully pulled out of you, just far enough to the widest point of his cock before sliding back inside of your snug, tight walls. The ebb and flow of being stretched and relaxed had you mesmerized and before you knew it, you could feel your climax approaching. He could feel your walls fluttering in anticipation of the end and that was when he stopped moving all together. You were left hanging just at the precipice and you could see the excitement in Simeon’s eyes as he too was enjoying the moment; but you couldn’t forget about the demon behind you. “I hope you’re ready for me too...” He murmured softly and for a moment you were confused about what his words meant. The meaning became crystal clear when the hard tip of his cock pushed against your already stuffed hole, seeking entrance to a space that was quite full already. You gasped, squirming away from him but there was no winning against his inhuman strength. “N-no... it won’t fit , It’s too much.” You protested Lucifer dragged his length up and down your soaked lips, coating his cock in your essence before pressing against your hole once again to join Simeon. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Breathe, my sweet, trust us.” He reassured. “Just imagine how good and tight you’ll feel when we’re both all the way in you. That ridge of his and my knot buried inside, stretching you out, claiming you.” You could see the image in your mind, but feeling it was something else entirely. You were already at your limit, or so you thought. But Lucifer was persistent and with some coaxing, the tip of Lucifer’s cock eventually slid inside beside Simeon’s. Whatever limits you had were going to be tested now. Somehow, against the pain and the stretch you felt, you could feel your muscles clench, tightening against the new intrusion, accepting him, drawing him further into you. “That’s my Little Lamb.” Simeon praised, kissing you and distracting you from whatever pain your abused hole was feeling. “That’s it, take us all in.” Your mouth hung open in a soundless scream as Lucifer’s cock drove itself further and further inside of you. The long shaft going deep within, brushing against your cervix when he finally reached the base of his knot. “Amazing.” he breathed, marveling at the tightness of being together with you along with Simeon. “Simply amazing.” And then, they started to move within you. Their motions were perfectly synced making you see stars and the heavens beyond them. You clung onto Simeon, though your arms had long lost feeling. At this point, you only served to be a fuck toy for the two of them, something to be used for their carnal pleasures and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The way their cocks worked in tandem sliding in and out of your hole had you cumming almost immediately. But, they weren’t anywhere near done with you. Not until they claimed you and truly made your theirs. They went faster, deeper, harder until you couldn’t see straight. The sound of skin slapping against skin mingled with grunts and moans filled the room along with the sticky sweet smell of sex. “Oh, oh God!” You screamed when they slammed you down to the base of their cocks at the same time. “God is not here making you moan.” Simeon growled, digging his fingers into the supple flesh of your ass and gripping it hard, spreading your cheeks out to gain more access to your pussy. “There is no God here, just us.” Lucifer bit your neck hard, leaving deep teeth marks in his wake, nearly drawing blood. He seethed at the Heavenly Father’s name and it only fueled his need to claim you. “If you’re going to call out a name, why don’t you make sure it’s mine.” he commanded, forgoing any decorum and roughly thrusting into you, ignoring whatever semblance of rhythm he had with Simeon earlier. You cried out, tears streaming from your eyes, your voice hoarse from screaming and your body sore from the abuse it was taking. They made you feel like a sinner and a saint all at once, the mix of pain and pleasure too much for your mind to bear and eventually all thoughts faded to the background until there was nothing but euphoria. Your head lolled back, resting against Lucifer’s chest and you blearily looked up at the ceiling as you accepted your fate between these two men. They were nearing their own climaxes. Seeing you lose yourself in the throes of passion drove them to the edge they sought and your body reached its final trial. Their thrusting slowed as they pushed you down on the hard knot and thick ridge of their cocks. You couldn’t remember screaming, but you did remember thinking you were being torn in half. You clawed at Simeon’s back, drawing blood from scratching him so deeply. The angel hissed, his long lashes fluttering as he softly encouraged you to accept them, all of them. And then, there was pure bliss when you felt them securely embedded within you. It was a feeling of fullness, of contentment you had never felt before. It felt as if your very soul had ascended at that moment. With one final grunt from Lucifer and a breathy moan from Simeon, they released their loads into you at the same time. The copious amounts of their seed flooding your insides, causing your belly to swell as  you accepted their offering to you. The hot, sticky ropes of cum leaked from your pussy as they seemed to pump into you ceaselessly. You thought this surely must have been what paradise felt like as you yourself came around them one last time. As you felt your consciousness drifting away from you from your final climax. You remembered being gently lowered to the bed while both the angel and the demon were still inside of you. Their cocks were still hard and pulsing cum into you at intervals.  “You did so well, Little Lamb.” Lucifer murmured, using the pet name Simeon often used for you. “You deserve some rest.” “Yes, rest, my Sweet.” Simeon encouraged, pressing kisses on your forehead and your cheeks. “You were perfect.” “So... Does this mean same time, same place next week?” You asked tiredly. “I don’t mind shooting a sequel.” Simeon agreed wholeheartedly. “Why just a sequel? We could make it a proper... trilogy.” Lucifer chimed in, holding you close and wrapping his wings around you. Simeon followed suit and that night, you dreamed of what sort of blockbuster the three of you could come up with.

[manonblaqkbeak]

Family Time

good morning/afternoon/evening/night. hope you’re all doing well and staying safe!!!! i have a rowaelin fic that i wanted to post before rowaelin month started since im focusing on those prompts atm

i cant wait to see what everyone has in store for rowaelin month, im very much looking forward to it!

enjoy! :)

1835 words

The day that Aelin had been looking forward to was finally here.

She and Rowan were going to spend a week in their spot in the forest. A week was longer than usual, but it was much needed. Not only had she and Rowan been working extremely hard to the point where they weren't going to bed until the middle of the night, his family was arriving to Orynth to visit for a few weeks in a week and a half.

And not just a few members of his family, almost the entire Whitethorn family was coming, with the exception of a few—namely Sellene, who would be gifting them with personal letters and presents, and those that were too old or just didn't feel like making such a long journey.

Aelin was looking forward to it, to meeting those she hadn't, to hearing others perspectives on Rowan's childhood. Her mate, however...not so much. Rowan was looking forward to catching up with the cousins that he liked, but not so much for the meddlesome ones. He warned her that whatever secrets that people were hiding wouldn't be secrets anymore, that the nosy ones liked to make a game to see who could learn the most secrets.

Aelin admitted that could be a problem, but in his letter, Enda claimed that everyone would be on their best behaviour.

Rowan wasn't entirely convinced. And not just because of that, he was worried that the conversation of when Aelin and Rowan were going to have children was going to be brought up as Rowan had written that they were forbidden from doing so.

Months ago, only several weeks after the war, after a meeting with the Lords and Ladies of Terrasen, Aelin and Rowan came to the decision to wait for a while to have children after Lord Gunnar had brought up the topic of heirs. Aelin could still remember the silence, at her speechlessness of how suddenly it was mentioned. How Rowan had turned to Lord Gunnar and demanded not just to him, but to everyone around them, that it was a private matter between the Queen and himself, and that it was not up for public discussion.

It wasn't a very long conversation—they both wanted to have a family, but Aelin wasn't ready. She was having nightmares from her time with Maeve and Cairn, and throwing pregnancy in the mix just screamed disastrous.

Rowan took her hands in his large warm ones and promised that he would wait for as long as she wanted. Whether it was one year, five years, or one hundred, he would wait until she was ready and willing.

Aelin had never loved him more.

Since then, Rowan was taking a contraceptive tonic. It hadn't taken very long for it to spread around the castle, but neither Aelin or Rowan would let others opinions change their minds.

And it wasn't like they were completely without family. They had their friends and Fleetfoot, with the canine joining them on their week long getaway.

Aelin and Rowan helped the servants set up the Royal tent and the square wooden table where they would be eating and playing chess and card games. There were a few books that Aelin was very much looking forward to reading, too.

Aelin was excited for this week away, to forgo her corsets, dresses, pants and breast-bands. She was determined to stay in Rowan's shirts and her slippers the entire time.

So the moment that everything was set up, the trays of sweet and savoury foods on the table, and the servants and guards were gone, Aelin stripped down to nothing, swaying her hips the way that Rowan liked when she spotted him drinking her in and slipped on one of his shirts and put on her well loved slippers.

Grabbing the picnic blanket from one of the chests, Aelin turned to see Fleetfoot sniffing hungrily at the trays of food, moving closer with each second that passed. Just as she was about to inhale the food, Rowan took the pup out of her misery and feed her a handful of sliced fermented sausage.

Aelin smiled at the sight. Rowan might grumble about the mess Fleetfoot made and how she kept slobbering on his pillow but Aelin knew he loved her—even when she ate his socks.

Aelin set up the blanket and pillows against a thick oak tree, ready for her week of relaxation.

X X X X X X

Aelin's stomach was near to bursting. She hadn't intended to eat that much food, since there was a leg of lamb and chopped root vegetables roasting in the cauldron above the fire, but everything was just too good to have just the once. She ate and ate until there was nothing but crumbs left.

She didn't regret it, however.

She was close to sleeping as Rowan ran a free hand through her scalp as he used the other to read. Her head was on his lap, the sun was warm, and from the happy yips that were coming from the woods, Fleetfoot was having a fun time running around.

Aelin glanced at her husband, his face relaxed as he read his book. And she had no idea why, but she found herself saying: “What would you look like with a beard?”

Rowan blinked, the only surprise he'd show at the question. “Like an old man,” he answered after a moment.

“You are an old man.”

He flicked her ear, and then went back to running his fingers through her scalp. “I grew a beard, once, when I was young. I looked like my father.”

“So you looked very handsome, then.” Rowan had taken up sketching in the quiet moments. He had drawn his parents and they were a very attractive couple. Rowan inherited his fathers hair, eyes, nose and sharp jawline, but got his mother's lips, cheekbones and eyebrows.

They had died long ago, but Aelin would have liked to have met them. Rowan said that they would have liked her, eventually, as he believed that they wouldn't have known what to do with her at first.

Aelin gave Rowan a big smile as the question formed in her mind. And since Rowan knew her so well, he said, “No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say!” She protested, but it was a lie.

“I am not growing a beard.”

“Please, for me? Just a little one?”

“No.”

“How about some stubble?”

He sighed, exasperated, knowing that there was no point in arguing. “Fine. I'll grow some stubble and that's it.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say, buzzard.”

He sighed again, but there was a small smile on his lips. He returned to his book, and telling her what it was about when Aelin asked. It made her heart swell that her warrior found time to read, as he admitted to her months ago that he never really had the opportunity when he was sworn to Maeve.

Not wanting to ruin today with thoughts of her, Aelin grabbed her own book by her pillow and read, luxuriating in Rowan's warmth and love and in the company of a good book.

X X X X X X

Aelin was losing, but she made sure that the irritation that was coursing through her didn't show on her face. Playing chess with an experience strategist was an absurd idea, but she was determined not to quit.

Rowan had been wanting for her to make her move. Had been waiting for fifteen minutes. Fleetfoot was by her feet, but she was just waiting for the roast lamb to be done.

Five minutes later, Aelin finally made her move. Her eyes flicked up towards Rowan, but his face was stone. He made his move in a blink of an eye. “Checkmate.”

Fire coated her throat as Aelin screeched in frustration, which just made Rowan laugh. Fleetfoot howled and ran off.

Aelin grumbled under her breath as she put away the chess board (for now, they would definitely be playing again once Aelin had more food in her stomach) while Rowan put their dinner on the plates, smiling all the while. Behind him, his mate vowed that she would beat him one day at chess. His smile widened.

Rowan knew that if he said he could beat her even with a blind-fold on, she would go on about how big his head was.

Fleetfoot came back, getting in the way of his feet as he put his and Aelin's dinner down. He gave Fleetfoot the plate reserved for her, using his powers to cool it down, not missing Aelin's soft smile as he did so.

They ate dinner in companionable silence, with Rowan's thoughts on his cousins. He was sure that he wasn't going to get a single thing done while they were visiting. Or if he did, he knew that some of his cousins would want to intrude.

Thinking about it more, he knew that they were going to intrude. Enda had written in-between the lines that there were some cousins that didn't really believe that Rowan was King-Consort and would only believe it once they saw him in action.

That they would actually believe once they saw him in his crown.

And even then, he was sure that there'd be at least one or two that still wouldn't believe it.

Rowan would let them think whatever they wanted about him, it wouldn't matter to him.

Maybe he should have just invited Enda and his mate—but Aelin was looking forward to meeting his family, so he would just deal with it.

It would only be a couple of weeks, possibly three. At best, four, since it was a long journey. He could last.

Rowan could do it, he would just have to block them out if they became too much. He had done that in the past.

“If you keep furrowing your brows like that, they'll replace your eyes,” Aelin said, slathering a fresh slice of bread with butter and running it through the left over gravy on her plate.

Rowan grunted but tried to relax his forehead. It took him a minute longer than it should have.

Later on, they went for a late night swim. Which was slowly turning into something more, up until Fleetfoot jumped into the water with them, saturating them further.

It was the best first day that Aelin could have asked for, and was very much looking forward to the rest of the week.

X X X X X X

Aelin woke up to one of her favourite sights. Rowan shirtless, sleeping on his stomach, his tattooed arm curled around Fleetfoot who slept between them all night. The hounds golden head half on Rowan's pillow, her paws stretching towards Aelin, her furry face soft in sleep.

Smiling, Aelin shuffled closer, and wrapped her own arms around the pup, her fingers just touching Rowan.

Joyful, Aelin fell back asleep, a smile still on her face.

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct Chapter Nine

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6500

Warnings: Language as always, warning of racist language (Nush talking about her mother's experiences), yearning, fluff to second base (yes, my darlings- IT IS ON!), alcohol is mentioned, food, anxiety attacks.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

People often think artists

Create with their hands

But really they create

with their hearts

So please be gentle

For we wear our vulnerability

On our sleeves

And freely give all we have

Hoping someone will fall

In love with the parts we offer

R. Evelyn

Chapter Nine

The sharp buzz of the door startles you out of your daydream. Laden with roughly the entire contents of your spice cupboard, vegetables, meat and prawns, your hands are crisscrossed with creases from where the weight of the totes has gouged at your skin. A smart-looking kindly gentleman greets you, “You must be Ms Pierce. Mr Pike has asked for you to wait here for him.”

Wow! Marcus’ place has a concierge - who did he have to blow to get a place like this?!

Throwing the bags onto one of the hotel lounge-like chairs, you slump into another as you rub soreness from your hands. A small ping tells you that the lift has arrived - you look over in the direction of the noise, a tremor of excitement rippling through you. An adorably scruffy Marcus, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, steps out - his face utterly beaming on seeing you. “Hey! How are you doing?” he leans in to kiss your cheek twice - hang on, when did this start being a thing?

“Why didn’t you let me pick you up? You’ve carried so much over- lemme see your hands,” his brow knits on seeing the rapidly reddening welts as he takes your hands in his, brushing his thumbs gently across your palms.

“You live four roads away from me - they’re not that bad! And anyway, you can help me now- which floor do you live on?” You outwardly roll your eyes at the sweetness Marcus shows you, secretly enjoying the stroke of his fingers and the ghostly press of his lips still burning a hole in your cheek.

Marcus takes all of the bags from the chair, refusing point blank to entertain you helping him to take them upstairs - you watch as his arms twitch under the weight, enjoying the mixture of confusion and shock at your strength across his face, “you carried all of this?”

Nodding at him, you try to take a bag again, but he dangles it just out of reach, “Watch it - you do realise that I have two other brothers apart from Ads? I will think nothing of rugby tackling you to the floor and pinning you down,” you warn, enjoying the flush brought to his cheeks.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Marcus flusters as he calls the lift, handing you the smallest, lightest bag.

✪✪✪✪✪

Exiting at the top floor, you’re taken aback by the amount of light and quiet that washes throughout the building. Feeling so removed from the shadows cast from the tower blocks and the hustle and bustle of the streets below, the broad daylight offers a sense of serenity, a peace that invites itself into the soul and makes itself at home. As Marcus unlocks the door to his flat, you kick off your shoes at the entrance, “You don’t have to do that,” he offers through the keys in his mouth, holding the door open with his elbow, still refusing any help from you.

“Oh believe me, if I didn’t, my mum’s radar would go off and I would be cruising for a bruising,” you giggle, taking in the glorious spaciousness of his apartment, “I promise my feet aren’t too stinky and that I put on clean socks.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Marcus’ eyes crinkle at you, “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

“A coffee would be ace - strong and black please,” you reply, your gaze drinking in the details of his home. Books line the shelves along one wall - such a mixture of titles ranging from airport bestsellers to obscure art catalogues - the relief to see actual paper and hardbacks adorning the shelves rather than trinkets and plants when so many keep their books electronically in their pockets.

A couple of large canvases lie propped against another - long hours preventing them from being hung - their bright colours sure to bring joyful hues to quite a stark room. There are a few photo frames dotted around - mostly pictures of a moment in time rather than poses - of people you assume are friends and family from back in the States. Handing you a steaming mug, Marcus looks over your shoulder as you look at a photo of an older couple dancing and laughing at a wedding, “That’s my mamá and papá at my oldest sister’s wedding. It was such a magical day - just so much love in the air.”

“You can feel the joy radiating from them,” you offer, lowering your gaze from him to grab the frame next to the picture of his parents, “Are these your sisters or cousins? You all look very alike.”

“Yeah, my little sisters,” he grins proudly. “This one is Beth - she’s two years younger and is a paediatrician in Texas. Has two kids with her wife, Sophie. And this one is Cat - she’s doing her own thing out on the West Coast as a musician. They definitely inherited all the clever and cool genes.”

“Hah! You’re kinder to your sisters than I am to my brothers,” you grin, “They’re all total idiots but due to some weird genetic and biological insistence, I still love them.”

Taking a gulp of your coffee, you turn back towards him, “Come on you, we’d better get to work if you want a curry this evening.”

He pouts, looking more like a sulky little boy than a middle aged man. You can’t help but laugh at the sad puppy dog eyes he is conjuring at the thought of work, “Oh poppet, what’s wrong?” you teasingly mock.

“I kinda hoped you were a magician who could just magic a curry outta nowhere so we could watch films til the others arrive,” Marcus grumps shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Well, there is UberEats for that but you horrible lot put me up to this so you’re going to help,” you wag your finger at him, “But as you’re the only one here, you get the honour of being the chief taster,” you add, tapping him playfully on the nose.

With a soft huff and a furrow of the brow, Marcus guides you into the kitchen where, whilst he was making your coffee, he has helpfully already put all the fresh produce in his fridge as the sides are delightfully blank apart from the bags of spices.

“What are we making today, Chef?”

“Ok, meat dishes are a spiced yoghurt leg of lamb, a keema - don’t you give me that look, a cardamom butter chicken, and, a prawn and courgette curry,” you turn to Marcus’ fridge to find the lamb, “Needs to come to room temperature before we cook it.”

“My tummy is rumbling already,” Marcus adds, his eyes glinting excitedly as he licks along his lower lip, the skin glistening damply. You have never quite figured out whether your love of his lips is due to their fullness or the association with the kindness of his words.

“Hah- you’re not getting away without having some veggies, too, mister,” you cluck as you hand him a bag of onions and several bulbs of garlic to skin, chop and crush for the various dishes.

“Ok, Moooom,” Marcus dramatically rolls his eyes at your dictate, “I admit, I’d rather eat sugary or salty things over green stuff but I can make an exception for curried veg.”

The arch of your eyebrow virtually reaches your hairline at him teasingly calling you mom, so you reach for the towel, twist it and flick him hard on what you’d hoped would be his hip but catch him square on his arse instead.

A yelp of pain and wide eyes greet your action, “Did you just…? Oh, it is on.! You might think you’re tough from your brothers but my sisters taught me sneaky tactics.”

“Come at me, bro!” you taunt from the other side of the kitchen, putting up a boxing stance.

Brandishing the hand without the paring knife in your general direction, he answers, “Nope, gonna use the element of surprise and attack when you least expect it!”

Tutting your tongue at Marcus’ weak ass response, you grab the spices you need to prepare under the power of your pestle and mortar. With the waft of roasting cumin soaring through the air and your battle with your boss at a supposedly declared ceasefire, everything starts to feel comfortable and easy again. You could be six years old and standing on the chair next to your mum, watching like a hawk as she lovingly prepared meals for your family with an ever burgeoning belly. It was then, during those hours shared in the galley kitchen that became your time with her when normally it felt pretty split between her work as a GP and your brothers.

What the fuck… You jump out of your skin when a warm, solid wall presses you out of your nostalgic reverie, “Hah! Pinned ya! Sneaky tactics- told ya they worked,” a deep, soft voice whispers in your ear.

Your heart flutters like a bird trying to escape its rib cage with the closeness of Marcus, the heat rising through your body from your proximity to him - a visceral response to the glorious cocktail of masculine smell from his aftershave and body wash.

What do I do next?

Why can’t I bloody think straight?

Wiggling yourself around so that you face him, his face now so close that you can feel his warm breath upon your cheeks. Your eyes playfully catch the steady gaze of Marcus’ deep soulful pools. It would only take the smallest of movements to reach forwards and kiss him right on that stupidly gorgeous, plush Cupid’s bow and crease. But… what if he doesn’t want that? He’s my fucking boss - that would be a stellar move to make…

Instead of the tiny incline forwards to press your lips against his as every inch of you screams to do so, you drop to the floor and crawl out from between his legs, “Not pinned well enough it seems,” you tease haltingly as your tongue sticks in your dry throat.

As you check the browning of the cumin seeds, out of the corner of your eye you see Marcus’ head drop sadly, hearing a small sigh - his hands still upon the work surface and feet not having moved from the position he had pinned you in moments earlier.

Did he want to...? No, surely not.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Nush,” Marcus humbly apologises, pushing himself off the side, “I hope that I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you softly say, pouring the roasted cumin into the mortar, ready to be ground, “I was the one who flicked you on your arse - I am the one who should be apologising.”

You beckon gently to Marcus, who has now taken refuge in the furthest corner of the kitchen from you - wringing his hands instead of chopping the onions, “Come over here - I want you to experience one of my most favourite smells of childhood. These are roasted cumin seeds and when you grind them, they release the most heavenly scent.”

After a few grinds, you offer the bowl towards Marcus’ face as he closes the gap between you, “I… Wow! I wouldn’t have thought it would make such a difference but it’s almost like you’ve entirely transformed it. See,” the dimple deepens in that right cheek of his, “you are a magician.”

“I love how spices - a bit like paint - can take on completely different characters depending on how you treat them. Leave the spice whole and you have this mild and fragrant taste. If you crush them, then their attitude comes back tenfold with a vengeance. Toast them, and they may as well be Clark Kent in a phone booth.”

Looking up you see Marcus gazing at you with a sweet half smile on his face - could he like me… like that?

“Sorry, you don’t need to hear me blathering on,” you fluster, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture as the heat rises through your face.

Shaking his head gently without dropping your regard, “No. No, please don’t ever stop. Your passion for things is beautiful.”

“Growing up, I didn’t realise that other people didn’t have whole cupboards filled to the brim with herbs, spices and seasonings. I mean, for all the damage the British Empire reeked, you’d have hoped that the spices would have entered more of their culture, but no! Apparently, my family was the weird one for having food with a flavour,” you shrug your shoulders at some of the ridiculous things you’d heard as a child - accusations of differences you’d never thought to be of note.

Marcus chuckles at your indignance, “It’s funny you should say that. I didn’t realise that my mamá had an accent until it was pointed out to me when I was a kid.”

Noting your slightly confused expression, Marcus explains, “She’s Argentinian- came to the States as a political refugee as she was a journalist following the disappearances during the Dirty War. Met my dad, and I came along very soon after, and the rest is history..”

You can’t help but laugh at the flush on Marcus’ cheeks as he recounts his personal history to you, “Love can’t be held back when it hits and it’s obvious that they’re still crazy about each other now from that photo.”

“Exactly, no point in wasting time when you know what you want,” Marcus grins, looking at his feet.

“My parents have a similar story. My dad is as English as they come - I mean we’re on a freaking island so there’s no true thing as being completely English. My mum is from Pakistan - Karachi - it’s in the South.”

“She came over due to the fighting between East and West Pakistan - the two countries that are now Pakistan and Bangladesh. It kept interrupting her studies to become a doctor so she came to England and restarted her degree here.”

Marcus’ brow creases in thought, “Why did she restart her degree? Could the credits not just be transferred to the college she moved to in the UK?”

“Hah- yeah. It was the seventies, during a time where all Southern Asians were P*kis - no matter where they were from on the Indian subcontinent- and thought of as dirty, lesser beings. There were constant race riots for anyone who wasn’t ethnically white or English. She would never have been taken seriously with her mediocre medical training from some Adobe hut in the middle of a jungle,” you fume, pounding the seeds into fragments. The mortar being threatened with the same fate too.

Marcus’ fingers wrap around your wrist to try and prevent your rage at the ignorance of others from causing you an injury, “I am so sorry,” he pulls you into a warm, tender hug, tucking your head under his chin, “How long before food can take care of itself so we can put a film on? I think we both need a rest.”

“Hmmm, ten minutes and then most things can simmer or be switched off ready for a reheat or proper cook this evening,” you say, leaning reluctantly out of his comforting arms to go check on the bubbling saucepans of food.

“‘K. I’ll go get things set up so you can flop for a bit,” Marcus touches you gently on your shoulder as he goes to set up the front room. You go to squeeze his hand but it’s removed from your shoulder too quickly for your response.

✪✪✪✪✪

“You ready?” Marcus calls through the wall as you turn off the heat from the final pans.

“Mhm,” you mumble in response to his question - double, triple checking that everything is off. Too many fire alarms ruining perfectly lovely meals or moments.

“What did you pick?” You ask, curling up on the other end of the sofa to Marcus, “Do you have no cushions?”

“Shit, no -I’m a guy, what can I say? - lemme grab the pillows from the bed,” Marcus jumps up, calling through from his bedroom, “Bet you have loads on your couch.”

“A fuckload, but, mainly to hide the fact the springs have gone. It’s like a precarious balancing act of comfort on there,” you surreptitiously sniff the pillow, inhaling the smell of Marcus’ shampoo, “Did you give me your pillow?”

A confused look is shot at you from the other end of the sofa, “Whaddya mean?”

“Smells of your hair,” you say as you squish it into the perfect comfy shape, “Like a mixture of lemon and eucalyptus.”

“That’s a sharp nose you’ve got. I gave you the other side though,” Marcus huffs through a chuckles he shakes his head at your somewhat strange comment, “Guess I’ve been sleeping across both sides then.”

“Best thing about sleeping alone- getting to starfish across the bed. Unless of course…”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at your awkward dig to find out whether he’d brought home the goddess from Friday’s antics, “So you wanna know if I brought home Kemi?”

“She was very beautiful. You’d have been mad not to,” you try to school your expression as best you can, keeping your eyes glued to Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing about true love, desperate to hide the jealousy coursing through your veins.

“Must be mad then. Didn’t even kiss her,” Marcus honestly answers whilst copying your tactic of staring at the tv, “She could see that there was someone else I liked so it would have been cruel to have done anything.”

You mull this over in silence, trying not to speak, to ask a million questions.

“Nush.”

“Mhm?”

“Can I talk to y…”

You both jump as an alarm goes off on your phone to remind you to turn the lamb down in the oven.

“Oh shit. Hold that thought,” you jump up from the sofa, heading in the direction of the kitchen with zero thought of what the man at the end of the sofa is desperately trying to tell you. Fiddling with Marcus’ ridiculously swanky oven until it looks like it is doing what you want it to do, you walk back in with two ice cold beers from his fridge.

“Raided your fridge,” you cheekily grin, holding one out to Marcus, the condensation running, down your fingers, “Hope you don’t mind!”

“Good thinking, Batman,” Marcus nods in appreciation, “Any more alarms set to scare us both?”

“Only due to go off when the film is done, so…” you yawn widely, “We’ve got a while yet.”

Marcus’ hand that was slung over the back of the sofa, lifts to stroke your shoulder, “You sleepy? C'mere, you.” With a soft tug of your t-shirt sleeve, he pulls you into his side - your willingness to sink into his broad chest very apparent. Your ear is pressed against him, his heartbeat singing a lullaby to you as his fingers stroke and caress the silken waves of your hair. You wonder at how this man - a total stranger a week ago - has seemingly knitted himself into becoming a cocoon of safety for you, his gentleness and calm offering a haven of tranquility in your otherwise cacophonous world, as the light in the room slowly fades to black.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, welcome back, sunshine!” a gentle pair of fingers stroke back the hair that had drifted into your face as you dozed.

“Sorry for falling asleep. Again,” trying to finesse your way through the heat flaming your cheeks, you offer an awkward grin towards your chuckling pillow, “Guess we’d better start getting things finished as we’ve only got a couple of hours until everyone arrives.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Marcus! I don’t want to move either but this curry won’t finish cooking itself.”

“Spit spot, there’s work to be done,” Marcus trills as he adopts his best attempt at a British accent.

“What the fuck was that? Did you just turn into Dick Van Dyke or something?” You tease mercilessly at the appalling sound coming from those lips, choking back laughter at his mock offended face.

“C’mon, you’re right. We’d better get moving,” Marcus stands with a stretch and a creak before reaching back to tug you to your feet.

Back under the glowing lights of Marcus’ kitchen, his presence is now constantly close to yours as you glide together around the space - stirring, chopping and checking. Every time he passes, above the general aroma of cumin and coriander, the onions and garlic, you can smell the cedar and amber upon his skin- a deliciously masculine scent that only seeks to entangle your senses further.

“Here, try this,” you hold out a heaped teaspoon of mince curry to Marcus, “This is the keema - I promise that I only put in the two chillies you chopped for me, this time.”

“Mmm, that’s so good,” he says thickly between chews, stealing the spoon from you as he dives in for a second, third, fourth spoonful.

“Hahaha! Leave some for the others- and you need to try it with some raita and fried onions too,” you check through your dog-eared, yellowed and slightly sticky recipe book that your mum had handed you the day you’d left home at eighteen - a memo of all the times you had cooked them together.

“Shit, I’d better start the chicken,” going through the spices in front of you, you search for the cardamoms that would make the butter chicken sing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Marcus’ head snaps up from the green beans he was preparing towards you, “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“I can’t find the cardamoms for the butter chicken - gah I knew I’d fuck this up!” you cry, scraping your trembling hands through your hair, eyes flashing around the room wildly as your cortisol rises, making you want to run and scream at your failure to feed your friends.

“Whoa - where’s this coming from? C’mon, look at me. Look at me, Nush,” Marcus has his hands on either side of your shoulders, squeezing them gently, “There’s enough here to feed our whole office for the week with the daals you prepared yesterday, the vegetables we’re about to make and the meats that we’ve cooked up already here. Andy is bringing all the rice and naan, Kiri is bringing beers and Dian is on gin and tonic duty. You have done more than enough and I will not allow you to get this upset over one missing ingredient especially when there is a small store downstairs that I’m sure will have it, if we cannot find it after we look for it together.”

After seeing your numb nod as an agreement, Marcus moves his hands to the side of your head to focus your gaze on him rather than the panic seeping through you. As he strokes his thumbs across your cheeks, you allow your eyes to close and your breathing to regain a normal pattern.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Marcus searches your now open eyes.

“My reactions are ridiculous. Most people tell me to stop being so stupid and that just whips the storm inside my head even more,” you whisper, “But you. You know how to slow everything down and stop the spinning.”

The corner of Marcus’ mouth twitches, “D’ya wanna know a secret?” You nod at him, “As you know, I was married before. When it ended, I totally spiralled. The world kept spinning too fast and I experienced constant anxiety, very nearly burning out of my role.

“I was lucky. My boss was understanding but made me promise to get some support. He knew of someone mental health trained within the FBI who was there for mainly hostage negotiations - not part of the true psych team but someone who could help without it turning up on your record.

“Kwame worked with me for almost a year - pretty much to the point my decree absolute came through. Our sessions were done on a track - by running with me, he was teaching me the skills I needed to control my fears. By my feet hitting the tarmac, he was grounding me. By going over running techniques, he was teaching me how to control my breathing- taking longer and deeper breaths. And running is just repetition. A mindful repetition that allows your brain to have a bit of a break.

“So when I see you start to spiral, I try to give you the same steps he taught me. Get you grounded, opposite me so you copy my breathing and hope that gets you on the right track.”

“Thank you,” you drop your head forwards, relaxing onto his chest. He feels so - safe.

“You don’t need to thank me. Well, okay maybe you do as look what I’ve just spotted,” Marcus holds the offending spice aloft.

“Oh my god, I could fucking kiss you. You have just saved the curry,” you dramatically declare, clutching the cardamom jar to your heart before placing it next to the other ingredients on the counter.

“Go on then.”

What?

His comment makes you snap your head over to catch Marcus’ tremulous gaze, his eyes darting between the floor and your lips. He takes a small step, closing the small distance between the two of you, threading his fingers between yours. Each slow movement offers an unspoken opportunity for you to step away. To tease him and move on with the day.

But why on Earth would you?

With your heart racing faster and faster, you lure him ever closer with your eyes, soft but absolute in their conviction of what was about to pass between you. A small part of you understands that when you kiss him, something will change forever. That within his lips you may find the place to call home - the aching in your stomach may cease and life could start to make sense again. The anxieties of the week washing away, the pain of your collective pasts and the hint of a brighter, happier future before you.

When he doesn’t move again, you seize the moment. Pushing up onto your socked tiptoes, you tilt your chin, inclining your face until your lips come to rest upon his in the sweetest, chastest kiss. Drawing back slightly to check that Marcus is okay with a raise of your eyebrows and widened eyes, he holds your gaze steadily, similarly stunned - a mirror of each other with racing hearts and slightly parted lips. It’s like in that moment everything around you ceases to exist as anything other than extraneous nonsense - all the noise inside your head silenced by that one touch.

A small dumbstruck smile creeps across Marcus’ lips before he lowers his head to press another gentle kiss upon you. Then another. Then another. Each press of your lips a little longer. A little deeper. Your lips part to allow his tongue entry as every single thought is quietened by the taste of him. Dropping hands for his to cradle your face and yours to thread through his hair as your bodies press together tightly.

Oh the taste of him is utterly exquisite! From where you’ve been using him as chief curry taster, there’s an element of spices with the tiniest hint of mint. And how you have missed having that beautifully solid warmth of his body next to yours. Inhaling his breaths that fall upon you, your hearts match each other’s rhythms as your lips explore each other, every sensation drawing together to create a humming ball of energy, like you are standing at the point where lightning strikes the Earth.

✪✪✪✪✪

Hands fisted tightly in each other’s clothing - both stuck in the quandary of wanting to tear the fabric from your bodies but also frightened of pushing the other too far. Finally pulling apart, you gaze upon Marcus - all lust blown pupils and dopey smiles. Your foreheads come back to rest against each other, unable to quite let go just yet, not wanting to break the spell and return to reality.

“I have wanted to kiss you since perhaps the first time I met you,” Marcus murmurs as his lips gently ghost over your cheeks, “Maybe even from seeing the photo in your file when Andy drove me here from the airport.”

“Was the person, me?” You quietly ask, finally with the confidence to finish that conversation, “The reason you didn’t kiss or sleep with the goddess?”

He drops his eyes as he gives you a small nod, “Normally, I’d have just asked you out but I was scared of fucking up. It’s been a long time since I felt a spark with anyone.

“You’ve entered my life in this whirlwind of intelligence, beauty and tenderness - I didn’t want to frighten you or make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t reciprocate.”

A thousand thoughts flood your mind as Marcus says those words. All at once, you want to tell him how safe he makes you feel. How much now that you’ve started kissing him, you never want to stop. How the cruel critics of slumber, silence themselves when you feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Instead you stand there, silent.

Trying to stroke out the creases you’ve created in his t-shirt as you attempt to find words to put into a logical order, you notice his face twitching when the material under your fingers makes contact with his sides, “Oh Marcus, are you ticklish?”

“Um, no,” Marcus tries to deny breezily as he takes a small, hesitant step back from you, pretending to steady himself.

Making a small movement towards him, your hands at the same level as the point of the bunched fabric - you ask, “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Marcus is now eyeing you suspiciously - desperate to kiss you again but also a little worried as to what havoc your fingers might reek.

“Then, why are you moving away from me?”

“No reason…” his usually deep voice now a little tighter and higher, “Nush… What are you about to ARGH!”

His knees crumble beneath him as you attack his sensitive sides, “Gah! Quit it, woman,” he weakly commands between wheezes and hoots of laughter.

Taking full advantage of Marcus’ prone and vulnerable position, you take the opportunity to straddle him - effectively pinning him to the floor, “This is how you pin someone.”

“I let you pin me,” Marcus corrects you with a wink.

“Oh really?” you contest, entirely unconvinced by his bravado.

“Yeah,” he says with a small wiggle, bringing his hands to the back of your head, “Cos y’see, I can flip our positions quite easily.”

Suddenly, you find yourself flat on your back in Marcus’ kitchen with zero air in your lungs to form any sensible thought other than to kiss him hard. His large hands cradle your head as he props himself gently above you on his elbows. You feel his entire body covering yours. Deliciously pressing against every single inch of you and oh how it takes every bit of the minutismal amount of self control you have to not beg him to fuck you senseless into that floor.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Shit, is that your door?”

“Fuck,” Marcus pushes himself up to kneeling between your legs, “Can we pretend we’re not in?”

The harsh realisation of an evening with your colleagues, albeit lovely people, sinks in to you both.

“Nope,” you groan, popping the p with a deflated gusto, “Hang on, don’t buzz them up until I’ve tucked my boobs back into my bra.”

“I dunno, makes for easier access,” Marcus lopsidedly grins with a wink as he heads for the door.

“You certainly didn’t seem to make hard work of it earlier,” you mumble at him, before you affix a smile to your face, “Hey! How are you all doing?”

A sea of never ending hugs envelopes and separates you from Marcus as everyone piles into his apartment. The stupid grin still firmly in place on your face since you’d first kissed, you find that every time you look over at him, he’s gazing right back, mirroring that lovestruck smile.

“Oh my god, it all smells so amazing,” Dian waxes lyrical, squeezing you tightly as she inhales a lungful of exotically scented air, “What’ve we got?”

You take her by the hand into the kitchen to show all the different things you had bubbling away. Andy ducks into the kitchen behind you, laden with bags filled with pilau rice, naan and chapatis, and a beautiful small bunch of spring flowers in his other hand - tiny tête-à-tête daffodils with multiple heads along each stalk, brilliant yellow and red tulips standing like soldiers and the otherworldly looking stems of hyacinth, wickedly scenting the air under your nose as he thrusts them under there.

“Hey pretty girl, here’s all the bits you asked for. You deserve a much bigger bunch for what I’ve roped you into but I know you love the early blooms,” he offers by way of apology, sticking a kiss to the side of your forehead, “Smells fucking good though as ever. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a box to take some home for Greg - he was a jealous arse this evening so I suppose I should share.”

“You know the way I cook, enough for several small armies,” you wonkily grin at him, truly thankful for the part he’d had to play, “‘Fraid there’s no easy way to say this and you will have to be the one to break it to Greg, but there’s no butter chicken tonight.”

“You’d better have a damn good excuse for this slatternly behaviour, madam,” Andy gives you a serious side eye for this infraction.

“Well…”

“Initially Nush couldn’t find the cardamoms but then we ran out of time. Plenty of food here, though,” Marcus answers for you, his hand gently holding your hip as he reaches around you to grab a couple of beers from the fridge.

You see Andy catch Marcus’ hand lightly stroking your side as he walks back to Kiritopa, but are entirely grateful when his expression and mouth say nothing. The light chatter in the kitchen, whilst Dian dips a teaspoon into all the pots, is interrupted by a small knock at the door. Sticking your head around the kitchen door, you spot Marcus opening the door to a nervous-looking Harper. Andy sidles past you, to pull her into the main room, rather than her previous position of standing on the doorstep, utterly awkward and obviously feeling quite out of place.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind me coming. I know I wasn’t there Friday but I don’t really do large crowds and drinking.”

You walk over to her amidst the chorus of “not to worry”s and “lovely to see you”s, “Fancy something to drink now? Got plenty of soft options and I think I’ll stick alongside you as I’ve got to make sure I don’t burn stuff.”

“Including yourself, this time,” Harper retorts quickly with a small smile and a raise of her eyebrows.

“Hah, chance’d be a fine thing,” Andy laughs, slapping your shoulder before turning back to clink bottles and talk with Kiri and Marcus.

✪✪✪✪✪

Through the full length doors of Marcus’ balcony, evening spring sunshine streams through, bathing the group of your co-workers in a gentle, diffused light that flows around the room coating you in a golden glow. You all eat your fill and then some, with full tummies and tired eyes - the kitchen still full of half eaten dishes.

“Can we make this a weekly thing?” Kiritopa asks through a mouthful of food, hopefully.

“Not unless we take it in turns or get a take away - I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to make this level of curry every weekend,” you pointedly remark, looking up from your coke to meet Marcus’ eyes.

You’ve spent the evening barely speaking to each other for fear of alerting the others but surreptitiously brushing past so that you can sneak touches. Tender hidden strokes that feel like the kindest stitches on hidden, gaping wounds.

Marcus stands up to help usher the evening to an end and get you to himself again, “I have some boxes for y’all to take food home as otherwise, I’ll be eating this for weeks - delicious as it is.”

Everyone thankfully takes their boss’ hint and head into the kitchen to grab platefuls to reheat after long days. Slowly saying their goodbyes, your friends drift off in the direction of their homes as you throw yourself in an exhausted heap of bones on his sofa. Two strong hands grip you under your arms, to drape your torso across his lap.

“Hey tired girl,” you slightly open your eyes to spy a smiling Marcus gazing down at you. His fingers draw lazy patterns over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I’d like to take you on a proper date this week. Wanna do this properly. Make a bit of a fuss.”

“Yeah? Not just pin me down and ravish me on the kitchen floor?” you grin widely at him.

“Well, I’d hardly call that a ravishing…” your eyes widen, eyebrows raising at Marcus’ comment, excitement pooling in your tummy, “Yeah, I saw there’s an Argentinian restaurant in Blackheath so how about steak, Malbec and homemade ice cream before I bring you back to either yours, or mine, for another, even better ravishing?”

“That sounds amazing, although with the amount of food in my belly, I may never have to eat again,” you give your stomach a rub, “But the ravishing…”

Hauling you up to sitting across his lap, you protest loudly, “I am going to crush your legs.”

“Stop making ridiculous comments and c’mere,” Marcus demands as he gently turns your head towards him, stealing a delicate kiss from you.

“I...should… - argh! Stop kissing me for a second,” you beg halfheartedly, “I should go home.”

“Stay.”

“Please stay,” Marcus desperately entreats you, “I’m not expecting anything but I’d love it if you stayed. I know you’ve got nothing here but give me two minutes and I can have a spare toothbrush for you. I’ll drop you home early tomorrow morning so you can grab some clothes and then we can go into work together?”

It feels as though the wind is knocked out of your lungs with the depth of Marcus’ need to be around you.

How does he do it?

“There’s no games with you, are there?” you twist in Marcus’ lap so that you now straddle his thighs, placing your hands on either side of his ridiculously handsome face.

“No,” he shakes head slowly, all the while holding eye contact with you, “I’m too old and I know what I want.”

“What’s that?”

Stroking his hands up and down your sides as he nuzzles your neck, he clearly and confidently declares,

“You.”

Tag list of glory (as ever, please ask to be put on or dropped from the list): @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito-deactivated20210 @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @lunaserenade @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Blood calls to blood.

It Does My Heart Good: Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12 || Chapter 13 || Chapter 14 || Chapter 15

“That’s it, Rab!”

Jamie almost doubled over, breathing heavily, beaming with joy as his six-year-old son pedaled down the road on his bike, wobbling just a bit.

“No training wheels, Da!” Rab shouted, almost not believing it himself.

Jamie took deep, heaving breaths. “Claire!” he croaked. “Where are ye?”

Claire poked her head out of an upstairs window, peering down at her husband and son in the street. “What? Everybody all right?”

“Mama, look!” Just then Rab pedaled back to the house.

“Oh, lovie!” Quickly she darted inside, raced down the stairs, and flew out of the door, almost colliding with Jamie who still clutched to the mailbox to hold himself steady. 

Rab absolutely glowed, smiling ear to ear as he pedaled back and forth in front of his parents. “Look, Mama and Da!”

Slowly, carefully, Jamie pulled his phone from his front shirt pocket to take a video of Rab racing up and down the street, giddy with joy. 

“Has he fallen yet?” Claire asked, trying to not sound worried.

Jamie shrugged. “He’s a boy. It happens.”

“That’s not exactly comforting - ”

“Have ye had a message from Bree today?” he interrupted uncharacteristically.

Her brow furrowed. “No. Why?”

Jamie held out his phone so that his wife could see the screen. It was a text from Brianna, sent about half an hour previous: I need to see you and Claire tonight. We’re fine. I’ll explain later.

Silently Claire counted to five before responding. “Well I’m worried.”

Jamie watched as Rab ground the bike to a halt at the end of the road, stood up, caught his breath for a bit.

“I hope it isnae the bairn. She’d tell us, aye?”

Brianna and her husband Roger were expecting their first child - Jamie and Claire and John and Isobel’s first grandchild. It had been a surprise - Brianna had become pregnant only about three months after her wedding and six months after starting her new job, and although the two of them were young and early in their respective careers, they loved and cared for each other. And they could provide for a baby - a baby that clearly they both wanted.

Claire nodded. “She would. Same if it was some kind of problem with Roger. I know it’s been stressful, and that they’re still trying to plan for what they’ll do when she goes back to work.”

Jamie tucked his phone back into his pocket and wrapped an arm around Claire’s shoulder. “The puir child has four grandparents to care for it, not to mention two decrepit great-uncles who have gladly said they’ll be full-time carers.” That was true - Lamb and his partner Fez had told Brianna as much during the dinner they’d organized to celebrate her pregnancy. With Lamb retired and Fez on sabbatical for the next year - and with Isobel Grey only working part time, and with Jamie himself fully in control of his schedule at the bookstore, this child had an entire network of people to ensure his or her comfort and care.

“I can’t help but worry.” Claire sighed. 

Jamie squeezed her shoulder. “You’re her Mam. It’s your job to worry.”

Rab raced his bike down the road again, whizzing past them, hitting a rock, and wiping out in spectacular fashion.

“Thankfully he’s wearing his jeans today,” Claire muttered before racing over to her son, too drunk with joy to feel any pain.

---

“That’s a huge scrape you’ve got there,” Brianna politely observed as her brother showed off his skinned knees.

“Yeah. And I was even wearing pants! Mama said it was a good thing I didn’t wipe out in the dirt.”

Bree smiled, rubbing her six-month-pregnant belly. “That’s certainly true.”

“How old were ye when ye learned to ride a bike?” Jamie spooned up the last of the peas Claire had made to go with the roast chicken and mashed potatos she and Bree had cooked for dinner.

Brianna frowned, thinking. “I think I was about seven. It was the summertime, I remember that. I was wearing shorts, and my legs were covered in bruises and my arms were covered in mosquito bites.”

Rab wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

She laughed. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

Jamie swallowed his last bite and stood, pushing his chair away from the table. “All right, wee Rab. Help me clear the dishes. Bree - you and Claire can sit in the living room if ye like?”

Carefully Bree stood, stretching. “Sounds like a great idea.” 

Claire stood too, and took Bree’s hand. Bree squeezed it, and together they retreated to the soft chairs in the room off of the dining room.

For a while they sat next to each other on the couch, not speaking, listening to the low hum of Jamie’s voice speaking quietly to Rab and the clink of dishes and silverware as they washed and dried. Claire wanted Bree to make the first move, but soon enough Bree spoke.

“I had a realization this morning. Well, two, really. And I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Claire nodded. Patient.

Brianna looked down at her lap as she spoke. “The first is...I almost feel terrible for saying this, but I’m glad not just that you’re a doctor, but that you’re my mother, and I can talk to you about being pregnant and all of the weird things about it, because I can’t talk to my Mom about it.”

“Because she was never pregnant,” Claire said softly.

Bree nodded. “I feel terrible even thinking that - she’s the greatest Mom, and she’s known me all of my life, but -”

“But it helps to talk to someone who has experienced it firsthand. I understand.”

“I remember when you were pregnant with Rab - I  remember asking you all about it, and learning about it. Because I’d never had that growing up. But it’s all so different now.” She paused. “I feel terrible even saying that about my Mom.”

Gently Claire rubbed the back of her daughter’s hand. “Don’t feel bad. I think she’d understand. And I’m so glad that I can help you, Bree. That this is another thing we can share.”

Bree swallowed, still not looking up at her. Claire felt her daughter’s hands shake with emotion.

“Are you all right, honey? Is everything all right with Roger?”

Bree let out a breath. “Oh, Claire, he’s so wonderful. He takes such good care of me. He’s a goofball and it’s really, really endearing.”

“I’m so glad you have that love in your life. Having a child with the man you love - it’s an incredible experience.”

Inexplicably Bree began to sob. Working from an instinct she couldn’t even begin to name, Claire leaned in to hold her daughter close. Comforting her, sheltering her as she cried and cried and cried.

“What’s wrong?” she crooned softly. “You can tell me anything, lovie.”

Brianna hugged Claire even tighter. “The other thing I realized today,” she whispered, “is that I can’t even begin to imagine my life without this baby in it. And then I realized that that’s exactly what you had to do, with me.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Claire rubbed her back soothingly. “That was different. I was unmarried and alone.”

“But still - I feel such a bond with him already, and I can’t imagine disrupting that. For most of the time before I was born, you knew me - and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to keep me.”

“Yes. But I made that choice. Jamie and I made that choice together, because it was the best choice we could make for you.”

“I can’t even imagine making that choice.” Bree took a deep, shaky breath. “And it really, really hit me today. I feel like I finally understand. And I want you to know...” Now she pulled back to look at Claire, wiping away the tears still streaming down her cheeks. “I want you to know that I love you so much more for what you did for me. Because I don’t know if I’d ever have the strength to do that.”

Tears welled in Claire’s own eyes. “Jamie said something to me, before we left each other in Glasgow, during those few precious weeks we had together when we knew you were coming and before I came back to Boston. He said - love forces a person to choose. You do things you never imagined you could do before.”

Bree smiled tearfully. “He’s right.”

Claire wiped away her tears, and cradled her cheek. “Of course he is. I kept saying that to myself over and over and over before you were born, and after you were born, and after I’d moved to North Carolina.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier today when I texted Jamie. I just - ”

“I know, sweetie. I know.”

Just then Rab darted into the room, oblivious to his sister’s tears. “Ice cream for dessert?”

Bree sniffed and looked at her watch. “Roger should be here in fifteen minutes or so. Mind if we wait until  then?”

Rab careened out of the room, intent on setting another place at the dining room table.

“Had I not made an adoption plan for you, Bree - I never would have had Rab.”

Bree turned to her mother, incredulous. “Oh my God. You’re right.”

Claire smiled tightly. “So. Everything is worthwhile. You never know the happiness that will come from the sadness.”

Bree squeezed her hands. “My life has become so much happier with you and Jamie in it. And Rab, too.”

Claire’s heart soared. “Oh, lovie. Ours too. Ours too.”

[hope-to-hell]

A Possession, part three: Dissolution. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. This is it: the last chapter. A little smut, a little angst. Nothing lasts. Part one is here, part two is here

—-

Shake, shake

—-

Somehow, impossibly, you make it more than a week without touching him. And somehow, you figure out a way to exist in the same space. Thank god for quarantine, at least, so you have an excuse to stay at home, to keep this weirdness out of the public eye.

Walker turns out to be a surprisingly competent cook, but hesitates when you ask what his favorite foods are. And despite everything, it’s so hard to shake the feeling of being a host, of providing for your guest, however uninvited he might be. So you make a grocery order and start in on the best dishes you know: pies and roast lamb, hamburgers, risotto, whatever comes to mind when you think of meals you’ve enjoyed. He eats them all dutifully, but it’s not until you hit upon rainbow trout in parchment that you get your first real sigh of pleasure. Huh. You would’ve pegged him for a red meat kind of guy.

And everything you do, everywhere you go, he’s there, watching. Considering. Ten feet away.

It’s like this. One evening he braces one hand against the wall of the shower and drops his head in a pose you know so well. You don’t mean to look, but Christ, he must want you to. Must, because he draws open the shower door to stare straight at you from under his sopping curls as he fists his cock. Must, because he kicks his legs apart to press hard behind his balls with his other hand. Must, because he hisses your name like a curse when he paints the bathroom floor white. And the whole time his eyes are locked on yours.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says again, and somehow you find the voice to answer.

“Wouldn’t mind isn’t good enough. You’ve got to tell me you want it.” And you have the satisfaction of seeing August Walker poleaxed, however briefly. He hmms a little, thoughtfully, and brushes past you into the bedroom, water droplets shining on the curve of his ass. His gait hitches as he approaches the limits of separation, and you hurry to follow, clean enough to get by for another night but feeling filthier than you have any right to. And when you slide carefully under the covers, he inhales deeply, like he’s scenting you. He smiles, victorious, in the half-dark as you lie there with both hands fisted in the sheets just like you have for days, but now you know exactly what he looks like when he comes.

Fuck.

He escalates, because of course he does. He waits until you’re soaking up sunshine in the kitchen window, then presses in close to cage your body against the counter. He brushes scarred fingertips down the side of your face, and it’s like your mind has been ripped straight out of your body. You feel him touching you, and fuck. You feel him touching you. It’s the strangest sensation, touches doubling and echoing. Licking into his mouth and tasting your own tongue, pulling him in by the hips and feeling matching bruises rise on your own body. And from the way he surges against you, he must feel it too.

Remember. Your nerves are my nerves. You want me to say it? Here it is, directly from my mind to yours. I. Want. This.

This is the part of the movie where it fades to black, where the last thing the audience sees is the lovers, entwined, maybe a flash of light on a naked thigh. This is the part where the music swells, climaxes, spills into silence.

This is the part where the next scene is either a soft, affectionate embrace or a hasty exit from the bed, a quick redressing and an angsty downtempo tune, maybe a walk in the rain.

This is the part where he starts to rise, where you wrap your hand around his wrist and whisper, “stay.”

—-

Untethering

—-

It isn’t clear, at first, what’s happening. A little extra hair in the drain is easy to explain away; you’ve got two people sharing the shower now. Same with the bruising that appears on his arms, his back, his ribs, because for all he grips at you, you give back in equal measure. And if he takes a little longer in the shower than before, if he seems to spend an awfully long time just leaning back and letting the spray hit him, well, maybe he’s finally relaxing a little.

It’s days and days of rutting against one another, of watching in the mirror as he takes you apart. And he loves it, that grinding ache in his fingers as he presses them inside you. He loves it, and you know because you feel it; you feel an answering ache in your own hands and a twinge in your cock that’s almost but not quite unlike anything you’ve felt before (it’s close, so close, to the first time, when he was still just a voice in your head).

Somehow, it’s still a surprise when he shakes you awake and hisses, “Get inside me. Now.” And when you reach for him, a little hesitant because you’ve had each other in nearly every way except this, you taste something strange and metallic, chilly on your tongue. He’s anxious, desperate. The metallic taste increases in its intensity as he surges at your mouth, licking into you with savage competency.

“Are you—“ are you sure is what you want to say, but he’s pressing lube at you with one hand while trying to tear your sleep pants off with the other, and it feels like he’s got half a dozen hands roaming all around you, and it’s unfair because he knows exactly what this does to you, exactly how you respond to every touch. It’s overwhelming, and soon you lose that peculiar metallic taste in the static that sparks hot down your spine and right into where you swell and pulse with the sudden desperate need of him.

And you want to watch his face, watch those eyes shine in the darkness, want to rub your face against his as you open him but he’s turning away, over, hitching a knee under himself and reaching blindly back for your hand. “Now,” he grits out in a voice like the bottom of a dry well. And it’s too soon, has to be, before he’s demanding two and then three fingers and then “godfuckingdammit, that’s enough. Get in me already.”

And when you press into him it’s, fuck, for a moment your vision whites out and you are nowhere, hurling aimlessly through a great expense of nothing, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating thing you’ve ever felt. Is it like this for him? Can’t be, he’s always so controlled, so precise. It’s impossible even to think like this,

I’ll think for you. Don’t worry, just act.

so you don’t think, and when you return to your body it’s to find yourself draped over him, clinging, rolling your hips like a ship in a storm. Desperation doubles back and builds on itself until you feel as though if you don’t come right now you will die. And you don’t want to die, but you also aren’t sure what the rules are, so you try to withdraw and that’s when his hand closes around your wrist, hard and tight and don’t you fucking dare.

And that’s it, that’s all it takes, his touch and his blessing, before you’re spilling inside him in long shivering pulses. And even then, even when he clenches so tight around you it’s like he’s pulling all the blood from your body, he doesn’t let you go.

You stay with him, in him, until you soften and slip free, and when you wrap an arm over his belly he lets you. He feels warm, as relaxed as he ever gets, and most of all relieved. “Better?” you ask, and in return he twists his neck, rolling his shoulders back till he can reach to kiss you. It’s soft, but almost mathematical in its precision. And he still tastes like metal.

—-

Waves and light (how bold I was)

—-

He’s stopped sleeping. In the night you reach for him and find the bed cold. He’s there, of course, ten feet away, staring out the window. He’s all hard muscle, luminous in the moonlight, a demigod or an avenging angel. He turns and tilts his head, and you can see his breath hang frosty in the air. You wake in the morning to find him still standing at the window, and for a split second you could swear the light passes right through him.

He’s stopped sleeping, and he hovers a little closer than he used to but he doesn’t touch, not until you sigh and tell him to “get over here. C’mon. I don’t have to touch you to know you’re worried about something.”

So you enclose him in the circle of your arms, bump your face against his scars to feel that little spark, that staticky sensation from nerve damage, to feed him the pleasure that touching him brings. You breathe softly, saying nothing, until he relaxes by degrees.

He smells like blood, but then again he always does. Chaos and death are embedded into every fiber of his being. If he were to shed his skin, to slither pink and naked into the world as a man reborn, maybe it would be different. But he is who he is, and you are who you are, although tangled like this it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. One of you sparks a slow-burning arousal, the kind that takes hours to come to a head if it does at all, a slow soft yearning. You sigh into it, nuzzling at him a bit, feeling your stubble scrape across his cheek. Like this, you can almost forget who and what he is.

And he hears you, huffs a little. What I am doesn’t matter anymore, not outside these walls. And I—

He sucks in a breath, harsh and wet, sucking air up from your lungs. It burns, scraping bloody up your throat.

Metal again. And pressed against him like this, you can catch the echoes of fear, of a strange sort of dissolution. Light through greasepaper, snow drifting through broken windows. Shoulders straining against his jacket. Blood and bone and a lonely valley. Trying to breathe but the shards of his ribs dig into his lungs—

Oh.

Oh fuck. You realize, then, that he’s dying, pulled back to that moment. None of this mattered in the end; all it did was delay the inexorable march of fate. You can almost see it happening, scars brightening and blooming into wounds, bruises rising where he hit the ground. And you hear it too, the slow scrape of metal across the floor, the heavy tread of boots and a soft susurration of fabric. She’s here.

And it’s strange: you’d expect her to revel in this, finally capturing this soul that’s eluded her for so long. But it’s almost like she’s trying to be comforting. Things fall apart. Entropy comes for us all, in the end. And you got more time than most.

Listen, I don’t want to you have to go. His fingers tremble against yours, coppery fear blooming heavy on your tongue.

I’m not unkind, you know. It’s just the way it has to be. Think of this as a gift. Better than falling apart piece by piece, isn’t that right?

Is it? Maybe, with more time, you could figure something out, maybe if he took just a little more, a few of your years, you don’t need that much time, you could spare him that—

No. Hey. We. We had a good run, didn’t we? Just, remember me. Please.

He’s terrified, pulse rabbiting in his chest, fingers clutching yours as the scythe descends. And you feel it when the connection breaks, tension dissolving as he fades, the cruel hard core of him pulling free from your chest. Your hand is your hand again, grasping at nothing. He manages a smile, almost, shimmering through a film of tears. Hey, listen. I—

And then he’s gone, nothing more than motes of dust in the air, as you blink hard, trying to pull him back into your sight.

—-

Epilogue (the last thing inside the box was)

—-

You see him sometimes, a flash of cold eyes in the crowd or a particular way someone has of standing. You listen to the wind, and watch frost crawling up the windows in winter, and you miss him.

You return to the world, you smile and wave and show your teeth. It’s not a real smile, not quite, but you’ll get there. You always have.

You bake trout in parchment, and American biscuits, and you eat alone.

On a wintery afternoon you climb aboard a packed train, mercifully anonymous in the crowd. Your bare hand brushes against a stranger’s. You feel a spark, pins and needles, like a waking limb.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 X

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The court celebrates the last hunt.

Note: Okay, so I called in today because of my anxiety at the suggestion of my boytoy and he told me to sleep in a bit. He’s not a doctor, but he’s got a PhD (pretty huge dick) so I have to listen. But I got this chapter done last night so y’all still get your fix, lol.

Also, I have to thank you guys, I really can’t thank you enough. I am in love with this fic and truly in your discussion of it bc yall seem as invested as I am and I just love all the possibilities and how these characters are turning out and it’s all been so much fun. So please, enjoy and remember that I love you (but I will not leave my wife for you, sorry).

(also open to new moodboards for the fic or even playlists for inspo if anyone’s interested. memes always welcome.)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋 You guys rock!

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

You were never one to stand out among a crowd. Were it not for the sling around your shoulder, that would still be true. You suspected, without the king's interest, that would be even more true. But despite your simply cut gown, you could sense the eyes as you entered the hall.

The trestles were set with scarlet cloth and silver plates. You followed the other unwed ladies to the table opposite the lower lords. The king would sit at the high table with several favoured lords and ladies and those of the council not among them would sit along the next. 

You were surprised to spot your father along that group of men, though he did not wear the pin that the other counselors wore. He nodded at you from across the room as he took his seat. You were stopped before you could go behind the trestle by a servant in royal colours. The other ladies glanced over but quickly hid their curiosity.

“My lady,” The servant said. “You are to take the place of honour at the high table.”

“Pardon?” You stepped aside to let Joan pass behind you. 

“The king has declared you the Maiden of the Forest. You must take your proper seat,” The servant insisted. “If you would follow me, my lady.”

“Um,” You glanced to the ladies as they sat along the bench then to the table where your father sat. His eyes narrowed at you as he listened to Lord Callum. “Certainly. As you will.”

You waited for the servant to lead you. You climbed the short steps up to the dais that held the king’s table. Diana and Mable sat with their husbands, Anthony and Samuel, and Lord Barnes stood next to an empty chair to the right of the king’s. The royal couple themselves were upon a short platform that held them another half foot above their guests. 

The servant gestured towards Barnes. “Just down there, lady.” He explained. “With Lord Barnes.”

“Thank you,” You nodded to the man and he quickly departed for his other chores.

As you walked along the table, behind chairs both occupied and not, you stared at the king’s chair. The thought of spending the feast next to him filled you with dread. A blur of movement caught your eye and you found Lord Barnes awaiting you with a smile as you drew nearer.

“My lady,” He took your hand and bowed to kiss your hand dramatically. “The venerable Maiden of the Forest.”

“You mock me,” You accused. “Though I should wonder how a man in such a smock could find the gull to do so.”

“Oh but any silk not dull as stone would seem gauche next to your attire, my lady,” He quipped. “As a second daughter, I am certain you expected a convent but you’ve escaped the habit of yet.”

“I thought you the king’s man, not his jester,” You returned. He politely shifted the chair back for you to sit. “Though perhaps a fool’s cap would suit you better.”

“As much as a bolder shade would bring out your complexion, my lady,” He remarked as you sat. “Do you truly seek to deter the king or is this truly what you consider fashionable?”

“This is what an earl’s daughter can afford,” You said sharply. 

“If only half this court was as self-aware as you, my lady,” He sat beside you, “Perhaps then it would not be so turbulent.”

“Oh, if only,” You agreed.

“The sling, however, does brighten the look,” He added. “How does your shoulder fair?”

“Tender but not so insufferable as my company.”

You looked across the room. Rose was not among the ladies. You hadn’t seen her since before the hunt and heard even less of her. ‘I will see that she is dealt with’, those were the words the king had spoke. The promise he’d made to you though you could not untangle his meaning.

“Oh my lady, I do remember the scene in your chambers,” He intoned. “I am not the worst you must suffer.”

He grinned as you looked to him. Your retort was curtailed by the sound of a horn. You stood at the announcement of the king’s arrival and all bowed as he entered. He wore a rich green brocade slitted with gold silk. The queen’s dress was a similar shade though she did not bear the same poise. Her sharp eyes scanned the hall and fell on you. She pushed her shoulders back and averted her gaze with detest.

Barnes shifted on his feet and peeked over at you out of the corner of his eye. You raised your brows and shook your head. He was not so unconcerned as he pretended to be. The king and queen made their entrance to the blaring of the horn and ascended the dais as their subjects waited and watched.

You kept your head forward as they passed behind you and the queen’s skirts brushed against the legs of your chair. “Snake.” She snarled under her breath for you to hear. You struggled not to flinch at the word and listened as her heels clicked up the step to her perch.

“You handle it better than most.” Barnes whispered as the royal couple sat and their guests followed suit.

“What else can I do but bite my tongue and keep my eyes forward?” You returned as he reached for the decanter and filled his goblet. 

“Wine?” He offered but did not await your answer before he poured it in your cup. “And let me say, I’ve seen a dozen or so women in your position and they often resort to boasting, arrogance even.”

“In my position? And you think--”

“Oh, I know of your modesty,” He assured you as he sipped and servants appeared with platters and began to set them out between silver plates. “Though such restraint is almost unknown at this court. I suspect that’s why the king has remained so persistent.”

You drank from your cup and glanced over at the king. You worried he would overhear. He was entirely distracted by Eleanor’s whispers though barely entertained. He scowled as his eyes swept the ceiling and he huffed in response.

“He has persisted before, has he not?” You kept your voice low.

“A month, maybe two, and only after he obtained his prize.” He paused as a platter was set between you. “You only expedited Rose’s downfall but you didn’t cause it.”

“Is that your expectation? A month, maybe two for me?” You wondered. “It is not that I do not expect the same treatment, only that I’d hope to avoid the same end.”

“I don’t know what to expect,” He shrugged as he speared a slice of venison from the platter. “For so long as I’ve known the king, I’ve not quite seen him as I did in your chamber.”

“Surely he must’ve promised the same to other ladies.” You took a smaller piece and scooped some roasted veggies upon your plate.

“Jewels and fancy baubles only,” He said. “Eleanor is a princess herself, even without the marriage. What he intends is not so easily done as said.”

“And you think he truly means to do it?” You hovered your fork above your plate as you stared at him. Despite the edge of his tongue, he proved to be the most honest at court.

“I think he means to have you,” He cut into his venison, “And there is little that can stop him once he has his mind set.”

You looked to your plate and pushed a piece of potato around the silver. Your stomach knotted as you pondered cutting your meat with one hand.

“My lady,” A whisper distracted you. You looked over as the king leaned down. “I should ask after your health.”

“I am well,” You assured him. “My arm does not bother me so much but I must avoid straining it further.”

“Well enough to dance?” He ventured as his eyes lit up. “Being the Maiden of the Forest, it would be expected you take up the boards.”

“A dance.” You assured him, “But not many more. I fear the sling would make me far more ungainly than I already am.”

“A dance, a smile, I relish in all that you allow me, my lady,” His eyes flicked down for just a moment. “And what of the gifts I have given you?”

Your eyes rounded for a moment before you recalled the opal necklace still hidden in your trunk. “Oh, your highness, how forgetful I am. It has all been so hectic I’ve not even the thought to wear it, though it is the finest piece I’ve ever owned.”

“I should like that you would,” He reproached. “As a marker of my love for you.”

You looked down and nodded. “I will have to remind myself,” You said quietly. “I do forget myself so often.”

“Oh, but lady, do not punish yourself,” He said softly. “For I bear you no anger, I only wish to see you well.”

“And I do thank you for your concern,” You looked up at him. “It means very much.”

“I think of nothing else,” He assured you, “No one else.”

He bowed his head and sat up. The queen’s eyes glared across the room as she ignored her husband’s conversation with you. You sat back and took another drink. Barnes was smiling as he swallowed his mouthful.

“While I admire your grace, I know you are rather adept at rancor. Perhaps you would be best to prove the same to him.” He mused. “Oh, it might solve many problems should you speak with more than a lamb’s tongue.”

“I am honest--”

“Oh but you coat it in honey,” He interjected. “Our king is wise. Should you bite him once, he might just leave you alone.”

“And should he choose to swat me down instead?”

“Despite what you’ve known of him, he is not entirely irrational,” He said coolly. “Perhaps he might realize his wife is not so vile after all.”

“Perhaps,” You mulled as you prodded a slice of carrot, “Or perhaps it is too late for even that.”

👑

The night wore on. Your shoulder ached; from the tension, from the stiff chair, from your general discomfort. The king would lean down to speak to you every now and then and as he did, all in the hall would notice. Though they tried to be subtle, you did not miss their intrusive eyes.

Lord Barnes did not hide his awareness either. At times, he'd lean back and speak to the king around you. The queen's malice radiated from the other side of the king but she would not acknowledge her husband's obvious disregard.

When the meal came to an end, the horn sounded once more and the platters were cleared. Several courses had left guests joyous and half-drunk.

The king stood before the band could begin to pluck. He held a hand up as he waited for silence. His subjects hushed their chatter and looked to him. He smiled back, a beacon of kingly grace.

"And so we close another season. This marks the beginning of winter and the end of our most bountiful season." His voice carried easily across the hall. "As is tradition we must crown our Maiden of the Forest."

You gulped and looked to Barnes. He smirked at the king's words and scoffed. He leaned back and watched nonchalantly as Steven continued. A servant appeared at the wave of his hand.

"If you would, my lady," He nodded to you as he took a circlet of vines and petals from the servant.

You rose stiffly. He offered his free hand and you took it as he guided you up beside him. The queen kept her head high and you peered out across the hall. Your father was turned around in his chair watching proudly. The servant helped remove your cap.

"In the name of the hunt, I name you our Maiden of the Forest." The king announced as he placed the crown of flowers upon your head. "May you reign this night with grace and joy."

"Thank you, your highness, " Your voice was brittle as your head swayed.

"And to close the old season and open the new, let us dance." He declared. "Maiden, would you grant me your first dance?"

You nodded. At first, your throat was too tight to speak. The queen's hand was balled in a fist upon the table. "Yes, your highness," You managed, "If you can forgive my shortfalls, it is yours."

"Then let us dance!" He boomed.

For a moment, no one moved and then all at once, the band picked up and the nobles began to rise from the tables. They filtered out to the floor as the king led you behind the chairs and from the dais. Barnes did not rise and poured himself another cup.

The king pressed his palm to yours as you came to face each other. You felt awkward and unbalanced with your other arm in its sling. As he moved his feet, you shuffled around him. You hadn't thought your dancing could get worse.

"My lady, I am glad to see you well." He cooed. "I admit I was restless with worry for you."

"Your highness." You said curtly and looked around at the other dancers.

He was silent for a moment as you followed the music.

"Have I wronged you, my lady?" He asked.

"Have you? Oh, how can you not see what you do to me? This court reviles me due to your humiliation of the queen. Your declarations that would allude to adultery."

"My lady, I only mean to honour you and your virtue--"

"What you mean and what you have done are not the same. You would crown me with your wife at your side. You would overlook her for me. You would sully my virtue as you claim to protect it." You glanced over at Barnes as he remained at the table. He looked into his cup as he sloshed it around. "And I have treated you with nothing by reverence and yet you persist."

"I have promised you anon that the woman who claims herself as my wife is none such." He hissed. "But I must gather my evidence before I can make it known. Before I can right what is wrong."

"You promise me what you cannot give. You would rob me of my future for your present desire. Your highness, I cannot hold my tongue further and tolerate you as you are so blatant in your disregard." You pulled away from him. A little bite to warn him; to scare him away. "Your majesty I must return to my former chambers and return to you your gift accepted only under duress for I cannot demean myself for you any longer. Not so long as you sit in sin."

He reeled as if you had struck him. You stepped away as he stared at you, his nostrils flared as his eyes searched you. He lingered between fury and despair.

"My lady, you do mistreat me."

"The truth is not always painless, your highness," You said sternly. "And I do not wish to remain the victim of rumour." You lowered your hand. "It cannot be… good night, your highness. "

You bowed and spun on your heel so quickly you nearly slipped. You lifted your skirts to scurry between the bodies. Your flesh was afire as you fled into the corridor.

You took a breath and continued along the stone floor. You heard the door and looked back to the shadow that followed you. The king found you through the flicker of lanterns and turned to trail you. You rounded the corner as you picked up your feet. 

"My lady," He called after you as his boots echoed on the stone. "Please, do not run from me."

You moved as quickly as you could, the motion jolted your shoulder painfully. He was close as you reached the next corner and he caught your hand before you could evade him. He drew you to face him as he looked down at you.

"Why do you spurn me? Why do you accuse me of spite when all I've shown you is kindness?" He pleaded. His grip slid to your wrist and he squeezed. "Why do you delay me if you do not yearn for what I promise you?"

"You're hurting me," You gasped as his hold grew firmer. "Your highness."

"I give and I give and I give," He stepped closer until you were against the wall. "And you withhold yourself from me."

"You scare me," You breathed.  

"I promise you a union, a crown, and all you could desire and yet you reprimand me and let me suffer so," He was against you. He pressed his body to yours and you felt a hardness beneath his belt.

"And I have not pushed you. I have not violated you. I have waited." He ground his pelvis into you as he crushed your injured arm. "I have not taken you as I have dreamt. I have not come into your chambers as you sleep and taken what I desire." 

He let go of your wrist and grabbed your chin. He forced you to look at him. "Because, my lady, I have decided that I will have you. Not just as my mistress, but as my wife, my queen. Because I don't just want that treasure you hide beneath those skirts," He bent so that his breath was upon your face."I want everything you have because you would deny me of the one thing I asked. "

You gaped up at him and trembled. You winced as his weight pushed on your sore shoulder. He leaned in until his nose touched yours.

"And though, at this moment, I could gather your skirts and take you against this wall, I will not," He pushed his hips harder against you. "Because when I do take you, I will be certain that you shall never elude me again." 

He pressed his lips to yours as he held your jaw in place. You struggled as he seemed like to devour you. You were trapped against the stone; terrified and helpless. He pulled away slowly and rubbed along your cheek with his thumb. 

"My lady, remember my benevolence for my restraint frays." He growled. "Though in the end, my desire will not."

[drwcn]

The tragedy of a touch screen is yesterday at 3:08 am I thumbed the little “x” on my screen and deleted an entire answer I’d already written for this ask by closing the browser........I..........am an idiot.

This time, I will save draft.

See, three days ago, I wasn’t gonna even make this lil hc of mine into a thing, but because I am a spiteful creature already living off of coffee and desperation, I thought hell, what else do I have to lose? So it’s a thing now.

“The Price of Promise”!Verse: The first time Lan Qiren saw the woman who would one day be his zhang’sao, the woman who he would proceed to hate and blame for more than half his life, he was just sixteen years old. And she - she was just an assassin dressed in black, perched atop the shingles in Cloud Recesses, on a dark moonless night.

Characters: Qiu Baiti (Madam Lan), Lan Cenrong (Qingheng-jun), Lan Qiren, Zhao Zhuliu (Wen Zhuliu).  

Foreword:

The story, as Lan Xichen knew it, came from an account of this:

“Lan Cenrong, do not force my hand. If you take another step, you will meet the same fate.”

Lan Yueling was there when they finally found Elder Lan Yang, lying crumbled there in the dense wooded valley outside of Gusu.

Lan Yueling was the first on scene, and this was what she saw: the rogue cultivator known as Qiu Baiti stood over Elder Lan Yang’s body, their sect master Lan Cenrong’s sword in her hand, its point at his throat.

Other disciples arrived, one after another, juniors and seniors alike. They froze, gasped, and collectively became witnesses as Qiu Baiti swung Kunlong through the air and pierced Lan Yang with a single, lethal stroke.

The blood that coated Kunlong’s gleaming steel dripped black and thick into the earth.

The witnesses screamed, drawing their weapons and lurching forward, but one gesture from the rogue cultivator had them all flying backwards, like paper dolls caught in the easterly wind. Only Lan Cenrong stood his ground.

You murderess. The disciples cried. You murdered Elder Lan Yang!

Apparently the old man was beloved. Hm. 

Qiu Baiti did not deny their accusations, but Lan Yueling, having gotten there first, was pretty sure Lan Yang had already been dead before they arrived.

Sect Master disarmed Qiu Baiti. Or more truthfully, she allowed herself to be disarmed, choosing to offer no resistance. Sword in one hand, Lan Cenrong took a step closer, his arm coming up to wrap around her waist. That, she allowed too.

Concussed from being thrown back so forcefully,  Lan Yueling struggled to lift her head, but even so, she managed to catch the last sight of Lan Cenrong and that woman before they disappeared in a scatter of pale blue light. There were tear tracks on both their faces, but for what, she could not know. Frankly, she did not want to know.

If Elder Lan Yang were not slain by Qiu Baiti, then....then... The alternate was too frightening to think about.

Soon, Cloud Recesses learned of the murder. Lan Yang’s body corpse was retrieved and honoured, and Qiu Baiti’s guilt was deemed irrevocable. For a week there was no news and they all feared the worst, until on the eighth morning, Lan Cenrong returned with the murderess of his en-shi, who was by then, his wife.

-- The story, as Wen Zhuliu knew it, started much earlier.

Some twenty five years before Lan Yang met his end in that forest, he went on a three-year long journey away from his home in Gusu to cultivate somewhere far and removed from the secular and the distracting. In the mountains of the south, he met a kindred spirit named Guo Lei, a cultivator like himself, but sectless, wild and free.

What happened between them...no one knows, but it had left Guo Lei wasted, decrepit, and bitter until his last days.

That was the man Wen Zhuliu remembered. Neither he nor his da’shijie Qiu Baiti ever knew the bright young man who had invited a rain-soaked Lan Yang into his humble abode in the mountains. The man who had taken them in, raised them, fed them and trained them, the man who they had loved as dearly as a father, was post-Lan. This was a man betrayed, who had the worst happen to him, and had no more forgiveness left to offer the world.

Wen Zhuliu’s da’shijie melted her first core when she was just eleven years old. Shifu had been so proud. He padded her on the head and treated them both to a lamb leg roasted on the open fire. Zhuliu and his sister fell sleep that night under the open stars. Shifu brought them inside to be warmly tucked in, carried them on his back despite his bad leg.

Back then Wen Zhuliu was just Zhao Ming, just xiao-Ming. xiao-Ming was small for a five year old, his golden core barely taking form inside him. Shifu had found him when he was very young, and he did not remember a life before shifu, before shijie.

Those were happy days.

Eventually, xiao-Ming grew up. On his tenth birthday, shifu named him Zhao Zhuliu, and then within a month, shifu died.

They, Guo Lei’s only disciples and only family, buried their shifu behind the house where once he hosted Lan Yang. Shijie dressed them both in hemp mourning robes, and taught him to give his four bows of goodbye before Heaven and Earth. On that hot summer afternoon, they burned stacks upon stacks of joss paper, and when the papers turned to ash, shijie wiped away his tears, took his hand, and led him - led them - onto their path of revenge.

Shifu didn’t leave them much; he’d already given them everything he had. Now, it was their turn to give back, to fulfill the one wish that Guo Lei still had unrealized.

Tear-choked, shijie had knelt by their shifu’s death bed, holding his thin weathered hands in her own and swore upon her life. Lan Yang’s reckoning was coming and she would be the one to deliver it. This, she promised. 

If Zhao Zhuliu had known then that this was a mistake, that as youths they really didn’t know the world for what it was, that sometimes evil disguised itself as kindness and kindness appeared evil, he would have begged his sister to leave it all behind. Powerful as they were, they could’ve gone anywhere, done anything. But shijie was a filial disciple, a good daughter, and above all, she kept her words.

I promise, shifu, I promise that bastard Lan Yang will pay for everything he’s done.

Zhao Zhuliu hadn’t known, but it was a promise that would cost Qiu Baiti everything.

-

Or perhaps, the story could be told like this:

Qiu Baiti came to Cloud Recesses the same way that she left: silently, Bichen at her side, on a dark moonless night.

Lan Qiren remembered both nights well. He remembered the latter because one simply did not forget the sight of one’s beloved brother being utterly destroyed. Lan Cenrong had held his deceased wife in his arms and cried and cried and cried. But Lan Qiren remembered the former because of the terrifyingly embarrassing fashion Qiu Baiti had, within seconds of crossing swords with him, knocked him off the roof, sending him crashing into the shrubbery below, flat on his bottom. 

 Young Qiren had never been so humiliated, so enraged, and so impressed in his sixteen years of life.

He gave chase, across roof tops and watch towers, but the assassin donned in black was fast and agile and impossible to see in the dark. Very quickly, he lost all track of her. He realized then as he desperately searched the ground that he was near his brother’s quarters. A jolt of fear shot up his spine.

xiongzhang!

Panicked, he rushed to Lan Cenrong’s chamber and knocked harshly, mindless of the rules.  

The door cracked open ajar. His brother blinked sleepily at him. “Qiren? What’s wrong?”

“Xiongzhang, forgive the disturbance, but an intruder was spotted while I was patrolling. Are you well?”

“An intruder? In Cloud Recesses? How did he get through our wards?”

“That, I’m not sure, and...I’m not sure it’s a he. As the security officer, this is my oversight. I’m very sorry, xiongzhang. I will call for a thorough search immediately.”

“Ensure our disciples and Elders are safe. Qiren,” Cenrong placed a calming hand on his on his shoulder. “You could not have predicted this. Do not be so harsh on yourself; you’re still young.” 

Qiren smiled, comforted, and rushed off. Through just a half open door, he could not have known about the sharp point of Bichen pressing threateningly into the back of of Lan Cenrong’s neck this entire time. 

“Don’t. Move.” 

~~~

zhangsao 长嫂 - oldest sister in law.  en-shi  恩师 - esteemed/respected teacher 

Lan Yang - 蓝杨 Guo Lei - 郭磊 Lan Cenrong - 蓝岑嵘 Qiu Baiti - 丘百啼 Zhao Ming 赵明， xiao-Ming “little Ming”  *don’t @ me, I know Ming is literally the laziest name I could’ve come up with but I’m tired guys*

《kunlong》 坤隆 - name of Qingheng-jun’s sword  《bichen》 避尘 - Qiu Baiti’s sword, which she left to her son Lan Wangji  

Note: I had originally intended for this to be a background story to my Discordance verse, but then I thought... to hell with it, it works as a canon divergence on its own. I mean... it still is the back story of Lan parents in Discordance, the only thing that is changed is what happens to Wen Zhuliu. Without Wen Ruohan, Wen Zhuliu is alive in Discordance and we’ll get to see him there. Soon. >:) 

[thefamouswhitewolf]

It was hard for Jaskier to hide injuries from Geralt, due to the Witcher’s keen sense of smell. A stab wound from a drunken brawl in a backwater tavern meant enough blood for it to bother Geralt, forcing them to find a healer for stitches and a washerwoman to do their laundry. The scent of Jaskier’s blood was like an acrid sting to his nose and Geralt wanted it gone, even if it cost him decent coin to pay for the washing. 

Sometimes when they kissed, especially after Geralt had had a run-in with some beastly foe, Geralt kissed too hard or nipped too sharply and drew accidental blood from Jaskier. It didn’t smell as bad as panicked blood, and Geralt chalked that up to Jaskier’s overwhelming scent of arousal whenever they really got into it after Geralt fought anything and anyone.

They’d gotten into a fray outside of Posada a decade after they’d first met there, and Jaskier wasn’t exactly showing distress as they settled into their evening routine at their campsite. He got the fire going as usual and drew fresh water from the stream for boiling potatoes to go with Geralt’s swift kill of a young fawn, the task of preparing it keeping the Witcher busy.

Geralt got the meat roasting and washed himself off of the fawn’s blood at the stream, but returned to camp with a wrinkled nose now that it wasn’t filled with the smell of deer blood.

“Jaskier,” he barked, too commanding and a little worried, letting the mild panic colour his tone. “Shirt off. I think you’re hiding something from me.”

The bard looked over with a mildly guilty look on his face and didn’t even refuse in the slightest, removing his doublet and undershirt to reveal his pale, hirsute self and a slowly bleeding knife wound in his side. He tossed the clothes into the grass and winced as he stretched to look down along his own side, feeling the pain but not letting it bother him too much. Might’ve been a shallow cut, but it bled from his continuous movement and lack of care to the wound.

Geralt rumbled in his slightly angry way and went to the saddlebags for a fresh bit of cloth and the bottle of spirits Jaskier used to clean wounds. 

“You know better than to hide these things from me,” he complained, allowing Jaskier to stand while Geralt himself kneeled beside him for a better look at the wound. 

It was shallow, but it also smelled like infection already. Likely a filthy knife from one of the assailants and not an infection picked up along the road in the few hours since the fray. Geralt prodded at the wound and got a hiss from Jaskier, as well as the bard’s hand fisting in the shirt at Geralt’s shoulder. 

“That hurts, you brute!”

“Good. Means you can still feel it. Wound smells sour and I thought it might be a numbing poison. Seems it’s just dirt.”

He dabbed the clean cloth only once into the still-cold water the potatoes sat in, and dabbed at the wound to clean around it. Pouring the spirits onto the now-stained cloth, Geralt curled an arm around Jaskier’s hips to keep him still and pressed the soaked cloth hard against the wound, ignoring Jaskier’s wail of pain from the sting of the alcohol and dodging the slaps the bard was offering as he flailed.

“That hurts worse!”

“But it’ll clean it, now shut up and tolerate it,” Geralt growled right back, dabbing lightly at the now-disinfected wound. He tossed the bit of dirty cloth into the fire and watched it catch immediately from the addition of the spirits, not wanting to wash and keep it in case the wound had still been poisoned somehow. It wasn’t worth the risk of infecting either of them at a later date just to save a bit of cloth.

Geralt stood back up and went back to the stream to wash his hands in case there was poison there too, then returned to Jaskier spreading a bit of poultice onto the wound to keep the dirt out. He complained less and less about the lamb’s fat poultices because they worked.

“Come sit while we wait for dinner,” Geralt said softly, sitting down on the laid-out furs on the smokeless side of the fire. He parted his legs so Jaskier could sit between them, and let the bard make a decision on how he was to cuddle up.

Strong arms circled Jaskier’s waist once he sat back-to-chest against Geralt, stealing the Witcher’s body heat despite the fire before them. 

“Your wounds could get worse when you ignore them, sweet thing,” Geralt whispered, his nose against the warm skin behind Jaskier’s ear. “Please don’t think of them as a burden to care for while we’re on the road together. I’d rather have to make camp and treat your wounds, than suffer through burying you.”

Jaskier hummed, the warmth making him a little dozy. “Couldn’t dig a hole deep enough for me, what with the ground still being frozen. I understand.” 

He was teasing but also being maudlin for maudlin’s sake. They’d been attacked that day, and his mood wasn’t as joyous as it could’ve been. They didn’t die, which should’ve been a plus.

“Just wait until dinner’s ready. You’ll be happy as a pig in its own shit once you’ve got venison and potatoes in your belly.”

Jaskier snorted, a small smile gracing his face. “You do know how much I love a nicely boiled potato.”