#and now my mind is a litany of apologies

[breakbreadwithme]

because im a repression professional, i know im currently in a Bad Spot & have done some stupid shit in the last 36 hours but also im just blogging away & making things & doing chores & feeling absolutely Nothing while im doing it

[anxious-witch]

So a continuation of this soulmate poly! JO au

So! Again, this is not my usual high quality stuff, isn't beta read or edited and I have been feeling kinda eh about writing lately so...yeah. Be warned before going into it. But so many of your wanted some sort of conclusion so I had to give you one. I hope it's at least somewhat satisfying.

This needed a warning for vomitting not the last one my bad, also TW for Bojan's general low self esteem

Bojan wasn't feeling well. And it wasn't only because he was hungover from the whole spiked drink yesterday. No. It was also due to the fact that now they all knew that he was their fifth soulmate.

He woke up surrounded by three of them. Jure was curled around his right side, with Kris' arm thrown over both him and Bojan. Bojan was snuggled in Jan's chest and Jan's hand protectively hovered over his head.

Nace was probably already up. Bojan laid there fir a moment. Soaking in the warmth. For once, his soulmark didn't ache but instead hummed pleasantly. 

It felt so natural, it was hard to remember why he was so scared of it. 

Then a sudden nausea hit him and he had to practically launch himself from the bed. Jan stirred and sleepily called out to him, but Bojan didn't turn. He ran to the bathroom, just in time to throw up in the toilet.

He wasn't sure how he ended up on his knees and gripping the toilet. He also wasn't sure when Jan joined him by sitting on the floor and rubbing his back. 

Only when he stopped throwing up for more than a few seconds did he lean more into the comforting touch. 

"Aren't you supposed to be angry at me?" Bojan mumbled tiredly.

"Oh, I am furious," Jan said easily, "I just don't see the point of having this conversation until you feel better."

Bojan made a pityful sound, closing his eyes. His head hurt, his stomach hurt, his soulmark ached. He just wanted to die.

"You might as well. I am feeling miserable anyway. We can go for full physical and emotional destruction."

Jan sighed and gently ran his head through Bojan's hair. 

"Kris went to make you tea and Jure to dig out some painkillers. Nace will probably make something to eat when he comes back from his run, if he hasn't already."

Jan scratched his scalp, like he was a dog. It was pleasant though and Bojan couldn't help but let iut a sigh and lean into it. 

"I don't deserve you guys."

The fingers in his hair froze. You said something stupid again, Bojan's mind hissed.

"We'll talk about that too."

"I'm sorry."

Jan continued stroking his hair, but didn't reply. Bojan's soulmarked burned like a brand. He hates you, he hates you, he will never forgive you-

Kris arrived at that moment, taking in their state. His eyes softened as he watched them.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit. I don't know if you are asking physically or mentally, but the answer is the same."

Kris crouched down and gently put his hand on Bojan's forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.

"You don't have a temperature," he mused, "which means just a bad hangover. You should come back to bed. I bought a bucket if you are sick again. And there is tea and painkillers. Nace is making pancakes too."

Bojan felt a sudden pressure of tears. Why were they all so nice? So considerate? Shouldn't they be yelling and demanding an explanation? He felt like he'd prefer that. It was what he deserved.

"Bojan, hey, what's wrong? Does something hurt?"

Kris gentle voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he realized he was crying. He shook his head and covered him face. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Why wre you all being nice? Why aren't you yelling at me? Why-"

"Shhh." 

Kris hugged him to his chest and Bojan's body shook im his embrace. He kept a litany of apologies through the sobs.

"Jan, go tell Nace to finish pancakes later. I will get Bojan to the bedroom. I think we all need to talk first."

Jan probably nodded, because Bojan heard him get up and step out of the bathroom. Then Kris gently picked him up. Bojan didn't even complain, simply buried his face in Kris' chest. 

He carried him to the bedroom.

"What happened? Is he alright?"

Bojan's heart squeezed at Jure's worried tone, but he didn't feel capable of answering. Which was why he was thankful for Kris.

"I am not sure. He started apologizing and then burst into tears. I think everything is hitting him just now. And you know how the bond can be overwhelming at first."

When he put Bojan on the bed, Jure curled at his back. Bojan reached out with one hand to him. 

And Jure took it, interlacing their fingers. His and Kris' presence calmed him down slightly. Enough for him to stop babbling apologies at least, if not stop crying yet. 

"Oh, Bojan," he heard Nace say from further away. 

Then two more bodies joined the pile. Bojan could recognize each, despite having his face buried in Kris's chest. 

That slowly made him calm down enough to stop the tears and carefully pull back from Kris' chest.

Kris didn't let him go far, gripping his waist when he tried to. Which was ridiculous, because they all surrounded him. He cleared his throat, blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Right. Can we just…get this over with, please?”

“Get it over with?” Jan hissed.

Bojan flinched a bit at his tone, ducking down to hide in Kris’ chest again.

“Jan,” Nace chastised him from somewhere behind his back, “Let's try and do this calmly.”

Jure squeezed his hand and then Jan swore, almost as if someone elbowed him.

“Fine.”

“Bojan, could you sit up, please?” Nace asked.

Did he have much of a choice at this point? Bojan sat up, suddenly much more aware of four pairs of eyes watching him.

He stubbornly stared into his lap.

“Tell us what happened,” Jure urged gently. 

“I was at the bar, I was flirting with a guy. He drugged my drink.”

Jan sighed loudly, but it was Kris who spoke up.

“That's not what we are asking. We want to know why you don't want us.”

That made him snap his head up, staring at Kris in disbelief. Kris, who was biting his lip and looked incredibly close to tears.

“What? I never said that!”

“You made it quite clear.”

Bojan felt as if he'd been slapped. He could take them being angry, or even saying they don't want him anymore, but he couldn't take them thinking he didn't want them.

“That's not true at all! Of course I want you!”

Kris did not look particularly convinced, hunching in on himself. Bojan met Jan's eyes instead.

“Then why didn't you say anything? Jesus, Bojan Kris knows you for a decade.”

“Because by the time I realized, the two of you were already together! And then I couldn't say anything because I thought that if you had each other, why would you want me?”

Jan took in a sharp breath and Kris paled noticeably, but Bojan wasn't done. He turned his eyes to Jure.

“So I kept silent, until Jure came along. And then he fit right in. Not just in the band, but with the two of you. And I thought, fuck, I'm too late. So I didn't say anything again. By the time Nace came into the picture, I-I had no idea what to do. Besides, we all know I would ruin this.”

Jure crossed the distance between them in a second, practically launching himself towards Bojan and pulling him into a hug. 

“Never,” Jure said vehemently.

Bojan felt a sudden wave of love wash over him. It took him a second to realize it wasn't coming from him, but from the Jure's side of the bond.

It was enormous and overwhelming and Bojan was completely unprepared for it. Which made panic seize his chest. 

Then, Nace was there, putting a hand on the back of his neck.

“Breathe. I know it's overwhelming at first, but just breathe through it. Jure, back up a bit he isn't used to the bond yet.”

The sensation eased up a bit, even if Jure didn't let go of him. Bojan took in a shaky breath. 

“Why do you think you'd ruin it?” Kris asked after a moment. 

Feeling their emotions in tandem with their words was new. Even without prying, he could feel hurt and worry from Kris. Bojan realized with a pang that that meant they could feel the turmoil of his emotions, too.

This was exactly what he wanted to spare them from.

“Because of this! I am difficult to deal with. I know all of you know it, because you had to deal with me. But that's different from being in a relationship with me. Kris met like, all of my girlfriends, he can testify.”

Jure's arms tighten against him, paired up with a slight pang of annoyance. Bojan bit his lip to stop himself from apologizing. They should be aware of what they were getting into.

He expected Kris to look angry or maybe defeated, but instead he looked thoughtful. 

“From what I remember of that, the biggest issue was you putting us and the band in general before them. Which wouldn't be a problem here, would it?”

Bojan stared. He never thought of it like that. 

“That's still not a good idea. I am difficult to deal with. You'll get tired of me.”

Jan snorted and Bojan turned to glare. Jan met his gaze calmly.

“Right. Because before this we never took care of you being sick every two to three weeks? Nace didn't calm you when you got panic attacks? Jure and I don't regularly feed you because you are unable to cook more than two meals? Kris doesn't have your schedule memorized and reminds you of what you need to do?”

Bojan felt as if Jan's gaze was burning through him, right into his soul. He ducked his head. Except, Jan reached out and Jure moved, curling at his left so Jan could tilt Bojan's chin up. 

“Look at me.”

So Bojan did, a zing of electricity going down his spine as he did so. Any rational argument he had got thrown outside of the window.

“You borrow our clothes and you cuddle with us and we are all together almost 24/7. Why the fuck would that change if we were in a relationship with you?”

Bojan opened and closed his mouth several times, feeling as if Jan had just knocked out all the cards from his hands. Like all the insecurities that held him back were insignificant in the face of Jan's argument.

His head suddenly started hurting even more and he closed his eyes.

“I don't know.”

“Alright. Postponing the rest of this for later. Bojan, go brush your teeth, we'll bring tea and painkillers in the meantime.”

Leave it to Kris to organize everything in a second. 

“Can't I get a coffee?” Bojan asked, peering at him and pointedly avoiding Jan's gaze.

“After we are sure you won't throw up again. Do you need help getting up?”

Jan finally let go of his chin and Bojan tried not to feel disappointed. He never kissed any of them properly, it was always something for the cameras. 

He wondered what it would be like to kiss them for real. 

That thought scared him enough to jolt him into action and he quickly got up from the bed. Too quickly, since dark spots began to dance in his vision.

Nace swore and reached out to steady him. 

“I'll go with him-”

“No,” Jan interrupted, “you go finish those pancakes. I got him.”

Bojan tensed. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jan, because he did. He trusted all of them with his life. The thing was, Jan seemed the most angry out of all of them and he didn't sugarcoat anything. Bojan wasn't sure how being alone with him would go.

No one protested though, Kris simply exchanged a long look with Jan and then nodded.

Bojan wondered if that simply cane with sharing a bond for so long and then he suddenly felt very, very lonely.

So he didn't protest when Jan took Nace's place and led him to the bathroom. He took his toothbrush and brushed his teeth. Jan walked closer and took his own, so they both brushed their teeth and Bojan tried not to think about how domestic that felt.

That distracted him enough for him not to notice that the toothbrush was the exact same one he had at home until after he finished.

“Since when does Nace have everyone's spare toothbrush?”

“Since we all started dating?”

Bojan started at Jan through the mirror. Jan calmly washed his mouth with water. 

“I haven't been dating you.”

Jan sighed as he stood upright again and put his toothbrush back where it belonged.

“No. But even before the soulmark, you were always considered welcome. I think…on some level we all knew.”

Bojan swallowed against sudden urge to cry again. 

“I should have known. The way you looked when we saw Nace's mark, I-”

“Don't say that. You didn't know because I didn't want you to. It's not your fault.”

Jan gave him a wry smile, shaking his head.

“Isn't it? Maybe if we figured it out sooner, you wouldn't think you were unwanted. For seven years, apparently.”

Jan's emotions were more guarded than Kris’ and yet, Bojan could practically taste the bitterness and hurt pouring from him. 

Bojan couldn't help but reach for him, but as soon as he touched his arm, Jan tensed. 

“I'm sorry. It-it's not your fault, okay? I promise.”

Jan pursed his lips.

“If you say so.”

He stepped closer then closer again, until their chests were almost touching. Jan didn't stop him, but also didn't make any moves towards him, either.

Bojan cupped his face and pressed his lips to his anyway, trying to pour all his mixed feelings into it. Then Jan moved, pinning him back against the sink. Bojan gasped and Jan took that opportunity to deepen the kiss.

There was so much longing in the kiss, Bojan kept trying to pull him closer, making a protesting noise when Jan pulled back.

“This is a bad idea. We need to talk this through first.”

“Oh.”

Jan was probably right. It was not a good idea, especially with the mess of emotions Bojan was feeling. Still, it was difficult not to feel a pang of disappointment. He felt…rejected.

He nodded and hung his head low.

“Fuck. Bojan that isn't-Hey.”

Jan lifted his chin once more and Bojan shivered. Something about the gesture made Bojan feel very small in comparison. 

“I am not rejecting you. This is just because I don't want to take this too far before you feel secure in the bond, okay?”

Bojan swallowed and watched and Jan's eyes traced the movement.

“Okay.”

Jan took in a deep breath and then took a step back. Then he extended his hand out to Bojan.

“Com'on now. The others are waiting.”

Then he was tugged back into the bedroom. Jure and Kris were sitting on the bed and talking quietly, while Nace still didn't return. They went quiet once they entered and Bojan tried not to fidget.

“Don't stop on my account,” he mumbled, trying to get under the covers.

Perhaps he could suffocate himself under the blankets.

“Wait! The painkillers!”

Bojan stopped halfway, and Kris handed his the painkillers and the water. He tried not to make a face at being treated like a child. Firstly Jan with pulling back and now the rest of them eith treating him like he was fragile. They cared and objectively, he was aware he scared them last night.

So he took them and handed the glass back to Kris. Then he got under the covers and buried his face into a pillow.

“Why is he sulking?” Kris asked, directing the question at Jan.

“He kissed me and I said I don't want things to escalate until he feels comfortable with the bond.”

“He wasn't too happy about that, huh?”

Bojan was about to snap at them for talking like he wasn't there, but then another person shuffled under the covers and pulled him closer. Jure.

Jure's emotions were always on the surface and Bojan could feel them much easier than Jan's. There was a sense of deep contentment that he didn't expect.

Jure pressed a kiss into his hair and Bojan felt his annoyance begin to dissipate. Kris shuffled closer and began petting his hair and-yeah, okay, he could get used to that.

He was starting to drift when Nace came back, announcing that the pancakes were done. Bojan groggily got up, rubbing at his eyes.

“You can eat later if you are tired,” Nace said with such a soft look, Bojan felt the need to squirm.

“But I want pancakes,” he protested.

Jan laughed.

“Just let him eat. Maybe that'll wake him up.”

Bojan glared.

“Maybe now I won't go exactly because of that.”

Jan smirked.

“Well good thing we can all carry you then, no?”

“No-”

Nace crossed the room in a few steps and picked him up as if he weighed nothing. Bojan squealed. He knew Nace could pick him up, but actually being picked up was quite different.

He wrapped his arms around Nace's neck, even if he was pretty sure Nace wouldn't drop him.

“Rude,” he mumbled in his neck. 

He was lulled once again into a feeling of contentment that simply radiated from the bond. Was it supposed to feel like that? Did it always feel like that for them? 

Nace gently dropped him in a chair at the dining table. Bojan absent mindedly reached for the pancakes while the others all took their seats.

“Does it always feel like that? The bond, I mean.”

Kris cocked his head.

“How does it feel?”

“Content. Calming. Like…things clicked in place.”

Kris’ gaze softened. 

“Not quite. There was always something missing. Like the connection flowed between the four of us and then it just…hit a wall.”

“Oh.”

Bojan fidgeted with his knife before anxiously taking the jam and smearing it over the pancake. He wasn't sure what to say.

“We have been waiting for you,” Nace added softly.

And this, this was exactly what Bojan wanted to avoid. He covered his face, willing himself not to cry again.

“This is why I didn't say anything. I don't-I can't complete you.”

“You already do.”

He began shaking his head, but then Kris was gently pulling his hands away from his face.

“We already acted like you are a part of this relationship, excluding kissing and sex. You already cuddle and steal all of our clothes. You hate being alone so you are in one of our apartments half the time. You already act like you are our boyfriend, this is just a confirmation you belong with us.”

Bojan felt speechless again. So he did one thing he could think about at that moment. He kissed him.

This kiss was much softer than the one he shared with Jan. Kris kissed almost hesitantly, as if not believing he was real. When Bojan tried to press harder, someone cleared their throat and Kris pulled away.

Of course it was Jan.

“Still not a great idea Bojči,” he reminded him.

Bojan stared at Kris, who was still kneeling by his chair, looking a bit dazed.

“Maybe not such a bad idea, if it'll help convince him,” Nace said, shrugging, “But we should wait until after breakfast.”

Bojan's brain came to a screeching halt.

“C-convince me?”

Jure sighed.

“That we want you. Obviously.”

Bojan swallowed. Don't think about it. But Kris was already kneeling and-

“Kris, go sit in your chair before Bojan has another crisis. And let's just finish eating first, yeah? Then we can discuss other things.”

He felt his cheeks heat at Jan's words and Jure chuckled. Kris simply rolled his eyes and went to take his seat.

They all began to eat and Bojan just tried to take everything in as they fell into easy conversation like nothing had happened.

His world tilted on its axis and…kept spinning, almost exactly the same as it had before. And surely, this would change things. Perhaps even his fears would be confirmed with time.

But for now, Bojan sat with four of his soulmates that he loved more than anyone else and simply let himself breathe.

Bojan was born with four stripes on his stomach. Yellow, red, purple and blue. And for the first time, his pink joined into the rainbow it created.

[chantsdemarins]

This Year’s Enigmatic Plus One🪅🎉

Part 1: So Much for Talking...

Words: 2,574

Summary: Loki returns to your life after a 10-year absence. The moral of the story, some Loki’s turn into trees, and others drive Porsches and escape from the 9th century just to torment you.

Smut rating: Yes 🔥🔥🔥

Plot rating: There is a plot hidden in the weeds of ⭐️ smut.

Oh man, I can’t believe it has taken me so long to get back to writing! But I’m back! This story is silly 🙃 but it got me ready to write my next big story that should be arriving soon! I hope 🤞 it’s at least decent!! It might be rusty!

These folks might want to read! I am missing people I know. So please let me know if you want to be tagged in new projects.

@ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @thomase1 @mcufan72 @caffiend-queen @fictive-sl0th @muddyorbsblr @gigglingtiggerv2 @anukulee

@mischief2sarawr @mochie85 @sailorholly @lokisgoodgirl @shambelle97 @lokischambermaid @eleniblue @smolvenger @wheredafandomat @hiroyukinasukawa @meowmeow-motherfucker @latent-thoughts @buttercupcookies-blog @kingwwend @coldnique

“I’m hard underneath the table, just in case you wondered.”

He had sauntered into the café just barely two minutes before and this was one of the first things he could think to say. Loki’s innate smugness still took up too much of his face, you could barely see the handsome man behind the wide grin.

You were trying to maintain a façade-you weren’t going to give in so quickly.

Shifting your weight slightly in your chair, not to appear too eager or too unbothered. You were so cool-you could be the frost giant.

You scuttled your water glass closer, perhaps an instinct to grab something. Your eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t wondering,” you took a sip, placing the glass back down with a dull clank.

You continued, “I guess no need to explain yourself or apologize first. No need to tell me where the hell you’ve been.” The litany of words flew faster out of your mouth the longer he kept smiling.

It had been 10 long years. Loki’s expression changed to slightly sheepish. Maybe he had been too bold. Too presumptive. He tried to back pedal a little.

“Dove, I can’t help it. Sorry if my expletives were jarring.”

“More like degrading.”

He couldn’t just wander back into your life like this. You had questions. You needed answers.

For example, you’d aged, he hadn’t. You were now in the throes of everything breaking and falling, loosening from the bones, readying for some easy mortal grave. Loki on the other hand was resplendent with eternal tightness and no doubt, hardness.

On the upside, you were much wiser. The sparkle in your belly from men like Loki was now your own fire. He wasn’t the only way the flame could ignite. Just a rather fast one.

But you knew he was not lying about being hard. So now your mind was glued to his inseam.  

Had you the presence of mind and the reach, you’d find your hand barely able to hold his cock. It was always too much and not enough.

You had known that on Earth we learned from our stupid mistakes, and Loki being some eternal ballerina didn’t necessarily have to. He could just dance away to another stage, another production.

Unless of course, something had occurred to change from the scorned prince you used to fuck and then regret. If he would just explain himself, maybe you could decide how quickly this was going to be over.

“Where have you been Loki?” You croaked out.

Not missing a beat, he continued. “You want to see?”  

“What? No Loki! Not here! We are in public!” Your face was turning three different shades of vermillion.

“Woman, no I don’t mean my impossibly hard cock, I mean do you want to see a picture of what I have been doing?”

“Shit.” You took a long drink of your water, so long in fact your glass was emptied.

“Thirsty?”

“No, no not really, I mean it’s fucking water, Loki you are supposed to drink it! Didn’t they have water on Asgard?”

You shouldn’t have mentioned Asgard.

You instantly regretted it but couldn’t find a way to apologize, you were too startled by him. It had taken three valiums, four episodes of 90 Day Fiancé, and two phone calls to your bestie between Monday and today to even say yes to possibly meeting him.

His body went from loose to more restricted, brushing a stray obsidian lock of hair behind his ear. He opened an old looking bag and pulled out a photograph. It was strange he didn’t have a phone or some other advanced technology.

Now that your eyes could focus, he did seem a little primitive, his outfit was simple, no fanfare, no announcing his royalty or his esteemed place in the cosmos.

“No cell phone?” you had to say it.

“No.”

“Okay, this must have something to do with where you’ve been.”

You looked down at the tabletop, Loki laid out a single picture. It was him wearing what looked like a knight’s armor.

“You are acting now?” you said with a giggle.

He laughed. At least he could still laugh.

“No pet. Not acting.”

“Why do you look like you might have been at King Arthur’s court?”

Loki’s impossibly blue eyes smiled along with him as he dared to explain more. “You are a smart one aren’t you. Close.”

“You traveled back in time?”

“Let’s just say I am Loki, but I am not exactly the Loki you remember.”

You looked closely at the picture. He better be able to explain why he had a camera in 800 CE. The horrible thing was-he looked fucking hot as a knight or whatever was going on.

“Intrigued. Continue please.”

“You’re apt to believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I believe you Loki? You are a god and last I knew you had repented for almost blowing up New York City and then your ancestral home was completely destroyed. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what role you played in all of that. I had five years of therapy because I was fucking a being that might have destroyed an entire realm. Yeah, no biggie.”

You had devolved in your speech, covering more ground than the question of believing him. Your face grew hotter if that was possible.

“Well gods don’t do things small, you know that. If I recall correctly that is why you were ‘fucking’ me as you so crassly say. You like ‘big things’, or my ‘big things’.”

You were on the verge of crestfallen. This conversation was terse at best. Not going so well. You kept reloading arrows from your imaginary quiver.

“Fine, then I’ll send you my therapy bill if I ever figure out how you’d possibly pay it.”

“I’m insulted by the idea that I wouldn’t pay your ‘therapy’ bill, whatever that is.”

“Never mind,” you scoffed.

You took your eyes off him for a moment and in that nano second, he grabbed your tiny hands in his stupidly big ones.

“Darling, you asked where I have been, can I tell you.”

“Fine.”

“Great, but let’s leave this terrible café, the artwork is grinding my gears, as you Midgardians say.”

“Loki, I have to be back at 4:00 to catch the ferry,” you were trying to keep this punctual.

“I have a New Year’s Eve party I am invited to, I told you.”

“Oh yes, that silly thing.”

“It’s not silly!” you retorted.

“I guess for us timeless beings, another year is like a sneeze,” he smiled, his teeth almost fang-like in the light. Quickly, you both got up and left the café. You had pondered his frost giant form, and how his current Asgardian visage sometimes seemed almost transparent. It was like something of his true self could never really be hidden.

“What are you looking at?” Loki asked, noticing your gaze as he checked his reflection on a parked Tesla as you walked.

“Nothing,” you replied.

“You saw something,” he insisted, his vanity apparent.

“I didn’t see anything, Loki. No red eyes, no blue skin, no lines on your face.”

“What? How dare you,” he grimaced.

“Okay, Loki, we can end this now—I’ll catch the 1:30,” you declared, testing him.

“I didn’t come all this way to fight,” Loki implored, reaching out with his enveloping presence. He was still all legs and arms. Today he resembled a surly black widow spider.

“Let’s not pretend we don’t want this,” Loki said, just before he slightly tripped on the sidewalk.

“Holy Fuck,” he exclaimed, barely saving himself and his drink from a spill. Clearly flustered he slowed his pace.

“I see you’re still agile,” you noted, and he shot you a glare back. Maybe it was better to be in a private place or at least somewhere with better artwork.

“Do you have a hotel or something, Loki?”

“I don’t, but I have this human car,” he replied, showing off the Porsche’s flash with a clicker.

“How did you fit in this thing? I thought you said gods liked big things, to match their um big things,” you teased.

Staying mad 0 points, being cheeky 100 points. You were failing. You looked at your Doc Martens and pretended to study the scuffs.

“Just get in, pet,” he urged, holding the door open for you.

“That’s interesting Loki, you never held the door for me before.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

Once inside, you inquired smugly, “Where would be we going? You came from somewhere?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. We can just get warm and continue our conversation here,” he suggested, his grin widening once again.

“No…No…No…,” your thoughts raced, considering the implications.

“Are you saying you want to get warm? Like, turn on the heater warm?” you questioned, hoping for clarity.

“No.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” you pried.

“My lips can be warm,” he said, his voice persuasive Shakespeare.

Shit, again.

Just then he moved his head a touch to the left, the damn car was so small all it took was this movement and his indeed warm lips covered yours. Kissing Loki was always the beginning of something, never an isolated act. If he had been earlier to arrive, say at Christmas, you could have reenacted the “Baldur scenario” as he used to call it.

According to Loki, Baldur was some relative or something, accidently killed with a branch of mistletoe by him, apparently an honest mistake. Instead of having that terrible image seared into humanity’s memory he “changed” the story to have mistletoe be an excuse for kissing not killing. Leave it to Loki for creating something so inane.

Yet kissing him was one of life’s true pleasures. His mouth engulfed yours. 10 years apparently produces a lot of feeling. His hands raked through your hair holding your head as he continued to press himself deeper into you. The fire. It was burning.

Fuck all where he’d been. He could have been shacked up with Marjorie Taylor Green for all you cared. Okay, maybe you did care about that. He better not have been.

He slowed down, nipping your lower lip. Giving you just a second to slide your body on top of his. By now the windows were completely fogged, hopefully giving any onlookers a laugh and an impetus to hurry along. Your body just barely fit on his lap.

One of his long arms pushed his driver’s side seat back with a jolt, you had a little more room, but it mostly just landed you squarely on his now very clearly hard cock with a thud. Your moan was partly concealing what could have been tears. When he was inside you it felt like it was a short flight to your heart. You hated that fact even more now that you were matured.

“I thought you were being cautious,” he whispered into your ear, prompting you to snap out of it.

“I was.”

“Oh, I see. Just a bit of positioning from me, and all your reservations vanish. Converted so easily,” he observed, his breath warm against your skin.

“Not quite, Loki, but if you don’t... I can’t even...” Your words trailed off as you grappled with your thoughts.

“You won’t what?” he prodded, distancing himself slightly to unzip his pants.

“I won’t call you.”

“I don’t have a phone,” he chuckled lightly as he maneuvered his pants down, supporting you effortlessly with one arm. That cock he was bragging about earlier was making what would surely be its penultimate appearance.

You noticed the absence of his underwear and couldn’t resist commenting, “No underwear, huh? Prepared, are we? That’s unlike you, Loki. I thought you enjoyed the ritual of undressing.”

He glanced down with a feigned innocence, “I wear underwear?”

You paused, meeting his gaze, “Yes, you do.”

If you hadn’t been seconds from plunging down on top of him, you’d put these pieces together more carefully, used your journalism chops to understand these subtle changes. You studied him. He seemed slightly like a different version of himself.

It was like the way the wine snobs spoke about different versions of the same wine. Now it seemed like he was perhaps less oak and more peach. Chalkier minerality, less green apple. A glitch from the time apart perhaps? You wondered. Maybe you didn’t remember him like you thought you did?

Your introspection was halted when he fucked up into you with a velocity that brought your hands to the roof of the tiny car, trying feebly to steady yourself. Noticing your struggle, Loki grabbed your hips, moving them. Forcing you into the cadence of his pleasure for a moment until you could gather your wits and your strength. You were not some coy maiden for this space man to bed anymore. His eyes were closed, his fang teeth biting his lower lip, as if saying okay fine, have your way with me.

You could barely hear his whispers; they were just beyond audible. Something about the best...’something’ he’d ever felt, and to “ride him” like St. Michael’s horse. Whatever that meant.

Every single time he told you that you were the best, you believed him. That was the problem. You wondered if he’d even be able to pull out, there was no room in the minuscule Porsche, it had you pinned together permanently it seemed. If you got pregnant, you would blame Loki’s bougie taste.

“Loki,” you said his name with a shudder. Your bodies slowly going limp. You had come at least twice. You wondered if he had as well.

“Was that worth waiting 10 years for?” he asked, a smug satisfaction in his voice as he emerged from his trance. His own face slightly flushed.

Hopping off his lap with a wince, you wanted to answer him but couldn’t. It was worth it of course but you couldn’t tell him that.  

“Are you ready to talk now? Now that we got that out of the way?” he inquired.

“You still want to talk…what?” you asked, your disbelief evident.

This really wasn’t the Loki you remembered. You expertly wiped the condensation from the window, just like someone who always had sex in tiny sports cars, but a noticeably displeased official face appeared gazing back at you.

“Oh no, I guess we didn’t go unnoticed,” you muttered as you pointed to the officer.

“We better go,” Loki said, starting the car and clearing the window more with his scarf.

“Loki, I have my New Year’s Party. I can’t go with you!” you protested, trying to compose yourself.

“It’s either stay with me or talk to ‘Mr. Blue Coat’ there,” he presented the options with a hint of urgency.

“I would be the last person to make fun of blue things if I were you,” you shot back with a mix of frustration and humor.

He actually looked nervous. Maybe you were past giving him a hard time, maybe because he had just given you a really good hard time.

“Okay, fine, drive, but I better not be your hostage, if you still do that sort of thing,” you barely conceded.

“You made the correct choice,” Loki said with a breathy chuckle, the car pulling away swiftly seemingly ignoring your hostage reference.

“It was either join me or explain our...activities to the police. Not much of a hostage situation if you ask me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hostage to your whimsy, maybe.”

“And what about that picture?” you asked, motioning to the image of him in medieval armor now on the dashboard.

Loki glanced at the photo. “Ah, that’s what we need to talk about. Let's just say I’ve had some... historically significant adventures.”

“Historically significant, huh?” You leaned back, processing his words and their implication.

This car ride better "come" with some more answers...

To be continued!

[renecdote]

Eddie Diaz - tender

Also for BTHB: twisted ankle

[Read on AO3]

He feels it before it happens: the wet grass, his foot slipping, trying to catch himself and overcorrecting. Pain, sudden and sharp enough to make his eyes water, lancing through his ankle and up his leg.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, stumbling, reaching out, reaching for—

“Whoa.” Buck, catching him. “You okay?”

Eddie blinks back the tears. Blinks through the pain. 

“My ankle,” he manages. “Fuck.”

Hopping a little, his nose stinging with the pain. Buck’s arms tightening around him. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ve got you. Let’s—let’s sit down, can you sit?”

It’s embarrassingly graceless, but he sits, right there on his ass in the wet grass. He can feel the dew soaking through his jeans, almost a distraction as Buck kneels and starts unpicking his laces. Eddie could do it himself, but. It’s easier to let Buck fuss, he has learnt that over the years. And it’s the other thing he has learnt as well: it’s okay to let people fuss over him. It’s okay to want it, sometimes. 

“Ouch,” Buck winces when the sneaker comes free.

Eddie winces too. His ankle is already swelling, the skin hot and tender under Buck’s touch when he starts gently probing. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing at the pain, and Buck murmurs an apology. 

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he judges. “But—sprained, at least. You should probably get an x-ray to be sure.”

Great. Eddie rubs at his face, his mind already spinning: get to urgent care, figure out how he’s going to pick his son up from a sleepover with a sprained (possibly broken) ankle, hope to god it’s not broken, the expenses of it all, the time off work. 

“Hey.” Buck’s hand on his knee, warm and solid and grounding. “We’ll figure it out.”

Deep breath. He’s not doing it all alone anymore. He has Buck. His best friend, who likes to fix things. His best friend, who broke down Eddie’s bedroom door, picked him up off the floor, and helped put him back together every day until he could stand on his own two feet again. He’ll do it again now, Eddie knows. He just needs the reminder sometimes. 

“Help me up?” he asks, holding out a hand.

Buck takes it and pulls him to his feet. Steadies him there, while Eddie tests his ankle again and decides no, he really can’t put weight on it to walk.

“I can carry you,” Buck offers, dead serious when Eddie glances at him, eyebrows raised.

“You cannot.”

Brows furrowed, nose scrunched up in disbelief, like he doesn’t understand why Eddie would doubt him. “Of course I can.”

Eddie lets his eyes trail over the muscles Buck’s t-shirt is fighting to contain and relents, “Okay, you probably can. But you’re not going to.”

“Eddie.”

“Buck,” he mimics. “Just—give me a hand, I can hop.”

Buck rolls his eyes. “Because that’s so much more dignified than being carried.”

Eddie pokes him, right under the ribs where he knows Buck is ticklish. “You can carry me from the car to the house, how about that?”

He’s joking. Mostly. And studiously not thinking about all the rom-coms he has watched over the years where a scene like that follows the Big Romantic Kiss. Buck squints, like he’s trying to figure out if Eddie is mocking him, and Eddie—doesn’t look away. It feels a little like playing chicken, standing in the middle of the road, staring at the headlights coming, coming, coming. Not flinching. 

Buck smiles. “I’ll hold you to that—literally.”

“You think you’re so funny.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. It’s probably all in his head, but he thinks his ankle hurts a little less, when he’s smiling. Just a little, though. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

It’s a slow, painful hop back to the car. But Buck’s arm stays solid and warm and grounding around him, a steady litany of encouragement keeping them going, every word an affirmation: I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.

And Eddie has the same realisation he has had a dozen times before: I love you.

Followed quickly by it’s counterpart, more fragile but growing more certain every day: maybe you love me too.

[rumandcigaretes]

Folks here we go!

Second charpter of "Bromance"

I sincerely hope you'll like what I've written, and that you'll let me know what you think <:

I'd also love to hear your ideas for the continuation.

What do you think should happen in Chapter Three?

What course do you think the relationship between Thomas and Alfie will take?

[Reminder: This fanfic is not canonical. In my concept, Thomas decides to forget about Grace and focus on his messed-up life. Of course, it's not that simple, but he decides to immerse himself in work. As a result, he re-establishes a partnership with Alfie Solomons. Both control a network of betting shops and, thanks to their influence, can decide on the winners - thus securing most of the profits. However, Thomas is haunted by demons from his past and falls into alcoholism. Drifting away from the partnership, he completely loses himself in self-destruction. Alfie wants to help him, not so much for his own good but for the sake of the partnership. However, things take a slightly different turn, which you can read about in this fanfic <;]

Okay now letsss go!!!

<Tw: alcoholism, some kind of sh, many swears, brinery> -> I think thats all but if it isn't, let me know!

2

Morning was cold. The bed he lay on felt almost like stone.

It was strange, though; within him arose a feeling of even greater emptiness. Something was missing.

But Shelby couldn't quite believe that the emptiness that had accompanied him for months had suddenly deepened.

He didn't cry for that bitch. He didn't cry for his father. He didn't even cry in and after Belfast.

Yet in that moment, a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

So pathetic.

He knew what had happened. He remembered every moment, and even if his memory failed him, the muscles of his entire body painfully reminded him of last night's events.

Too much.

A piercing scream escaped his throat, and his hand painfully struck the bed frame.

Pain.

For a moment, the pain drowned out the emptiness.

So pathetic.

He was only pulled out of this horribly embarrassing state by the sound of opening doors. Before him stood the figure of a petite woman, scanning the room in fear.

Enormous anger boiled within him. How dare she enter without knocking?

He fixed his steely gaze on her. The woman immediately panicked, visibly eager to start a litany of apologies for her intrusion, but Thomas had no strength left for that.

"Get the fuck out," he growled, causing the woman to almost stumble over her own feet as she hurried out of the room.

As the door closed behind her, a string of curses poured from his lips.

What was he doing? Control was his strongest trait. And this? What was this?

He looked at his hand, noticing his knuckles were covered in blood. He sighed heavily as he sat up.

He was careful not to stain the sheets any further, well aware that traces of blood and semen would give the maids too much gossip fodder.

Although were the semen stains alone not already enough reason for gossip?

He grimaced, pretending not to care.

The journey to the bathroom was unpleasant. Pain in his lower body was clearly bothering him, but he tried his hardest to maintain shreds of dignity.

However, upon reaching the bathroom and casting a disdainful glance at his reflection in the mirror, even those shreds vanished.

What had he become?

His hips were covered in reddened bruises, which would likely only darken over time. His stomach still bore dried semen.

To make matters worse, a belt mark was especially noticeable around his mouth.

"Damn, did Clary notice?" raced through his mind, bringing a surge of anxiety.

He was pathetic.

With quick steps, he headed towards the shower, not wanting to look at himself any longer.

"I need to somehow massage this away."

They say warm water washes away shame.

Shelby definitely intended to test that.

The shower helped for a moment. The pain and self-disgust retreated a few steps, leaving only emptiness.

It wasn't unfamiliar to him, though, so he knew exactly how to effectively drown it out.

Fiery whiskey instead of breakfast was the best way to start the day.

He sat in the armchair where Alfie had found him yesterday. Essentially, the scene was the same as the day before. Him, whiskey, and empty whiskey bottles. A nice summary of Thomas "Fucking" Shelby.

He lit a cigarette to further poison the emptiness inside. Drag after drag, interrupted occasionally by a sip of alcohol. In fact, he had made some progress since he was using a glass.

He was only wondering what Clary was doing. She usually came around this time to ask what he wanted for breakfast. Although he usually replied that he already had everything he needed, the awareness that she hadn’t come that morning somewhat scared him.

Pathetic, Thomas Shelby afraid of what his housekeeper might think of him.

However, his fears were justified because rumors worked faster than anything else to damage one's reputation.

He got up from his seat and moved towards the bar.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror adorning the bar. He noted with a hint of relief that the mark from the strap had blended into his slightly darkened skin.

In reality, to see it, one had to look really closely, and after all, few people looked him straight in the face.

This calmed him a bit.

He resumed his intention and with a confident move opened the bar door. Behind one of the wine bottles, which he probably would never drink anyway, he found what he needed. Without much thought, he took out 20 shillings from his wallet. The cigarette he held in his mouth almost burned his lips.

He put the wallet back in its previous place, throwing the cigarette filter into a nearby ashtray.

He walked slowly towards the door leading to the corridor, first putting the extracted coins into his pants pocket.

"A bit of a nonchalant bribe, for me," he thought, smiling faintly.

He looked out into the corridor but saw no one. Most likely everyone was downstairs, but he decided not to bother going there.

"Clary, come to me!" he shouted, returning to his room.

How pathetic.

He cursed, falling heavily into the armchair.

After a short while, he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," he commanded, pouring himself another serving of breakfast.

Clary entered the room. She was visibly stressed.

"Sit down," he pointed to the armchair right next to him. The woman quickly complied.

Shelby looked her over. He saw her fear.

"Who is downstairs?" he asked, lighting another cigarette and reclining in the chair.

After a few drags, however, he put it on the table.

She swallowed hard.

"Martha and Annie," the response was quick.

Shelby nodded.

"Since when have they been here?" he measured her with his gaze again.

Clary probably guessed what her employer might be concerned about.

"They just arrived, Mr. Shelby," her voice seemed calmer.

The man relaxed a bit at this information.

"Why didn't you come to ask what I want for breakfast?" he leaned towards her. He couldn't resist teasing her. It gave him a minimum of control. A minimum of satisfaction from having power over someone, over anything...

The maid lowered her gaze.

"I thought you didn't want to see me," her voice was stressed again.

Well, such a reaction was quite adequate - after all, she was dealing with unstable Thomas "Fucking" Shelby.

He reached towards his pocket, and the woman trembled.

"Listen to me carefully now," he looked her straight in the eyes, "Nothing happened this morning. You saw nothing and heard nothing. You'll also go to my bedroom now and take the sheets for washing. You are not to ask anything and comment on nothing. If I find out that anyone heard from you about this morning," he paused, clenching his lips tightly, "I will kill you."

As he said this, not a single muscle twitched on his face, and his gaze was fixed directly on the woman's irises.

The maid trembled again. She knew he wasn't joking. She couldn't utter a word, only nodded in understanding.

Shelby smiled falsely.

"Excellent. Here's something that might help you keep your mouth shut," he said, pressing the previously prepared 20 shillings into her hand.

He had forgotten about the lit cigarette that was sadly burning out on the table. He cast a longing glance in its direction.

Clary almost fainted. It wasn't good for her nerves. She jumped to her feet but put the entire amount into the pocket of her apron.

"I'll go take care of the sheets," she said, heading towards Shelby's bedroom. He merely nodded in her direction.

It seemed one problem was off his shoulders.

Now, he had to wait for the second, much more important one to resolve itself.

In this case, he wasn't really worried about anything.

Alfie was a reasonable guy and definitely wouldn't do anything stupid, as it would harm both Shelby and himself...

Although there was one thing with him that desperately wanted to be voiced.

That thing was the damn desire to control everything...

But in that matter, it wasn't possible. Shelby couldn't influence the Jew in any way.

After all, he didn’t intend to threaten him after he had dragged him to bed himself.

However, he also didn’t intend to ask him for anything – or rather, in this case, beg.

The boy's face twisted in a grimace of agony.

These thoughts hurt so damn much.

After all...

That evening changed nothing.

It couldn’t change anything...

No.

He just wanted it to be that way.

He was lying to himself.

The truth was that the evening spent in the long-haired man's arms changed something inside him.

It outlined a pattern that Shelby didn’t want to look at, fearing that what he would see would be so terrifying.

That was truly pathetic.

“Thomas fucking Shelby can’t come to terms with the disgusting truth about himself” – he laughed at the thought.

But this laugh was almost like crying.

He was exhausted.

The thoughts whirled so strongly in his head that it seemed to him as if he had been sitting in that armchair for ages. He was only snapped out of it by the silhouette of a woman quickly moving towards the exit of his room.

When she left, he noted with a hint of relief that he had gotten rid of that filthy bedding, which most likely still carried the scent of the bearded Jew.

He definitely didn’t intend to return to the bedroom anytime soon. Too much had happened there.

He grimaced at the memories of the previous night’s events.

His throat was dry, so he quickly reached for the whiskey bottle.

He took a big gulp.

“Fuck those glasses,” he thought, sighing heavily.

It was shaping up to be a horribly tough day.

He didn’t even notice when he drifted off. It was probably the bottle of whiskey, drunk in less than an hour, that had this effect on him.

He slowly rubbed his sleepy eyes.

He cast a bleary glance at the clock. It was nearing noon, so he would probably be able to have a proper drink at some pub.

He slowly got up from his seat, noticing a lot of white spots before his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m seeing white mice from all this,” ran through his mind.

He headed towards the door. After the morning adventure with Clary, he didn't want to see any of the maids.

Even though he had dealt with the matter, something in his head kept screaming that everyone knew what had happened the previous evening.

He tightly shut his eyes to cut off those thoughts.

After all, he was alone in his residence yesterday. He had long given up on 24-hour service. So why was he so worried?

He descended the stairs with a slightly unsteady gait, trying to be as quiet as possible.

It was absurd that Thomas "fucking" Shelby had to sneak around in his own house.

The realization made him smile sadly.

He didn't recognize himself.

…………

He breathed deeply when he managed to leave the apartment. The fresh air seemed almost strange to him.

He hadn’t gone out in a long time.

He shook his head as he walked down the road along the street.

As he walked, he felt somewhat uneasy. Random people greeted him or, conversely, avoided his gaze.

It always looked like this, but at that moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it.

“I’ve gone crazy” – This thought occasionally intruded into his mind, causing a grimace.

He had been grimacing a lot lately.

Mom wouldn’t have been pleased.

He felt definite relief at the sight of the dive bar where he liked to hang out when he didn't know what to do with himself.

Indeed, that day was precisely such a day.

With a quick movement, he opened the door, and the familiar smell of cheap cigarettes and stinking beer filled his nostrils.

It was pathetic, but he felt something calm down inside him at that smell.

He took his usual place right behind one of the screens. The bar was almost within reach, so without unnecessary fuss, he simply muttered to the bartender to bring a bottle of the best whiskey.

Of course, he knew that the best whiskey in this case meant some murky swill mixed with spirits, but he didn’t care much. In fact, the awareness that he would once again be able to drown himself in that crude alcohol almost comforted him.

“This will surely help me get through the day,” he thought.

He didn’t hold back. Glass after glass disappeared, and the thoughts seemed to become lighter. All fears vanished, leaving only that familiar emptiness.

Of two evils, this was the lesser one.

This state didn’t last long, as his attention was drawn to a familiar, mustachioed face that appeared at one of the tables.

It was Arthur.

“Fuck, what is he doing here?” he asked himself, feeling a surge of irritation.

He really didn’t want to see anyone he knew, let alone someone from his family.

Not that day.

Not after what had happened.

He swallowed with a sense of internal disgust.

What surprised him, however, was that Arthur completely didn’t notice his presence.

He looked as if he was waiting for someone.

The expression on his face also indicated that he had a specific purpose for being there.

Thomas couldn’t stop himself from glancing occasionally towards his table.

“Who is he waiting for?” – curiosity almost ate him up inside.

At the same time, fear sprouted in him that it might be related to the events of the previous evening.

“Maybe someone overheard him and Solomons and now wants to humiliate him in front of his older brother?

Maybe it’s Clary?”

With a slightly trembling hand, he refilled his glass and then drank its contents in one gulp.

Indeed, that filthy drink effectively dulled his nerves.

But even that swill couldn’t suppress the shock that came over him at the sight of the person heading towards Arthur’s table.

“That’s fucking Alfie” – his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

His hands failed him, causing the contents of the freshly refilled glass to partially land on his pants.

He didn’t care at all.

A string of curses almost escaped his lips, but he quickly regained control of himself.

He had to focus and play this situation well.

Control.

That would save him…

There were many possibilities.

The worst-case scenario assumed that Alfie planned to ruin him in Arthur’s eyes by revealing what happened yesterday.

The best leaned towards the naive vision that the two men had simply met for a drink.

Shelby really wanted to believe that it was the latter that had brought them to this place.

However, he couldn’t do anything concrete to find out.

The most sensible approach was to simply watch the situation from a distance.

His position was ideal because the screen partially hid his figure while still allowing him to observe this unusual meeting.

He even decided not to indulge in any drinks during his observation to slightly improve his chances of reading anything from the behavior of the two men.

Interestingly, it didn’t seem like they were discussing anything particularly intriguing. However, Shelby knew his brother well enough to recognize that this seemingly nonchalant style of conversation was merely a cover. They must have been talking about something important.

Arthur’s face appeared normal, and the corners of his mouth occasionally curved into something resembling a smile.

It was quite obvious because conversations with Alfie were usually spiced with numerous jokes from him.

Shelby felt a very strong surge of panic.

“Fuck, I’m screwed,” he thought internally, but then he chuckled uncontrollably.

This thought led to another, which ironically expressed that yesterday he had someone in his ass.

He couldn’t see Alfie’s face clearly, as he was turned away from him. He could only fix his gaze on his massive shoulders, which by their very existence brought back memories of the previous night.

“Fuck,” he growled to himself in his thoughts.

He was so pathetic.

He lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to recall those memories.

Or maybe he didn’t want to want to recall those memories.

He felt disgusted with himself for almost looking at the bearded man with longing.

What was going on with him?

Could he really not even control himself anymore?

This morning, he couldn’t stand what had happened.

And now, when that man was sitting a few meters in front of him, he almost longed for those events.

For that touch.

For that smell.

“Fuck, enough!” – he scolded himself, turning his gaze back towards that particular table.

It looked like the conversation between the Jew and his brother was coming to an end because Arthur stood up slowly and began putting on the jacket he had previously hung on a nearby hook.

After dealing with the last button, he characteristically extended his hand to the seated man.

After exchanging a few more words with him, he simply headed towards the exit.

“What could they have been talking about?” – the question flashed through Thomas’s mind.

It definitely didn’t look like Alfie had told Arthur anything about their adventure last night, but he subconsciously felt that he had talked to him about something specific.

After all, why else would he meet him?

Was what they discussed important?

Did it concern him in any way?

The flurry of thoughts was interrupted by a movement from the Jew, who clumsily got up from his seat.

Just as he was about to avert his gaze to avoid being noticed, Alfie turned towards him.

He knew perfectly well that Shelby was there, sitting and watching their conversation.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pretending that the approaching man didn’t cause a surge of panic within him.

Alfie looked calm. Completely as if nothing had happened yesterday. His gaze was warm and his lips set in a straight line.

He was walking towards him.

Shelby didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t see him anymore.

It wouldn’t make sense.

“May I?” Alfie’s voice was friendly.

Shelby nodded in approval.

He didn’t really have a choice.

He decided that if he was really going to talk to this guy again, he definitely needed a drink.

He grabbed the bottle to pour himself the last bit of its contents into his glass, but his hand was stopped by the older man’s hand.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he muttered, sounding somewhat concerned.

Shelby was irritated. What the fuck did he think?

“Fuck off,” he growled, grabbing the bottle firmly and gulping down its contents.

Now they could talk.

“What do you want?” he snapped at the older man with a piercing but slightly glazed look. He tried to show as much as possible that what had happened didn’t affect him at all, that he was still the same.

Alfie looked him straight in the eyes. It was somewhat awkward.

Suddenly, Thomas felt a touch on his calf.

He flinched as if burned, looking down.

It was the older man’s boot. This peculiar move made Shelby feel a wave of breathlessness.

He looked at Alfie distrustfully.

“I want to help you, Tommy,” he whispered, leaning towards the brunette.

His foot began to dangerously slide up the younger man’s leg.

In fact, Alfie himself didn’t know why he made such a move.

Thomas couldn’t stand it. With a sudden gesture, he pushed away the older man’s boot, but he didn’t give up and firmly pressed his foot on his.

“What the hell is he doing?” ran through his mind.

“You’re full of shit, Solomons. At most, you want to help YOURSELF, but at my expense,” he panted, sounding sadder than he intended.

Alfie tilted his head like puppies do when they look at something that interests them.

A mischievous smile crept onto his lips.

“As for the first part, not today,” he winked at the blue-eyed man, which might have embarrassed him if he wasn’t so drunk.

Once again, Alfie was surprised by his own move. Although it was his style – turning everything into a joke because it made things easier. Right?

If looks could kill, Alfie would have dropped dead at that moment.

“Are you out of your mind? What the fuck are you doing?” Now it was Shelby who leaned towards the older man. He was truly angry.

But in that anger, something incredibly inappropriate was sprouting.

Alfie smiled indulgently.

Completely as if he sensed that inappropriateness.

“Let me help you,” he said, reaching under the table to place his hand on the younger man’s knee.

He was testing how far he could go.

But why?

He didn’t know himself.

Thomas felt like his knee was almost burning from that touch.

Yet he didn’t push his hand away.

Something in him couldn’t do it and wanted to savor the contact.

Once again, he didn’t know which time that day, he felt pathetic.

But he could admit that he maintained control because he chose this touch.

That was more important to him.

Alfie, as if sensing the boy’s emotions, gently stroked his knee.

Shelby shamefully admitted that his touch was warmly soothing.

What the fuck had happened to him?

He hung his head sadly.

He had lost.

At that moment, he didn’t even care about that fucking control anymore.

He wanted to wake up….

He hoped it was just a dream…

But when that didn’t work, he simply decided to ask the question that had been hanging in the air.

“What were you talking to Arthur about?” he asked without even looking in his direction. He really didn’t care anymore.

Solomons looked around, making sure there was no one nearby who could notice them. When he noted they were indeed almost alone and the bartender was busy cleaning tables, he reached with his remaining hand towards Thomas's chin. He lifted it gently, forcing him to look at him.

The boy shivered. It was too much.

"Don't touch me," he growled, pulling away from him. Yet immediately, he felt a familiar emptiness. Damn, did that touch really help him that much? He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the increasingly inappropriate feeling.

"I can't handle this," he muttered to himself, knowing why. It was like an impulse. He just couldn't keep it in any longer.

Alfie nodded. "I know, that's why I talked to Arthur," he replied, straightening in his chair.

Thomas was stunned. What's happening? The image seemed to blur before him.

"What?" he asked, completely thrown off. Control... He needed control...

Solomons shrugged. "Should I be honest or nice?" he asked, taking out a familiar cigarette case from his vest pocket. Thomas licked his lips at the sight. Warmth spread in his stomach and his muscles tensed.

The older man didn't miss this. "Want a smoke?" he asked, perfectly aware of what he was doing. He was maliciously testing the younger man's boundaries. A wicked smile crept onto his pale-red lips framed by stubble.

He was acting like he'd gone mad. Mad for the younger one...

"Fuck, this is absurd," he cursed himself inwardly, but didn't let it show at all.

He really didn't understand himself anymore.

Shelby, however, didn't let himself be fooled. "Talk about what you discussed with Arthur," he said dryly. He had to push away memories stirred by the sight of that familiar cigarette case, containing indeed delicious cigarettes.

Something flashed in the older man's eye at his reaction. He lit his cigarette.

"So, should I be honest," he took a deep drag, "You're a wreck, Tommy. Impossible to work with. For a while now, you've done nothing but get drunk and cause trouble when you do. You know it, I know it. Arthur and I have been in touch about this for a while. We gave you time. We hoped you'd get it together. But clearly, you didn't. So today, I made the final decision. I wanted to tell Arthur myself. I figured this would be the most convenient place. And something told me I'd find you here today," he delivered the whole monologue, simultaneously enjoying his cigarette and never breaking eye contact with the shocked and enraged boy in front of him.

"He knew that Shelby wouldn't like this turn of events, but he knew it was best for the company and its interests. They had already lost too much due to the recklessness of the younger one.

Indeed, Shelby seemed to deflate. "Are you fucking kidding me?! US!" he shouted, lunging towards his partner.

They were lucky the dive bar they were in wasn't the quietest place, so that one shout didn't change anything.

Alfie remained unfazed. He simply continued smoking his cigarette. "Calm down," he said after a moment. "This is for your own good," he had to be firm. He knew this was the only way to make a difference.

Shelby couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was he some fucking child that decisions had to be made for him about what was good or not? He was supposed to be the master of his own fate. By what right did this bastard interfere in his life? Who did he think he was?

It wasn't even anger. It was pure fucking rage. What's worse, it was fueled by quite a bit of alcohol.

"I'll kill you," he growled, nearly spitting on the older man. But then a chill ran down his spine as he realized he had just had the opportunity to threaten someone like that today.

"If I keep killing them all like this, I'll run out of hands," a sarcastic comment floated through his mind stream. Shelby let it pass.

Alfie just laughed at his partner's reaction. "Try it," he said again, taking another drag from his cigarette. "You wouldn't be able to do it, Tommy," he paused, blowing the smoke straight into the younger man's face. Almost like yesterday. "You'd miss me too much."

He was certain this would break his resistance. A slight smile crept onto his lips. It was gentler but warm.

Thomas looked at him, and despite his lingering anger, he seemed to feel a sense of contentment. He liked that smile, and he saw it so rarely... He stared a moment too long because Alfie shook his head with pity.

"I knew it," he muttered, sending the younger man a piercing glance. "Tell me, how long have we known each other?" The question was completely unexpected, but it flowed smoothly from the Jew's lips. Perhaps he wanted to change the subject to calm Shelby down a bit. Of course, Shelby immediately saw through this intention, but he didn't resist. Lately, he had been torn between extremes-either

incredibly irritated and stimulated or tired

and submissive to the point of pain.

Literally.”

Perhaps at that moment, fatigue took over the helm.

With a somber look, he regarded his partner's face.

Cold Bastard Shelby again.

Classic move.

"It's been about 2 years, mate," he replied. Although he casually continued the conversation, something inside him, despite the fatigue and indifference he exuded, wanted this conversation to continue. Deep down, he almost begged for it.

"Pathetic asshole," he thought.

Even the desire for control seemed to fade away. At that moment, he was even inclined to let Solomon lead the entire conversation just to keep it going.

The Jew nodded. The cigarette in his mouth was almost burnt out, so he reached for the ashtray to extinguish it.

Shelby stopped him with his hand.

"I'd gladly finish it," he took the cigarette from his hand, savoring the moment their fingers touched.

It was almost exhilarating.

His move was an abstraction, yet it's worth noting that lately, most of his actions were like that.

More impulsiveness.

Less control.

He grimaced slightly at this realization but masked it with the cigarette, which he brought lovingly close to his lips.

Alfie observed him with considerable surprise. Honestly, something in the brunette's demeanor instilled fear in him. Shelby acted as if he had lost his mind.

He was drinking more than usual, avoiding contact with clients. He even stopped controlling the operations.

It was so unlike him.

What happened to the guy who shook his hand so firmly two years ago that he almost left bruises on it?

With shame, he admitted he missed that Thomas.

And now all he had left was Tommy.

Lost, messed up, drowned in drink, and confused Tommy whom he would have to save, willing or not.

Although did he really have to?

Or maybe the events of last night affected him so much.

Did by taking Shelby under his wing, he sign a pact with the devil?

Or perhaps he felt obligated to save him?

Or worse, did he feel such a need?

After all, why would he be talking to him now if not of his own volition, wanting to pull him out of the shitstorm he was in?

Why did he plan it all, starting much earlier than when they went to bed together?

But will saving this asshole from the quagmire require too much?

And yet he did it, just by talking to Arthur enough. He lightened Thomas' load enough for him to pull himself together...

Why did he talk to him?

Why did he touch him?

He grimaced. He didn't like those thoughts at all.

The younger man raised his eyebrows in surprise. The cigarette he had taken had long been extinguished in the nearby ashtray, and his gaze had been fixed on the contemplative Jew for a while now. He wanted to know what the other man was thinking so intensely.

"What's wrong?" he blurted out, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

Excitement was getting the better of him again.

"What the fuck is happening to me," he growled in his head.

Alfie shook his head in a dismissive gesture.

"It doesn't matter," he rubbed his face with his hand.

It was probably time to leave this place.

"I'll go now," he wanted to get up, but Shelby's foot came down firmly on his shoe.

"What is he doing?" he asked himself inwardly, while at the same time staring in surprise at the blue-eyed man.

He looked into his eyes, but after a moment he regretted it.

Shelby was scared.

He saw it in his eyes.

He was definitely scared.

He saw it for a brief moment, but he was sure he saw fear in his eyes.

But why?

Thoughts swirled in his mind.

After all, he wasn't his nanny.

After all, he was

Nobody

Until yesterday...

The whole situation seemed to overwhelm him.

It was probably too much responsibility.

Comforting this jerk for a moment was even pleasant, but babysitting him full-time?

Definitely not a vision Alfie would allow himself to be swept into.

But could he realistically decide about it?

After all, everything around him was happening as it pleased, and he just tried to grab onto anything.

Just to survive.

The younger man didn't know what he was doing. He was weak.

He felt it deep inside. Something in him broke.

Was it the alcohol?

Something was messing with his senses so much that all he could read was fear.

Fear of being left alone with himself.

He didn't want to be alone.

Not after he felt he didn't have to be alone.

It was pathetic, but stopping Alfie, he wanted to convey that to him.

He wished the other man was sharp enough to read it from him.

Anything to avoid having to say it out loud.

But nothing happened. The bearded man just looked at him in surprise, while fear gripped his body more and more.

"Fuck," he muttered aloud. His tone was almost desperate. Something bad was happening to him.

She was even more frightened at the thought that at that moment she would even ask the older person to stay with him.

He really was pathetic.

Thomas' condition made the Jew fight his thoughts. After all, he couldn't leave this jerk in such a state.

"I'll take you home, Tommy," he squeezed out after a while.

Of all the options, this seemed the most sensible to him.

The least binding.

However, the younger man shook his head.

"No. It's better if you don't show up there," he lowered his head so the other couldn't look into his eyes.

A wave of shame mixed with fear, creating an almost deadly mix.

He felt the urge to drink again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sadly glanced at the empty bottle.

Alfie sighed heavily. He was tired of all this mess. But in the end, he wanted to play the hero himself.

He sat down next to him and offered help himself.

He planned it himself.

Maybe it couldn't be taken back.

This jerk wouldn't admit it himself, but the Jew knew that Shelby involuntarily trusted him a little more than he wanted.

"Alright," he muttered resignedly. "Get yourself together. I'll host you at my place."

Well, it was already too late to back out.

Hopefully, all this mess was worth it.

.......

The road to the older man's apartment passed fairly quickly. Shelby walked a few steps behind Alfie, so it didn't look suspicious.

All the way, he tried to ignore strange thoughts about being observed.

After all, they were just thoughts, right?

The older man didn't turn towards him, just walked confidently towards a place known only to him.

It was strange; they had been working together for a few years now, yet Shelby had never been to his place.

He smiled gently.

"There always has to be a first time," a silly thought popped into his head.

They passed a few turns to find themselves on a small promenade where cafes and something like a wine bar were located.

Thomas frowned. He didn't expect his partner to live in such an area.

He didn't dwell on it for too long because Alfie's figure disappeared into one of the entrances leading to the upper parts of the promenade.

He didn't hurry too much, not wanting to be taken for suspicious. Only after a short while of staring at one of the bushes adorning the entrance to the cafe, he glanced at his watch with a nonchalant gesture.

Classic move.

After this measured gesture, he walked briskly towards the entrance behind which the older man had disappeared a few moments ago.

Immediately after crossing the threshold, he saw a row of stairs that clearly led to the residential floors.

He followed them upstairs, assuming he would find the Jew there.

He wasn't wrong. Alfie was waiting for him right by one of the entrances, most likely leading to his apartment.

He shook his head at the sight of the younger man.

"You really don't have to try that hard," he chuckled. "These people don't give a damn where you're going or why. They have enough of their own problems."

As he said this, he aimed the key at the lock hole and turned it smoothly twice.

He opened the door, hiding the key in the pocket of his coat.

Shelby observed him closely.

The older man's words seemed to make him feel foolish.

With all his might, however, he tried to push away these strange emotions.

After all, it didn't matter anyway.

He entered the apartment behind Alfie, waiting meekly for him to close the door behind them.

He didn't feel confident enough to peek inside the room himself, but the hallway where they stood convinced him that his partner indeed had good taste.

The neighborhood might not have been very interesting, but the decor made up for this shortcoming.

In fact, it even added color to the whole place.

These thoughts relaxed the younger man a bit. He turned his gaze towards Alfie, who was kissing his hand and then placed it on a small case hanging next to the right door frame.

It surprised him a bit, but he didn't say anything. The older man, after making that gesture, looked at him expectantly.

Thomas didn't know what was going on. He raised an eyebrow in a questioning gesture, to which Alfie encouragingly waved his hand towards him.

"Come here," he instructed, and Shelby immediately responded.

"Give me your right hand," another command to which Thomas responded without blinking.

After all, no one could see them there.

The Jew gently took his partner's hand, bringing it to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on his fingers, then guided his hand towards the case.

Again, Thomas didn't know what guided him.

The younger man didn't resist. He tried to ignore the fact that his fingers burned as if touched by live fire.

Was it because of those lips or maybe the unfortunate case?

"Is this some kind of tradition?" he muttered, not wanting to appear uncultured.

Alfie smiled warmly.

"It's a Mezuzah, Tommy," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Seeing that his companion didn't seem to understand much, he added:

"Jews who adhere to tradition place a fragment of the Torah in the Mezuzah. When entering or leaving the house, they send a kiss towards it as a sign of greeting or farewell to God. In your case, this gesture signifies the acceptance of hospitality in my home," he said, then gently touched the boy's shoulder.

Somehow, he couldn't resist touching him on every occasion.

"Make yourself at home.”

Shelby shivered. Every touch from that man sent sparks through him like embers flying from a firepit. What was worse, he didn't know if it truly bothered him. Perhaps Alfie was his firepit? He grimaced at the thought.

A moment passed before the older man released his shoulder, hung up his coat and hat on the rack to their right. Right after that, he walked past him towards the kitchen. He decided to simply ignore that small grimace.

Shelby followed him, also hanging up his jacket and cap. Upon reaching the kitchen, he settled into one of the dining chairs. He had already had a few drinks that day, but he hoped for a taste of Solomon's famous rum. Subconsciously, though, he knew such an offer wouldn't come. Alf was the last person who would offer him alcohol at that moment.

Maybe he was losing his mind, but something in his head interpreted Alfie's reluctance to let him drink as a sign of concern.

An abstract thought. Someone cared about Thomas, fucking Shelby.

A crooked smile twisted his lips at that thought. It didn't escape the bearded man's notice, who had been observing him attentively for a while.

"What's amusing you?" he asked, expecting an interesting answer.

Shelby shook his head.

"Nothing," he grinned broadly at his partner. Somehow, he was feeling happier.

Alfie looked at him indulgently before turning towards the fridge.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked over his shoulder, pulling out a large ovenproof dish.

Shelby became slightly embarrassed. What the fuck did this guy care if he had eaten? It wasn't his concern.

Despite his subconscious aversion to such questioning, something inside him again attributed this to a form of care from the Jew.

At that moment, however, he didn't smile at the thought; rather, he grimaced in disgust.

"I ate," he lied effortlessly, watching his partner closely.

Alfie smirked mischievously.

"Too bad. I already set some aside for you," he nodded towards the plate with a large piece of what resembled cake.

Shelby grimaced. He didn't care for sweets.

"No need. You know I prefer rum in my tiramisu," he allowed himself a small smile, hoping the other would let it go.

But that didn't happen because after a moment, the long-haired man sat at the table, serving Thomas a plate and a dish with sauce.

Shelby examined the dish. He was surprised it wasn't the cake he had expected. The whole thing looked like cheesy mashed potatoes. The younger man grimaced almost like a child who didn't want to eat something green.

Alfie laughed. This brat could touch him in this bizarre way with his amazement.

However, the awareness of this fact wasn't as funny to the Jew. He gritted his teeth harder, trying to ignore the growing anxiety within him.

He didn't want to get attached. To anything. To anyone.

That wasn't his story.

He rolled his eyes.

"It's kugel, not some cake. Stop pouting and eat, or I'll be offended," he grumbled, pushing the plate almost against the boy's chest.

It seemed he had no choice. After all, his grimaces couldn't overshadow his impeccable manners.

The first bite was strange. He probably had never eaten anything like it before. However, that didn't mean he didn't like it. On the contrary, with each forkful, he realized how hungry he was and how much he liked this peculiar delicacy.

"A liquid diet definitely doesn't suit me in the long run," he thought.

Alfie smiled to himself, absorbing the magical sight of this usually cold bastard who was currently devouring the food like a small, innocent child.

With a swift motion, the older man reached for the sauce pitcher.

"This will make it even better," he declared, pouring a generous portion of sauce over the remaining kugel.

It was so strange. These two had never felt this comfortable in each other's company before.

That evening seemed to have sealed a strange pact between them.

A pact that unconsciously obligated Solomon to almost paternal care over the younger man.

That perfectly explained his behavior.

But what about Shelby?

Did it obligate him to be submissive to the bearded Jew?

It was ridiculous.

Shelby always managed on his own. He had mechanisms in place that didn't include supervision.

So why did it seem to him that deepening this fucking void inside him had something to do with being deprived of the whip that belonged to Alfie?

He grimaced.

Here's the translation:

The older man tilted his head, almost offended. "Don't you like it?" he asked gloomily.

Shelby turned towards him. Something in the older man's expression amused him greatly.

But he wanted to hide it because he knew that laughter could offend him even more.

Although... Did it really matter to him that much?

He couldn't resist, and a quiet snort escaped his lips, resulting in an even more disgusted look from the Jew.

"Don't eat if you don't want to," he reached out to take the plate from him.

To his surprise, he felt resistance.

"No. It's quite good, thank you," he said, pulling the plate closer to himself to resume eating.

Indeed, the sauce made the whole thing taste more substantial.

Alfie raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're acting insane," he remarked.

Shelby smiled to himself. "Maybe I am?" he replied, more to himself than to him, but that didn't change the fact that the older man shook his head in dismay.

"Don't talk like that, Tommy," this time, the endearment from him didn't seem derogatory but rather comforting.

Strange. It was so damn strange for both of them.

Shelby adjusted himself in the chair, finishing the remainder of his meal and setting down his fork.

He fixed his slightly blurry eyes on the older man.

"What's going on?" he asked as if absent-mindedly. He didn't even know if he asked the question deliberately.

Alfie furrowed his brows. "Right now, we're sitting in my apartment," he said, slightly surprised but with a hint of irony. The state of the boy in front of him started to give him chills again, so sarcasm seemed like a good solution.

Shelby licked his lips.

"But what's happening between us?" This time, he asked the question completely consciously, and the gaze he stubbornly fixed on the man in front of him only reinforced the idea that it was up to him to answer that question.

The devil was in the fact that he himself didn't know what was happening between them.

He sighed heavily, holding back from swearing.

"I don't know, Thomas," he replied, breaking the growing silence.

He hoped Shelby might respond with something concrete. But it didn't happen.

The brunette lowered his head in resignation.

No one said anything for a long time.

Then suddenly, Shelby's voice pierced the apartment.

"I can't get rid of you," his voice was hollow.

Alfie furrowed his brows. He didn't say anything, feeling that what the younger man had to say wasn't over yet.

He was right, as a muffled voice once again filled the space.

"Not even now," he said, raising his head to look directly into the older man's eyes.

The Jew was confused.

"What the hell does he mean?" he thought, but images from the previous evening flashed through his mind in an instant.

But it couldn't be about that, could it?

"I got what I wanted, and yet I'm still," he interrupted himself, regaining some awareness. He didn't want to finish that sentence.

Unfortunately for him, Solomon wasn't going to let him off so easily. He looked at him meaningfully, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Shelby forced a half-smile on himself.

" Still hungry," he smoothly threw out. Almost as if he had wanted to say that from the beginning.

Suddenly, he felt an unexpected touch on his hand, which he had just laid on the table.

It was the long-haired man and his strong hand that caused this sensation.

Alfie was stirred by the blond's words. Some unimaginable fever that no compress could cure or even ease.

Something wanted him to immediately throw himself at this blue-eyed boy and shower him with kisses, yet another part whispered to him to hit him with all his might in that rather handsome face.

He felt like a toy.

And the worst part was that he seemed to enjoy this role.

After all, from the beginning, he was just a pawn in Shelby's game.

A pawn or a toy... It was all the same.

He squeezed the boy's hand tighter as he continued to stare at the source of the warm touch.

"Maybe I can feed you," Alfie whispered unexpectedly, cutting through the air and causing almost overwhelming waves of heat in Thomas.

"What the fuck is he talking about?" the younger man's brain couldn't comprehend what was happening.

Alfie had really lost himself in the fever caused by this brat.

He was scared by this fact, but he himself was beginning to feel hungry.

"Will you allow me to do that, Tommy?" he asked, wanting to get an answer as quickly as possible.

[spicy-moths]

Training

Google x GN!Reader | Words: 855

Warnings: use of "pet", "human", bondage, mild degradation, mind control, unprotected sex (no risk), pet training, oral implied

MINORS DNI

He lays you down on your stomach, the cold of the leather causing you to react as he traces his fingers down your spine.

“Interesting, how reactive to my touch… shall we see what other touches you like?”

As you hear him step away, the ringing in your head returns and you whine, holding your head. He returns, rubbing a soothing hand on your back as the ringing dissipates once again.

“Hands down, there we go, good pet. I’ll take the pain away, just focus on me…”

It settles to an underlying buzz, scrambling the words in your brain enough that only a grunt of understanding escapes you. You can sense him smile, stepping away again as you’re pliant on the bed. You turn your head to watch him move around as you try to be good, to hold still for him like he wants you to. He strips slowly, taking great care with his suit, revealing long gloves and a sleeveless turtleneck underneath. You don’t realize you’re verbalizing your enjoyment of how he looks until he turns to look at you, a frown on his face.

“Did I give you permission, pet?”

Your face flushes as you realize you disobeyed, burying your face into the sheets. But it’s too late. Wires come out from under the bed, wrapping around your wrists and ankles, forcing your legs open. You cry out in surprise, whining out apologies as you pray for forgiveness. But he doesn’t take disobedience well. The gloves are discarded near your head as you hear the cap of a bottle click.

“Another day denied, pet. You should know better…”

You try to protest, but he just pushes your face down into the bed as he looms over you, sticking two of his lubed fingers inside you. Your screams and pleads are muffled, and he only lets you up occasionally to breathe, at least until you learn to be quiet.

“Don’t you dare cum.”

His fingers are rough, not like the rest of his synthetic skin, broad enough to make that initial stretch hurt. You would usually wonder if that’s why he wears the gloves, but the fluff in your brain and the pace of his fingers mean any thoughts other that what he’s putting you through right now are nonexistent. When you learn to quiet yourself, he slows them slightly, and you think he’s showing you mercy. Until he adds another finger, and you bite your lip to keep yourself quiet.

“And to think that I could take you apart without even giving you what you crave… little humans like you desperate to get what you deserve. With maybe the thought of getting what you want if you whine loud enough… pathetic…”

A fourth is added and you nearly scream, but you realize what this means.

“You’re lucky I still need to train you, pet. So you learn to only have urges for me, for what I can provide…”

He removes his fingers, and you anticipate him pushing in, letting out a desperate, high moan when he finally presses into you. He works himself in, ridges and texture kissing all parts of you, so big that any remaining thoughts spill out of your mouth in a litany of moans. 

His beginning pace is slow, but with how tight you are around him, he might as well be going hard. You want him to, you beg of him. He chuckles amusedly, picking up the pace a bit as a reward for words so prettily begged of him. You crave him, you need him.

Soon he gets up to a rough pace, wires tightening around you as they wrap your arms together and move your legs in positions suited for his needs. His hands grasp the sheets near your head, a few fingers still glistening from you. He notices you looking, and offers two of his thick fingers to you to suck on. The rhythm stutters, as you can tell your mouth is affecting him in ways he wasn’t anticipating.

“I believe some oral training is in order after this, pet~”

You groan around his fingers, whining and whimpering as you feel his hips quicken again.

“Are you excited for what I am going to give you? Allow you to cum, pet?”

Your next sound is desperate as a shift in his hips causes you to cry out, nearly choking on his fingers as your body starts shaking.

“Cum, pet.”

It hits you like a wave, sweeping you under as he continues, screaming and begging for him, all your thoughts about him. It feels like forever yet also not long enough, at least until you feel him still. His hips remain flush with yours as he admires how you squirm, brainless and pliant for him, before pulling out.

“Good little pet, you’ll prove very useful to me for when I need a bit of, stress relief…”

You can’t understand what he’s saying, but simply moan as he pulls you into his arms, cold body stark contrast to your own heated skin. “Shall we see how useful your mouth can be in the throne room, pet?”

[broken-clover]

8- Festival

This is one prompt that I included with some sort of image already in mind, perhaps I'll blame my recent playthrough of the Teal Mask putting me in a festival mood. I like the thought of Baiken and Anji introducing Delilah to bits of Japanese culture as a soft of family thing. I will say that I tried my best looking up accurate information on how to put on a yukata and tie an obi properly, but I apologize if I ended up inaccurate somewhere.

This one's also a bit of a gift for @rex101111 because we all know you're a notorious baiken liker, and it seems like you could possibly use something a little lighthearted right now.

-

Delilah very slowly looked down at the thing on the bed, then back up to her caretaker, and down again.

“...I don’t get it.”

Baiken sighed. “I know it’s not your usual thing. Anji suggested it to me. Figured if we were taking you to a full-on proper matsuri, might as well dress for it.”

The girl did her best to keep her nose from wrinkling in displeasure at the thought. “It’s…really fancy.”

“Just looks like it. First time always feels a little weird, even when it’s just a yukata instead of a full-on kimono. I felt the same way when I got my first one. I tried to find one where the fabric wasn’t rough to the touch, figured if I was gonna ask you to wear it for more than a little while it wasn’t fair to make it itchy, too.”

After another back-and-forth look between Baiken and the bed, Delilah tentatively reached out and thumbed the garment’s sleeve. “It’s kinda weird…” she half-murmured. “But if it’s important to you, big sis, I can try it once.”

“I find it helps one get into the spirit of things!” Anji chirped, making both of them jump back at his sudden appearance.

“How many times do I have to tell you to knock that off?!” Baiken visibly restrained herself, both from pulling her sword out and in keeping the litany of swears currently on the tip of her tongue from jumping out around a child.

Anji feigned innocence. “I simply wanted to see Delilah’s thoughts on the lovely gift you procured for her! I know you were worried about sizing, what with it being a surprise and all, I thought you would be relieved to see it was a good pick after all!”

“Shut it.” The woman’s face tinted scarlet. “You gonna stand around here all day, Mito, or can the kid get changed without you watching the whole damn thing?”

“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands and took a step back. “I’m just going to stand behind the divider, alright? I’ll be nearby in case you need any help tying the knots or folding anything.”

His hands stayed up as he moved, vanishing behind the panels of wood on the other side of the room. “Also, that’s another coin for the swear jar, Baiken!”

“Oh, sonuva- !” She growled, gritting her teeth. “Just stay in the corner and spare me your color commentary.”

“It looks like a bathrobe,” Delilah said.

Baiken sent a pointed glare at the divider as Anji snickered. “I guess it’s a little similar. You gotta do a few steps to put it on right. Might take a few minutes. That okay?”

She nodded. “Alright. With something like this, you can wear your usual stuff under your clothes. With the real fancy ones, you gotta wear special stuff under it, or nothing at all. But that sorta thing’s for real special occasions, weddings and that kinda thing. I don’t wear mine that way, either. Too much work.”

At that, Delilah tried to imagine Baiken in something very, very fancy, like the kimonos she had seen at the museum from before the war. It was quite difficult to envision. It seemed like that would get in the way of swinging a sword.

Baiken guided her into slipping off her usual dress and putting the new one on. Delilah looked down at herself. Her arms moved up and down, making the abundant material flop around.

“It’s too long.”

“Nah, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Pull up the edges so it’s close to your ankles.”

She did as she was told. “Good, yeah, like that. Just try to make sure it’s even on the bottom. Fold the right side against yourself. Yeah, like that. Then you take the left and put it the other way over the top.”

“Make sure it’s left-over-right and not right-over-left!” Anji chimed in. “Don’t want to scare anybody!”

“That’s what you do when they’re dead,” Baiken explained, noting Delilah’s confused look. “Mmkay, looks like it fits alright. Make sure it’s not too loose, you wanna be able to move around but not make anything untie itself.”

So far, she wasn’t too confused. Though she had to readjust it a couple of times, Delilah found a good fit that didn’t feel too much like being squeezed. Baiken had been right, the material was pretty soft, and that made the whole thing a little less uncomfortable.

“Nice, nice.” The woman nodded. She handed her some kind of string. “This part helps keep it closed. Tie it around your waist.”

“This looks different from yours,” Delilah gestured to the sash holding Baiken’s kimono together.

“Nah, I got one underneath this. It’s a separate part. Though now that you bring it up…”

While she knotted the string, Delilah watched Baiken root around in the closet. She came back with a bundle of pale pink fabric. “This’s the part that goes over the string. The obi helps keep things more secure.”

Baiken moved behind her. “Don’t turn around, I’m gonna help you put this part on.”

“You still remember your ties, Baiken?” Asked the voice in the corner.

Delilah felt a tug around her waist. “Heh. My mama tried ‘n tried to get me to learn how to tie my own belt. Never stuck. Thankfully, you’re still pretty young and haven’t had much practice yet. Nobody’s gonna bat an eye if you wear a kantan obi, plenty of adults don’t know how to tie their own anymore.”

“It’s a lost art.” Anji gave a mildly dramatic sigh.

“Oh shut the hell up, yours isn’t even in a proper damn knot, anyway! You’ve just got it tied in a dainty little bow, princess.”

“How cruel! And another coin for the swear jar!”

She groaned. “Anyway, here, grab the little thin strips. Just knot ‘em together any way you usually do, that bit gets tucked away.”

At least that part was easy. Delilah wondered how people did this every day, they must have had a lot more patience. She preferred being able to just slip on something comfortable and be done with it. But she did feel a bit fancy like this, the patterns were so much brighter and fancier than she usually wore. When she tucked in the sash’s knot, it did look cool, too.

“One more thing to put on.”

Baiken reached over and undid the rope of reddish-pink cord that was tied snugly around her waist. Delilah held out her palms and let it coil like a little woven snake.

“Another belt?”

“Just…try ‘n not pick at this one, okay? I know some of the bits are kinda loose, it’s just old.”

“What’s so important about this?”

“Eh, mostly just an accessory, some hold the knots together, but I mostly just use this one ‘cause it looks good. Though if you were wearing your first real yukata, it’d be nice to have something to tie it all together.”

Delilah didn’t quite follow the logic, but Baiken knew more about all of this than she did, so she trusted it made sense. The Japanese sure seemed fond of belts. She looped it around her waist and tried to replicate the knot Baiken used. It came out uneven, but when she looked back up, she was smiling.

“Yeah, I was right. Looks good on you.”

Delilah tried for a little twirl. Something about how the loose sleeves flapped did feel very fun. “I feel pretty.”

“Hold on, I’m gonna go get a decent mirror.” Baiken headed for the door. “Anji, you still have that one you made in the kitchen?”

He must have nodded, as Baiken departed in silence. Anji emerged from his hiding place, eyes immediately going wide.

“Goodness, well aren’t you adorable! All ready for your first festival!”

“I feel like big sis.” She waved the sleeves again. “Do you help her put hers on?”

“Nah, Baiken’s an expert. She can do all her folds and ties one-handed!” Anji paused. “She really gave you her kumihimo?”

The girl squinted in thought. She ran a finger across the braid. “This thing?” Anji nodded. “She told me to put it on top.”

“Huh! Never thought I’d see the day…”

“What’s so important about it?”

“It was her mom’s. She did a lot of weaving- well, that’s what Baiken told me, at least. She hated whenever I tried to touch it, I used to think she just hated having any of her stuff touched, but I think this one’s an old personal keepsake.”

Delilah went silent. Suddenly, this whole thing felt a lot more sentimental. Baiken wasn’t normally so passionate about clothing or getting dressed up, but now it made a bit more sense.

Anji guided her out of the room, all dressed up. Once she’d gotten enough time to admire her reflection in the mirror Baiken offered, the three of them stepped outside and headed in the direction of glowing lanterns.

He pointed off to one of the colorful stalls. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s go see if we can fish up a water yo-yo!”

“Huh?”

“Oh, it’s a festival staple. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”

[fe-fictions]

Benny with a s/o who finds his appearance and build to be cute rather than intimidating. S/o can be a Oc, si, or just corrin I’m not picky)

(Let's GOOOO bc Benny IS so cute ;;; A ;;; Also I alternate between Benoit and Benny for his name; Benoit just sounds so much cooler, and I love the idea of Benny being his nickname ;;; )

He’d heard you describe him using that word once before. And he still wasn’t completely certain how he was supposed to take it. After all, he was notoriously one of the most fearsome and intimidating members of your army.

Where in the world did you get the idea he was anything other?

The latest time you said such an outlandish thing was during tea with your sister. Camilla had wondered aloud what had you so enamored with the man (who was currently hulking beside you, a towering presnece at the tea table.

“Well, I mean, where do you start?” You replied, looking your husband up and down and earning a bashful smile from him. “He’s just so cute!”

The term made Camilla giggle, and baffled Benoit.

“Er…you think I’m cute?” He repeated, a bit stunned by the statement, “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” You huffed, as though offended he would suggest anything otherwise.

“But why?”

“Because! You’re- oh, I don’t know! It’s something about your face, and your hair, and how big you are…”

“Darling, those traits would make him look more intimidating than adorable. You seem to be confusing the two.” Camilla remarked, incapable of withholding her amusement.

“But he’s not fearsome!!” You countered, bordering on indignant. “I mean, look at him! He’s such a sweet and gentle person, how could anyone think him sometihng other than cute?”

“I-I think you’re referring more to my personality, not my appearance.” He corrected you as dour as ever. “I don’t exactly look ‘cute’. You look much cuter than I do.”

“Oh, stop it! Flatterer.” You laughed, failing to hide the blush on your cheeks behind your fingers. “That’s what makes you so cute! You look so rugged, and strong, but you’re such a gentle soul on the inside. I’ve never seen a man who can just hold out his hand and have a bird just fly over to you! It’s part of what makes you so special.”

“I feel like you’re describing an animal. Not a grown man.” Benny said shyly, the gushing praise of his wife making his heartbeat far too quick.

Camilla was smiling to herself, watching the two of you get into a competition over who might get more flustered first.

“When you explain it like that, darling, I’m beginning to understand your line of reasoning. Him being a big, gruff yet gentle spirit is quite charming.”

“Yes! You get it!” You cheered, grinning at your poor sweet husband. His eyes were fixed on the tea, a big part of him wanting to hide in a corner. “He’s just so adorable, isn’t he??”

“Indeed he is,” Camilla grinned behind her teacup. 

“Come on, now…this is a little much.” Benoit mumbled. You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his bicep, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Benny. I just love my big, sweet husband so much I want everyone to know it! And if they don’t understand why, it’s my marital duty to educate them.”

“How many more people are you going to ‘educate’?” He sounded mortified by the mere thought.

You shrugged, “Anyone who asks! Camilla was just the start.”

“You know, I wouldn’t mind if…if you didn’t educate anyone else.” He sighed, earning another laugh and a kiss on the cheek.

“Very well, my love. If you’d rather maintain that fearsome image, I won’t undermine you. Now let’s finish our tea. And maybe, if Camilla asks for more stories or has other curious questions…I might just oblige.”

“Oh, I don’t think she-”

“Actually, Benny dear, I have thousands of questions I’d simply love to ask my Corrin. Now, when did you first discover how cute he was?”

Benny was beyond a good sport when it came to being harassed by his wife, thankfully. And you were sure to apologize for embarrassing him with a litany of kisses; the only fair compensation for his troubles.

[the-storytellers-seer]

A Ramble and a Snippet

I am so bored. That's something that's very rarely mentioned when talking about suffering from medical issues. Especially when one's body is failing them, but their mind is as active as ever.

I've been doing my rewrites for lack of much else to do and I'm running into the same issue I was when I started Heirs of the Throne.

I personally feel like a series of books should have a stylistic theme. Sometimes that theme can be somewhat turned on its head, but by and large if the first story is written in first person, the second story should also follow that style. With perhaps a change in viewpoint characters.

Writing in first person is probably the easiest style for me and I can write quickly. I prefer third person but I write much slower as I tend to find myself falling into the trap of telling rather than showing.

When I first started writing Heirs of the Prophecy, I actually started it in third person, but Sarea was clamoring for a first-person narrative and I ultimately changed it.

This became an issue when I was writing the sequel because I didn't want everything to be from her POV anymore, but I felt like I needed to keep the stylistic theme. But Miraak was MUCH harder to write first person and I feel the writing really suffered.

So, in this rewrite, I'm going third person. And yeah, Sarea is being kind of a bitch about it, but Miraak is the MVP right now. Boy is like, "oh yeah I'll tell you what's on my mind in third person"!

And so, here's a little snippet of the rewrite. Heirs of the Prophecy Rewrite From Chapter Two: Of Dreams and Desire

She was there.

She was the only thing he could feel in his purgatory. The heat of her soul pulled him like a traveler seeking the comfort of a fire in the dead of night. He followed it, keeping to the shadows until he reached the outskirts of the village. She was in a small hut not far. Tentatively, he cast invisibility and was pleased to find the spell worked adjacent to the other. He’d suspected it should, but it was pleasing to have the theory proven correct. He heard voices in the hut as he slid through the door as if it were nothing.

He saw her. She was nestled against the chest of a Dunmer male, looking up at him with large eyes. “You’re not a soft landing.” She chided, her lilting soprano slightly slurred.

“My sincerest apologies.” Her companion teased as his arms tightened around her slightly.

Miraak stepped forward to wrench them apart but stopped himself just shy of reaching for her shoulder. He couldn’t interact with her. He shouldn’t want to interact with her.

His dovah soul protested otherwise. A litany of mine, mine, mine played in the back of his mind.

She buried her face in the Dunmer’s neck. The male shuddered, his fingers flexing as her full curves pressed against him.

“I ought to have suspected you’d be a touchy drunk.”

Her lips brushed against the male’s neck as she mumbled, “’M not drunk.”

There was only one bed in the room and Miraak watched with a clenched jaw and fists and the Dunmer male guided her toward it. “Merdekhes?”

He called her ‘beautiful’. Who was this male to her? Her lover? Husband? More importantly, how quickly could Miraak end his life?

She groaned in a way that heated his blood. He stiffened. His teeth grinding so loudly he was surprised they didn’t hear it.

“Sarea, the bed is less than four steps away.”

Her name was Sarea.

It suited her somehow. He wanted to taste it on his tongue, but he kept himself silent. She was laying down, but she grabbed the mer’s hand. “I think I could scoot over enough for you to fit.”

Miraak didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to watch her touch the mer any longer.

The mer gave her a fond smile, “Darling, we both know you flail in your sleep. Rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The words suggested lovers, but the actions suggested travel companions as the mer hurried out of the hut. His absence unknit some of tension in Miraak’s body. Unbidden, Miraak reached out a hand and nearly stumbled onto the bed with her when he felt her skin. She was soft and warm. Suddenly the world around him was fading and Miraak fought to recast the spell. Darkness consumed him, then he blinked and when next he opened his eyes, he found himself in a room of nothingness, staring down at the naked form of the dragonborn woman.

[more-than-a-princess]

Sonia gave him a brief, puzzled look. A part of him she had yet to discover, and a journey she was ready for even if it could be a difficult path to walk. She guessed it had to do with his past and the various degrees of illegality that he'd found himself in, but she hadn't brought it upon herself to ask him about it. Before he'd left, it seemed too personal to ask of a friend. Now, it seemed too much, in light of how intense her life was now that he was thrust into it properly. And that was only meeting the most agreeable members of the clan, family and staff.

She watched his hand prod her chest, the center of her forehead, before dipping lower and giving her a reason to chuckle, softly blushing. "I will not forget, especially with such an explanation," She replied sincerely, just as she pressed her thighs together a bit tighter: if he was going to tease her, she was capable of doing the same back to him, particularly if he'd dared to emphasize his point by putting his hands on her legs.

Or maybe the tease was the litany of options they had that avoided royal responsibilities or letting anyone else in the family know not only of Wylan's existence and return, but that he had no intentions of going anywhere. It was putting off the inevitable, sure, but Sonia saw value in it. Most importantly just being with Wylan, particularly when neither of them were emotionally volatile, exhausted, or otherwise occupied with each other's lips and-

He interjected his approval of the shower at just the right time, or the wrong one, considering where her trail of thoughts had gone. "Well, I will not apologize for you having to deal with me," She told him, though she smiled, hardly put out by his criticism at all. The breaking into the hotel and her family, however, were different: since his earlier departure, her security had only increased, giving him a challenge she had a feeling he'd eagerly accept. Her family was another story, and one she was less inclined to look into at the moment. "And keep in mind that if you pass out in the shower, you'll become even more acquainted with my family and staff: I am not sure I can keep you upright on my own, though I'd try!"

She too hopped off the bed, and in turn had, with surprising emotional ease, begun to shed her own layers of clothing. An unbuttoned cardigan was draped over the back of a chair, shoes were unbuckled and set inside the walk-in closet, and then Sonia reached for the side zipper of her skirt as she watched him marvel at the size of the bathroom. "Something you will have to become accustomed to, I'm afraid," She explained, smirking as she worked the zipper down and slid the wool over her hips and legs. Stepping out of it, she folded it over her arm. "The master bath in my townhome was renovated before I moved in, and I was granted input in the design upgrades. It's not as old as Novoselic Castle, so it was easier to modernize."

Upgraded everything, Sonia thought while she indulged in her own shower, was something he'd have to get used to. Whenever she could, she tried to imagine every situation in someone else's shoes in order to gain a more rounded perspective of the world, but she couldn't imagine how difficult it all would be for him. The change in circumstances, responsibility, family. And, she realized as she rinsed the vanilla-scented conditioner out of her hair, there was his family to think of too. He didn't have parents, but he had a sibling: once word got out, her life would be affected too.

It was best, she knew, if she extended her friendship first, or even just being acquaintances. Greetings and preemptive apologies for whatever the press might dig up, or her family, or both.

The heavy sigh she exhaled when she stepped out of the shower was both in comfort and irritation, from the shower and how much she'd have to attempt to meticulously introduce everyone with the least possible strife, respectively. Considering her cousins already wanted to murder him upon meeting him (though had been, thankfully, convinced not to), the track record was not strong. Wrapping herself in a white fluffy bathrobe, Sonia caught sight of her reflection in one of the bathroom mirrors and, for the first time, felt a twinge of self-consciousness. He'd seen her naked and thoroughly ravished, but not quite so bare: bare faced, sopping wet hair, and her skin still pink from the hot water. Breaking and entering her Tokyo condo had been the norm for him but there had been some lines that hadn't been crossed: her bathroom, for example.

Reaching for a towel, she began to rub it over her hair as she exited the bathroom. In the interim, staff had managed to take away her dirty clothes for cleaning, set out a new outfit for her, and had rummaged through Wylan's hotel room and brought over his luggage as well.

"I feel somewhat human again," She announced with a smile, taking a seat the chair at the vanity table where her skin, hair, and makeup products had been neatly organized for her. "Do you feel better afterwards too? It's the simplest things sometimes that feel the best." She felt less tired, at least: but without something caffeinated, it wouldn't last.

"Mundane..." The word, meant to imply a dull or forgettable example, rings more like a fairy tale to the assassin. Of course now his mind would drift back to that night in the Nevada desert. When the steel weighed his hand down and the kick from that first pull of the trigger would hit him harder than he ever could have imagined. Mundane. "I guess." His response to nothing in particular, thrown into the void, does carry some of the unconvicted left in his mind. "Even before... everything. I don't think mundane was meant for me. I'm up for too many challenges. Have always been up for them. Only now I'm... I approach it differently than I used to. More of a competitor and less a schoolyard bully. Y'know?"

Maybe maybe not.

"I just wanted you to know. To remember. What truly brought me back were these." Wylan leans over, poking one finger into the center of her chest, and another to her forehead, playfully. "And not these." Well, suffice to guess where to fingers would teasingly prod afterward to punctuate the second wind of his antics. He'd never be able to dump out all his hesitance and trauma in one go. It was bound to shut back up eventually.

Good grief, hearing Sonia list options off it almost felt as though his prior statement was reforming itself in real time in his mind. 'I don't know what I'm in the mood for' turning to 'Not in the mood for that'. But it's not something he shows dramatically in his features. Those remain relatively placid- falling onto his back once again, eyes lazily trailing manifested patterns and shapes along the ceiling. Others would be admiring the architecture- Wylan wonders if he could be content to simply get lost in all that crown molding and decorative pizazz. A far cry from the blank off whites from the motel that was left behind.

Something else to get used to.

"Oh. Oh no, I'm abso-fuckin-lutely taking a shower. With or without you." The smirk continues growing- and perhaps it may even be a little more genuine- even if this was cobbling fragments of the mask he'd dropped after alighting upon the bed. "I've been dealt three layers of sweat to clear off. Dealing with breaking into this hotel- dealing with you last night- and now there's another from dealing with that." A nod towards the door that had temporarily sealed them away from the others. From reality. What he would do to keep Sonia to himself in a little pocket dimension or something. Or maybe the better solution would be to shove the entire monarchy and politics in there instead. Hm.

And with that conviction- Wylan rises from the bed with a kick of his legs. Soon tossing off the articles from his upper half and finding the room that would afford him that watery respite. "I'll figure out what I want- would like to do- after. If I don't pass out in the shower." A moment to take in the suite has him laughing. Almost as welcome as the shower itself. "Holy shit you could just put a bed in here."

He'd figure out where his towels and change of clothes were later.

[rebelthree]

@everythingheard​​ asked: ❛ I said Renaissance era, not Renaissance festival. ❜ (Lucas to Siobhan)

while the entirety of the day had been long (her engaging in two shakespearian stage performances rather than the typical one) siobhan does not feel exceptionally tired, rather the crisp night air as it blows through her hair– still styled as hamlet’s ophelia– grants her energy as they walk. or was it the company? it had certainly been a surprise to see him in the audience as the house lights were raised, a kind of energized flutter within her at the realization his presence there had made her smile just a little bit brighter as she bowed to the crowd. she’d been quick to ask one of the ushers to bring him back stage, apologizing for the wait as she changed. then, they’d exited the theater leading them into their current conversation, her sometimes at his side and sometimes walking backward as they talked as if their everyday lives weren’t filled with ghosts and serial killers. it was as if.. as if a switch had been flicked somewhere in the middle of blind-folded training sessions and the hunt for a murderer where they had gone from quasi-work acquaintances to.. could it be friends? and she couldn’t pin-point the exact moment it happened. it couldn’t be denied, she enjoyed spending time with him and certainly didn’t think him creepy any longer, or, in the least, he was her brand of creepy.

“that’s too bad, here i thought you were asking me on a date. it certainly could have been fun.” dark hues linger for a moment, body tilted slightly toward him as she allows her meaning to wash over him before turning on her heel and jogging away from him to look over the railing of the queen’s walk. almost as if the water was drawing her in like her character in the play. while she did enjoy nature, it was nights like this, with the lights of the city reflecting in the river, she loved london. “i hate the way i feel when my father looks at me as if something is wrong with me. but– i think i finally understand his point of view now.” she comments when lucas joins her, a kind of sad expression creasing her features; she wasn’t excusing her father’s behavior but she could understand it better now. “dorian used to do it too, though that was different.” she lets her dark hues meet his gaze again, a breath is exhaled as if she’s washing something from her mind, ridding it from her and casting it into the water below.  then her features brighten. “but i don’t feel that way with you. i feel.. normal. i feel like myself.” she’s not entirely sure what’s prompting this sudden urge of honesty to spill out of her. perhaps she was more tired than she realized, or perhaps.. it was truly the first time she’d felt able to be at least a little carefree, felt able to just be herself without worrying about perceptions or a litany of other things. strangely enough, it made her feel brave. “are you sure you don’t want to go to a renaissance festival? i look wicked in medieval clothing.”

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 199

Did you know that certain digital assistants will read you your alarm notes and scare the absolute soul out of you?

Now we both do.

On that note, reader shout outs for this week are: @ireadandcooktoomuch, @notcruvusmemes, @darkangel4366, @lostgirlsandpixiedust, @jeycavalkyrie.

Also, thanks as always to the phenomenal @baelpenrose who y’all really should read, like now, he has so many series and I have no idea how he writes so much, except I literally have the joy of watching him do it so I can attest that he is doing it. Still not sure how, bc he also writes for academic purposes.

Bastard (affectionate).

This chapter is also dedicated to @drbibliophile. Hopefully, Gaia knows why.

Parvati and I confirmed the ninety-three names for who was a definite yes for what we were calling med school. “Eighty percent isn’t a bad start,” Parvati pointed out as we finished. “And yes, I know it’s the rest that are going to be the frustrating part, but if we don’t focus on the positives this early one, we’re going to be burned out before we’re halfway through.”

“I’m not arguing,” I admitted. “Everyone, take a break, stretch your legs. I want all of us at least listening in on the call to Grey.”

A brief silence was broken by Tyche’s clarification. “Less chance that information is lost through passing it on, more ears to cross reference, and more minds to give Sophia ideas to work with.  I guarantee that Grey is going to have Antoine on the line, since medical decisions have always been his call anyway, and we all know he’s smart as fuck.”

With that, I silenced the call on my end and started stretching to clear my head. My sister hadn’t been kidding when she mentioned how sharp Antoine’s mind was, and Grey was far from a slouch. As soon as I absently heard the door hiss with Alistair’s exit, I started muttering a litany of information to myself. “Start with the big ask - two week delayed start, rotating alternating shifts, ten on, ten off. Time and a half credit… I can eat up to half the overtime if need be. Not like I use the credits anyway.”

Arms straight over my head, I slowly arched to put my palms on the floor. “Grey focuses on precision and perfection, so aim the ask for more of the trainee list at Antoine.  He appreciates the value of nurses, most stuff doesn’t need a surgeon.  Ask for pharmacists, too.”

Deep breaths. Twenty seconds in, twenty seconds out. “Talk to Sam, he’ll know what we can pull off from a botanical perspective. Conor, too.”

The cycle repeated twice before I heard Alistair return. “Have I ever told you how utterly bizarre it is to watch you do calisthenics during official calls?”

“Tying the information to motion helps my brain,” I protested softly, not even opening my eyes. “And breathing exercises keep me calm while I’m doing it.”

“I’ve heard the theory, believe me,” he sighed. “Farro is insufferable about being able to keep up a conversation while exercising.  As though I want witty repartee with my riposte.”

My composure cracked as I smirked and opened one eye at him. “You love it.”

“It’s annoying.”

Wagging my head side to side, I cleared my mind and repeated my stretches and reminders one more time before resuming my pacing, albeit at a much slower speed than it had been while on the phone with Huynh. “Where are we at on everyone being back?”

“Waiting on Hannah,” he answered carefully. “She needed to take dinner to Alice, since your household’s tendency to forget meals unless they are highly fragrant and within arms’ reach seems contagious.”

“Hate to tell you, but I’m so far beyond feeling bad about that - “

“I’m here!” came Hannah’s voice, breathless. “Sorry, had to - “

“Don’t apologize!” three of us scolded.

“Correction, I’m here. Full stop. Are we waiting on anyone else?” she corrected, a slight laugh in her tone.

“It looks like we’re all ready,” Alistair confirmed. “Councilor Reid, if you will?”

“You betcha,” I confirmed. “Opening call to Grey Hodenson, full audio receiving for myself and my direct reports, sending only for myself.  This is your reminder: please direct all suggestions and questions directly to those reporting to this office, I’ll have the text feeds coming through my table emitter to ensure I can see them.”  I initiated the signal while watching my text feeds, Tyche’s delicate moderation touch on full display.

“Sophia,” came Grey’s typically curt greeting. “I did not anticipate that you would be finished so quickly, and while I trust that your work is impeccable as always, I suspect that there is another reason you are reaching out.”

“For once, you are only half correct.” I tried my best to sound lofty. “I have some concerns regarding the ask for medical and engineering personnel that I would like clarification on, please.”

“Allow me to contact Administrator Costa, one moment.” Less than a minute later, Grey was back. “I have him on the call, Sophia, please proceed with your questions.”

Briefly, I sketched out Huynh’s questions, making sure not to relay that they came from any one person.  Alistair’s reminders helped me to flesh them out, and when I finished, he nodded to confirm that he had them gathered and ready to send over. “My office is sending a document over now for you both to review. Once you confirm, I would like to start with the ask regarding more personnel from the groups who have more general and less field-specific knowledge.”

Go big or go home.

The objection came immediately. “As I specified, the list I provided are the most highly trained individuals we have on the Ark for what we need.  In addition to other professional knowledges, they all have demonstrated general proficiency and multiple specialties.”

“I understand,” I confirmed, reaching for the floor. “But as we both discussed, one medical professional per one hundred people is both too much and too little. Expanding the criteria to include more people who would otherwise be considered general practitioners, family doctors, and various degrees of nurses gives us a level of pervasive health care we couldn’t dream of on Terra.”

Grey started to speak, but Antoine smoothly inserted himself to the conversation. “It does raise a good point, when you consider that nearly everyone in the colony will be first aid certified as a baseline. On a new and unfamiliar world, it is a benefit to aim for everyone to have at least one neighbor who can splint a broken bone or pack a wound.”

“My concern is the quality of care,” Grey objected, if it could be called that. They were extremely polite, and it was a genuine concern. Except…

“Not every cut and sprain requires a neurosurgeon,” Antoine pointed out. “Even a long-retired nurse can address such issues with improvised supplies.”  Without delay, an alert vibrated against my wrist. “I have sent you the entire list of medically trained personnel, divided by level of knowledge described in Terran equivalent.”

“Thank you, Antoine. And Grey? I promise not to use this as an excuse to put less effort into what you asked for. I’m well aware that we are going to need anyone touching the new equipment to be trained on it, and that’s going to happen. But there is a very good chance that we can’t get everyone, and even ninety surgeons per ten thousand people is a better prospect when you have a thousand doctors and nurses supporting them.”

“Ninety?”

“The rest of my questions are geared toward making sure we don’t get even close to that low,” I assured them. “I just wanted to get the worst-case scenario out of the way.”

Their tone was suspicious, but they relented. “Proceed.”

“We already know that roughly forty-five people you requested were going to be hard to get commitments from, since they are already essential in their current roles.  It’s been brought to my attention that close to a dozen require no less than seven levels of downstream training for replacements.” Seven is closer to a dozen than to zero, I reminded myself. Barely. “Is there any chance of delayed training, beyond the time it will take for the engineers to work out the new equipment?”

Grey nearly choked, from what I could hear. “We only have four months until landfall, Sophia.”

The table emitter lit up, and I grinned when I saw Hannah’s point. “True,” I admitted. “But the new equipment is being designed with native materials in mind. Theoretically, we have all the time in the world for that small group.”

“They will be behind their peerage, and you just stated that you were only planning to use under-trained personnel as a contingency.” 

Grey had a point, but from the strangled sound on the line, Antoine didn’t agree.

Trying to avoid a fight, I relented a bit. “I’m only asking for a couple extra weeks, if needed, with incentives to those who can start sooner.”

“Incentives such as?”

“Training in split shifts and increased calorie credits per shift, which I have liberty to negotiate with you.” Not a win, yet, but it was looking promising. “Fifty percent extra in credits, with rotating split shifts, one shift on and one shift off.” Start high, right? I stretched my fingers toward the ceiling and closed my eyes, waiting for the response.

“Their work will not directly benefit the community in the immediate term, so fifty percent is much too high,” Grey objected. “Longer term, delayed benefit merits ten percent.”

“High personal sacrifice should merit more,” I pushed back. “Especially when it will be a life-saving benefit in the long term. At least forty percent.”

“My office can only authorize twenty-five percent,” they confessed, sighing. “Forty percent is retroactive hazard pay.”

“I can probably swing twenty-five,” I hedged, mentally cheering that I would, at most, need to subsidize five. If I couldn’t get Xiomara to do it, which was more likely to go over than under. “What about the rotating split shifts?”

“I cannot strenuously object to that, although it will put them in between those with a delayed start and those who start immediately.  I trust that you intend to negotiate that, on the training end as well, to maximize their efficiency?”

The text feed erupted into laughter, and even Antoine chuckled. “I will, yes,” I forced out as solemnly as possible. “But for some of your candidates, this is the compromise between choosing their family and choosing the training opportunity.”

“This is a fair point. One I had not considered.”

Clearly. Closing my eyes, I took a couple more deep breaths. “My last point is one that did not come up on the original request, but I am trying to anticipate it: we need biochemists and botanists from your department dedicated as pharmacists and to consult on using sustainable materials to create some of the equipment. I trust that you are prepared to lend them?”

Finally, my fellow Councilor broke with a scoff. “Of course I am. On demand, as needed throughout the retooling.”

“And the ones that do not report to you?” I ventured carefully. “I already made a note to speak with Sam and Conor, but they aren’t yours to allocate. And since neither are on the list of medical candidates, they aren’t priority to take them off their current work. Have you considered that?”

A beat of silence before Antoine stepped in again. “Most of our practical botanists are volunteers,” he advised. “In the past, there was no need to have them report directly, as there are plenty for what we have needed accomplished.”

“They cannot be allocated to me, can they?”

I had never heard Grey sound meek before, and it nearly broke my heart. Deep breaths, I reminded myself. “No, they cannot. Conor is our lead structural engineer, for example. I have no desire for my home to collapse on me in the middle of the night, so we’re looking at strictly volunteer basis for these.  Fortunately, just a glance at the list assures me that your top candidates will be happy to reorient their community shifts effective… oh about a month ago, or so?”

“A month ago?”

“They’re insanely curious.” I shrugged even though I knew Grey couldn’t see it. “No one tries to adapt catnip for alien environments without a level of curiosity that is rapidly approaching insanity. It’s just not necessary.  The month is just as far back as they had more reliable data on Von. They’ve been fine-tuning as they go - I think they are on sixth generation, right now? In parallel, if that means anything.”

“They aren’t waiting for the plants to mature before gestating the next batch,” came the absent-minded reply. “And they are testing qualities at each level of maturity?”

“Daily,” I confirmed. Gods knew I had heard plenty from Jokul, Conor, and Sam. Every. Damned. Day. “Definitely daily tests.”

“Fascinating.” Part of me cheered at the thoughtful tone in Grey’s voice. “Absolutely fascinating. Do you have any insight into how they anticipated this need?”

I couldn’t contain my laughter any more. No matter how earnest the question was, it was one of the silliest things I had heard in my life. “Grey!” I gasped. “I’m so sorry, I’m really not laughing at you.” Deeeeep breath. “Just… Botanists, especially amateurs, are crazy. Low stakes, short turnaround, zero ethical quandries. They do shit for the fuck of it, constantly. If it dies, oh well, try again. Our most well-known history of genetics starts with a botanist and pea plants, because who cares about peas?” I didn’t hear any responses for several minutes while I calmed down. “But really, you take five thousand people with a green thumb, low estimate. Give them ten years in a controlled environment and one-third of each day dedicated to just… fucking around…”

“And, mathematically, you get at least ten who know how to get reliable results of a very specific nature every time,” they filled in.

“Well, add a specific challenge, and… more like thirty, but yeah,” I confirmed. “More if there is a recreational benefit. I guarantee that over five thousand people on this ship can cultivate several of Sam’s vegetable varieties, and at least half that can grow three or more strains of marijuana.”

“Absolutely fascinating.”

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[ikeromantic]

Into the Lion's Den

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 1500 words. This scene takes place in the prologue and is told from Chevalier's POV. Part 2 of a series.

First: Bravery Becomes Her

After putting in a brief appearance at a festival celebration for nobility on the mayor’s estate, Chevalier returned to the castle. His walk from the stable back was interrupted by a familiar voice. High and sweet and thoroughly annoyed.

“Hang on! Stop talking about me like that, alright? I’m right here. And - and who are you anyway?”

Chevalier stopped and turned. He couldn’t see through the decorative hedges and the high stone wall, but sound carried. It was the girl from town, he was sure.

“You can’t be serious. You don’t know who I am?” Yves’ voice now, sounding haughty as usual.

The girl replied. “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

“She’s not one of mine then,” Nokto chuckled.

“Who cares about that? I can’t believe she doesn’t know who I am! Unbelievable!” The slight, unshakeable burr of his accent still audible in Yves’ speech became more pronounced when he was flustered.

“Your Highnesses, introductions will have to wait. My deepest apologies.” Sariel’s voice, dark as coffee and smooth as silk.

Chevalier wondered how the girl factored into Sariel’s scheming. Four eyes was always up to something. His mind immediately went to the potential uses of the commoner, discarding the more improbable until he settled on the likeliest one. The tradition of the Belle. Of course. He didn’t need to hear more.

He left for the round table room, already adding this complication into his plans. The Belle would be no real obstacle. Not for him.

Clavis was already waiting at the round table. Chevalier sat beside him and watched in silence as his brothers filed in. They were a disparate group, to be sure. Half-brothers, united only in the shared blood of the dead king and little else. It hadn’t taken much time for the two factions to form.

Leon led the opposing faction. A worthy opponent, if annoying. His gentle-hearted ways would destroy Rhodolite. There was no space for compassion when your lands sat between hungry neighbors with large armies.

Jin smirked at him from across the table. A womanizing drunk that disguised a cunning mind beneath base jests. He was the king’s first born, though you would never know it by his actions.

Licht sat beside the eldest of them, his gaze focused on the wood grain of the table. He said little in these meetings, leaving decisions to others.

Nokto and Yves came in together, bickering. They were so loud. Repeating the same arguments, the same insults.

Luke ambled in and fell into a chair. It creaked under him dangerously. The youngest prince had no courtly graces and had fallen into Chev’s faction almost by accident.

Chevalier sighed. This was pointless. They didn’t need a meeting or the decision of some commoner Belle. He was the only choice to lead Rhodolite, if their country was going to survive. He looked up as the doors opened.

Sariel led the girl in like a sacrificial lamb. She looked much as she had before. Startled. Afraid. Her face was pale, eyes wide. If Chev were a kind man, he might have felt sorry for her. As it was, he felt only impatient. The torment of this commoner was frivolous and yet, Sariel insisted on stretching it out.

The princes introduced themselves, starting with Luke. A litany of greetings and welcomes that went around the table. A plague of senseless words. And then it came to the fool. Clavis, laughter on his lips.

“I’m the third prince. Clavis Lelouch. But please, call me Clavis.” He grinned widely, elbowing Chev. “That show you put on earlier today was amusing. You liked it too, didn't you, Chev?”

Chevalier narrowed his eyes. “It was ridiculous.” He was tempted to walk out, but he remembered the way the girl stood up to the drunk - and to him. Despite himself, he allowed a small smile to lift the corners of his lips. “But considering the courage you showed I will at least tell you my name. I am the Second Prince Chevalier Michel.”

For a moment, their eyes held. She didn’t flinch or draw back from the intensity of his gaze. She took a breath, nodded, and then the moment passed. Leon was introducing himself and Chevalier was sorting her reaction. He wanted her to look at him again, so he could see into her. Understand her and how she fit into the orderly world he wanted to build. It annoyed him that he could not easily dismiss her into any of his categories.

“It’s very nice to meet you all. I’m Emma. And . . . I still don’t understand why I’m here.” She smiled thinly and fiddled with her skirt.

Sariel’s smile was wide and his eyes held a dangerous glint. “It is a long-held tradition in Rhodolite that the king be chosen by a commoner. The commoner granted this solemn duty is known as the Belle.”

The girl - Emma - looked thoughtful for a moment. “Wait. Yes, I remember this!”

Chevalier sighed. It was a chore to watch others reach a conclusion he’d gotten to already.

“And they are called that because they have a pure and beautiful heart! That’s why they are able to make the correct choice.” Emma clapped her hands together, excited to remember what a Belle was.

A pure heart. Well, she might have that, Chev thought. Idiots often did. And she was . . . beautiful. Objectively.

“That’s right.” Sariel laced his hands behind his back like a stern schoolteacher.

“Wait! Then . . . I’m the next Belle?”

Chevalier snorted. A few of his brothers made quiet exclamations. Surely it didn’t take this long to draw a line between two clear points?

Ever patient, Sariel nodded. “Yes. And you will be choosing one of these princes as the next king of Rhodolite.”

Despite himself, Chev felt charmed by the stunned look that followed this statement. Emma’s whole body went rigid and her lips parted. Her brows went up and her nose crinkled. She really was expressionate. Like a moving painting or an articulated puppet. He’d never had much interest in the emotions that ran through others before, but this Emma girl was entertaining.

“But . . . why me? This is a decision that affects everyone in Rhodolite! Who am I to decide that?” She took a step back toward the door.

Jin took the opportunity to speak up, still wearing his usual smirk. “Yes, I wondered that too. What was the deciding factor?”

Sariel’s whip-thin smile widened. “The way she slaps.”

“She was that good, huh?” Jin laughed.

There was more chatter, nothing substantive. Chevalier had little interest in reassuring the girl she should be Belle. He settled back in the chair. This decision was already made for him and he was ready to be done with the round table.

When Sariel finally called for a vote, Chev was the first to lift his hand.

“That was quick, King Highness.” Nokto raised a quizzical brow.

Luke nodded. “Yeah. You’re our leader. Should you agree, just like that?”

Chevalier gave them both a cold look. “I don’t care who becomes the Belle. It’s irrelevant.”

Emma looked around the table, still gawping. “Wait, he’s your leader? But I thought-”

Sariel interrupted. “Yes. The princes are divided into two primary factions. Prince Leon’s faction could be said to favor domestic politics. While Prince Chevalier focuses on foreign affairs. The princes in each faction generally align with those goals, so yes. The vote is entrusted to the faction leaders.” His eyes fell on Leon. “And what is your decision?”

Leon gestured to the girl. “I want to know what Emma thinks.”

Chevalier closed his eyes, counseling patience. It was not his strength. Of course Leon would drag his feet. And he did. Asking nonsensical questions, listening to Emma’s idealistic drivel. If this wasn’t a round table discussion, he would have left already.

Finally, Leon lifted his hand.

“Then it’s decided.” Sariel nodded in satisfaction.

Chev stood and walked to the door.

“Leaving already?” Leon tapped a finger against the wood table.

“My business here is concluded.”

Clavis, ever the helpful fool, called out. “Wait, don’t you think you should stay? Woo Belle a bit first?”

“That would be a waste of my time.” Chevalier felt his jaw clench. “Whoever the Belle selects, I will be the future king.”

“You what?” Emma’s timid voice followed his proclamation.

He could feel the weight of her gaze. Her gentle features taut with anxious confusion. She needed someone to reassure her, but he was not that someone. Chevalier let his gaze go round the room, challenging any of his half-brothers to disagree. Then he settled on Emma. He couldn’t help but note the tremble in her hands as she gripped her skirt. “If you get in my way, I will deal with you. Keep that in mind little Belle.”

“Right,” she breathed.

Chevalier left and did not look back. He could care less about Sariel’s machinations, so long as four eyes did not interfere with his plans. There were borders to secure, noble factions to deal with, lands to manage . . . there was no time to think about one frightened girl tossed into the palace with these savage nobles.

The chiefest of the beastly princes ignored how easily his mind conjured her image. Brave little Emma. But even the brave could be devoured by beasts.

Next: Blood and Roses

[silverjetsystm]

Falling into a comfortable conversation is rare these nights. He does not wish for her to be his therapist. Nor a sort of friend who listens passively to his litany of sins. Reese and Soldier are young, they work for him. They know who he is, what he has done, by rumor and confirmation. They don’t need to know the intimate details. Companions, new friends, need a wider door. An outline. A warning to stay away or know when to handle him.

Wearing white is a warning for himself as is it is for the dark alleyways.

She conducts herself in a fluid way, shifting conversation away from riptides, raising up movements of deep connection. A touch so light, if it was not for his heightened state of body awareness, he may have missed it. Currents of humor, of levity. Fitting for a woman of the ocean. Of an Admiral’s daughter. Whether they eventually climb in pairs or if he takes her suggested options for colder mountains is part fantastic dream, part hypothetical future planning he’s surprised he warms to.

Gloved fingers twitch, a slow motion, sensation of her brush against the body.

“It is work. You're right. One of the biggest lessons I learned was 'You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.'

You found your own way to serve without donning a uniform. Military,” leather glove gestures at his own, “Etc. That sort. I know healthcare professionals have uniforms too.” Clumsily trying to avoid the pitfall of belittling her profession. Over correction. Acknowledging there are good people in the system. Present company. Badr. Dr. Sterman. His experiences run in the darker sides of it. Harm done from what others would not hear. Hospital food in too small doses. Makes him allergic. “We can’t all be on the front lines.”

For a moment, he doesn’t acknowledge her question, staring across the street. Exposed flesh as unrevealing as cloth mask and cowl. Traffic starts and stops. They continue to walk.

Her inky rippled head shake pulls glowing gaze to her face. “No. Please don’t apologize. Your brother may have been right about other people. But not for me. I would rather you voice what is on your mind.” Especially if it hurt. “Emotions. Reading them. Is not my strongest point.” Constantly on alert for physical danger. Rebelliousness. Overwhelmingly preoccupied with Duty. Constantly concerned what people think about him.‘Kind?’ ‘Patient?’ In him? Accepting her apology with a short nod, a flick of glove. “No harm, no foul.”

He could leave it at that. Deflect. Use a graciously provided escape hatch. Continue the walk to the restaurant half a block away in silence. But, it would rise up sooner or later. Haunt the times between wakefulness and sleep. Accompany him in a bottle the rare times he imbibes. Discolor any future conversations. Maybe old dogs can learn new tricks. Tools finally tossed from Steven and Jake to himself.

This one anyway.

“To return to your question.” Glove touches jaw. How to say. “Hmm. You know how servicemen are. Loyal. Brash. Intelligent or stupid. And the smart ones are not immune to stupid activities. Young people with weapons and hardly any real world experience.

I was a wild dog in those days, Beth.” Breath ticked up a notch, words falling from his mouth, “Found wanting by our country. Running from my diagnoses. From my past. I was starving. I was good at violence, refused to go back to where I came from, and didn’t care for much beyond what made me feel good. Determined to always have enough. Without limit.” Is it necessary for him to say all this? Now? Gloves become fists at his sides, glaring at a bus stop sign.

“I’m afraid if we had met, it would have better for you to have avoided my attention entirely. I am a callous person. I was worse then.” Especially after Rand. No. Sharp jaw shakes that ghost aside, sticking to this specific gloss. “I would have fought to protect your patients, if we were on the same side.” He pictures her, younger faced than she is now, smiling at him in front of some tents in the middle of a wide open sky. “I would have sucked up any kindness you gave my way and left, uncaring how I impacted you.”

Unseen and unheard, Steven rolled his eyes; Jake snorted. Another classic Marc deflection. For all of Marc’s faults, he never turned away a friend in need nor treated uninvolved parties harshly.

Aftermath is the rise and fall of his chest, pulse hammering in his ears. There. Too much? Not enough? Did he perform correctly? Lips set in a thin stitched line, Mr. Knight’s gaze searches her for any hint of how it landed. Gloved hands fill fine trouser pockets, shoulders curled in.

“In the spirit of apology, I feel I have one for you. That was wholly...Inappropriate of me. I thank you for your words. I have been …” Alone. “Isolated for a very long time, running over the same tired history and fears.” Hint of a shy sickle smile, “I’m not great at parties.” She is not the burden here.

Chelsea boots pause a few doorways from the green door of their destination. “I promise I can reign myself in for dinner, if I didn’t put you off of your appetite.”

@brooklynislandgirl

Growing up, imprisoned by the towering tyranny of the Admiral's presence, Beth had languished in frustration of not being able to read the man's mind so that she might be something he did not hate with his every living breath. It wasn't until much later that she realised the impossibility of that desire even if she had the proper tools. In the intervening time she has, however, learned a very important survival skill; she can read even the slightest change in the body with a high degree of accuracy. And while he is being kind in allowing her even vague glimpses of what she imagines currently is a dour visage Beth makes good use of it. Or at least she hopes so. She gathers the threads of discomfort and tries to unravel them slowly. To walk back the feeling of having misstepped into an area that her companion might not care to revisit in these moments of respite, despite what the regalia might say otherwise. This conveys a sense of protection for both of them. "Coronary Artery Disease, my beloved," she says with a twitch of her lips, a little wink to imply she's only teasing. Maybe with a deeper hint of warmth touches the edges of her to make her a little more real in the wake of his own smile. "I t'ink it's fascinating dat you can make inferences from people's dietary habits that sort of road map dey life, you know. Roots and travels, an' comforts. Dislikes, too. I do kinda believe what gets served to patients, while nutritionally sound, is lots of times kind of vile." She is inclined to imagine a much smaller and softer version of him. Brimming with pride at the verbal prowess of his father, and finding answers to questions he doesn't know yet in the voices of the students. She had something similar. Found extended family amongst the sailors ~yes, the Marines and Airmen, too~ who through no fault of their own found themselves adrift at Pearl-Hickam without really anywhere to go for the holidays. There would be a battalion of Aunties and Uncles making food and serving it with humble joy and love even if the men and women were strangers. For that day at least, there was only one ohana, haole or not. But does he remember that younger self? Worse, was it a scalpel's edge to do so? Mercifully, a change of subject as he touches on another of her millions of questions, and again there's that touch of distance in his voice. She tucks away what she assumes is the trigger. Adds it to the shape of him that she's constructing in her mind. Wiring herself to be the lightest sort of burden. Delicate fingers capture the way a mayfly lives; there and gone again in a span of seconds, but the squeeze she hopes echoes. Something in the way he talks about fighting invokes that touch, meant to offer comfort as it does recognise he hasn't been allowed to be soft in a very long time, maybe ever. "Mebbe try say... Aspen, first. Way douchier people, but also convenient for whole cabin in winter vibes. Plus Leadville is fun for a day trip. Don' really recommend drivin' Independence Pass when it's snow-choked." She slips away again and back into herself. She doesn't try to meet his face when he gently probes back her direction. Truth be told, it hadn't been her finest moment. The decision to sign up was born of a humanitarian proclivity mother but sired by a broken heart that needed to find itself worlds away from the source of it's wounding. And maybe that was a mistake. Maybe it was destiny set in motion. Regardless, it was a choice that shaped her life.

"It's work," she agrees. "But if nevah help, doesn't dat mean ya contributing to or at least condonin' the sufferin' dat isn't addressed?" She doesn't really mean that to be a question. "I suppose you would understand if I say... dere are expectations when you're a certain kind of way an' it's a balancing act tryin' to honour all sides and still make ya own way. For me, it was important to help because I could. I was blessed wi' bein' born into a situation where I would nevah know want or need or deprivation. Seems only right I share as much I can, an' honestly second best choice probably would have involved spandex. I'm not quite built for dat." Her tone upticks though. "I'll hold you to dat, you know. Is always beddah to climb in pairs or more."

Taking the bait is incising. "Do you t'ink I would have hated ya oddah yous? Or is it fear dat dey might not have been so friendly?" Her smile fades a little and she shakes her head, whether for what she's asked or what she's about to say would be left up to him, if it mattered at all. "Look, I...I'm sorry. Dat seems so rude now dat I've said it. Especially considerin' you've been so kind and patient, and offering your own life. I feel dat isn't somet'ing you do often. My...my braddah used to tell me I always ask da kine all wrong. So, if I've made you uncomfortable, please accept my sincerest apologies."

[santanaveralopez]

Changes coming

It had been a few days since the long, emotional exchange with Brittany, and Santana had been processing a lot since. She had started back her normal routine of classes and dreaded the possible judgment or questions from her classmates, but other than a couple asking if she was okay, she was ignored, as Brittany had predicted, much to her relief. Eating was difficult still, with Santana still emotional and struggling at each meal and never able to finish all of whatever she had. She was trying, usually, anyway, but only her desire to please Brittany and her fear of being forced to be put inpatient drive this.

She had, with great discomfort, braved talking to Kurt and Rachel yesterday. She had certainly not wanted to, and actually talking about her feelings being hurt by their texts had been actively avoided. What had actually happened was she had texted both saying "u can have a 1 time free pass cuz im awesome like that. Never happened and that means shut up bout it Berry."

Of course, that hadn't exactly worked. What had happened instead was they had both met her after class in the same spot she now met Brittany, filled to the brim with apologies that Santana immediately cut off and deflected, firm in her insistence that the entire situation not be talked about. She had "suffered" Rachel's insistence at a hug and Kurt's awkward, timid shoulder squeeze and listened to them talk for a little while- very little- before saying, with effort that felt huge and vulnerably out there for her, "Can we not stand here talk talk talking and not walk walk walking in the dark?"

Glancing at Brittany, she had added with less snappiness and far more softly, her shoulders braced from the effort it took for her, "It...makes me nervous."

Both Kurt and Rachel had looked startled, as though the idea had simply not occurred to them, which it probably hadn't. And they had immediately agreed and done as she asked, without any further questions or demands for explanations. Santana was still amazed by that aspect alone. She was hardly excited at the idea of continuing to talk *feelings" with them, but it wasn't a horrid start.

Mostly thought, she had pondered what had occurred between her and Brittany. Ever since that night, she couldn't stop remembering how Brittany had explained her reasons for leaving her, how very different they had been than what Santana had believed. She couldn't stop thinking of how Brittany had told her how she was still in love with her, how she had promised her she would never leave her again. Santana replayed those words and those moments to herself over and over, a soothing litany when she felt anxious or upset.

That was why when Brittany took her by the hand a few nights later after they got home from her last class, told her to sit down on the couch with her, and told her she had something to talk to her about, Santana's mind immediately jumped to panic.

She should have known things were starting to get too calm, too good to be true. Talk was never a good thing, not when someone told you to sit down to do it. So what terrible, scary thing was Brittany about to make her talk about that required her to sit down?

She was already heading towards a silent inner panic attack before she even had reached the couch. What if Brittany was sick? What if she was really hurt and couldn't dance anymore at all and just got good at faking being okay? What if she had changed her mind and was going back on tour? What if she was tired of Santana after all and was going to leave, what if she was about to tell Santana she had to go back to the loft? What if she was DYING?

By the time Brittany sat beside her Santana was nearly hyperventilating.

"Oh my god, what is it, just say it!" She demanded, as though she had been waiting twenty days instead of about twenty seconds to hear. "What's wrong, what did I do, what is it, what?!"

[z-h-i-e]

This is a whole other level I didn't even consider.

And it at least deserves a ficlet. A little pre-Legolas snugglin' in Doriath. I don't know if this is what you had in mind, but, here we go:

“Good morning.”

Thranduil was not entirely sure that the other occupant of the bed was awake, so to hear Finrod’s voice was to confirm he was not the only one staring at the embers in the fireplace.  He kissed the back of Finrod’s neck where golden hair had parted for him.  “Good morning.”

Finrod turned in Thranduil’s arms.  Their noses bumped together.  “I assume the fact you are still here means you were not disgusted by what you saw last night.”

“If that was the case, I would not have gone from seeing to touching to…”  Thranduil leaned in and lazily kissed Finrod.  “Is this trait...common among the Noldor? Is that rude of me to ask?”

Finrod shook his head and ran his fingers through Thranduil’s hair.  “No to both.  I know only one other who is like me; an aunt, who remained in Valinor.”

“It certainly made for a very unique experience last night,” said Thranduil. 

Finrod cupped Thranduil’s cheek and smiled.  “You are very sweet,” he said softly. 

“I have another question,” said Thranduil slowly.  “It may not be appropriate to ask.”

“We did a lot of things last night that might not be considered appropriate after a night of singing and a bottle of wine, but we did them anyway,” said Finrod with a chuckle.  “I regret none of it, I am surprised how quickly we went from the mead hall to my bed, though I do feel I might have offered you some amount of warning–”

“Warning?”

“About…”  Finrod sighed.  “You know.”

“I know.  However, I would not call it a warning.  I suppose this is not the reaction you usually get.”

“We will not speak the litany of names I have been called by would-be lovers who turned out to be rude and closed-minded.”  Finrod smiled again.  “You still have a question.”

“I do, but it may be too soon.��

“Thranduil…”  Finrod bit his lip.  “While I know there are cultural differences between us, I can recognize that laws and customs here as they pertain to what constitutes marriage are not so different to what is found in Valinor.  So...if I may be so bold to say...husband, you should ask your question.”

Thranduil nuzzled Finrod and said, “I hope this means you do not have plans to depart Doriath too soon.”

“I intend to stay as long as I am welcome,” said Finrod.  “Yet, I do not believe that was your question.”

“No; you are correct.”  Thranduil held his breath, and then asked, “Since you are as you are, would that mean...and forgive me if this is too personal–”

“Thranduil, your tongue was in practically every orifice I have last night.  You may ask me a personal question.”

“Very true.  Alright.  I wonder, as you are, does this mean you are able to carry a child?”

Finrod tilted his head to the side and contemplated the words.  “I do not know,” he admitted. 

“Again, I apologize if–”

“Would you like to try?”

Thranduil swallowed back the rest of his sentence.  “Right now?”

Finrod nodded. 

Thranduil rolled them so that he was peering down at Finrod.  “Absolutely yes,” he answered. 

For my next trick...

Once upon a time, I wrote a bunch of stuff to help popularize a pairing. That was not the intention, but once that train got started, I think we figured out there were no brakes. It's been over twenty years, and I think Glorfindel and Erestor are doing just fine these days.

Ergo, time for something completely different.

Now, just as with the previous project, I can't take credit for being the first with the idea (there's two others playing in this sandbox -- so really, this pretty much identical to the whole Glorfindel/Erestor thing from a set-up perspective).

Sadly, because there's only three of us, the tag isn't common and searchable blah blah blah on AO3. Join me in changing that, people of Middle-earth!

Because Middle-earth (or Valinor) needs more Finrod/Thranduil.

Or as I fondly like to call them, Bling Kings.

I'm doing my part (sometimes with a little help from Thranduil's wife) this Back to Middle-earth Month. Here's some samples aka drabbly things (currently corralled in Bunniverse, but you know I'm going to start thinking outside the dodecahedron at some point).

Economic Indicators An excuse to write some telepathic dirty talk with Thranduil and Finrod.

Consession & Consolation An excuse to write about sex toy discussion between them.

The Edge of Night An excuse for edging. You know Thranduil's into that for sure.

Options An excuse to remind Felagund he does still have the option to give himself a hand now and then.

And of course, sometimes Avisiel is there, too.

Behind the Curtain An excuse for the three of them to have sex at the theatre.

Custom Made An excuse to revisit the whole sex toy thing now that they have it.

Good Manners An excuse to have sex on the couch.

Waltzing An excuse to write something that didn't have anything to do with sex (directly). JK, this one is actually pretty sweet.

And if you like those samples - feel free to message me for access to the file Phoenix is in. Yes, that story is much about Fingon and Maedhros, but since that's where things start, there are full chapters yet to be posted that are full of Finrod/Thranduil.