#i could really feel her soft fur and how warm she was. i put my head on her torso and felt it. like truly felt it

[agdab]

i had a dream about my cat luigi last night.

[heaartzzforcupidzz]

Heyyy I was wondering if I could request something?? You don't have to do it but I wondering if you could do a Catnap and Dogday x reader who acts very motherly to everyone? It can be smut or not, you can decide. But I'd really appreciate it if you did my request. Thanksss :3

“Kitty Catty.”

Relationship(s): catnap x bunny!mother!reader x Dogday

Warning(s): fluff, suggestive

You were basically everyone’s mother. They all adored you when you were created. You were created for the purpose of acting like a caring mother to the poor orphans. You did your job so well that even the other critters considered you their mom except Catnap and Dogday. They saw you as.. well, we will talk about that, later, hm?

There was a storm that night and instead of sleeping in your warm cozy bed, you had laid in the middle of the floor with a blanket because Kickin’ oddly enough was afraid of all the thunder and lightning. you didn’t complain though. you hummed a tune until you were sure, he was out like a light.

For another instance, if Bubba had become stressed that he couldn’t answer a problem, you would gently ease his mind with questions he could answer and then help him figure out the one he couldn’t by himself. Afterwards, you’d tell him how proud you were of him.

Lastly, it’s how when Bobby felt alone and that nobody really reciprocated how she loved. You’d try to match her love or even top it. She loved you the most for it. You never made her feel like a problem. You even looked at her like she was everything to you and she loved you dearly for it.

Dogday and Catnap loved that about you. You were sweet, caring, and made sure others were okay before you tried to even look after yourself. That last part was good and bad to them but nevertheless, it still made you so special in everyone’s hearts.

“Wake up, Kitty Catty,” one of the kids said as he poked the side of Catnaps fur. Catnap just opened his eyes and stared. Trying to determine if he’d use his gas or not. This was the second time this kids, Timothy, he believed has walked away from the group to mess with him.

Catnap stood tall. Timothy instantly became fearful, his heart thumping loudly. Soon enough, here you came and ushered Timothy out of Catnaps ‘hiding’ place. you then turned, a nervous smile on your plush lips. “Im sorry, Kitty-“ something he has grown a liking to ever since you called him that your first meet. “He’s just playful and can be a bit eccentric at times.”

Catnap only stared at you. He nodded before he walked away. Strange? he usually put up more of a fight with the others.. why was he so different towards you? you didn’t care too much though as you heard a child cry. your feet moved quicker than your mind and soon, you were holding the crying child up to your chest.

“Charlie? what’s wrong, my dear?” you said, sweetly as you softly rubbed circles on her stomach as she looked up at you. She sniffed and told you she had fell and the other kids began to laugh at her. you sighed, before you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Mm, did you tell them that wasn’t very nice?” You asked. Charlotte otherwise known as Charlie shook her head. “Well, maybe you should.. and if it doesn’t stop, tell them that mama is coming for them.” You said, before putting her down and watching her smile.

“Thanks, mama.” She said before she ran off with the other children. You hadn’t noticed Dogday standing behind you with Timothy. Timothy had been telling Dogday all about how Catnap had frightened him.

“That was amazing.” Dogday said, breaking the silence. you were abit frightened but turning around and seeing Dogday, you smiled. “Oh hello!” You greeted. That’s how you and Dogdays friendship began.

You had already knew Catnap and he sat with you sometimes and just watched the ‘stars’ with you. You weren’t expecting for both of them to confess to you a year or maybe even two later. But you weren’t complaining.

They both accepted the fact that you loved them both equally and that they’d have to learn to share. Which they did. It worked good for all three parties and you became an actual mother to your own litter soon enough.

They made you the happiest mother in the world.

[flemingsfreckles]

Puppy Love

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Preview: you come home to a surprise from your girlfriend

Warnings: none

WC: 1.3k

A/N: here’s a very short blurb a wrote based off the middle photo of Jessie with the puppy. I’m in the process of working on 3 other fics that are multi part (better boyfriend is one, the other two are stuff that isn’t out yet) those just take a while so I’m taking time to write some small short stuff as well because it prevents my writers block from showing up.

“Oh no come back here with that” you hear your girlfriend yell at someone or something as you walk in the door. You set your keys down and begin to take off your shoes when you feel a warm soft body against the back of your leg. Turning around you see a small brown puppy standing looking up at you, one of your shirts hanging from its mouth.

Only a second later your girlfriend comes flying around the corner into the entryway, nearly slipping with the combination of her speed, her socks, and the tile flooring. She catches herself against the wall and looks up at you with huge eyes.

Jessie looks frazzled in every way. Her hair is sticking out in every direction, her cheeks are bright red as if she’d just been to training, she’s wearing only shorts and a sports bra. You can see a couple red nail scratches across her arms and she’s breathing heavily.

“Jessie.” It doesn’t take long for you to make the assumption that your girlfriend had brought home a puppy.

“Hi.” She gives you a tight lipped smile, just looking up at you before the puppy takes off running again, through your legs and off toward the kitchen.

“Oh my god” you hear Jessie mutter and she turns and chases after it. You’re not even sure if you should follow, still processing the scene that you came home to.

You take a few steps in the direction that Jessie ran off in and see her coming back toward you, a wiggling puppy in her arms. Your shirt now in her hand. She holds the puppy out to you, holding it under its arms like a small baby.

“Hold her.” You don’t have much of a choice so you put your arms out and take the puppy from her. The puppy is small and a little ball of fur in your arms, for a split second you forget that you should be questioning your girlfriend about what is going on. Jessie throws on the shirt the puppy had stolen and holds her arms out to take her back. You hand her back and you two just stand looking at each other, the puppy whining to be put down.

“Jessie, why is there a puppy in our house?”

“She needed a home.” She gives you a quick glance before her attention is redirected to the dog.

“So what? You thought ours was a good option?” You feel your voice raise slightly, you really weren’t mad, just more confused at the impulsive decision Jessie made, and a little frustrated that she hadn’t checked in with you before she brought home a huge responsibility.

“Maybe?” She looks at you with hopeful eyes. “Come on babe we’ve thought about it a couple of times.”

She wasn’t wrong the two of you had thought about adopting a dog on a couple occasions now that you lived together, you both wanted one but you never followed through in the process of actually picking out a dog. Something always got in the way.

“The dog came from Niamh’s neighbor, their dog had a bunch of puppies. The rest got adopted but no one wanted her because of her ear.” She holds the dog's ear up for you to see, but it was missing a large portion of it.

“It’s not her fault she was born like that. How could no one want her?” It looks like your girlfriend is on the verge of tears looking at the puppy’s face. “I know I should have asked babe but I didn’t. I’m sorry for that. She’s already house broken and can walk on a leash. Can we keep her please?”

You didn’t have a good reason to say no. You both wanted a dog, you were ready for the responsibility and you couldn’t help but admit how cute it was to see Jessie playing with her. She was poking its nose with her own, the dog trying to lick her face every time she leaned it.

“Sure Jess, we can keep her.”

“Yay! Did you hear that, you can stay.” She is back looking at the dog in her arms, talking to it as if she could understand. The dog just wiggles around, excited by the attention from Jessie not her actual words.

“I haven’t named her yet, I wanted to wait for you.” She sets down the dog and leans toward you, lips pursed waiting for a kiss. You lean in to place your lips to hers, giving her a quick kiss. It’s short and sweet, a nice welcome home.

“When did you have time to pick her up?” You point at the dog who has run over to the doorway and is rolling around on the rug scratching her back.

“After training, I went with Niamh, then we went to the store and bought all the things for her.” She points over to the pile of toys, a bag of food, two bowls, and a crate. You just nod. “She might want to go outside. She goes by the door when she needs to go. She’s so smart. Do you want to join us on a short walk?”

“Sure babe.” Jessie hurries over to where the puppy was rolling, grabbing the leash and harness that had been hung neatly next to both of your keys.

It’s warm out, the sun is just starting to set as you start your first walk with just the three of you as a small family. You walk for a couple minutes before the unnamed puppy starts sitting down, every couple of steps, bored of walking she sits and chomps at the grass.

“Come here.” Jessie says in a high pitched tone, the same tone she used earlier to talk to the puppy. She picks up the dog once again.

“Babe, what are you doing?”

“Her little legs are probably tired. She’s had a busy day.” You couldn’t help but smile, looking at your girlfriend grinning ear to ear as she held the puppy in her arms. She looks so content with the ball of fur. She carries her for the rest of the walk, letting the puppy lightly bounce in her arms as she walks alongside you.

You spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the puppy who you both agreed to name Maple both after her color and because you shot down Jessie’s original idea of naming her Moose but you refused to name the dog after another animal. Early into the night Maple found her own way into the large crate Jessie had bought and lined it with a bed and blankets.

“Look, she's sleeping.” You point out to Jessie as you both were standing in the kitchen waiting on a bag of popcorn to be ready. Jessie looks over to where Maple was, sound asleep in the pile of blankets.

“She’s so cute.”

“I cannot believe you brought home a dog.” You truly were shocked when you walked in the door earlier that day, the last thing you were expecting was a puppy.

“I know, I was a little worried you’d be mad.”

“How could I be when I had her cute face and your cute face both giving me puppy eyes?” You gently grab Jessie’s chin and place a kiss on her lips.

“Plus it’s good practice for when we have kids.” Jessie says when you pull away from her. The thought of having kids with her sends a flutter to your stomach. You knew it wouldn’t be soon, but in the future it was definitely something you both had talked about and wanted.

“Yeah it is but you better not bring home any kids without telling me first.”

[dawnoftime22]

okay this might be an odd request but could you do Taylor Swift comforting a male reader about their insecurities? Or the reader comforting Taylor after a hard day at work or something like that idk. Love you work!

pent up feelings.

| T.S

Warnings: Taylor crying, overthinking, R comforting, lots of kisses for assurance

Summary: Taylor's had her rough week, going through all the world throws at her as she tries to stand tall. But upon one night, she comes home to you with an exhausted mind, needing nothing else but you.

Word Count: 3k

Category: fluff, comfort

A/N: I think this was pretty hard for me to make because it hurts for me to witness tay being emotional, more so even write about it :( I do very much love having it out here though, and writing special details like the ones in this fic are precious to me

A/N on request: its not odd at all! I chose the second option only because I wasnt entirely sure what insecurities you wanted me to do. I also dont reaaally write male reader (I do gn!reader/not specifying gender), but still thank you so much for the request! I really hope this reaches your expectations and I hope that you're doing well<3

| Started on 20/07/2024, 7:19 AM |

| Finished on 04/08/2024, 6:41 PM |

Main Masterlist | T.S Masterlist

"Consumed by my own overloaded thoughts and bottled up emotions, that they spill into tears."

"But darling, here, my arms will be open for you to tiredly lean into, to wrap around your exhilirated soul and keep you warm with all my love."

|——————————— ⸆⸉ ———————————|

The moon was high in the sky when Taylor arrived home, heart heavy. She gently shuts the door, the sound echoing through the space and mixing in with the crickets.

Once she got her shoes off, she looks around, but the room was empty aside from her cats in the living room. Meredith was casually napping on the couch, her form swirled up gracefully. Taylor moves closer, reaching up her hand to gently scratch her on the head.

The cat stirred, a gentle purr sounding out as it leans into her touch. She stares down, seeing the gray shades Meredith had mixed in with the white color of her fur.

With how quiet the house seemed to be, and with you nowhere in the living room, Taylor expected you to be asleep in the bedroom, only wishing you were here to greet her.

Yet, when she glances to the bedroom, the door was open just a crack, and it had her curious. Perhaps you had forgotten to close it entirely, or even wanted to hear her come home. The thought swelled her heart. But, she couldn't think that anyone could have possibly wanted to do such a thing.

Her legs go forward, every footstep being careful. Each and every one of her muscles were aching, and her heart was tired, but she mustered up all her energy to find you.

A gentle creak sounds out as Taylor tilts her head, peeking in. The bed was actually empty, making her heart skip a beat. But when she looks further up, you were sitting at her desk chair, fully awake.

You heard the sound of the door, and you turn to look at her, seeing her stunned expression that was blinking at you. You smile softly, not minding her surprise.

"Baby," she says under her breath, closing the door behind her as she lets her shoulders fall down. It was clear she was absolutely wondering what you were doing awake.

"Hi," you replied back gently with a small wave, tilting your head as you took in her appearance. She seemed tense, and her eyes held just the smallest glimpse of worry, even though you were the one who had been having reeling thoughts, concerned for her wellbeing.

"What're you doing up...?" She asks with her voice soft, putting her bag down on the nightstand and taking one step forward. But you seemed so far to her. So many steps.

Your eyes soften, feeling your heart ache at the mere question, and you fully turn to her, arm rested on the desk beside you.

"Waiting for you...What else?" you said softly, watching her eyes come to realization and her teeth have its bite on her lower lip, something telling of the anxiety swirling in her.

"Oh...I...you didn't have to," she said, the corner of her lips raising up slightly, but it seemed almost nervously, with the action of her eyes traveling from the floor and to you. But you kept your gentle appearance, your next movement only being a shake of your head.

"No, but I wanted to," you whispered. You gave her a small reassuring smile, hoping it'll calm down some of her nerves. She took a breath, her teeth not properly letting go of her lip just yet.

You searched her eyes, needing to look intently from how far you were. "...Did something happen?" you asked gently, slowly moving to stand up and make your way to the bed to get closer to her, but not too much so you're not intruding on her space.

She stopped biting her lip, but it was only to speak. "No-- its...I'm just..." she shook her head. It was almost as if she was at a loss for words. Perhaps it was either the tireness within her, or the way every one of her thoughts inside her collided against each other, each thing that had ever happened from just one thing or everything.

The blonde meets your eyes, taking in a breath. "...Its nothing," she whispered, her voice nearly shaking. Her fingers gently furled, and her jaw clenched for just a moment. You went to settle down on the bed in the meanwhile, resting against the pillows.

You gazed at her, "Come here," you whispered softly, putting your arms out slightly for her. She searches your eyes for a second, but doesn't waste another when she goes to the bed without more steps as she was close to it already, her lip having a slight noticeable tremble.

You felt your heart ache as Taylor crawls into bed with you, going closer until she's curled up against you to find your comfort. In the quietness of the bedroom, the noise of movement was there, but then a sniffle sounds out, and your hands wrap around her, gently, but tightly.

You gently weaved through her hair, resting your chin lightly atop her head as you were aware of the care she craves for deeply.

A gentle but shaky inhale comes from her, and you gaze down with soft concern, a small frown forming upon your lips.

"You know..." you whisper gently, starting your sentence with only a few words so she can bring her attention to your voice. Your hand slows down, and your lips move to place a soft kiss atop her head before pulling back just a little, just to let her eyes meet yours. "You don't always have to be strong, sweetheart..."

She felt the words hit her like a realization as she looked into your eyes; her vulnerable expression cracking, yet, still, her walls were kept high, and she shook her head.

"Just a bad day..." she mumbles, leaning into you. Her hand traces the collar of your shirt, feeling the confined outlines of the factory stitches against the pad of her fingers.

She knows you want to know what made it all go wrong. Whatever happened to her that made her have to fight back these darning tears she hated. But she doesn't wanna talk about anyone or anything. She just wanted to be with you.

"I-- there's...too many things." she whispers out shakily, starting to break, but you keep your gentle gaze, your hand resuming with its gentle motion on her back.

"Its okay. You don't have to explain." You shake your head, whispering back. She bit the inside of her cheek, looking up at you with glossy irises.

"...It was a lot." Her tears were threatening to leave the edge of her eyes, the gleam of it visible in the dim lighting. You can feel a crack going inside your heart, aching at how tired she looked.

She had been everywhere the past few days. There was nearly no time for her to catch a break. Today was her last straw, and it had perhaps continued to go even while she had nothing else to fight with, other than with the known fact that she was coming back home to you. But her mind was clouded with anxiety, even with the thought of you.

"I just need you...." She admitted, the sound of her voice barely even above the breath that had escaped along her words. You take in a gentle breath, your cheek brushing against her hair as you nod.

"I know..." you murmured, pulling her closer. Her fingers curled into your shirt, lightly gripping the fabric. Soon, her walls crumble, and she stifles the broken sob that leaves her lips, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom that you've spent countless memories in together, full of love and care.

Your eyes squint in sadness, and you place a gentle kiss on the side of her head since her face was buried in the crook of your neck, hidden away from your view.

"Let it all out, sweetheart..." you whisper softly, quietly, just as the way Taylor was trying to stifle her sobs. Your skin felt the warm tears that had gone down, tracing a path down to your shirt that soaked it up.

"You're home now, safe with me..." you murmur, hugging her tighter, letting her release the deeply held emotions she's kept for far too long.

Your hands could feel the wracking shakes of her body, the warmth in her presence, but the heaviness of her shoulders, holding, maybe even the weight of the entire world.

The ceiling fan gently created white noise that overlayed the sounds of quiet sobs and movement, wind passing by your ear all while you whisper soft reassurances to soothe her rattling heart.

"I'm sorry I'm late..." she mumbles suddenly, her breath hiccuping. Your eyes glide to her in concern, but since she was hidden away in your neck, you could only see her golden blonde locks. Instead, you move to softly kiss her temple, tilting your head to reach it.

"Shh...its okay, I promise," you murmur in a hushed soothe, leaning back so you could take a look at her face. You offer her a comforting smile, and your hand moves to gently push her stray hairs away from her face.

"You have a lot of work. I know that, sweetheart. You don't always have to be early or 'on time', whenever that is..." you shake your head as you say your gentle words, expressing them as you go.

Taylor blinks and sniffles, her nose red and her eyes puffy. She licks her dry lips, taking in a stumbled breath. You stay in patience, reaching up to brush your thumb against her cheek, wiping the tears away from her soft skin. You took gentle care in your touch, going further up to the corner of her eye; where the source of the tears are.

"You don't mind...?" she asks, her voice strangled and out of pitch. But that doesn't matter. She wasn't onstage for the moment. She was with you. Where she could be who she was however she wanted to be.

Your eyes soften, and you lean in closer, your lips making contact with the tip of her nose. "Sweetheart...of course not. I just get worried about you, you know?"

She searches your eyes, as if looking, for even a fraction of a lie. But all you had well within your pupils were love and honesty. Something she never knew was possible to see in someone's eyes without a certain deviousness accompanied with it.

Her breaths were still unsteady, but she swallows it down, trying to communicate with you. "I-I'm scared..." she whispered shakily, her eyes darting away from your gaze.

You look at her without judgement, tilting your head with a slight curiosity, a gentle expression simply to be there for her.

"Of what?" you question, your mind quickly going through anything she could be anxious of in case she needs an aid to her tainted mind.

But her quietness fortunately didn't stay for long, even when she hesitated. Her lower lip had a visible teeth mark from her biting. "What if..." she starts, but trails off, unable to say the words.

You tip your head downward slightly, letting her gather her courage and words without intrusion.

"What if I get back home and you're not here?" She whispered through a broken voice, afraid of all the outcomes that she's ever come up with in her head. You were her home. The house wouldn't be a home without you, and her kingdom would shatter, would the character of you no longer be present.

"Hey...I love you, okay?" You whisper, moving to cradle her face in your hands, something she hasn't felt in a while. But you always did that. Brushing your fingertips over her cheeks. She leans into the touch, her eyes welling up once more. Her racing mind and her worries were slowing down, starting to pay attention and hearing your gentle voice.

"I love you." You say the three little words again, ensuring she was listening as you looked into her deep blue eyes, focused on yours. So many thoughts held in her head, but you know her soft heart cannot handle so many things. Not even you, could begin to think of trying to walk that life.

You nibble the corner of your lip slightly, showing your own worry as you think over your words, an action she noticed herself. She reaches up with her trembling hand, gently touching your lip so your teeth would let go. You smile softly, seeing how much she's aware and cares even when she's sad.

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Not without you." your light assurance comes out, and the tears in her eyes seemed to have stopped just a little, only looking at you with love instead of just worry. You smile wider, happy to let a small weight fall off her chest.

"I will always love you. I'll love you forever." you murmur, going in to kiss her cheek, peppering soft kisses all over. She feels the way your lips tickle her skin, giving a tingling feeling, and a soft giggle manages to escape her.

"Its okay. Its always going to be okay, yeah?" You tilt your head, your thumb moving to caress the soft skin of her hand. She nods, knowing you're right. How could she have gotten this far anyway, even while worrying that everything would go inevitably wrong sometimes, yet the world always ends up letting her back into her own balance.

A few moments go by as you let her calm down, seeing the way her breaths were still shaky. You took a small deep breath in, keeping the eye contact, and she follows, gathering her normal breathing back. She needed a good cry and simply to let out her emotions, and her soul was relieved as she realizes you had let her do that, simply by being there for her in the meanwhile.

"You're the sweetest human being," you whisper, gazing at her adoringly. Then, your fingers entangle with hers, and you bring one of her hands up to leave a kiss on her knuckles.

The smile that raises on her lips makes your heart skip a beat. She was melting on the inside at how soft you could be. But even with the smile, you can spot the small furrow in her brows, the wince and quick blinking that she did.

You hum softly, knowing exactly what she was dealing with after all the days you've been welcoming her back home. "Headache, hm?" you whisper out, and she pouts, nodding.

"Mm," her own hum escapes, feeling your hands go up to soothe it, putting a light pressure that helps alleviate the headache that caused from her stressful and overwhelming situations of the week.

You continue your actions, watching her eyes close as she leans into your touch, going to the side and nearly resting against your shoulder, but barely putting her entire weight against you.

"You should rest, baby..." you suggest, wanting her to let herself relax, without any more thoughts of interviews, shows, photoshoots, or just about anything that isn't the peaceful sound of rain or the cozy atmosphere of your shared bedroom.

"But..." she starts, inhaling a breath before she was about to go with her sentence, her eyes going up to you, but you cut her off.

"Sleep," you whisper, shifting your position to a more comfortable one. She moves herself, but still curling up against you, arms entangled in the embrace.

"I'll be right here in the morning, and you can wake me up early," you say, smiling softly as you saw her eyes growing droopy at the more comfortable position. Yet, she sniffles from the lingering fluid in her nose that had stayed due to her crying session earlier, and gazes up at you.

"But you're too precious to wake up in the morning..." she murmurs adorably sleepily, resting her head against your chest fully. You breathe out a chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"And you're too precious for my eyes to miss seeing you," you respond mindlessly, making her smile. You turn your head and reach over to your side, grabbing a clean tissue from the nightstand and giving it to her.

She looks at you with a thankful expression, and moves the tissue to her nose, blowing into it. Your gaze turns gentle, your hand rubbing her back as she clears out the remaining inside of her nose.

When she was done, she was about to hold onto the tissue since she didn't want to be a burden, but when you offer a hand down, she puts the used tissue in your hand. You throw it away, successfully landing it in the trash bin at the desk sitting in the corner of the room.

You then return your attention back to her, tracing patterns on her soothingly. "You know...you should take a day off tomorrow, baby..." you whisper out thoughtfully.

Taylor stays quiet for a moment, her soft breaths going against your shirt. "I don't know if I can..." she says quietly, half her face nestled against you.

"You deserve it after this week, at least," you murmur, your face in the meanwhile, ever so slightly brushing against her hair. She thinks about it, her eyes gazing off.

"Okay," she breathes out, slowly letting her shoulders relax, and her body to unwind. She starts to relish in this moment with you, purely of love and care.

"I'll be making breakfast for you tomorrow," you said, but it wasn't a question, it was an info you wanted to share to her, something to be known.

"You don't--" She starts, but gets cut off by you leaning down and nuzzling your nose against hers, gently brushing in a comforting way.

"Shh. I love you. Close your eyes," you whispered, urging her to sleep instead of protesting of who's cooking tomorrow, when you were wanting to take care of her. A small giggle sounds from beneath you, the blonde being a little surprised at your quick shutdown of her worry.

"I love you, too..." she whispers back, slowly closing her eyes as she felt the covers warm up her body, sided with your own warmth of your body, leading her off to sleep, and hopefully to a peaceful day tomorrow.

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

taglist <3 - join here! :]

@dmenby3100 @wandsmxmff @tia-thesimp @marvelwomen-simp @escapereality4music @fawnedolly @justgayloringeverthrone @lovelyy-moonlight @stevecore @midastouch013 @liloandstitchstan @maleahoswick @raven-ss @deadlymistletoe @bambisfawns @rorysrambles @natsxwife

[taey0ngsvape]

my favorite girls

“and when you come home, i’ll be waiting with open arms”

pairing: chenle x fem!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 4.2k

contains: cursing, kissing, cuddling, lots of caring for daegal, so many ‘i love you’s’

summary: you watch daegal while chenle is on tour

i wrote this after writing saying goodbye to txt before they go on tour because the concept was too good to pass up, though i did get a little carried away (it was not supposed to be this long lol) but i really hope you enjoy!

~

You couldn’t lie, you were nervous.

Nervous for a number of reasons. Your boyfriend was going away on tour for almost two months, which would be the longest time you’ve ever been apart. It’s also the furthest physical distance you’ve been away from each other. And while he’s away he’s tasked you with taking care of Daegal, who sometimes you swear he loves more than you.

Daegal was a sweetheart but even after the significant amount of time you’ve spent at Chenle’s apartment, she has yet to really warm up to you. And now you're going to be the one taking care of her for two months. So no, it’s not really your fault that you’re nervous.

You show up at Chenle’s apartment an hour before he’s supposed to leave for the airport. Unfortunately for the two of you, your work and all the preparations for his departure prevented you from being able to come any earlier, which meant you hadn’t gotten to sleep next to him the night before he leaves for two months. Still, you put on a brave face. You know how excited he is about going on tour.

He opens the door and lets you into the apartment, his two suitcases already by the door. Daegal trots over to you and you kneel down to let her sniff your hand for a few seconds before she seems satisfied and nuzzles against your hand. 

“Hello Darling,” you say softly, feeling her soft fur under your hand.

“Do I get a hello?” Chenle asks, crossing his arms. You playfully roll your eyes and stand up.

“Hello,” you say to him, a cheeky smile on your face.

“Just ‘hello?’”

You roll your eyes again. “Hello baby, honey, light of my life. Is that better?”

“It’s acceptable,” Chenle hums before pulling you into his arms, giving you a quick kiss before folding you into a hug. You smile to yourself, slipping your arms around his waist and holding him close, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and enjoying the warmth of being pressed against his chest.

When he lets you go he leads you to the kitchen where there’s a small breakfast laid out for the two of you. You can’t help but smile and kiss his cheek before taking a seat.

“Are you excited?” you ask, filling your plate.

“Yeah, it’s been so long since our last concert in the US. And after the show here in Seoul… I’m just really excited to get back on stage.”

You smile. You were at the Seoul show, you’d actually gotten tickets with a friend for somewhere in the lower bowl so you could experience what the concert would be like as a fan and the whole time you couldn’t take your eyes off Chenle. He was such a captivating performer and with the rest of the boys they made the show unforgettable. You knew they’d bring the same incredible performance to America.

“I’m sure the fans are just as excited. You’re so captivating on stage.”

Chenle just smiles at you and continues to eat. 

“You know,” you say. “Nctzens are great, but at the end of the day I’m your biggest fan. No one is cheering for you harder than me.”

Chenle sets down his fork and looks up at you. 

“You are so incredibly talented, but you’re a good person too,” you tell him, taking his hand. “And I am so so lucky to be yours.”

Chenle swallows and then squeezes your hand before he starts to speak. 

“You are… you’re everything to me, you know that?” he asks. “You’re so smart and you always know how to make me laugh. You’re unbelievably kind to everyone around you, even when they don’t deserve it. And you’re beautiful. Breathtaking.”

“Please keep going.”

On any other day, Chenle would narrow his eyes at you and tease you about wanting his attention, but today is different. This is his last chance to say all these things to you in person before he’s whisked halfway across the world for two months, so he takes it.

“You’re so special. You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met. You’re so attentive and understanding. You care so deeply that sometimes it hurts you, but that doesn’t stop you from caring anyway. Your heart is the biggest I’ve ever seen and the fact that you gave that heart to me… I feel so lucky every day to be yours. I’m glad you’re happy to be mine too.”

The confession catches you off guard but in the best way and you can’t keep the smile off your face. You want to tease him with something along the lines of you’re so obsessed with me but you hold it back because he’s just poured his heart out to you. 

“I love you,” you say, squeezing his hand. “So much. And I’m really going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he says. “More than I can tell you.”

“But it’s only two months. And it’ll be over before we know it. And the whole time you’re going to have such an amazing experience and I’m so proud of you.”

You’re pretty sure that Chenle is holding back tears now but you don’t acknowledge it. You’re not much better off. 

“I love you,” Chenle says softly. “So so so much.”

You blink the tears out of your eyes and get up to walk around the table and sit down in Chenle’s lap. Before he has a chance to protest, you kiss him. You can feel his shoulders relax under your hands and he kisses you tenderly. It’s not rushed or messy, it’s gentle and sweet. It says I love you without words. His lips are soft and warm and you can’t help but selfishly wish that this moment could last forever. But that’s the thing about time, it always keeps moving. 

It feels like mere seconds have passed instead of the remaining hour until his departure, which is filled with cleaning the kitchen, last minute packing, and plenty of stolen kisses. But it’s all over far too soon and you’re standing back at his door, bidding him a final farewell. 

He pulls you into a hug. “You’re gonna have fun without me,” he says and you can hear the pout in his voice. 

You laugh. “You’ll have fun too. And then when you come back we can talk all about it.”

Chenle hugs you closer. “Deal.”

He lingers a bit after that, holding you in his arms and kissing you every so often until finally his phone rings and he’s finally forced to leave. 

When the door closes behind him you let the brave face drop, taking a shaky breath. 

Everything is going to be alright, you tell yourself soothingly and take a few deep breaths. You’ll be able to call him often and see plenty of videos of him performing. It’s only two months, that’s not so bad. But you can’t deny that you miss him already.

At your feet, Daegal slumps onto the floor and you smile sympathetically, sitting down next to her. “Do you miss your dad?” you ask, scratching her ears. “Me too,” you tell her. For a few minutes you sit in silence, letting a few tears fall, but in the end, you calm yourself down. You know Chenle wouldn’t want you to be upset and there’s no point in wallowing in your longing. 

So you push yourself off the floor and search for the pet carrier that Chenle uses whenever he has to take Daegal to the vet. After taking it from the closet (the third closet you searched) you find Daegal curled up on the carpet in the living room.

“You ready for an adventure sweet girl?” you ask, gently lifting her off the floor and leading her into the cage. As soon as the door closes she’s whining and you try to shush her in a way that would be comforting. “You’re alright honey,” you say, but when she’s still whimpering after five minutes you take pity on her and instead clip on a collar and leash before leading her out of the apartment.

She follows you, somewhat reluctantly, to your car and you can’t help but feel the nerves creeping back in. What if you couldn’t make Daegal happy? Yes, she was important to Chenle, but she was important to you too and all you wanted was to make these two months feel less lonely for her. 

You put Daegal in the back seat of your car, but by the time you’ve gotten into the car, she’s climbed her way into the passenger seat next to you. She sits down and stares at you, panting slightly. You sigh and let yourself break into a grin.

“Alright passenger princess,” you say, petting her head before turning on the car.

The drive back to the house you’re renting feels longer than usual, probably because of the added stress of having Daegal in the car with you. Every time you slow down or speed up you had to be extra careful so she wouldn’t fall off the seat. But you both make it home in one piece and you let out a sigh of relief once you pull into your driveway.

You carry Daegal inside and hang up the leash by the door, letting her explore the house while you set up food and water for her. At this point it’s almost six a.m and you still haven’t slept so you drag yourself upstairs, forcing yourself to take off your makeup before throwing on one of Chenle’s old t-shirts and heading to bed.

In your room, Daegal is curled up on your blankets toward the end of your mattress. Once you slip under the covers, she gets up and makes her way over to you, curling up next to your side. It surprises you a little, but you smile softly and stroke her soft fur for a good five minutes before finally turning out the light.

You force yourself to get up at noon in an attempt to not fuck your sleep schedule up too badly. After breakfast (the second one today) you change out of your pajamas and clip on Daegal’s collar.

“Let’s go on a walk,” you say as you attach the leash. “I promise I’ll keep it short.”

You know that Daegal doesn’t leave the apartment super often, so she doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to go on walks. You expected her to get tired quickly, but a mile out from your house she’s still happily trotting along the sidewalk, so you let her lead the way, not caring if you’ll have to carry her back.

She actually makes it halfway back home before getting tired and you don’t complain as you pick her up and hold her to your chest so she can rest her head on your shoulder as you carry her the rest of the way home.

This becomes a daily routine. After waking up you’d take Daegal outside, whether it be a walk around the neighborhood or to a nearby park to let her run around, you devoted time every day to take her somewhere and you can see how much more comfortable she is around you as the days pass. 

When you come home from work she’ll be waiting by the door and every night she curls up by your side. Whenever you’re at home, she’s always nearby, which is especially nice whenever you’re on FaceTime with Chenle and he asks to see her.

Today, he calls a little later than usual and after asking about your day and telling you about his own he (as always) asks to see Daegal, so you turn your phone so the camera is pointing at the sleeping dog, pressed against your side.

“How are you guys getting along?” Chenle asks. “She seems awfully comfy.”

You smile. “I’ve been taking her outside a lot. She likes going to the park and chasing birds,” you share, which makes Chenle laugh. 

“She’s going to love you more than me at this rate.”

You grin. “I think she already does,” you tell him, gently petting Daegal’s head. “How’s tour going?” you ask.

“It’s been amazing so far. A little busy, especially since we have a show tomorrow but being on stage… it makes it all worth it.”

You can’t help but smile. “Good. I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

Chenle hums. “Yeah, well it sounds like you and Daegal have been having a pretty good time without me.”

You laugh. “She really loves me now. I think she was hesitant at first.”

“Well, I’m glad you two are getting along. And I’m happy you’re doing well. I…” he sighs. “I miss you a lot.”

You smile. “I miss you too,” you say. “But hey, we’re almost halfway done already. Then you’ll come home and both Daegal and I will be waiting.”

Chenle smiles at that. “I’ll be counting down the days.”

As the days pass you’re able to stay relatively busy, filling any time that you’re not at work with Daegal or your friends. Once, while at the park you run into your best friend with her own dog next to her.

“Hey Mina!” you greet and then wave to her dog, a spaniel whose exact breed you don’t remember. “Hi Luna.”

Mina gives you a hug and smiles down at Daegal. “Who’s this?” she asks, leaning down to pet her.

“This is Daegal,” you say. “She’s my boyfriend’s dog.”

“Ah yes,” Mina says. “The mysterious boyfriend that you legally can’t tell me anything about.”

You laugh. “That’s the one.”

Mina smiles at you, a twinkle in her eye, because despite your inability to actually talk about your relationship, you still go to Mina whenever you need advice and she always listens. 

Luna and Daegal sniff at each other before deeming the other as friendly and you both let them run around in the field as you sit and talk.

“How are things going with mystery boy?” she asks.

“He’s away right now,” you tell her. “A work trip.”

She nods. “For how long?”

“Two months, but it’s already been almost five weeks, so we’ve made it through the first half. He calls almost every day so it hasn’t been so bad without him.”

“Good, I’m glad you’re doing well. And I mean, taking care of his dog… that sounds pretty serious.”

You smile at Daegal who’s currently chasing Luna across the grass. “I was kind of surprised he trusted me to do it. She’s like his baby.”

Mina nods. “I get it. I wouldn’t leave Luna with just anybody. But you seem to be doing a pretty good job.”

You grin. “I’m having a better time than I thought I would. I was just so nervous she didn’t like me, or at least, not enough to keep her from feeling lonely. But she’s been happy and it’s nice having her around.”

Mina smiles at you and leans over to rest her head on your shoulder. “I love seeing you happy, you know that?”

You smile and let your cheek rest against her. “I do know that. I feel the same with you.”

“I’m always here for you,” she says happily. “And if mystery boy ever hurts you I’ll make sure he regrets it, I don’t care who he is.”

You laugh at that.

“But, in my humble opinion, I don’t think he will. He seems like he’s in this for the long run, and if he makes you happy then he has my approval.”

“Your approval?” you tease.

“Of course,” she says. “All boyfriends must be approved by the best friend. It’s just… girl code.”

You grin. “Well then, I’m glad you approve.”

“Do you think I’ll ever get to meet him?” she asks.

You honestly have wondered the same thing. He’s already met your family, though that still required some paperwork and negotiations with SM, but you didn’t see why your best friend should be any different. Ever since you first arrived in Korea, she’d been by your side. She was like a sister to you and you hoped that maybe you could talk to someone at the company and figure out a way to introduce her to Chenle. 

“I hope so,” you say. “I really hope so.”

After the day at the park you reach out to a member of SM’s legal team about letting Mina meet Chenle and while the discussion was an ongoing one, it seemed like the odds were in your favor. You told Chenle about it as soon as you could and he assured you he would do everything he could to convince them to let Mina meet him.

“So… is she nice?” Chenle asks, even though you’ve talked about Mina to him countless times.

“Yes? You’ve already heard like… everything about her.”

Chenle sighs. “I know, but I want her to like me. What if she doesn’t think I’m good enough and sends like… the mafia after me or something.”

You laugh. “I don’t think she has any connection with the mafia. Besides, she already gave you her Best Friend Seal of Approval so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Really?” he asks.

“She sees how happy you make me and that’s all she cares about.”

Chenle smiles. “Well, I’m glad I make you happy.”

“Yeah, though she did also say that if you ever hurt me she’ll make you regret it. She didn’t say how but I don’t think that’s something you want to find out.”

Chenle groans. “Why would you tell me that? Now I’m going to be scared of her.”

You laugh. “Hey, as long as you don’t fuck this up, you don’t have to be.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m never going to let you go. I’m never going to hurt you or deliberately make you sad. I’m here to make you happy because you do the same for me.”

You smile. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

“You make my life so much better, you know that?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “You make mine better too. Brighter.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” he says. 

“Four days,” you reply, butterflies in your stomach. Four days until he’s in your arms again. 

“I don’t know if I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Whatever,” he says. “You love me anyway.”

“Yeah yeah, I love you.”

He smiles contently. “Goodnight baby,” he says.

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” you ask and he just gives you a cheeky smile and ends the call. Immediately, you text him.

chenle

chenle

ZHONG CHENLE

SAY IT BACK

But I’m the dramatic one?

say it back :(

I love you

:)

Goodnight love

night lele

The final days pass by in a blur and suddenly it’s the night before he’s supposed to be back. You crawl in bed and Daegal huddles up next to you like always. Before you go to sleep, you send Chenle a text. He’ll have already boarded his flight by now, but he’ll receive it once he lands.

lele, my love! i just wanted to tell you how proud i am of you. you did so well this tour and i can tell you gave every single performance all your effort. i admire you so much (i’m sure you know that). i’ve missed you so much. so so so so so much. but i know that in a few hours you’ll be back so i feel okay. before you left you told me i was everything to you, and i wanted to tell you that you’re my everything too. you make me laugh even when it’s hard and you’re a good listener when i need it. you’re hardworking and trustworthy and incredibly loyal. and you’re so loving, even if it’s not in the “traditional” way. you show your love differently, and to me that makes it even more special. it really is a privilege to be loved by you. and i can’t wait to see you. i love you and i’ll (finally!!) see you soon.

You’re pretty tired as you type it all out, unsure if it makes sense or not, but in the end, you press send and plug in your phone before turning out the light. You pet Daegal for a few minutes until your eyes finally close.

“Baby?”

You blink the sleep out of your eyes. Your bedroom is still dark, the only light is from the streetlamp outside but the sky is still pitch black. You sit up and let your eyes adjust. Standing in the doorway is Chenle, his hair sticking up in a few places and his t-shirt wrinkled. When your eyes meet, he breaks into a grin.

“Lele,” you breathe, your eyes welling up with tears as you open your arms. In a second, he’s there, climbing into bed next to you so he can hug you properly. He smells like home and even wearing his clothes isn’t anything like this. His hold is strong and he’s warm and real and you don’t bother to try and stop yourself from crying.

Next to you, Daegal is yapping excitedly, clambering onto Chenle’s lap and he laughs, the sound sending you into another round of sobs because it’s different hearing it in person.

“Hello,” he says to Daegal, scratching her ears. “I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

He turns his attention back to you and cups your face in his hands, brushing away your tears. “Alright crybaby, it’s okay.” You can’t help but smile at that because he’s right, everything is okay. He’s here, he’s home with you again. So yeah, you’re more than okay.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow?” you ask.

“We managed to catch an earlier flight. And I got your text and I just had to see you but you weren’t at the apartment so I came here. Sorry for barging in,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t realize you’d be sleeping.”

You smile and shake your head. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” he says, leaning in to kiss you and you smile against his lips.

 

The two of you end up going back to bed for a few more hours before you wake up at nine and drag him out of bed with you to make him breakfast. 

“I’ll probably have to take Daegal out after this, we usually go for a walk every morning,” you say, flipping a pancake on the stove. “You know, maybe tomorrow morning we can get up early and take Daegal to the park. That way there won’t be a ton of people and we can just go on a walk together. I even taught her to play fetch but it only works with tennis balls. I tried throwing her a stick the other day and she just kinda looked at me like, ‘what the fuck was that?’ But I figure if we go early enough we can spend an hour or so there and we won’t have to worry so much about someone recognizing you,” you ramble. When you receive no response, you turn to look at Chenle, wondering if maybe he’s fallen asleep at the table.

Instead, you find him staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “What?” you ask, slightly nervous. Had you said something wrong? Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to suggest going out together.

“I’m going to marry you someday,” he says, which was not at all what you were expecting to hear. 

“What?” you repeat, still shocked.

“You already know that you’re the love of my life. Plus you take care of me, like forcing me to get up so I can eat something. And you’re a great cook. And you love Daegal like she’s yours, taking her on walks and going to the park. Even I haven’t done some of those things. So, naturally, I want to marry you.”

“Alright lover boy, let’s slow down a bit there,” you say with a smile, pretending that your heart isn’t about to beat out of your chest.

“Is that a no?” he asks.

“It’s a… ask me again later. And by later I mean in a year at least.”

Chenle shrugs. “Fine by me,” he says. “I’ll put it in my calendar.”

You roll your eyes and return to your cooking, transferring the finished pancake onto a plate before taking the bacon out of the pan and letting it cool on a tray. You break of a tiny piece and lean down to hold it out to Daegal, who happily accepts. 

When you look back at the table Chenle is lounging in the chair with a smile on his face.

“What?” you ask.

“I’m just happy,” he says. “I’m here with my two favorite girls. I feel like I’m in heaven.”

You smile. “I’m happy too. I’m really glad you’re here. Home.”

His smile widens. “Home.”

[dre6ming]

Kissing in the rain

The delicate beginning rush-imagine

More of my work: Masterlist

Pairing: Austin Butler x fem singer/actress reader

Warning: sexual content, sex (piv) fingering, kissing, mentions of bodily fluids, fluff

Plot: Austin wakes you up in the middle of the night to take you on a rainy adventure that ends in a steamy way

Word count: 2700

"Wake up!" I feel the soft touch of a warm hand on my back and then a little tug and shake as Austin gently tries to wake me up. It's pitch black in the room and I was sleeping so soundly  I can't come up with a reason for him waking me up, so my brain goes straight to fight or flight. ,my eyes are not used to the dark just yet, so I blink fast trying to shed any trace of sleep. "Shh it's ok, nothing's wrong, Y/n baby!" He assures me, stroking my hair, placing a soft kiss on the top of my head.

As my heart calms from the sudden panic I had felt, I turn around to better see him. "Are you ok?" My voice sounds hoarse and my lips are dry. I make the shape of Austin in the moonlight and see him faintly smile, shaking his head. "I'm ok darling, but look!" His right hand cups my cheek and he slowly turns my head to look at the windows. The first thing I notice are the ever shining lights of New York City, but then my eyes focus on the small droplets of rain and then my ears pick up the soft taping of water against the glass. I smile brightly, I love rain, it's my favorite thing, this must be the reason why I was having such a good sleep. "Get dressed!" Austin tells me, putting a pile of clothes in my lap and getting up without another word. He leaves the room before I can ask anything.

I put on the simple miss matched sweat pieces, I can literally see him in my head, fumbling around my closet trying to pick the perfect combination of a sweater and sweatpants, but ultimately failing badly. I brush my hair out and take a look in the body length mirror, laughing one more time at the dark pink pants with the light blue sweater. Before I go find him, I add some of my favorite lip balm in hopes of maybe getting rid of the dry lips.

"Austin?" I call out to him, immediately being met with the small kitten he got for me a few weeks ago after our first big fight. "Hi dandy" I pick up dandelion and stroke her soft white fur, she really looks like a dandelion. "Here, put on the rain coat." Austin tells me, handing it to me, a boyish smile on his lips. "What's happening?" I ask putting the cat down and dressing. "Shoes!" He's not telling me anything and the mystery makes my blood pump faster.

"Come on!" Austin puts his hand out and I take it. Now as I walk hand in hand with him to the elevator I take a look at him, he's wearing those ungodly grey sweatpants and his favorite long sleeve cotton shirt under his dark blue rain coat. "Phone!" I say as the elevator doors close and he pulls me back. "You won't need it." He says hugging me from behind, resting his head on my shoulder for the time it takes to get to the garage level. "I love you!" I say as we step out and he stops mid-step to look at me. "I love you too, my darling!" He leans down and touches his lips to mine, just a ghost of a kiss that leaves me wanting more.

"Come on!" Austin walks to my Jeep. "My car?" He giggles. "As much as I hate to admit, it's best for this weather." He clarifies, opening the passenger door for me. "So no Russian roulette tonight?" I ask quirking a brow at him referring to that time Timmy told Austin, riding shotgun with me was like Russian roulette, you never know how my driving could go. "I'd rather not tonight." He laughs at my joke, leaning over me to buckle my seat belt. His hand rests on my thigh, squeezing softly, as his blue eyes look into mine. "I trust you, but I don't want to ruin the surprise!" He says honestly, brushing some of my hair back with the hand that's not on my leg. "I know!" I say touching his face.

Austin then gets in the drivers seat, turning on the car and the heating at the same time. My eyes almost bulge out as I see the time 2:30 am. He rests his right hand on my thigh as he drives and the slow stroke of his hand, up and down my leg is all I can think about and suddenly when his hand goes so high it almost touches my core, the car feels to hot and I jump up, turning the heating down. Austin takes his hand off to switch gears and I curse the fact that I drive stick. The little whine that goes past my lips, is noticed by him and I see the corner of his mouth turn up right as his eyes watch me briefly. "Something wrong?" Oh he thinks he's so smug. "N-no." I say and wish that it sounded a bit more confident. "Ok" is all his says and I wait for his hand back on my leg, but it doesn't come and I try to not seem so bothered by looking out the window.

The rain started thickening, bigger and faster droplets of water fall from the sky and as much as I love him I kinda wish I was in my bed right now. Somehow I must of dozed off, because I try to wake up as I feel the car come to a stop. Looking at the clock it's 3:15 am so we drove for some time. I look out and I don't recognize anything. It looks like we are at the edge of a forest so we are clearly outside of the city. Did Austin finally go crazy and decided to kill me in the forest? I mean it's not unheard of. "I'm not going to kill you!" His voice startles me.

"How-?" I ask blushing. "I just know you and your weird little brain." Austin tells me, taking one of my hands in his. "Remember when we watched the notebook?" I nod, remembering the crying mess I was during the entire movie. "Well you said "kissing in the rain looks so hot" and I thought, when is it gonna rain next, cause I'm definitely kissing my girl in the rain." I'm shocked that he paid attention to my ranting during the movie and that he actually took me seriously. I shouldn't be tho, cause this is Austin and this is exactly who he is, the sweet loving boyfriend that listens and plans ahead.

"Come on. Take the rain coat off, we are going for the full effect." He says, starting to undress and I do the same, coming out of the car at the same time as him, impatient. "Let's dance." He extendes his hand out and I take it. I feel the rain soak through my clothes and turning my hair to a mushy mess. Austin let the headlights on so we could see, which makes the rain look like sparkling gems falling around us. I follow his lead, looking up at the sky, seeing the water shine in the light.

"I I loved you in secret

First sight yeah we love without reason

Ohh 29 years old, how was I to know"

He sings softly, spinning me in the falling rain. I move my body with his and hold tight onto him, placing my chin on his shoulder as he sings, his voice so soothing. His hands hold my waist tightly and carefully roam down my figure, sneaking under my sweater, cold fingers touching my flaming skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I shudder in his hold and turn my head to catch his lips in a kiss. It's sloppy and wet and hot and cold and divine and everything, it's life. My hands move to his wet hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, pulling moan after moan from his lips.

Suddenly he pulls away, looking at me with his eyes on fire, pupils blown with lust. "Baby, I-" he licks his lips, pausing. "I can't-" he starts again but he stops. His hands squeeze me harder and I push my body against his, feeling through the wet clothes the bulge in his pants. "I want you! I love you!" I say, wiping away drops of water from his rosy cheeks. "Ok. Are you sure?" He asks again and I answer by kissing him and pushing my hips against his. "Ok, car now!" He growls and we rush to get in the back seat. Thank god we took the Jeep, we wouldn't have had the space in his Audi.

Austin gets in first, reaching between the seats and turning off the headlights. "We wouldn't want anyone to see, would we?" He winks at me and I giggle blushing. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I straddle him. Austin waists no time taking off my wet sweatshirt, his following close behind. My naked nipples sit hard against his warm chest and his hands find purchase around my breasts. He looks down at the way they fit so perfectly in his hands. "I love you, so much!" He whispers, giving my breasts a good squeeze, making me unconsciously press my clothed core onto him and grind on him, throwing my head back to moan. "Austin!" I sigh as his mouth takes a hardened peak in, swirling his hot tongue over my tender flesh.

He takes his time kissing up my torso and my neck, then my lips. I sigh against his plush lips and feel him lift his hips up, taking off his sweatpants and underwear at once. I feel his erection against my tummy and suddenly the burn between my legs gets so bad I can't take it anymore. I jump off of him, working my sweats off as he takes himself in his right hand, stroking himself. His Addam's apple bops up and down, his pleasure filled eyes watch me undress. "I don't have a condom so I have to pull out, ok?" Austin tells me as I climb back onto him.

I just got my first  birth control shot a week ago and I haven't told him yet, but I'll just keep it a secret for just the right time. "Sure" I say breathless, drunk on pleasure. My wet pussy makes context with his throbbing cock and I'm lost completely. One of his hands stays on my hip as the other goes between us and between my legs. Austin groans feeling how wet I am and his fingers venture further, circling my hole. "I'll just open you up a bit, ok?" He tells me and I nod, moaning as two fingers enter me at once, scissoring inside me and stroking the place that makes me go livid. I move against his fingers, fucking myself on his hand as he watches through hooded eyes the way his fingers get lost inside me.

"Such a good girl, fucking your self on my fingers, just how you like it. Hmmm so wet for me, so tight, so warm." He praises me, and I feel the bubble of my orgasm building up. Austin knows me so well, that he feels the change in me and stills me using the hand resting on my hip. I whine and show displeasure as he pulls his fingers out before I can cum. "I know honey, I know." Austin soothes me. "Please!" I sound pathetic, but I don't care.

Austin let's out a breathy laugh that ends in a moan, when his swollen head touches my warm wet pussy. Using one hand he placed himself at my entrance, holding my hip to stop me from sinking down onto him. "Slow, ok? I don't want to hurt you." He tells me, helping me down on him, slowly, inch my inch. When my bum touches his thighs and I'm all the way down, it feels like he's in my stomach. It feels so full. "Oh god, so tight all the time, fuuuck!" He swears throwing his head back.

Both of his hands go to my hips and he starts moving me up and down, it's devine, each time I come down his head nudges just the right spot making me shake. "Faster!" I say breathless needing more. "Fuck" Austin let's out, before his hips start moving up to meet mine. I brace myself on his shoulders and catch his lips in a kiss, grunting and moaning in his mouth. One of his hands let's go of my hips and goes to my clit, circling it teasingly.

I feel the knot in my belly about to burst. "Cum inside me!" I breathe, biting his ear as I start contracting around him, my orgasm building up fast. "N-no condom honey.." Austin reminds me and I intentionally squeeze around him, causing his thrusts to lose pace for a moment. "I'm on birth control, started this week, I get the shot." His blue eyes look at me begging, searching to see if I'm joking or if I'm serious. I nod and shut my eyes tightly as I feel myself so close to coming. "Cum for me Austin, come inside me." His hand goes from my hip to the seat in front of us and his movements get faster and sloppier as he teases my clit. "Fuuck!" We both sigh as we cum at the same time. My vision darkens at the edges and I feel euphoric, like I never have before.

"Y/n? Baby? Are you ok?" Austin sounds concerned, but I'm so comfortable here in his arms, with my eyes closed. His fingertips touch my spine traveling up to stroke the back of my neck and then massage my wet scalp. The feeling of my cold wet hair against my hot skin wakes me up. I lift my head from his chest, and look at him, with hooded eyes. "You're so beautiful like this!" He tells me cupping my face, kissing the tip of my nose. "Thank you, you're beautiful  too!" I say sleepy, yawning half way through. Austin laughs, shaking us both and I feel him soften inside me. "Can we stay like this forever?" I ask, hoping he'd say 'yes'.

He chuckles, gathering my wet hair in a ponytail at the back my head. "I wish, but we'd probably get pneumonia if we don't get dressed soon." I whine and cuddle further into him, enjoying his warmth. "I know baby, I love being this close to you too, but I think we should get home now." I nod defeated and he helps me up and off of him. The loss of him, leaves me empty and I look down to see our juices combined. Following my eyes, Austin curses looking at the mess we made, so he leans forward to grab the tissue box that I keep in my car, first taking his time to clean me as he peppers kisses over my chest and abdomen while I giggle from the ticklish feeling, drops of water falling from his damp hair. I tangle my hand in the mess of blonde locks and shake, making more water fall on my skin. "We won't get home soon if you keep like this." He warns, a taint of amusement in his voice.

"I wouldn't mind." I tease and Austin simply shakes his head, cleaning himself next. I start dressing so I keep my eyes away from the sweet temptation that is his body. And let me tell you, putting on wet, cold clothes is horrible, simply horrible.

After we make sure we are both decent and ok, we get out of the car, the rain has stopped by now. We get back in the front seats. I look out the window as we drive through the loud city, my fingers interlocking with his. I give his hand a squeeze 3 times and he responds by doing the same, our way of saying "I love you!"

"Thank you Austin!" I say to him, later when we are in the shower. His face softens and his eyes get watery. "Anything for you, my girl, my soul, my Y/n!" Austin confesses, hugging me tight and I close my eyes feeling at home. "My home!"

A/n: I know lately my blog has been lacking but this summer I really took the time to relax and work on myself, seeing as next year of college will be way harder than the last, this theme might last and post might come very inconsistently. So I want to thank you all for sticking around and reading, I love you!

Tags: @galaxygirl453

@rainydayz101

@samaraannhan20

@marlowmode

@myradiaz

@areuirish

@micaelainthe60s

@homebodybirkin2003

@pennyroyalcreep

@purejasmine

@strokesofstokes

@lanasfloridakiloss

@denised916

@kibumslatina

@macey234

@melodixs-blog

@shantellescrivener

@chewiethecatus

@guacala

@fangirl125reader

@father-of-2cats

@lucid315

@ashtag6887

@ilovehobi101

@richardslady121

@jensmithin

@julie181

@chrisevansgirl34

@ranaissingle

@onecrazydirectioner

@maria-1287

@austinbutlerssimp

@kingdomforapony

@acoolnight

@tarot-sybarite

@goldenmarygio

@frozenhuntress67

@anonyboo63478338

@littlewhiterose

@thefallofthedamned

@1eminicookie

@rose-deathman

@iheqrtaustin

@desitravelsblog

@prompted-wordsmith

@austinsvlrslut

@crystallizedth0t

@hertvgirl

@peanutbutterinacup

@austinswhitewolf

@saniyahgordon

@thatgirlthatreadswattpad

@slowsweetlove

@jaqueline19997

@formulapierre

[shadowtriovibes]

Hey! Could i please get #3 and #6 with sebastian and fem Hufflepuff reader? 😊

"i've loved you since the moment i first laid my eyes on you." "are you really so oblivious?” [sebastian x hufflepuff!mc]

—

“Come on!” you hiss. “Quickly!”

You glance around nervously as you tug open the wooden gate to the Kneazle pen behind the Beasts classroom. It’s nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, and you hope that Professor Howin is already fast asleep – or better yet, down in Hogsmeade with the rest of the professors enjoying a well-deserved night off.

“I’m coming,” Sebastian whispers back. “Merlin’s beard, you’re impatient.”

“I don’t want to get caught,” you remind Sebastian as he ducks inside the pen. “We’re not supposed to be leaving the castle at all, and I don’t intend on spending the rest of the holidays in detention.”

The first half of your sixth year had practically flown by. You know that when classes resume in early January, you and your classmates will have no choice but to focus intently on your end-of-year exams to earn spots in N.E.W.T.-level classes for your final year. But for now, while most of Hogwarts’ student body is off spending time with their loved ones for the winter holidays, you and Sebastian can still get up to a bit of mischief while having free roam of the castle – and perhaps its grounds, despite Professor Weasley’s insistence that everyone remain inside.

“So, who’s the lucky Beast getting a house call from the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ this fine evening?” Sebastian asks teasingly. “I can tell you’ve been worried sick about one of these little buggers.”

“It’s Penelope,” you sigh. “Since Poppy’s gone to visit her Gran for the holidays, I promised I’d check on her and the rest of the Kneazles. She’s seemed a bit down lately.”

“You Hufflepuffs,” Sebastian laughs softly. “Loyal to a fault, you are.”

Inside the pen, half a dozen Kneazles are curled up together in a warm, furry pile underneath an overhang that protects them from snowfall during the winter. You spot Penelope right in the very middle, and when you extend your hand with a Beast treat in it, she slowly blinks her eyes open and wrinkles her nose.

“Hello, Miss Penelope,” you croon. “I’m so sorry I’m not Poppy, but I wanted to come visit you, sweet girl.”

Sebastian watches with a fond smile as you plop onto the snow-covered ground and murmur soft, reassuring words to the sleepy-looking Kneazle. She accepts your treat (and several more) and lets you brush out her coat before she rests her head sadly in your lap.

“Poor thing,” Sebastian murmurs.

“I think she misses her friend,” you say softly. “I know how that feels.”

“Oh?” he asks curiously. “Are you feeling glum that Poppy’s away?”

“Poppy, Ominis, Natty… it’s a lonely time,” you admit. “Especially in our common room. It’s just me and a few second-years who are already friends with each other, so I’ve been feeling a bit isolated.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sebastian asks as he takes a seat on the ground next to you.

You shrug. “There are more Slytherins around, and I figured you were enjoying spending some time with your housemates,” you mumble.

“They’re not nearly as important to me as you are,” he says, nudging his shoulder against yours.

You blush, hoping he won’t notice in the semi-darkness.

“I mean it,” he insists, distractedly stroking his fingers through Penelope’s fur. “If you’re lonely, come spend time with me in the Slytherin common room. Or I can come to you, whatever you prefer. But we’ve got another week until the start of term and you shouldn’t spend it moping about like a lost mooncalf.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “I’m not moping. Please, don’t worry about me.”

“Ah, I see how it is,” he teases. “So you can be loyal and put everyone else first because you’re the Hufflepuff, but heaven forbid I do the same…”

You giggle despite yourself and lean against his side, resting your head on his warm shoulder.

“You’re too kind to me, Sebastian Sallow,” you tell him. “Maybe you should be in Hufflepuff.”

He snorts. “No, I’m afraid the Sorting Hat certainly made the correct choice.”

“I’m not convinced,” you continue. “You’re loyal, you’re dedicated, you always work so hard…”

“I’m also ambitious, independent, and ‘far too clever for my own good,’” he retorts, making a face on that last part as if it’s been told to him one too many times.

“Then why are you so good to me, hmm?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper so you don’t shatter the delicate tension thrumming between the two of you.

“Simply put, it’s because I've loved you since the moment I first laid my eyes on you,” Sebastian tells you.

Your hands go still at Penelope’s side, and she perks her head up curiously.

“Wh-what?” you stutter.

“I’m in love with you,” Sebastian tells you, the words rolling off his tongue as if he’s simply telling you about the weather. “Have been for ages. Blimey, are you really so oblivious?”

“B-but – but you never–” you stammer, and instead of letting you work yourself into a temper, Sebastian quickly leans in and presses his lips to yours.

As soon as you realize he’s kissing you, you melt against his side. The cold winter winds skimming across the lake are making you both shiver, but neither of you cares.

Sebastian loves you, you think. There’s no holiday gift you could wake up to tomorrow that would be better than this.

[winter-leftovers]

Til The End Of Eternity || Chapter six Young Atlas (6/?)

(Douxie Casperan x f!reader)

Summary: Y/n is trying to figure her life out but is going to be hard since her brother is the new trollhunter and she is plagued by dreams and feelings she doesn’t understand.

Chapter Summary: Jim almost gets killed again. Y/n tries to find a piece of the puzzle of her past. Douxie embarrasses himself in front of Y/n.

Word count: 2451

Warnings: no today

(Season 1 Episodes 9 and 10 )

Song?: ceilings by Lizzy Mc Alphine

Previous - Next

Masterlist

The strings of Y/n’s guitar trembled under her fingers playing random sounds. The computer was long forgotten on the coffee table. She was supposed to look for a better job than the music store but her mind was in another place, unable to worry about her future. Now that she knows that the world is not what she thought, her whole attention was placed in learning what she can to help in this war and remembering what she lost not on a career, but how do you remember something that you didn’t know you forgot? How do you get back that piece of your mind when the only one who can help you can’t tell you anything?

Y/n wasn’t really angry at Alfred. She saw the nervousness in his yellow eyes when he realized the mistake he had made, that she didn’t know what he was talking about. If anything, she wasn’t angry, she was sad. All her life there has been an empty space in her heart and now she knows that it wasn’t her imagination or teenage angst like her guidance counselor had told couple years ago. She’d felt bad for Al. He had been such a great friend all these years and she couldn’t say the same for herself. What kind of friend leaves you behind?

She had spent the whole night trying to piece together some kind of line back to something but all she founded were broken pieces that didn’t fit anywhere: A big tree with tangled roots sticking out of the soil, a green bird and a warm ray of blue light that would bring tears to her eyes yet she didn’t know why.

“You seem distracted” Al interrupted.

Y/n sighed “I’m trying to…I don’t know what I’m trying to do…I’m just trying to figure out…you know” she lifted her hands but they quickly fell back to her guitar.

“Oh! I apologize. I shouldn't have said anything! I mean, I shouldn't have said anything but I was getting desperate! We have always been together and being away from you for so long made me so sad! So I came back and let my guard down! I shouldn’t have assumed you remembered…” The cat walked in circles.

Y/n chuckled “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh but seeing you talk is still really weird, especially while walking around in circles” She put her guitar down and tried to compose herself. She saw a smile on Al’s face, something she thought was physically impossible for a cat. “It’s cute and I’m sorry I’m being mean”

“No no no, you’re not” he jumped to her lap where the guitar used to be “the amnesia wasn’t your fault” Y/n petted the brown fur between his ears “I’m not sure whose it was but it’s not yours” he purred.

Y/n looked at Al lean into her with a soft smile. When she met him, as a child, she fell in love immediately. She used to blame destiny, on some random situations but she was wrong. Now, she knows it was all him. Al’s love had brought them together after all this time.

—

“Come on, Y/n! We are getting close!”

Y/n was running as fast as she could, she felt her feet barely touching the ground. The golden light of the sunrise filtered from between the thick trees illuminating their path.

“We are not going to make it” she screamed back to the boy running in front of her "Father is going to be mad” the realization made her smile fall.

Y/n looked back and saw the trees folding into themselves creating a dark tunnel, the only light in it were a pair of red eyes staring back at her, mocking her. A scream died in her throat. ‘Bular’ she thought.

Suddenly, her feet stumbled on a thick root making her fall to her knees. Bular’s laugh resonated through the woods.

“Y/n?” The boy looked back.

She stood there, immobile, her knees and hands glue to the grass.

“Y/n,” he repeated, running back to her “Are you alright?”

She looked up. The sunlight was hiding the boy's face but she knew who he was. She’ll recognise him everywhere.

“Yes” she lifted her hands from the ground, dusting the grass off them.

“Let me see” He grabbed her left wrist softly, like he was scared to cause more damage.

A hair strand fell from his bun. With her right hand, she pushed the hair behind his ear.

“I’m alright” she blushed.

“At least, let me fix your dress so we don’t get in more trouble” he blushed.

They stood up. Y/n revealing a hole in the grass stained skirt.

The boy conjured a blue light with his hands and stroked Y/n’s knees making the stain and the hole disappear.

“Thank you” She smiled. Her body was suffering from the lack of the warm light so she stuck her hand out and the boy took it filling the hole in her chest with his touch.

—

Y/n eyes opened, tears still wet on her cheeks. She was back in her living room with Al still asleep in her lap. She was dizzy. The dream playing in the distance of her head. Only remembering clearly the blue light’s warmth.

“I miss you” a sadness filled plea fell from her mouth.

“You said something?” Al stretched his back.

Y/n didn’t want to share her dream with Alfred. She didn’t want him to get excited again. She only had a strange dream that, probably, doesn’t have anything to do with the memories she wants back.

“No. I didn’t”

Her phone vibrated.

“Toby?” She yawned.

“Hi! Aaahm Jim is going to do something stupid. Need your help. Meet me outside TrollMarket” He sounded out of breath.

Y/n knew better by now than for ask for details.

—

“He what!?” Y/n screamed at the boy after he had told her about Jim’s idea of facing Bular alone thanks to the totem Draal had gifted him.

“No time for lectures now. We need to find him!” Toby grabbed her by the wrist and both started looking for Jim above ground while Aaarrrgghh and Blinky searched the sewers.

“Fine, but remind me to punch Draal after this”

Toby and Y/n felt like they looked through all Arcadia but they couldn’t find Jim.

“What are you doing?” Y/n saw Toby crouching down in the middle of the street.

“Shh” He lifted his hand up into the air “Oh no!” Screamed Toby.

“What?!” Y/n screamed back.

Toby ran to the middle of the road, luckily avoiding getting hit by cars passing by “Jim! Jim!” He screamed at the sewer top.

“Toby, come back!” Without hesitation, Y/n followed the redhead to the middle of the street while trying to stop the cars from hitting both of them.

“I can’t get it open!” Toby pulled the top in vain. It wasn’t budging “For the glory of Merlin!”

A truck passed really close to Toby, almost hitting him. Y/n cursed at the driver and kicked the back of the truck.

“This is dangerous, Toby!”

The boy finally opened the lid allowing the sun through protecting Jim from Bular.

“Jim!” Y/n saw his brother and crouched down stretching her hand down the sewer “Come on, Jim! Grab my hand!”

Jim jumped, missing his sister’s hand.

“I can’t reach it! The armor! It’s too heavy, Y/n!”

“Pathetic that you meet your end in a sewer, Young Atlas.” The darkness laughed.

The muscles in Y/n body flaked, almost making her fall. Young Atlas. There was only one person that called Jim that: Strickler. She felt disgusted as she remembered all the times she saw him with her mom and her brother.

Bular struck down his sword trying to strike Jim but the trollhunter was able to dodge it. The sword got stuck in the ground giving Jim an opening to escape.

“Jim, grab my hand. Now!” Y/n screamed.

His brother looked at her and looked back at Bular one last time

“I lost the Grit-Shaka” he stepped on the sword and took his armor off, a cloud of blue smoke surrounding him “but I can still be brave”

Bular lifted his sword giving Jim the impulse he needed to get to Y/n’s hand. With the help of Toby, they were able to get him out.

Jim kicked the lid closed. The three of them sat there in shock as Bular gave it a last punch. Once it finally closed, Toby and Jim let themselves fall on the pavement.

“Strickler is a changeling” Jim panted

“I never trusted him” Toby panted back

“Same” added Y/n.

“Also, you’ve been a real turd today” said Toby.

“And I smell like one, too” Jim sighed “ Thanks for saving my neck. I owe you one. Both of you”

“Yeah, great. Just don’t ever say “crispy” again”

“Deal”

Jim and Toby high fived.

“Crispy? Ugh” Y/n laughed

“Hey! Move it!” A woman in a SVU honked.

-

On the walk home, Y/n couldn’t stop thinking about the amulet and the blue smoke that seemed to linger from it. It looked like the same light that had been appearing in her dreams.

During the night, while Jim slept, Y/n went into his room. She slowly opened the door, the creaking almost giving her away, but Jim was completely passed out after the day he had. He was face down on top of his pillow that was muffling his snoring. Seeing Jim so relaxed made Y/n smile.

The amulet laid in the desk next to Jim’s books, giving Y/n an excuse if he wakes up. The amulet was shining, like it was calling for her. She took the amulet and ran to the bathroom to inspect it under the light.

She sat on the toilet and stared at it. The amulet was heavier than she thought, it was a perfect metaphor for the burden it carries. With her finger, she stroked the writing, Jim told her that the letter would change from trollish to english.

“Nothing, uh?” she said to herself.

A small part of her hoped that when she grabbed the amulet something would happen. A memory would pop up or at least she would feel the warmth the light had given her in her dream, but nothing happened.

“So stupid” she chuckled, pinching her nose.

It was a small chance but she still felt disappointed.

Then, she felt a shift in her hand where the amulet was. A small flash of light and the letters changed, it wasn’t english, she wasn’t sure what language it was, just that it looked, just like everything these days, familiar.

“For the glory of Merlin daylight is mine to command” resonated in her head, but what was wrenching her soul wasn’t the familiar handwriting nor the call but the writing of the name.

“Merlin” she said out loud, stroking the word in the amulet.

Like it was answering her, a green light washed her hand and traveled through her arm finally dying in her chest.

A small sob erupted from her chest, she took her right hand to her mouth to quiet it in vain, it already escaped like the tears that seemed to have flooded her face.

Maybe the amulet held the key to recovering her memories. Maybe Merlin himself held the key. It didn’t seem crazy, after everything that had happened, nothing was.

—

Y/n sang to herself some old lullaby that lived in her brain but doesn’t remember when she learned, her foot kicking the floor to the rhythm as she restocked some records in the corner of the store.

After last night, the quietness of the store brought her some comfort. Trolls, her brother almost dying and a box of memories impossible to open were pushed back by the smell of wood, wax and the warm light of the sun hitting her jeans.

The bell on the door rang announcing a new visitor but Y/n willingly ignored it so she wouldn’t lose the music in her head. If the person needed her help they would ask for it.

Someone cleared their throat behind her. She put down the record in her hands and with her customer service smile on she turned around but quickly morphed into a real one after seeing who it was.

“Hey, Douxie”

“Hi, Y/n” He laughed, shaking awake the butterflies on Y/n stomach “I been trying catching your attention for awhile”

“Ugh?!” Embarrassment started to bleed through her pores.

Douxie chuckled. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, or at least, it felt like one to Y/n.

“I knocked on the glass,” he pointed to the window. Between two large posters you could see the not so busy street and probably could see her from outside “I also said hi a couple times. You were really distracted”

“Oh, sorry” she gave half a smile.

“Oh no! I didn’t mean it…like…oh fuzzbuckets” he scratched his head looking down to the ground “You looked so concentrated with your nose scrunched…and you looked…”

Y/n could see Douxie’s guilt from Dr. Muelas' office. His hands moved faster than he was talking, if that was possible.

“Doux, it’s okay” she chuckled “I’m not mad”

“…cute when you do that” Douxie’s hands didn’t get to his mouth on time. Both of them heard it.

Their faces started a competition of who could get redder.

“Can we start over?” The boy said with his hands still on his mouth.

Y/n started laughing. That familiar warm feeling hugging her again. A warmth only Douxie seemed to have. Other people had called pretty in her lifetime but no one made her feel like it felt when Douxie did it.

“Yeah, totally” a rush of boldness ran through her veins “but you can’t take back what you said”

Douxie smiled, cheeks red as tomato.

“You know? It’s cute seeing you blush like that when everyone thinks you’re a lady’s man” Y/n returned her sights to the records but from the side she could see Douxie’s cheeks getting even redder.

“You really like embarrassing people, huh?“ He smiled.

“Just you” she smiled.

“Well, since there is no way of recovering from that embarrassing moment. I should go all in. Would you like to go out for coffee after your shift?” Douxie tried to look confident but Y/n saw his feet shifting.

She smiled.

“To show you that I’m not that cringey, of course” He added.

“Of course” She parrot “I would really like that”

A/n: i don’t really usually go for the tiktoks songs but this chapter made realize that i don’t know many love songs 🧍‍♀️ sooo if you can send recommendations 🤲

[wolfoftheblackflames]

Are you misfits ready for more?! Here you go, though one warning: Overload of Fluffy cuteness ahead.

The Devil and The Innocent: Pt.5

“Tch that's what I get for trusting a monster…” Vaggie growled softly, wincing since a claw had grazed her hand. “Ugh this red fog is really starting to piss me off.”

Her heart was racing, from both the adrenaline and fear. She forgot how powerful the Devil could be. Vaggie grunted shivering slightly in the sudden cold climate. “Should've snatched a jacket or something…”

“Ah fuck..” The Latina stared as shadows moved in the woods. Some even coming out as drooling monsters with razor sharp teeth. She growled softly and pulled out a hidden set of knives, Vaggie wasn't about to be some fucks dinner without a fight.

Though, when one of them jumped, it was slammed into the ground by a powerful smack. “Don't you touch her!” Vaggie couldn't believe who stood in front of her right now. It was the Devil.

“Huh?!” She blinked at being handed back her spear. “Um thanks..”

Charlie nodded as the two stood back to back glaring at the monsters of the red mist. Vaggie smirked a bit seeing the Devil easily biting a monster's neck and chucking the thing sky high. “Look out!” Charlie growled and stopped another only for Vaggie to come in and stab it in the chest.

“Not bad, good to see you putting that strength to good use!” She looked back at Charlie with a soft smirk.

The Devil blinked as her tail wagged slightly. “Above you!” She grabbed Vaggie and dashed forward skidding to a halt.

The figure stared at her with a creepy grin, its long drooling tongue licking the blood off its fingers. “What the fuck?”

Charlie snarled and took a deep breath. Flames erupted from her maw with glowing red lines appearing on her forearms as she blasted the hoarde. This, however, took a lot outta the Devil. “I'm sorry… I'm sorry I yelled at you..” She huffed softly, her fur feeling so warm against Vaggie's skin.

“Let's just go back for now. It's freezing…” Vaggie replied as the Devil nodded, carrying her back.

Once back home, the others lit up the fireplace as Charlie panted softly, slumping into a chair. “Damn you look like shit.” Husk stated, seeing the wound on her shoulder.

Charlie growled softly and started to lick the wound. “Hey don't do that.” Vaggie stated lightly touching her arm. “Come on let me have a look.”

The Devil snarled softly feeling a cloth dab the wounds. She bit back the urge to snap. “Thanks…”

Vaggie lightly stroked the Devil's wolfish neck with her free hand. “You're actually not so bad huh?” She smiled a little, wrapping the wound. “Why did you come out?”

“I-I felt horrible for what I did. And you're like the first friend I've had in a long time.. “ Charlie looked away, her tail slightly wagging from the gentle scratches to her neck.

“Friend huh, I suppose I can do that. Thanks for coming for me and saving my life… Charlie.” Vaggie gave her a small yet awkward hug.

“Y-you're welcome…” The Devil soften lightly patting her back with her large paw. Though her nose cause a scent of blood. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Just my hand but it'll be alright.” Vaggie waved it off nonchalantly.

“No, it's my fault isn't it?!” Charlie took that wounded hand into her own giant ones. “Damn it, I was trying so hard not to scratch you.” She innocently started to lick the wound like a puppy.

“Hey, it's not that bad, honestly!” Vaggie started to blush a bit at the attention. She lightly fought off the Devil, but was playful about it as Charlie whined cutely.

-----

The two started to bond over the next couple of days, the crew pulled Charlie away playfully. “Come now darling!” Rosie grinned as the Devil blinked.

What greeted the giant was a warm soapy bath with the girls happily scrubbing her fur. “That's right, get this filth all nice and clean!” Niffty giggled ordering sponges to work their magic.

“Ha, you're gonna knock the socks off the little lady!’ Angel cooed with a grin.

“Wait what?” Charlie blinked, being a wet mess. She grumbled doing the whole shake once the soap was scrubbed out and she was free from the tub. “Hey wait!” She whined feeling a towel wipe her fur town making it puff out.

“Time for an outfit that'll make ya an irresistible fucker.” Cherri grinned, handing Charlie an outfit to change into.

“That's me..?” The Devil blinked seeing herself in a living mirror. It nodded at her as Charlie looked over herself. Her fur was neatly brushed back, with a small double ponytail in the back. She smiled a bit seeing the outfit, it was a rather nice white dress shirt that had frills on the front with black slacks. A coat hanger draped a beautiful elegant red and white cloak over her shoulders making her look more regal.

“Damn princess. You clean up nicely.” Husk gave a thumbs up.

“Heh I wasn't the royal tailor for nothin.” Angel looked proud of his work.

Sir Pentious wiggled happily, his rattle like tail shaking. “Ssssimply marvelousss my dear!”

Charlie couldn't help but blush a bit. “Is my gift ready?” She asked looking over to Razzle and Dazzle. The two nodded with a grin. “OK here we go..” She lightly pulled at the cute black bow tie.

-----

Breakfast was weird but it made Vaggie laugh when Charlie tried to polish the bowl clean using her muzzle with the latter getting oatmeal on her face. Once cleaned up the two went outside to enjoy the weather now that Vaggie was in something more suited for it.

Charlie smiled softly seeing the gorgeous long sleeve red blouse, and long black skirt she sported alongside a grey shawl. She looked at her fondly as the Latina smiled holding a squirrel with a bird on her shoulder. Something warm flooded Charlie's heart as she couldn't help but feel happy around Vaggie. “Wanna try hon?” Vaggie smiled back and offered the Devil some bird seed. (Cue something that wasn't there before)

Delighted Charlie tried to befriend the birds but failed causing a soft pout. Only when Vaggie scattered some seeds from her big paws did the birds come flocking. “Hey!” She laughed having twelve birds perched on her giant frame causing Vaggie to snort.

“You look so ridiculous!” She continued to laugh as Charlie blinked with a soft smile coming to her lips. She could easily listen to that laugh forever.

Soon the two went inside as Charlie took Vaggie's hand. “Ok before we go any further, could you close your eye for me?” She spoke softly with a gentle gaze.

“Oh, why?” Vaggie tilted her head curiously.

“Please trust me, it's a surprise. You can open it when I give the word.” Charlie flashed her the cutest grin.

Vaggie smiled softly and chuckled. “Fine, I'll play along.” She closed her eyes and proceeded to be lead by Charlie. She could hear those hooves clopping against the stone floor until it hit something soft. “Hmm?”

“Wait right here, okay?” Charlie grinned and moved away. She went to pull open curtains with a gleefully spring to her steps. “Now open your pretty jade eye.”

Vaggie opened her eye and blinked looking around. Gold, white, and red decorated the place, but alongside with was a beautiful lavender and greyish-white furniture. “Whoa…”

The room was a beautiful gallery, plus library. Decorative weapons hung on the walls, a pair of desks sat perched in the middle with their chairs neatly tucked in, the carpet under it all was soft and velvety as were the curtains. “Do you like it?” Charlie asked nervously tapping her hoof.

“Wait this is… For me?” Vaggie looked stunned as Charlie nodded, grinning. She felt those giant paws come back to hold her own. “I don't know what to say…”

“I wanted you to have a place all your own here in the castle.” Charlie gently nuzzled her, she soon sat Vaggie down on a bench and grinned. “One more thing for you though.” Vaggie blinked watching Charlie howl. A piano scurried in and perched itself near the two. “I hope you like piano music.”

Vaggie blinked watching the Devil perch herself on a chair in front of the piano. She looked so graceful and elegant it caused a soft blush to form on the Latina’s face.

Music flooded the room, it's tune gentle yet filled with hope. “These halls felt so cold and lonely, never once the sun would shine.” Charlie started to sing, her voice echoing. “It's curtains closed, hidden to the world, all were blind.” Vaggie just watched her in awe. “I'm sorry our meeting wasn't exactly the best, my cursed form scaring the rest. But now look at us, we're smiling happy and free. It's all because I have you with me..”

The staff watched the two, Sir Pentious having the biggest watery eyes. “Our princesss iss back.” He sobbed quietly.

“You are what brighten these old stone halls, the sun started to shine brighter than before, it's filled with hope once more!” Charlie belted with a grin howling the next part as she played. The mix of the melodic piano plus that gorgeous howl, it made Vaggie’s heart start to race.

“Now the nights are no longer cold and lonely, the moon started to shine once again, I am myself once more, and the one I… Have… to.. thank is you…. My friend…” She finished with a soft sigh.

“Oh somethin’ is definitely there.” Angel grinned. “I've never heard the bitch so happy before.”

“Ewwww sappy shit. I hate this.” Niffty whined scurrying off to clean.

Rosie was grinning widely. “Our work here is done. Come darling, there's chores to do.”

Cherri shrugged but smirked a bit leaving with the others.

Alastor however, looked annoyed again, his antenna lowering. “My bloodthirsty demon is now a soft puppy. All my work for nothing…” He muttered bitterly before leaving.

(I couldn't resist writing an original song. I'm a damn poet and a sucker for cuteness! Thanks for reading!)

[sapphicsourcee]

I’ll always be here

Wednesday and Bianca are the couple that everyone knows will be together forever. Everybody wants a relationship like theirs. They got married during Christmas break of their senior year, would’ve been sooner but they wanted to wait until Bianca turned 18. Everyone knows Bianca Barclay- Addams is off limits, everyone except for the new kid Jordan.

Enid, of course, is the one giving the new kid a tour around the school. Enid was going through the “flavors” of outcasts when she was interrupted, “So you have the Fangs, Furs, Ston“ “wait who is that” Jordan asked pointing in the direction of Bianca, Enid looked over “oh That’s Bianca, the fencing captain, and she’s also like the most popular girl here” Enid said, her and Bianca have actually gotten pretty close since she’s married to her best friend.

“I’m gonna go talk to her, see if I can get her number” Jordan said, “oh I wouldn’t do that, if she doesn’t kill you, her wife will.” Jordan laughed “yeah right.” He said, already walking away. He’s a cocky werewolf that doesn’t know any better, but he’s about to find out.

Bianca already isn’t feeling well, her periods always give her hell, she’s siting at the fountain in the quad weaving her hand through the water, waiting on her wife. It’s their senior year and they each only have like two classes, and those are just for personal interests, so when Bianca texted and said she wasn’t feeling well they decided to skip their last class meet in the quad, and go back to their dorm together.

Bianca would really love to be left alone by anyone besides her wife but she tries to be nice anyway, when a boy she’s never seen before walks up to her. “Hey, I’m Jordan” the boy says, holding his hand out, Bianca shakes it nicely, “Bianca” she responds, still trying to be nice, but she can already tell that he’s just trying to flirt with her. “I was wondering if I could get your number, and maybe you can show me around a bit” Bianca gave a fake smile “I’m sure Enid or one of the boys over there would love to give you a tour” she said, trying hard not to roll her eyes, as she got up and started walking away.

“Oh come on, atleast let me get your number” he grabbed her arm to try and stop her from walking away. Some people had already started looking and whispering when he walked up to her and shook her hand. Just as she turned around unhinging her jaws to bring out her shark teeth, Wednesday came up behind him and put a knife to his throat. Enid and Yoko started running towards them, and everyone in the quad was watching. “If you treasure your life I suggest you take your hand off of my wife” Wednesday growled in his ear.

Jordan immediately dropped Bianca’s arm immediately, he honestly thought Enid was joking. Wednesday moved the knife from his neck and pushed him to the side, Enid let out a sigh of relief, she really didn’t want to witness a murder today. Wednesday walked past the now shaking werewolf and went to Bianca who was smiling at her, she loves how protective Wednesday is. “Hi baby” Wednesday greets her wife as she wraps her arms around Bianca’s waist, “Hi Day” Bianca says leaning in for a soft kiss.

When they finally get back to their dorm Bianca strips until she’s only in her underwear, extra clothes always irritate her on days when she’s cramping really bad. Wednesday got her grandmother to make some oil for Bianca when she found out how bad her periods were. The oil makes Bianca feel cool and warm at the same time and, even though the pain doesn’t go completely away, the oil combined with Wednesday’s hands massaging her soothes the pain well enough for her to fall asleep.

Wednesday changed into some joggers and a tank top, grabbed the oil, and got in bed, sitting against the headboard. Bianca straddled her lap when she finished undressing, she kissed Wednesday, nuzzles her head into Wednesdays neck and closes her eyes. They do this so often that they have a routine down. Wednesday puts some oil on her hands and starts with Bianca’s lower belly first, rubbing and massaging, then she moves to her back, squirting some more oil into her hands before she starts.

Wednesday is soft but firm and Bianca falls asleep within the first 10 minutes, murmuring a soft “I love you” and letting sleep consume her. Wednesday kisses Bianca’s forehead and whispers “I love you too”. She rubs Bianca’s back softly for a while after she’s fallen asleep, and waits till she knows Bianca is in a deep sleep before moving her to lay down and wrapping her in the covers.

Wednesday takes a few hours to get some time in with her typewriter to work on her book, before she decides to cuddle up to her siren, who snuggled into her side. Wednesday woke up to a whimpering Bianca, eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down her face, and talons out squeezing the sheets. The best thing to do now was to take her to the water. Every few months the siren has instances where the pain gets to a level where it’s almost unbearable, and being in the water is the only thing that helps even a little bit. Nevermore had a pool specifically for sirens, it’s a pretty closed off, cozy space. It’s circular but large, dim blue lights all around it, made out of stone, vines up and down the walls. It gave off cave vibes.

Wednesday hurriedly wrapped Bianca in a blanket and carried her down to the siren pool. She threw the blanket to the side and stepped in, still fully clothed. As soon as Bianca felt the water she dove in. Wednesday sat on the steps and watched as Bianca swam fast, aggressive laps around the pool. It was the only way to let out all of her pain.

Wednesday watched, sitting on the steps of the pool, with a frustrated crinkle in her brow, she hated not being able to do anything about her wife’s pain. Bianca did about a dozen laps before she slowed, swimming to Wednesday, she lay her head on Wednesday’s legs, letting the rest of her body stay in the water. “I’m sorry Day, thank you for being here” Bianca always felt the need to apologize for being in pain or being sick and needing help, her mother always made it seem like she should feel bad for things she couldn’t control, like she was a burden, another thing Wednesday hated.

“Stop apologizing for things you can’t control amor, I’ll always be here” Wednesday said rubbing Bianca’s hair softly. They stay sitting in the water together, Bianca’s tail swaying softly, for a while, just enjoying peaceful silence.

Idk how I really feel about this or if it made sense but I hope you guys liked it🫶🏾

[sneap-sneap]

Missy’s Idea, pt 1

Heyyyy, this is the little thing I wrote! It involves Martin, who is a stuffed animal cat who likes to overfill himself, and his friend/sort-of girlfriend Missy, a flesh-and-blood cat.

———————————————————————

“What does it feel like?”

Missy’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice, and she turned to give him a look. “Martin, that’s so vague I don’t know how you expect me to answer-“

“I mean, what does being really full feel like to you?” Martin asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Missy absentmindedly scratched her side with a claw, her paw moving towards her belly as she considered. “I guess…it has a lot to do with the pressure. When you’ve eaten a lot, it’s really tight and you feel really stretched out.”

Martin squinted at her. “Well, I know what it feels like to be stretched. My stomach can stretch wayyy more than yours!”

“Martin, you do not have a stomach.” Missy rolled her eyes. “You’re basically a cloth bag of cotton fluff. It’s way different when it comes to an actual gastrointestinal system.” She paused for a second, and Martin looked at her in curiosity. He was used to being somewhat dismissed, but it seemed like she was really considering his question. Martin watched her rub her paw up and down her belly. She pushed the soft fur back and forth along the curve, somewhat more swollen than normal but nowhere near her maximum. It made sense, her interest in his query. Her belly-focused activities with Martin were some of the few times he saw her show her actual feelings—a rarity for the standoffish cat.

Missy looked at him, interrupting his thoughts.

“There are more…stakes when I’m the one overeating. I think that’s what makes it so thrilling to me? I could get sick, or get a bellyache, or indigestion, whatever. Trying to stay on the balance of discomfort and pleasure is really exciting. Also, I don’t know, your body pushing back against what you’re doing to it? Like, your body will stretch basically however you want. To get this gut-“ she patted her stomach “-anywhere near the size of yours, I have to force it to go against what my body is telling it. My instincts are telling me, ‘that’s enough,’ but I’m disobeying them and gorging myself even further. That disobedience is reallllly fun.” Missy grinned, showing her sharp canines. Martin felt a little thrill run through him.

“It feels really heavy too. You can’t swallow liquid or anything, cause you’ll get moldy, but especially with liquid there’s a density that makes the sensation of being full extra strong. You’re just so…weighed down by your own gluttony. Plus it’s really bubbly and gurgley when I chug something carbonated. Sometimes I can sort of feel the bubbles moving around, and I know you like listening to them. Not to mention the feeling of cool liquid hitting your stomach, especially if you’ve been eating something warm. That’s a little shocking of a sensation and, I don’t know how, but it always makes me feel so much more stuffed than before.”

Missy’s cheeks were tinging pink, Martin noticed. It might be possible that she liked this…hobby? Interest? of his more than he had expected.

“Also, when my paws, or your paws are pressing against my belly, there’s so much more resistance than there is with the stuffing you use.” Missy squirmed a little in her seat. She demonstrated by poking her abdomen, pressing on about an inch with some effort. “Especially if I’m really packed full, especially if you helped me keep going and keep eating way after I was satisfied, my belly gets pretty hard. I guess you’ve probably noticed; you’ve touched me a lot. But pushing into my full belly isn’t like squishing yours. Although that’s really fun too. You’re pretty much always soft, but my belly is so…substantial, so solidly packed and attached to my body, like I’ve made it that way, I put so much inside of me that it hurts, I disregarded my internal messages to stop and therefore put myself in a position that’s sort of taboo in a way. It’s so good, Martin. It feels so good.” Missy’s pupils were dilated as she studied him, and Martin suddenly felt as examined as the initial question had been.

“I wonder…” Missy trailed off, obviously thinking hard. “I have an idea! Martin, wait here.”

She hopped up from the couch and went into another room, leaving a confusedly almost-aroused Martin. After a few minutes and some rummaging noises, she came back with a belt and a corset. She dumped these on his lap and ran off again, returning with a huge bag of rice.

“So. Martin.” Martin felt a tingling sensation when she said his name like that. Like he had something coming for him. Something good, but knowing Missy, something really intense.

“I’m gonna put this belt and corset on you, so you can feel the tightness, and then I’m going to fill you to bursting with rice. I always feel so heavy after eating rice, so I think you’ll really get a sense of how it feels to be a little helplessly full.” Missy’s eyes had a mischievous but genuine glint, and Martin couldn’t resist his curiosity.

“Okay.” He said, grabbing her paw and putting it on his belly. She flushed under her fur. “Fill me up.”

[solottrpgchronicles]

3c. Socialize - Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop

Bookseller: Merry the capybara

Town: Thistledown

Date: 3rd of Bloom

Weather: warm all day

Total customers: 32

Books: 398

Coins: 223

Dear diary,

I'm sneezing even as I write this. What a mess! I can tell Bloom is here, judging by how itchy and watery my eyes are.

Today is the first properly warm day of the new year, and I had the brilliant idea to open all the windows, let the air in, and then open shop.

Let me tell you, helping customers in this state is no easy feat.

First, a group of schoolchildren barged in, touching every book they could put their grubby paws on. Their teacher, a mouflon with salt-and-pepper fur, was doing his very best to wrangle them.

"I'm so sorry, they're just really excited, you see" He apologized; I reassured him it was no trouble at all.

Truth be told, it was a bit of a bother, but I was surprised at how much joy their presence brought me, and how infectious their excitement was; I even gave them a group discount.

They bought a few classics to read during class, as well as fantasy and sci-fi novels, and a few colouring books.

My second customer - the schoolchildren count as a single unit in my mind - ruined my perfectly good mood; a badger in a pristine suit and tie, who walked in as if he owned the place. He shook my paw firmly and introduced himself as none other than the mayor of Thistledown, Mr. Furlorne.

Now, I'm not a big fan of authorities, but mayor Furlorne didn't put any effort into being likeable. He looked around the shop, nodding and stroking his chin. "Certainly a very nice and cozy shop. I trust you have the license and proper paperwork?" He stared at me inquisitively.

I don't. I didn't even know I needed a license. Luckily, my allergies decided to act up right at that moment, sending me into such a sorry state that mayor Furlorne left in a hurry, muttering something about having this conversation when I'm feeling better.

Isn't it strange that he would personally go and inspect businesses though? Maybe it's because this town is so small. Either way, I have to leave as soon as the river thaws; I have no patience for silly bureaucracy.

In the afternoon I met a few more strange characters:

A couple of travelling otters who were actually looking for a hotel

A loquacious seagull who insisted on telling me all about every single book they had ever read

A traveling salesnake called Seerah

Initially I thought Seerah just wanted to sell me stuff; she must have sensed my distrust, because after slithering up to me and introducing herself, she said "I'm looking for a book, but I'm also looking to make new friends. It's not easy, traveling around all the time and having no fixed home. I thought you might understand the feeling."

I found her openness and sincerity to be refreshing, and ended up offering her a cup of sweet chamomile; we talked until it was almost time to close shop.

She bought an anthology of short novels and left me her business card, saying she hopes we'll cross paths again soon. That would be nice.

At that point I was pretty much ready to close shop, when I heard a soft knock at the door. To my surprise, it was a scruffy sparrow, shivering in the rapidly cooling evening air.

"Uh, sorry sir, may I..."

I waved them inside without hesitation.

Kiki the sparrow was happy to warm up in front of my modest fireplace with a glass of warm milk and biscuits.

They're apparently not from around here - I'm sensing a pattern today - they just arrived in Thistledown after having freshly left their nest, and don't know how to even find a place to sleep, let alone a job. I offered to walk with them into town tomorrow and help talk to people; for tonight they can sleep over.

It's difficult to start a life on one's own, I can definitely empathize.

---

Rereading this entry, I realize I complained a lot today, but there were plenty of nice moments. I just find it uncomfortable when people barge in and try to get through my armour.

I suppose all this socializing could be beneficial; even I need people, friendship, community.

I'm still going to sail away when the river thaws, though.

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

This is a playthrough of a solo journaling TTRPG called "Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop" by lostwaysclub.

You can check it out on itch.io: https://lostwaysclub.itch.io/floating-bookshop

[sinthedrinker]

Tighnari x F!Reader MDNI

breeding kink

Tighnari was warm, unusually so. The forest was always hot, but that wasn't the problem this time. He had found a place to strip and lay down at least, a secluded area near a river where he could try to cool himself down. Whenever his rut came he became uncomfortably warm, panting and sweating as his cheeks remained dark pink and his erection would not leave him alone, unsatisfied no matter how many times he came. Until he finished while pressed against the womb of some soft, willing omega, he wouldn't be able to calm down. There was one particular omega he had in mind, a trainee very similar to himself and who he thought of whenever this time came, but he hadn't been able to ask her to be his mate in the years they had known each other. Her hair was dark brown, falling in soft curls and waves nearly to her waist, the color matched the fur on her large glossy ears and fluffy tail. He took his cock in his hand again for the fourth time that day, imagining her as vividly as he could. Her skin was like tea with cream and he wondered if she had moles or freckles anywhere for him to kiss. Speaking of kissing, he licked his lips as he imagined what hers must taste like. Pre-cum was spilling over his hand now, the slick increasing his pleasure. A rustle in the tall grass around him accompanied by an intoxicating scent startled him however and he sat up immediately. 

"Who's there?" He called out. A pair of dark brown ears popped up in the grass, twitching curiously. 

"Ah, Faeryn! Please give me a moment to put something on, do you need something?" He asked, trying to mask his embarrassment. 

"No, but it seems like you do!" She said. The closer she walked to him the stronger the scent became, some strange hormonal musk he hadn't before experienced, and he thought she smelled good before. 

"Are you in heat?" He asked, his voice cracking which only mortified him even more. 

"I am, I usually mask it, but I knew you were experiencing your rut, so.." She stood in front of him, wearing a yellow cotton dress that was thin enough that he could almost see her nipples through it and he had to take care not to drool. 

"I usually do the same. But I feel it isn't good for me to put it off forever. Still, if you did this for me then, surely that implies you want to be my mate?" He asked, his fingers twitching as he fought the urge to carry on stroking his cock. Faeryn took a deep breath before she spoke. 

"Yes. I've wanted to for a long time but I was way too nervous to say anything. You're so kind and clever and handsome.. And your ears are so cute! I would be really happy to be your mate, if you want.." She wrung her hands nervously and stared at her feet. Tighnari hadn't thought she could become even more appealing but the blush creeping along her cheeks and nose was doing wonders for him.

"I have wanted to ask you for the same. I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough, but I'm so relieved that you feel the same. You're so beautiful and curious and sweet, I've wanted you for myself since I met you." He confessed. Faeryn came even closer to him and took off her dress, it was certainly less frightening than she imagined considering he was already nude. 

Tighnari reached towards her, grabbing her supple thighs as his eyes roamed over her body. He got onto his knees, going back to stroking his cock as he pressed his nose against her sex and inhaled deeply. 

"I've wanted this for ages, Gods you smell divine." He began to purr as he swiped his tongue between her folds. Her knees buckled and she held onto his shoulders to steady herself as he devoured her, unable to get enough of her taste and wanting to lap up as much of her juices as he could. 

"Tighnari- I'm gonna- I'm trying so hard to be quiet but I-" 

Tighnari replaced his tongue with his fingers just long enough to speak. 

"Be as noisy as you need, only the forest can hear you. And Faeryn, do you think you could keep calling me master? Just for now." 

"Master- I'm gonna cum.." Faeryn grabbed fistfuls of his hair as she climaxed, shaking against him as he hungrily swallowed up as much as he could. 

"You did very well. Lay down for me sweet girl." Tighnari said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. As she laid down on her back Tighnari settled himself between her thighs and began kissing and licking her clit once again. Her back arched and she cried out, pulling his hair again as she squirmed in his grasp.

"Master! I don't think I can cum anymore-" 

"You can cum once more for me, you want to please your master don't you? I need you to be ready for me, I don't intend to go easy on you." He said, smirking against her skin as he sucked her clit back into his mouth. Faeryn couldn't think straight, she couldn't keep in the string of moans and mewls that spilled from her lips and her body convulsed on its own as Tighnari continued assaulting her overstimulated clit. She climaxed a second time, practically screaming as she did, much to Tighnari's delight. 

"You did beautifully. Such a good girl.." Tighnari lined himself up with her sticky entrance, swirling the tip around it before slowly pushing himself into her. 

Tighnari held her hips tightly and tilted back his head, closing his eyes and sighing blissfully. 

"Gods I've been waiting so long for this. You're so soft and warm inside, so perfect.." Faeryn was overwhelmed with how Tighnari was stretching her out, she was so sensitive inside it was both painful and extremely pleasurable.

"Master- You're so big, I feel really full.."

"You're very tight darling, milking me like this.. You must be so desperate for my knot." Tighnari said. Faeryn could only nod as he lifted her legs over his shoulders and sped up, slamming into her hard and fast and rubbing her cervix with every thrust. He reached underneath her to grab the base of her tail, tugging and stroking it which made her clench around him even tighter. 

"I don't think I've ever felt this good before, I want to be inside you forever-", His breath hitched as his felt his knot starting to swell. He released her legs and pulled her to him, holding her tightly as they were locked together. 

Faeryn clung to him, wrapping her arms around him and her legs around his waist and he rubbed her back and shushed her as she whimpered. 

"Tell me how you feel." He whispered. 

"So good master, not just inside.. My heart feels full too.." 

"I feel the same. Like my heart is going to burst, I don't know where to put my love. Perhaps I'll put it right here." He kissed her neck over and over, tickling her and making her laugh and squirm in his arms. Tighnari chuckled and nuzzled against the crook of her neck. 

"As soon as I finish we should go and look for herbs, I think I can make a tea that will increase our chances of conception. I think you should take it until your heat is over, we have to make sure you get all big and round with my kits, him?" He said. Faeryn felt his smile against her skin and she nodded. 

"I think that's a good idea."

[owlsinathens]

What did Ramsay take from Theon, apart from fingers, toes, teeth and skin? This last reread has made me pretty certain that the pillar is gone but the stones remain. Why?

Discussion of canon-typical awfulness below the cut

Exhibit A:

He has only taken toes and fingers and that other thing, when he might have had my tongue, or peeled the skin off my legs from heel to thigh.

ADWD, Reek II

What else could the 'other thing' be? Theon mentions fingers and toes freely in his thoughts, thinks about how Ramsay threatens to take his tongue - what else could be unmentionable if not the D? That'd be something even his thoughts'd shy away from.

Also, thing, singular. Had the balls been involved it would have been those other thingS, methinks. I've never heard a man speaking of his privates as one thing, certainly not of his balls. Not saying it's not possible, but it seems to point more in a single thing direction than the whole package.

Exhibit B:

“A bath and change of clothes will make you smell sweeter.” “A bath?” Reek felt a clenching in his guts. “I … I would sooner not, m’lord. Please. I have … wounds, I … and these clothes, Lord Ramsay gave them to me, he … he said that I was never to take them off, save at his command …”

“You are wearing rags,” Lord Bolton said, quite patiently. “Filthy things, torn and stained and stinking of blood and urine. And thin. You must be cold. We’ll put you in lambswool, soft and warm. Perhaps a fur-lined cloak. Would you like that?” “No.” He could not let them take the clothes Lord Ramsay gave him. He could not let them see him.

ADWD, Reek II

Theon'd rather people recoil in disgust from his stench than seeing him naked.

Theon peeled his gloves off and held his hands up for them to see. It is not as if I stand before them naked. It is not so bad as that.

ADWD, A Ghost in Winterfell

Exhibit C:

Ramsay smiled his wet smile. “Does she make your cock hard, Reek? Is it straining against your laces? Would you like to fuck her first?” He laughed. “The Prince of Winterfell should have that right, as all lords did in days of old. The first night. But you’re no lord, are you? Only Reek. Not even a man, truth be told.”

[...]

Ramsay rose, the firelight shining on his face. “Reek, get over here. Get her ready for me.” For a moment he did not understand. “I … do you mean … m’lord, I have no … I …”

ADWD, The Prince of Winterfell

Ramsay taunting Theon about a dick he knows isn't there anymore is just so. on. brand.

The way Theon reacts says more than Ramsay's words though, as if for a second he's really wondering if Ramsay has forgotten that particular part. “With your mouth,” Ramsay clarifies then, and for me this cements it.

As for what was taken, this can be read as Ramsay knowing he left Theon with urges, but no outlet for them. And the urges are still there, though more psychological than physical I reckon, judging from the state Theon is in:

He wanted to hit her, to smash that mocking smile off her face. He wanted to kiss her, to fuck her right there on the table and make her cry his name. But he knew he dare not touch her, in anger or in lust.

ADWD, The Turncloak

Conclusion: dick off, balls on

All of this doesn't really change anything, except add an extra layer of cruelty to Ramsay's little games - and it'd mean Theon can still experience sexual pleasure, or even father children, with detours.

Much more interesting is the psychological effect. I always thought balls are what men are most precious about, but I've had a long, super interesting discussion (at work of all places) with some of the guys, and the consensus was that the loss of dick would make them feel less like a man than the loss of balls. I'm sure there are enough men who feel differently, but out of five, four said they'd rather lose the balls (and be done with it, one said) than lose the D.

In the show, Harrag's knee made it clear that Theon draws a blank there, but to me it seems to be different in ASoIaF. What do you think?

[saltywithsarcasm]

Chapter six of Hair of Gold has been posted!

I think it’s only Brook and Jimbei left??

Sanji sorts through the spices Vito had gifted him when a hand suddenly appears from his shoulder, fingers gently running through his hair. Startled, he quickly turns but relaxes upon realizing it’s Robin. A warm smile spreads across his face as he watches her walk in, Chopper following closely behind.

“Did you two find any interesting books today?” He asks, pleased to feel her fingernails pleasantly scratching the back of his head.

“A few but we wanted to check on you.” Robin sets the few books they’ve purchased on the table as Chopper hops up into a chair. “Zoro mentioned you had a bit of an awkward encounter with Vito at the market.”

“It’s been cleared up.” Sanji responds, practically leaning into the hand in his hair, feeling like he might melt under her touch and attention. “He…uh, apologized.” Sanji's eyes flicker with sudden realization; Zoro had been the one to tell her. Frustration churns within him, his jaw tightening. Why did that idiot care? “Tell moss-head to mind his own business.”

“He was just worried.” Chopper says with a frown since they’ve just got him back and the thought of anything happening to him again made them little overly protective. “It’s his job to look out for us.”

“Well, I handled it so he doesn’t need to worry about it.” Sanji turns around just as the hand is his hair disappears and starts putting the spices away. Sanji feels his face flush a little as he hears Chopper hopping down from his chair and the little reindeer trots over to him, tugging on his pants leg. Sanji looks down, his heart softening at the sight of Chopper's concerned eyes.

“Are you mad at us?” Chopper asks, looking up at him with big and hearing the sadness in his voice hits Sanji hard, making his heart ache. “Is that why you keep refusing help?”

“No, I’m not mad at any of you.” Sanji turns around and kneels down in front of Chopper, petting his head to reassure him with a soft smile, hoping to ease the little reindeer's worries. “I just don’t want to be treated any differently than the rest of you.”

“Well, I don’t mind being helped by my friends.” Robin leans casually against the counter, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she watches the blush spread across his face. He lowers his head, trying to hide his face and feels a little hoof pat his head, hearing Chopper giggle.

“We love you, Sanji.” The reindeer hops into his arms, wrapping him in a heartfelt hug and the blonde immediately responds, holding him close and nuzzling his face into the reindeer's fur.

“I love you too.” Sanji chuckles as Chopper pulls back and gets down from his lap, smacking his leg.

“Then stop being stubborn!“ Chopper lectures, getting a light chuckle from Robin as he flushes with embarrassment. “Let us help you if you need it.”

“Alright! Alright!”

“That includes Zoro, he’s watched your back all night tonight.” Chopper frowns and gives him another smack, prompting the cook to raise an eyebrow in confusion because he hadn't really been paying attention to the swordsman. “He was worried that the creepy man might try to harass you again.”

“He apologized for his behavior-“

“It doesn't change the fact that he still did it and most likely only apologized because he was told to.” Robin says firmly, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “And I'm glad Nami spoke up about when she did because he might’ve escalated.”

Sanji wonders about how the man could have escalated from just smelling and decides it's better not to think about it much since the possibilities are just too unsettling. He had always thought Vito was just a fanboy, admiring him from a distance and never considered that he might be attracted to him in any way. Sanji quickly shakes off the thoughts, convincing himself there's no way he looks at him like that. Vito's just fond of him because he's a fan of Germa and he happens to be related to them. That's all it is, nothing more.

But it doesn’t explain the smelling part.

He tries to rationalize it, telling himself it must have been an innocent mistake and perhaps the man was just curious about his cologne or something but couldn’t he had just asked? Sanji mutters to himself, he doesn't have a problem if Vito likes men or whatever but he isn't gay himself. He shakes his head, attempting to push the thoughts aside and focus on something else.

“I’m gonna go check on the others.” Sanji quickly leaves the kitchen, looking a bit flustered while Chopper and Robin just glance at each other.

Sanji steps out onto the deck, flicking his lighter and bringing a cigarette to life with a practiced ease. He takes a deep drag, savoring the momentary calm and strolls over to the railing. Leaning against it, he looks the scene below to see his friends are scattered, chatting among the other crew. His eyes quickly find Vito, standing close to his captain, who is in the midst of a conversation with Luffy. His gaze lingers on him and for a moment, Sanji is lost in thought, just staring. Suddenly, Vito looks up, their eyes meet and startled, he quickly averts his gaze, taking a deep drag from his cigarette to cover his reaction.

Vito catches Sanji's quick glance and a knowing grin spreads across his face. He chuckles quietly to himself before turning back to the conversation with his captain, his amusement barely contained.

[notasapleasure]

Fait prosperer qui n'est à croire vain please?? Tell me everything!! I forgot abt this but it sounds AMAZING (I’m partial to the Marthe/Güzel but ofc would love the Jerott/Lymond too!)

Oh it's all my end of PiF feelings again, about Marthe and sacrifice, Lymond and depression/recovery (or lack thereof) and Jerott and 'kindness'. Also i think Marthe deserves to rule Russia with a fist of iron and have a blazingly hot strategician girlfriend.

Uhhhhhh so this starts as a good fic and then gets utterly bogged down in me trying to make Jerott and Francis fuck. Sometimes a fic is better when there is no smut, Jo. Also paging @oughtaagh because there's Jerott, there's Francis, there's water, there's recklessness and rescue.

I'll write a bit about how I would have continued it/ended it at the end, but first

I'm just gonna post it.

It's LONG, so if you're struggling to read it all here on tumblr and really want to read it let me know and I'll stick it in a doc or something.

[Peak Lymond draft problems: googling a Latin quote you stuck in there because you have no idea what it meant, and learning that it's from Cicero, but still not knowing what it meant. Truly, it is just like dealing with Francis Crawford himself. Or lunchtime in the undergrad common room as the only dunce who didn't do the Latin module. Anyway I did find rough translations in the end but I'm leaving the quotes untranslated so you all get the authentic Dunnett experience]

---

The wagon slowed to a halt beside the figure among the trees.

Men at arms, moving with no anticipation of a threat, approached with open hands and a foreign greeting.

Taking their assistance, with golden head bowed and covered by a soft cap, the weary traveller got on board. Among cushions and furs, long limbs settled with grace. Cornflower blue eyes held mischief, and wide pink lips smirked satisfaction.

Kiaya Khatun's own eyes widened.

"You."

-

The straw in the stable had been piled up to cover worn buckram, silks and cottons. The boot prints around it were narrow and had scuffed the stone floor in their haste.

Only one pony remained.

Lymond ran a hand, already trembling with effort, down the thick fur on the animal's neck.

It was dawn, and it was cold in the mountains behind Volos. The pony's fur was sprinkled with a fine glitter of dew and its breath coiled in the air beside him.

He had it saddled, but the girth hung loose and unbuckled as he leaned against the animal's warm flank. He was certain he could travel, but the longer he stood in the damp morning air the less willing his body was to collude in this belief.

Marthe had gone early, and she had worn men's clothing, changing her outfit in the stable.

She had taken his place, asking no leave, contradicting her sanguine words about Camille de Doubtance's wishes.

All she had left was the discarded dress and a ghazal written on a scrap of paper, crumpled and stained, as though she had regretted it and nearly destroyed it:

"A friend is the one who beheads you.

A swindler puts a hat on your head.

A host who pampers you becomes your burden.

The Friend deprives you of yourself."

-

Inside the main building one person still slept. Jerott Blyth lay oblivious to the competition to leave him behind.

-

No voices were raised: raised voices travelled.

"Silly girl," Kiaya Khatun said softly.

The fates would be displeased; the planets misaligned; the old woman would not take this news kindly.

"She is dead."

"As she predicted she would be. So it is up to us to continue her work."

Lymond's sister raised a cynical brow. "It is very easy to predict one's own death, if one is willing to play a part in it."

This brash effrontery made the courtesan laugh.

She would allow Marthe the morning to talk to her of fantasies. At first stop, the girl would be returned, and Kiaya would send a man to retrieve her intended companion.

Russia needed warriors, not soothsayers.

-

Lymond crouched by the embers of the hearth.

He picked up the packet he had left. It was addressed to his sister: letters to make arrangements for her inheritance. A request that she uphold her promise. A warning that he should not be followed when he left.

He had returned to the building to ensure that these details were not left for the wrong eyes.

If Jerott read it in the absence of both Marthe and Lymond there would be recklessness, and Lymond could not afford to leave recklessness in his wake.

He had returned to the building to protect his exit.

It should have been clean. It should have been quiet. It should have been easy.

Following the sound of shuffling feet, the door opposite the fireplace began to open and Lymond breathed a curse.

On impulse, he tossed the paper packet into the orange bed of coals. Its edges blackened, and a smoky eclipse rushed over its surface before flames kindled and crackled, smacking their lips on the dry words.

-

"It's early."

Lymond stood - too quickly. His head swam.

The other man paused in the doorway of his room, rubbing rough-skinned hands over tired eyes and morning stubble.

"Was it a bad night? Are you ok?"

"I am fine," Lymond answered.

Jerott peered at him with a dubious expression.

In the trees up the slope a woodpecker hammered out its breakfast rhythms.

"Have you been outside?"

Lymond let his arms open in a sort of shrug.

Droplets of mist had caught in his hair, turning its ends to darkened twists. His boots had straw stuck in the mud on their soles and his riding cloak hung from his shoulders.

Glancing at the hearth, Jerott took in the tongues of flame that were already dying down, and the grey rectangle of ash sheaves from which they had sprung: the ghost of the letter packet.

The cot beside the fire was empty, its curtain drawn back and bedclothes rumpled.

Marthe had few belongings, but none remained in their accustomed places.

Jerott looked at Lymond with sharp new panic.

"Where is she?"

Jerott was outside, halfway to the stable block even as Lymond called the answer Jerott already knew: "She's gone."

-

Standing within the stable, Jerott picked up the dress. He pressed it, unhesitatingly, to his face. He breathed in the smell of her body, mingled now with the dry scent of fresh straw.

His eyes opened to the sight of the saddled pony and it added insult to injury.

Jerott stormed back to the other building and tossed Lymond's packed satchel on the stone flags before the hearth. Combined with the hurt in his eyes, no accusation needed to be spoken.

In response, Lymond's expression was closed and wary, but his body language was resigned.

She had taken his place. That was all.

He did not know how long she would survive in it if he did not reclaim his position at Kiaya Khatun's side.

"Russia?" Jerott exploded. "Why would she go to Russia?"

Because, Lymond thought to himself, she had chosen to ignore Camille de Doubtance's plans. She had elected to claim her birth right: the adventure that should have been hers without question had she been born a man. She had intended to set her brother free of the webs that had been woven for him. To take up their severed bonds and turn them to a bridle for her own destiny.

"She is looking for a new station."

Jerott looked at the ash fluttering on top of the embers.

"But I was going to marry her."

-

It took little enough time for Iphis to have her way.

Among furs a sea-weathered cupid rolled with the movement of the cart. A gift and a promise; ambition and proof; the cupid had changed hands in Djerba, and ridden as the strange confidant of Kiaya Khatun since then.

She drew the lithe body of Lymond's sister into the cushions beside her. The blonde head rested against her shoulder and Marthe sighed with pleasure.

Kiaya Khatun had always been too curious.

Ambition was a virtue, but without restraint it was dangerous. Curiosity ignored boundaries and left ambitious women seeking more.

No need to be a warrior when you can be a shapeshifter. No need to be a soothsayer when you can forge your own fate.

-

"You don't understand."

Jerott had been stung by multiple barbs. He nursed the knowledge that Lymond had meant to leave him. He wondered about the future with Marthe that might have been - he contrasted her placid sweetness in recent memory with her old cruelty. Had she been kind because she knew it would come to an end before it came to marriage? Had that been an act to appease Lymond as much as Jerott?

Because it was always Lymond who stood between them. Always Lymond, in the corner of Jerott's eye, in the back of his mind, like a conscience double-checking all of his actions.

Lymond, who stood now in inscrutable stillness with his back to the wall. Beneath heavy lids and golden lashes, he regarded Jerott with an expression of weary patience.

"I understand." Lymond spoke softly but firmly.

"No," Jerott slapped an open palm on the door jamb. He stared at it, disappointed that the shock of pain caused by the gesture was already fading.

Lymond's jaw tensed.

"I love her. How can you, you, possibly understand?"

Lymond's fingers flexed against the stone wall to either side of him. His posture remained defensive, an animal backed into a corner. "I am not immune to the feeling, Jerott, despite what you seem to believe of me."

Jerott scoffed and looked at him with the kind of tolerance he might show a particularly stupid child. "Really. When you intended today to make for Russia on the touring bed of a Turkish courtesan."

Lymond did not flinch. "Kiaya Khatun is Greek."

"Clearly I am mistaken, and your profound connection with her runs deeper than I realised," Jerott said bitterly.

He missed the hot, blue flicker of irritation in Lymond's eyes.

"And I should learn about the profundity of love from you, I suppose?"

Jerott flushed red, though the firelight camouflaged it.

"Do not sully this by claiming you have encountered its like in the debauchment of the French court," he muttered. His ears prickled with heat.

Lymond sighed: "Ah."

He leaned his head back against the stone. "You think that such things occur in the absence of sentiment."

Lymond considered, in turn, the joy that Thady Boy Ballaght had brought men and women alike. The meeting of experience he had had with Oonagh O'Dwyer. The broken heart of the archer Robin Stewart.

"I find that, all too often, it is a surfeit of feeling that makes court such as it is."

Jerott's hands curled into fists, propped above his head on the jambs to each side of the door. He shifted the weight of his hips and feet, glaring at the swept stone floor. "It is hardly the same thing."

Lymond, tiring, conceded a final justification of his words. "I will not claim to have felt as you feel for Marthe. But I have seen more of life than exists in an Auberge on a small island, Jerott. Allow me some understanding of its rhythms."

Finally, Jerott raised his black head and met Lymond's eyes. He shivered visibly when he looked into that fine, Della Robbia face. All its foundations were etched sharply in the firelight and what daylight entered through the door around Jerott's blocking form: the elegant sweep of cheekbones and jawline, the plaintive sockets and the translucent, gem-like glitter of blue in their depths.

Jerott's lip curled, but he did not quite manage to keep his voice steady. "Then thank you. For your understanding."

In angry silence, Jerott was left with a familiar discomfort: the idea that each of them, Lymond and Marthe, had all these months been occupied with plans they had never shared - would never share - with him. It was now joined by the unhappy knowledge that both had tried to leave him behind in secret - whether abandoning Jerott to the arsenal of their sibling, or perhaps abandoning their sibling to Jerott's uncultured company.

The worst of it was that Jerott thought back over all that had happened since Philippa Somerville had insisted on pursuing the seemingly sanguine Crawford of Lymond -  keeper of armies, uncaring father to a lost bastard - across the continent, and Jerott could barely recall the moments he would not choose to live again. His thoughts dwelt only on the thrill of the horse show, the pounding of his heart as he raced across Moorish rooftops and powered through the warm Mediterranean with a body in his arms - precious salvage from the wreckage of Zuara. He held to the memory of a single, longed-for look of pride and the dangerous glamour of gold hair and white linen beneath the African moon.

-

Lymond retrieved his pack wordlessly and eyed Jerott, who remained in the doorway.

"I will take the pony and catch up to them. If Kiaya Khatun has not already sent her on her way back here, I will tell her you are waiting."

Jerott did not move. His arms tensed as he grasped the wooden jambs and he raised his chin in defiance. "No."

This was precisely what Lymond had feared.

"I am losing time," he said warningly.

Ironically, given his present position, Lymond thought about how Jerott was like a door that would not stay shut. He could exhaust one's energies on an impossible task. And for a man used to a lifestyle of discipline and regiment, Jerott had shed the obedience demanded by the Order with a speed that left one reeling.

Attempting to shake him off was like negotiating with quicksand.

"They won't be travelling quickly." Jerott reasoned. "You said she would be bringing a train. We can catch them up with the pony - they won't make it to Larissa in a single day, even on the old road."

Lymond had to grit his teeth against the pain that was rising in volume in his head.

He lacked the strength to stop Jerott from snatching the pack away again.

"Besides, you are not in a fit state to stop me," Jerott muttered. "So you are not fit to travel alone."

Had all gone according to plan, Lymond had feared that Jerott would try to follow him. Why should it be a surprise, now, to find that Jerott would not leave him?

He watched Jerott through the doorway, thinking of St Mary's and every instance since in which Jerott had simply remained.

Once, Lymond had asked Jerott not to let himself be driven away.

To that one order, Jerott had remained faithfully compliant.

-

At first stop, Kiaya Khatun laughed beneath pear trees still laden with browning, over-ripe fruit. She sat on a bench covered by woven rugs, steaming kahveh set between her and her lover.

She was patron of the young champion in practical brown hose and doublet: a peacock dining with her graceful hen.

With a dagger on her belt and her hair braided tight beneath her cap, Marthe was not quite comfortable. She was not quite Lymond. But she rode the thrill of Kiaya's smile and placed olives into her mouth, and they made new plans. They drew up their own charts, for the planets they had pushed off course.

Russia needed warriors. Most of all it needed strategists. And what was running a household, navigating a seraglio, buying and selling ancient artefacts, but being a strategist?

A storm was rolling in from Mount Pelion, and Kiaya Khatun watched Marthe learn the vocabulary of command needed to arrange the vast train accompanying them.

Although she lacked Lymond's confidence, Marthe compensated with a ruthless assumption that none would choose to do as she asked without the threat of misery held over them. This tone made the men hurry to prove themselves capable, and Marthe stood back, astonished and pleased, as mules and servants, tents and shelters, arranged themselves in regimented practice to construct a small village of cloth and leather, enough to barrack them all through the heaviest of snows.

There was pride in Kiaya Khatun's eyes as she said "Khorosho."

Marthe's heart ran like Ottoman cavalry across the plain. Not once in her life had anyone looked at her in that way.

-

Time passed in a slow descent through the mists that left Lymond furious at their pace - and exhausted in every muscle. They wove through the thin trees silently, droplets of cold water clinging to their hair and cuffs and the pony's thick fur.

Even had he been alone he would have made slow progress. The soil was slick with streamlets of groundwater that began to crunch and crackle as the earth cooled, and the rock beneath them juddered down from the mountain in uneven steps, laced throughout with treacherous, snaking roots.

The pony, sturdy and gallant though it was, followed Jerott's lead, its heavy hoof-falls striking hollow sound from root and rock.

When the mist left them - quite suddenly, and well before they reached the Thessalian plain - it was replaced by a thin, warning breeze. Lymond pulled the woollen collar of his cloak up around his neck and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Still they could see no further through the leaning boughs of conifers. Colour was absent beneath the white spotlight of the high clouds: trees were the shade of iron, their needles and the cobwebs that hung on them were bleached and silver-gilt by dew.

Walking at the bridle, Jerott did not attempt to make conversation. His black hair clung in damp runnels to the edges of his face, to his head and neck. Water beaded and pooled in the folds of the pack on his shoulders but his pace did not tire.

He would be thinking over what had almost happened and, perhaps, trying to distinguish between his anger at Lymond and his anger at Marthe.

Lymond regretted it, but he remained silent.

He had thought that his sister had reached an understanding with him - and with Jerott.

Marthe had professed a prophecy of kindness for a man adequate to his fate and then - in an act of hubris - she had changed her mind and stolen away in the crepuscular light.

Lymond considered all that had proved true since it had been foretold in Lyons, and all that could have been proven true even then. Information was not art magique; an understanding of the past was not the same as a vision of destiny. Whatever she had been, or was meant to be, to Camille de Doubtance, Marthe must have recognised this and preferred some other path.

Perhaps, when they caught up to her, she could explain how she had broken free of the framework of fate, and explain to Jerott how he might do the same.

For his part, Lymond would inform Marthe that she had jeopardised not some nebulous destiny or chart dictating his future; not some unsolicited vision of lives conducted by an old woman in a Saxon wig; but a decision made by a rational and lucid mind. A decision of his own making, that he had every intention of holding to.

-

Large, feathery flakes of snow were beginning to penetrate the thinning tree cover. The slope was no longer as steep, and they could now glimpse the pale expanse of the Thessalian plains beyond.

Lymond pressed the pony to a faster pace, taking over the lead, and Jerott's stride lengthened to compensate, his cheeks bright with colour.

On the plains, the snow had been blowing down from the uplands, and it smudged grass and river and track and building into indistinct grey. Only the black water of Lake Karla stood out, its surface stippled like old metal beneath the wind and the precipitation.

Jerott broke into a jog to keep pace with Lymond's descent towards the edge of the lake. He glanced up between footfalls, searching what could still be seen of the horizon for Kiaya Khatun's encampment. It was where Marthe would be, and he sent his heart out into the weather, thinking of the pricking of his skin when he was in her presence, of the dragging ache in the pit of his stomach and the way she made his arms feel like they would always be empty.

Without her, he did not know what he would do. All he could imagine, that was not in proximity to her, was the endlessly occupying struggle of following the rider ahead.

Now Lymond was directing the pony into the marshy land at the lake's edge. He was making for a shallow-bottomed fishing dory, Jerott saw, and not the reed-thatched shelter nearby.

Wet ground tugged at Jerott's boots as he plunged after Lymond. He had begun to worry that the other man would not wait, and tried to close the distance between them when Lymond drew to a halt.

"Francis! Do you see them?" Jerott called, hoping that, in giving an answer, Lymond would think to allow Jerott to catch up.

Lymond swung his feet from the stirrups and paused for a moment, both of his hands resting on the pommel. Like a bird tucking its head into its own neck feathers, he glanced back at Jerott over the cloak bundled around his shoulder.

His face looked as grey as the whirling snow over the lake, and Jerott recognised, at last, the frailty Lymond had tried so fiercely to hide all morning.

Jerott did not take the time to drop his heavy pack but flung himself forwards through the freezing mire, swinging arms and pumping hot, tired legs to reach Lymond before he fell.

He got to the pony's side too late to stop Lymond from dismounting, but in enough time to support him where he landed, clinging to the saddle in limp desperation. Lymond's legs seemed beyond his control, liquid and powerless beneath the pressure of some unseen agony.

"The boat," Lymond ordered through pressed lips.

"No. In God's name no," Jerott swore. He heaved Lymond's weight, his hands hard and unforgiving against the trembling body of the other man, wedged into armpits and scrabbling at wet clothing. Lymond clearly wanted to protest, but his white fingers could not maintain their furious, stubborn grip on the saddle. His throat released a sound of mingled pain and rage when Jerott kept him upright and forcibly rearranged Lymond's hold in order to boost him, unwilling, back into the saddle.

He went, in a cascade of cold muddy water, spurs catching on cloth and skin as his legs struggled against the air. Back onboard, Lymond curled over the pommel with hands hooked in pain. His eyes were screwed shut, his body shook from exertion, and his breathing howled in him like the wind on the mountains. But he did not attempt to dismount again, and he gave no further orders.

Jerott took the pony's bridle and turned towards the little hut on the lake's edge. He wiped the drizzle of blood on his chin with the back of one soaking, frozen hand and sighed at the new rip in his weather-worn jerkin.

-

Dreams now were too full of the familiar. Lymond longed for the bewildering terror of early withdrawal: the howling, bleeding, unknown of those visions.

In sleep he saw a child, scared and uncertain. The dress that Marthe had left in the straw turned to straw in a dress, stuffed unevenly, imperfect seams covered by black curls of hair.

Green eyes shaded by the holes of a sequined mask; then empty sockets, misshapen under leathery skin, their depths tangled with straw.

He heard a lisping voice beg in many-accented English; an Irish lullaby; it segued into raucous singing, the whispered promises of the court, the babbling of a demigod pinned down by mutes on the corner of a chessboard.

He turned from the scene, blood on his doublet, though he did not know where it came from. Through a door he saw Sibylla smile and beckon him to her, he heard Richard's merry laughter mingle with that of his wife and the child he dandled on his sturdy knee. Lymond hurried forwards, but only in order to heave one side of the heavy double door shut. Across the entrance, where they should have been helping him by closing the other door, Marthe and Philippa watched him toil and Marthe murmured: "A friend deprives you of yourself."

-

Inside the small fishing hut, some terrible battles were being fought.

"Mother, it is me." - "But I cannot come home." - "Mo chridh..." - "Do not make me promise it. Do not make me." - "I cannot go home. I have no brother. I have no home." - "I beg of you. You know not what you ask." - "Mother, mother I am tired..."

Already tormented by questions that arrived in pursuit of words he should never have heard, Jerott could stand no more. He arranged his aching legs and crossed the room in two strides to crouch by Lymond and shake his shoulder roughly.

"Francis! Francis wake up."

"I am tired," Lymond repeated, a frown troubling his alabaster brow. From beneath the darkened, matted gold lashes, tears had spilled.

Somehow seeing them was more troubling than all of the physical suffering, and Jerott shook him harder.

At last, Lymond's eyes opened with fury. One hand flew, sharp-nailed, to Jerott’s wrist.

Jerott stilled, waiting for consciousness to catch up with instinct.

The hand that clawed at him loosened slowly, and Jerott felt the wet chill of broken skin revealed beneath one nail.

Breathing heavily, silently, Lymond folded his hands over his abdomen. He became an uncomfortable jumble of slackness and fraught tension, blue eyes wide and teeth minutely bared.

"The dreams. You were shouting," Jerott explained, and found his own voice hoarse and unsteady on his lips.

"And what is it that you would like me to clarify about my situation?" Lymond put as much acid as he could muster into the words. "What sordid detail piqued your interest?"

The glitter of saltwater remained on the shadows beneath his eyes, but Lymond did not move to wipe the tears away. He seemed half submerged in dream still, barely conscious of where he was.

The antagonistic tone unbalanced Jerott just as it always did, and he sat down hard next to where Lymond lay, confusion mingled with exasperation on his features. He shook his head at Lymond's venomous stare.

"Are you in pain?"

Lymond's eyes glinted as though he had been provoked. "What did I say?"

Jerott sighed and let his shoulders fall into an aspect of defeat. His eyes were hot with misery. "All sorts of things. I don't know. You said you can't go home."

One of the loosely folded hands flinched and began to shake before Lymond regained control of it. He swallowed drily.

"I see. Well that much you already knew."

Lymond's eyes closed and his expression was subsumed by nausea. On one temple a muscle tightened, and a purplish vein showed through translucent skin. He struggled with the weight of one arm, moving it so as to lie his fingers across his lowered eyelids.

Jerott reached for a leather flask with water in it, and softly determined to move Lymond's hand and help him to sit up against the wall.

Instead, Lymond made himself an intractable dead weight. Resistance set itself in Lymond's jaw, and Jerott felt something give, like a worn cord breaking with a twang inside himself.

"For God's sake, Francis, I don't care what family secrets you feel the need to keep from me! I no longer wish to know any more than I do about Marthe's parentage or yours. You are clearly related - " Jerott glanced away with regret. "The heavens would never play such a cruel trick twice otherwise. But that is not why I am here."

Lymond lay deep among the bedding, recoiled and withdrawn like a threatened predator. His breathing was laboured and some unseen agony twisted each joint and tendon. The shape of his skull was more clearly defined than usual, his pallid skin drawn tight up to his hairline, where sweat began to darken the coils of blond hair. Enmeshed in pain, he would speak only of pain; he would inflict only pain; he would embody the thing that was consuming him because no other care would suffice to dull it.

In this context, Jerott's words offered to lay a responsibility of explanation in his hands that Lymond could only thrust away from himself viciously.

"Then why are you here? I see no wayward teenagers twisting your conscience; no innocents left to save, no need for vengeance gone unaddressed. You would not even press on to find the woman you profess to love - have you any idea of the danger she has likely put herself and Kiaya Khatun in?"

It wasn't enough. In Stamboul he had thrown a knife, lashing out like he might at a stray dog, and that had not been enough either.

His expression grim, resigned, Jerott replaced the flask on the floor and - Lymond's heartbeat sharpened with fear - looked momentarily as though he might stand and leave Lymond to stew in his discomfort.

Instead, he pried Lymond's unwilling shoulders from the nest of blankets on the floor with ungentle fingers.

Lymond hung back, a weight that acted against the strength drawing him into Jerott's hold. But when the balance of his body shifted and he fell forwards against the other man's chest, all the weight with which he had pulled away now collapsed into the waiting embrace.

Lymond was submerged in Jerott's arms, which were a tourniquet around the torrent of pain in his body. His head dropped into the shape of Jerott's neck, his raw nerves scuffing against the cotton ruff of his collar. His body shook and Jerott's hold tightened; Lymond's fists balled as though to fight off this imprisonment, but he brought them to rest against Jerott's back. He did not embrace him in return, his palms felt like they had on the galleys: flayed and exposed, bloodied and ruined. But his arms took strength where they lay alongside Jerott's rib cage, and he gasped in the hot air trapped between their bodies, inhaling the scents of fire smoke and damp wood that were imprinted on Jerott's clothing.

Jerott's was not a gentle gesture, but a fierce onslaught of care that fastened as stubbornly to Lymond's being as the ache of withdrawal did. He did not release him, even when the shivering slowed and became intermittent. He did not release him even when Lymond's eyes drooped and fell closed in the dark of Jerott's shoulder. Lymond's breathing steadied and still Jerott could not let him go.

Jerott stared at the wall with unfocused, fearful eyes. The blond hair that tickled and stuck to his cheek was familiar and yet not; the thin shoulders and bony, hard-muscled back was like Marthe's but different. The need with which Lymond had, at last, drawn on Jerott's care was wholly new, and intoxicating.

With stilted, stiff movement, Lymond's fists loosened and unfurled. He lay his palms on the plains of Jerott's shoulder-blades and slowly, cautiously, wrapped himself closer to the source of respite and relief.

Jerott leaned his jaw against Lymond's head, and wondered whether Lymond could hear his blood thunder like floodwaters in his veins.

-

It was rare that the expressive features ever lay so still.

It was rarer yet that Jerott Blyth paused to examine anything with such care.

Lymond's body had sunken against him, true sleep imposing its peace at last. Jerott guided him carefully back to the floor and arranged the covers around him, unconsciously tweaking at folds and ripples of wool until Lymond lay neatly beneath an even covering, protected from the many draughts in the little hut.

Moving on the way to tidying Lymond's unruly waves of hair, Jerott caught himself, his hand poised by the curve of Lymond's brow and the elegant line of his temple.

When he had looked at Marthe he had drunk in all that he could about her appearance, wide-eyed and unashamed, letting his longing gaze caress each and every quadrant of skin and shape. He could enumerate and bring to mind all the tones of her hair - lemon flesh, saffron and sand, ochre and brass - all so unique to her - and all the gradients of her sun-basted skin. He had imagined what it would be like to hold Marthe before he had held her; he had sought frantically to recall the taste of her lips that time in the tekke he thought he had made her endure his kiss (all that he recalled, though, was the subtle fire of the raki on his own tongue).

He did not look at anyone else in such a way.

He did not look.

He did not let himself look.

But here were those familiar features, softened in sleep, their edges chiselled and bevelled into something stronger, perhaps even more striking. All those colours that he had told himself were hers alone, flagrantly sported by another.

As though he had placed an ember from the fireplace on his tongue and swallowed it in one gulp, Jerott felt heat slash a line deep into his body. His heart twisted: a resistant, bucking animal. He could not explain whether it was the same feeling that was kindled when he thought of Lymond's sister. That had been a need, a demand that his every fibre clamoured for without shame. This - this made his pulse quicken in a new way. A furtive, hopeful way that left him feeling physically bruised.

He murmured a prayer and it rebounded on him. His mind offered only a mocking rejoinder:

Stay me.

Refresh me.

I am sick with love.

As though his fingers belonged to another person, Jerott watched his own hand descend to stroke sweat-streaked golden coils off Lymond's skin. The hair at his temple was softer and finer than Eastern silk, the feeling of it beneath the sensitive pads of Jerott's fingers something that he wanted to experience again and again.

Shyly, he smoothed its satin strands with short strokes of touch. His thumb moved out to compare the feeling of one perfectly shaped brow, and it was only when Lymond uttered a sigh in his sleep that Jerott withdrew. He flexed his fingers, feeling their skin changed as though burned.

For a time, he sat wondering at himself and at the newly peaceful body curled among the covers. He had contributed to the rest that Lymond now enjoyed: it was an act of construction the likes of which he had never thought he would experience outside the spiritual ceremonies of the Order.

This was a fearful new discovery that made his pulse run in feverish haste. Where faith and protectiveness and the sweetness of touch eddied together.

Shaken, Jerott returned to the other end of the shelter and wrapped himself as well as he could in a leftover blanket. He listened to the storm, and did not intend to sleep, but the strange emotions of the already-long day left him wrung out and exhausted. His chin smarted and he was at last beginning to feel the chill of his damp clothes and hair.

His mind blundered in pained desperation against all the choices of the previous year. He covered his face with his hands and asked himself how it had come to this, so soon after Gabriel's betrayal, so soon after he had made a promise to keep his love in check. And yet - he could not imagine choosing differently. His memories shone with the gilt adornment of Lymond's sanction, also: he had needed Jerott, as much as Jerott had needed to be there.

He moved his fingers apart, like fretwork over his eyes, so that when he blinked rapidly at Lymond's resting form, he felt his lashes flutter against skin. […]

[…]

His eyelids grew heavy as he looked across the fire at the peaceful hills of Lymond's form beneath covers. Jerott drifted out of consciousness wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the back of blond curls; to touch his cheek to the fine-muscled neck and shoulder; to press his mouth to skin as smooth and beautifully freckled as a goldfinch egg.

[…]

-

Lymond awoke with a sense of lack. He was wound round in a plethora of blankets and covers but felt exposed. The blankness of thought that followed a deep sleep lingered, and he struggled to grasp the context of where he had slept and what time of day it was. Memory and pain repelled one another, like oil and water.

All he could discern was that it was cold and it was dark.

He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them wide. The darkness endured, but he moved his head and was able to identify the embers of a low burning fire. Relief prickled his scalp at the sight, at the confirmation of sight, and the clue as to where he had found himself.

It was a small room - no, a small building - thin-walled, thatch-roofed, sparsely furnished with details he could not quite identify. Pots and herbs hung from beams that criss-crossed the space beneath the sloping roof, biding, draped in spider webs, cloaked by winter disuse. The air was heavy with the smell of wood smoke and wet cloth and the only sound he noticed was the occasional hiss of protest from the embers as meltwater dripped through the narrow vents in the ceiling.

He was not in Volos any longer and he was not in a travelling tent or wagon. Even as consciousness surged, he could not say where this building was or how he had come to be there.

Without having done more than crane his head from the covers, Lymond felt his heart pound with exertion. A reflexive sweat of panic chilled his temples and his body, and the throbbing of his veins was like the warning of distant thunder. He rolled onto his back and made his hands into fists within the blankets.

His thoughts were like moth-eaten silk, unravelling as he grasped for them.

He had left the monastery at Volos. He had ridden downhill, through forest and mist, through thinning trees and cooling air, dogged all the way by regret. He had to cross the lake, though he did not want to - but it was the only way back onto the path he had lost. And the harder he pushed to reach it the more hopeless it seemed, the further behind he appeared to have been left, the more he understood and sorrowed for how much he had let them all down.

That thought finally snagged on something: he flinched, his eyes closed, throat tight, as though he could look away from the recollection of that silent knife and the blood, staining purple satin to wet black. He began to shake, and his dreams started to seep into his mind again like the snow dripping from the chimney vents. All of those he would never see again: doors closing, closing.

Among the dead and the distant who haunted his thoughts were Marthe and Güzel, who he had seen together at Djerba, even as he made his own plans. Pride with pride, a pursuit of power that forged onwards with inexorable need, loosed from a divine grasp like the apple of Eris. The ear of the Tsar would be bent to new fortune tellers, those who were unafraid to answer back to the heavens and tell them to speak their predictions anew.

He understood the compulsion, he supposed, but he had to stop it, else they would become just another sphere within his nightmares.

It was also, he acknowledged, out of a selfish fear that he recoiled from giving up Russia to them. If they kept him from his intended work he must face his present position: depleted of all resources, robbed of family twice over, and, by necessity, a sword for hire and a pair of strong rowing arms as he had once been before.

Lymond turned to his side again and curled, animal-like, about his knees. Deep in the muddle of blankets and clothes he picked up the scent of another body: something difficult to define, sweaty and damp like he was himself, but of a different source. Leather where Lymond wore velvet; woollens where he wore silk. He inhaled deeply, but the smell of the other was elusive and soon lost in his own miasma. It made him lie still with concentration though, and in stillness he found another memory: the salvation of warmth and an embrace that had gathered together all the fraying parts of Francis Crawford's being, fusing his shattered person like a smith might melt down old silver to forge it anew.

He sighed into that memory because it did not hurt like all other thoughts hurt. It was fresh and simple, familiar and yet long awaited, as though he had been able to find comfort in his pocket when he needed it most, where once he had placed it and forgotten about it. Demanding nothing, promising nothing - Lymond's mouth twisted wryly against the blankets - understanding nothing. Just the memory of an embrace, like a dogged presence he could not shake free of.

Almost wary of breathing lest he disturb the recollection, he imagined the shadow of touch steadying, tethering him. A hard jaw against his trembling head and flexed muscle across his shivering back.

There had, after all, been one person absent from his nightmares. One who did not need to be mourned and who countered regret with stubborn continuity. One who - Lymond opened his eyes and stared with resignation into the darkness - was yet to be freed of his thankless task, but who needed, like all the others, to be shown why he must leave Lymond to his own lonely path.

If only Jerott had not woken at Volos. There would be no new act to bring to mind previous occasions in which Jerott's utility could not be denied. No need for Lymond to resent his own weary body for clamouring in hope of peace and rest, for its treacherous nostalgia for a firm, warm embrace standing between Lymond and the beckoning road.

Just a night, his flesh seemed to beg him, quaking more at the idea of cold than at its actual penetration of the covers. A night to sleep and be warm and to let another shoulder the burden of his needs. Just to sustain him through whatever lay beyond here, his skin pleaded, tightening and puckering like a plucked fowl along the backs of his arms and his neck.

Lymond pressed his short nails into his palms and regretted their bluntness. He thrust himself up to a sitting position and threw back the blankets to make his body aware of the cold properly and fully. He would master this childish longing more easily than he had mastered the withdrawal from the drug. He must do so, for he feared stopping now, feared the war within himself: continue or - cease. He saw no way to navigate a path in between.

He forced himself to stand and waited for a moment as the darkness wavered murkily and a tide of nausea grasped at him.

Stiff-legged, aware with each movement of the aches of riding and of sleeping on a hard floor, and more besides, Lymond shuffled to the area where a jumble of packs and shoes, old fishing rods and reed woven receptacles lay. On the opposite side of the grey lines of light that edged the doorway, he saw Jerott's sleeping form.

His body crumpled awkwardly against the wall in the draught from the entrance, his head to the wooden panels, knees drawn up and arms tight across his body. He had positioned himself as far as he could be from Lymond in the small building.

Lymond approached with trepidation and was assaulted by the stench of wet horse: the only blanket Jerott had kept for himself was the saddle blanket, beneath which he snored lightly. His hair was still damp from outdoors, clinging to his forehead and cheek in dark lines. On his chin was a separate stain, rising from the shadow of his throat, a strand of newly dried blood, smudged carelessly, neither deep nor long, but enough to make Lymond frown.

He did not remember causing it, but the guilt he felt was adamant. It was further confirmation that Jerott Blyth would be much better off without him.

Lymond shuddered and turned away to pull on his boots and cloak. He ensured that Jerott was left with all he would need on the road, and hauled the pack to the door with shivering, unsteady determination.

Gently, Lymond pulled open the door of the fishing hut and the gust of fresh oxygen made the embers behind him glow brighter.

He glanced back, but Jerott continued to sleep, caught now between the firelight and the cool blue of the evening. On impulse, Lymond left the pack and retrieved one of the blankets he had had for his own bed. It was dry and still warm, and he tucked it around Jerott's legs carefully, ensuring that he did not wake.

Outside, snow had met the edges of the building in arrested drifts, packed thick and undulating over treacherous marshy ground. The sky above the mountains was the colour of mallow flowers, and it was impossible to tell cloud from the deepening of night. All had the heavy, expectant stillness of winter, when the world took a deep breath between snowfalls and adjusted thoughtfully to its new mantle.

The pony was nowhere to be seen. Jerott must have turned it loose to let it find its own way through the storm. It would have discovered shelter in the woods or it would have provided a boon for the hungry winter wolves. It had not waited by the hut with any misguided sense of attachment. No trace of it remained: the snow was pristine, untouched even by the birds chattering in the trees or the squirrels that shook the occasional dusting of white loose from the branches.

Lymond gazed at the scene, and as he did he began to piece together the journey there. He glanced down at the heel of his boots and saw the trace of crimson glint on the wheel of his spur. He grimaced and left the pack for the moment, taking instead one of the oars and beginning, methodically, to clear a path to the lake's edge.

-

[... about this point in the fic there's overlap between chapters because I couldn't decide on the perspective etc, and I kept going back to rewrite the build-up/add more in]

-

-

"Are you leaving?"

Lymond paused in the act of shouldering on the pack. He hid the way his face pulled in a wince at the weight of it and turned to the door. "I told you, I am going to Russia alone."

Jerott's body pushed him to stand, leaning against the wall, even though sleep still lay heavily on his mind and his face. "But I thought - If Marthe does not want - If she no longer -" Jerott rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and shook his head. They had already had this talk, hadn't they?

Things had seemed to simple, for a few days at Volos. Now that tenuous bond he thought he had forged with Marthe had been swept away like a fine veil of cobweb, and he no longer knew where he should turn.

"Would you not have use of me there?"

Lymond's shoulders moved a fraction, and he sighed. "It is not that, Jerott."

For a moment it seemed that Lymond might offer more, unbidden, but when he looked up the gem-like glitter of his eyes was resolute. "This is something I must undertake myself."

Jerott's voice came, impulsive as ever, from the shadow where he stood, beyond the reach of the dying fire. "But I would serve under you."

Lymond smiled. "Up to a point, I have no doubt that you would. But as the proverb says: bonum esse, habere amicos: sed miseros esse, qui his uti cogantur."

He arranged his gloves and put his hand on the latch.

Jerott moved forward with a frown, his sluggish mind picking at the Latin. "There is no compulsion when friendship is offered freely. You barely have the strength to carry that pack. How will you make it even as far as Güzel's camp?"

The low red embers now illuminated Jerott from beneath, light picking out the worried angle of his brows, his flared nostrils and bow-curved lip. And - Lymond's eyes alighted on it instantly - the fresh wound on his jaw.

"I will manage. I have a great deal of experience with rowing through discomfort," he said sourly.

Jerott, seeing before him only a long and lonely journey West, spoke with exasperation. "You don't have to always do this alone."

The cornflower blue eyes, muddied by the red light, widened a fraction. "Alle þinges er maad of one alloon substance of one alloon ordinance. I will not involve those who do not need to become involved. I have allowed it to happen too often, and it has not been myself who has paid the price."

Jerott noticed the other man's gaze rest on his chin and touched his fingers to the injury. "This was an accident."

Lymond said nothing more. He reached for the oars that leaned in a corner of the hut with the fishing tackle, and Jerott felt panic, like drowning, push him another step closer.

"For God's sake, you don't always have to be the martyr!"

"I thought that martyrdom was done entirely for God's sake?"

Jerott made a noise of frustration and grabbed for his travelling cloak, its wool still damp from the earlier journey. Lymond flung the door of the fishing hut open and the gust of fresh oxygen made the embers glow brighter.

Snow had met the edges of the building in arrested drifts, packed thick and undulating over treacherous marshy ground. The sky above the mountains was the colour of mallow flowers, and it was impossible to tell cloud from the deepening of night. All had the heavy, expectant stillness of winter, when precipitation had ceased and the world adjusted thoughtfully to its new mantle.

Lymond paused for a moment and then stabbed the oars into the knee-high drift at the empty doorway and began the task of forging a path.

Jerott surged forwards but stopped, stunned, when Lymond flipped his cloak back to lay a hand on the decorated pommel knop of his dagger.

"I will write word to you at Lyons. Go back to Volos and then to France. If I can send Marthe to you I shall."

"It seems a poor kind of charity," Jerott told him bitterly, but he stayed back on the limen, his hands braced in each side of the entrance as he watched Lymond toil at the snow.

Lymond made good pace, but Jerott saw the forced control of his movement, the uneasy line of his shoulders. Occasionally he had to stop and release a single, shuddering breath before he continued his work, and then Jerott would take a few steps along the path behind him, reluctant to simply turn away and let him go.

When he reached the water's edge and hooked the dory close to land, the slush of ice in the surrounding water hissed and chattered at the disturbance. A family of rooks started up a raucous chorus in the trees at the foot of the mountain, and above the lake a v of waterfowl coursed its way across the sky.

Lymond pulled the frozen oilskin from the boat and clambered in, his movements catching and stiff, and Jerott approached the edge only a little too late to step on board.

As the boat drifted and Lymond settled himself and his pack and oars, he called back once: "I need someone I can trust outside of Muscovy, Jerott. I need you to be my guide to the ongoing world." He looked up at Jerott, over the oars, and his face was shrouded and dark like the sky, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his unruly hair.

Jerott clenched his fists and breathed heavily. His fingers were frozen and his lungs ached; his boots and stockings were still damp from earlier, and now damp again anew, and the crisp air made the smell of wet wool a cloying distraction.

Once, the slender arms extended, willow-straight, and once, the oars dipped smoothly into the thick water before Lymond's arms were pulled back, close to his chest.

Then the mechanism that drove his perfect movements seemed to fail: a cog with worn teeth, an unoiled thread. The oars burst from the water roughly, with uneven angles. They wavered in the air and the arms shook and strained as they extended. Lymond bowed his head, his shoulders shaking, and he might have made a small sound of pain or frustration.

Jerott did not hear it. He did not take the time to steel himself, but plunged into the soupy water at the lake's edge, slipping down hidden, muddy banks, weighted and steadied only by the cold lakewater that poured mercilessly into his boots. The chill of it enclosed his skin instantly, dragging at his movements and travelling up his body like a fever. He pushed through it. He had to. Lymond had not travelled far, and Jerott had faith that the lake was not yet that deep.

It reached the tops of his thighs when he waded at last to the prow of the boat.

Lymond's head had raised, his eyes searching the darkness blankly as Jerott splashed closer. His mouth was locked shut and there was unmistakable fear in his expression.

Jerott spoke to him as calmly as he could through chattering teeth, tugging at the oars and removing them from Lymond's hands and the waters. "It's me, Francis. Let's go back." He laid the oars in the boat and turned to pull the shallow vessel back in among the frozen knees of the reeds.

"I did not ask..." Lymond whispered hoarsely.

Jerott swallowed a gulp of cold air and considered his speech between each slow, lapping footstep. "You never do," he finally grunted.

He fell to his knees once in getting to land, but his legs already burned with cold and he got to his feet methodically, tying the dory back to its mooring and extending a hand to Lymond, who could not see it.

"Francis, get up," Jerott tried to speak softly. He leaned and took a fistful of Lymond's brocaded cloak, and at last prompted the other man to unfurl, wobbling on the rocking dory.

Lymond insisted on taking the pack, fumbling for its straps, and levered himself unsteadily onto land with aid of the oars as well as Jerott's hold.

They struggled slowly back along the path in the snow, stepping up to the raised deck of the fishing hut and stumbling into a room no longer so well warmed by its neglected fire.

Jerott did not release his grip on Lymond, but he stopped, his legs freezing, burning, and his chest aching still more with a regret and a guilt that he did not understand.

"Francis..."

Lymond's eyes, dark and dilated, looked wild, but they did, at last, look at him. Then he tugged his arm free and Jerott realised how bruisingly tight he had been holding it.

"Oh, Christ," Jerott breathed. "I'm sorry." He stepped back, his palms placatory.

Lymond swayed like a birch sapling and reached a hand out - not for the wall, but for Jerott's fingers, which his icy grasp closed on as he stumbled to his knees.

-

Jerott's cold hands tried to capture Lymond's focus, to make his questions intelligible to the mind trapped within its brittle husk of agony. He cupped Lymond's face, he clasped his temples, and the coolness of Jerott's palms against the pulsing heat in Lymond's head made Lymond's eyes flutter closed in a moment's bliss.

Pain made his head feel light, but Jerott's hold seemed to tether him to the stuff of reality.

He had no answers for the questions he was bombarded with and he grasped, instead, at the cloth of Jerott's clothing.

Continue his journey or simply cease to be. Those had been the choices he had allowed himself.

Instead he was, once more, at the mercy of another's care. Not the impersonal, professional touch of Archie, not the unconditional sweetness of family, nor even the resentful acidity he had received from Oonagh. Jerott kneeled before him, his hands on Lymond's face, his eyes dark and wide and full of concern. Lymond's gloved hands pawed and clutched at his cloak and jerkin like a cat settling, unable to speak his need but seeking, in desperation, the respite that seemed to be on offer.

It was his body, he thought to himself between the strikes of pain in his head. His body that demanded Jerott's nearness when his mind could not rule with sense and articulation.

But he could not make his shaking fingers withdraw their plea, and Jerott drew him close against his chest.

Lymond's breath heaved, once more contained within the safety of Jerott's hold. His head was in Jerott's neck again - such an easy place to rest - and he gnashed his teeth in the darkness against Jerott's cold cloak, wishing, fervently for it all to be at an end.

Amid the agony in his head, Lymond forced a rough laugh out from his aching throat, determined that he should not have comfort if he could not have autonomy. "Well, Jerott. Twice have you held me and twice have you prevented me from leaving. I suppose now, like Proteus, I am to reveal my true form and grant you all that you wish."

He felt the results of his words instantly: Jerott flinched and let out a breath like he had been dealt a blow. Lymond felt the pressure of Jerott's Adam's apple move against his head when the other man swallowed.

"I ought to have left you in that boat to freeze?"

"Yes."

He did not even think about the answer, it had been on his lips before Jerott's sentence finished. Lymond clutched icy fists in wet gloves to his chest, leaning on Jerott with body alone, forcing Jerott to take his weight in his arms.

"No," Jerott returned, the single syllable wavering with horror. "No."

Lymond's laughter was devoid of joy: a hacking sound, the noise of a fox chewing its way out of a trap. "As you say. Then you have won me. The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott tried to lift Lymond's body from him, to hold his juddering arms and torso at a distance and meet his eyes.

Sullenly, Lymond kept his head down. He felt trapped by the pain, trapped by inaction, trapped by a slow recovery and a fate that he thought he had learned to be more resigned to. The rich care in his gaoler's expression did not ease his frustration. The tight grip on his upper arms pinched just enough that he bared his teeth and leaned into it, fighting Jerott's hold with his bodyweight.

"Christ, what do you think I want?" Jerott breathed in a horrified whisper.

From Lymond's throat emerged another rasp of sound that mocked the very idea of humour.

He finally raised his head to bestow a withering look on Jerott.

"I don't begrudge you it."

Jerott's face was very close, and Lymond leaned towards him, his body still tripping with spasms of pain even as his eyes delivered a challenge.

Confusion and disgust were all he was met with. Jerott jerked his chin away pointedly as he let Lymond fall against Jerott's shoulder again.

Lymond's forehead furrowed uselessly against the thick wool of Jerott's cloak. Its weave was abrasive against his screwed-up eyelids and it felt nothing of the furious struggle of Lymond's features in response to the pain. He rocked his head against the curve of Jerott's body, and he realised, with despair, that to be held against linen or skin would provide a far better distraction from the discomfort of his own corporeal prison.

His body's conflicting demands seemed to tear at his sinews and joints: pain and pleasure, cruelty and comfort. Care always came at a cost, did it not?

At last, a blankness, like a snowed-in landscape, followed his fury. The flames of frustration that had been fanned were reduced to white embers, cooling, crumbling as they settled into ashen byproduct.

He subsided against Jerott, breathing against the skin of his neck, and heard Jerott's rueful murmur as though through water.

"If you knew what you offered."

-

Jerott had dropped to his own knees in stunned recognition of the plea in Lymond's gesture. The gloved hand grasping his fingers had been an admission of need that Jerott fumbled to answer, shuffling close to Lymond like they were children sharing secrets beneath the kitchen table.

Jerott laid his touch on Lymond's shoulders as Lymond's fingers coiled and bunched in Jerott's cloak. He was able to see his surroundings now, Jerott was almost certain, but the pain made his expression into a death mask, rictus tight, the blue eyes bulging uncomfortably wide.

The embrace had seemed to calm Lymond, to stymy his frustration and anger, and it had given Jerott a sense of a contribution made. Lymond's form, even with the racking sobs of pain pulling through it over and over, felt right in his arms. It felt neat and compact, strong and graceful. When his face nuzzled Jerott's collarbone and his hands pulled at his clothes, when Jerott leaned his jaw on Lymond's head and let flaxen strands adhere, tickling, to his dark stubble, it felt as natural and as proper as anything else he used his body for.

So when, spitting venom, the creature in his arms had attempted laughter, Jerott was struck cold anew at the implication of Lymond's words. What had he won? His arms tightened reflexively on Lymond's body and then he made them loosen, trying to disentangle himself, to see Lymond's face and to understand the despair in that voice.

Lymond's body was limp, doll-like in Jerott's struggling grip, but the blue eyes glimmered from behind blond curls, mocking and hungry as he tried to absorb pain and turn it into a weapon of his own.

Jerott shook his head, not really wanting to hear a response to the question drawn from him. "Christ, what do you think I want?"

His arms folded across his body like an funereal effigy, Lymond shivered and made a sound, and looked at Jerott with something that perhaps was intended as a seduction.

"I don't begrudge you it."

His alabaster skin was clammy and the hollows of his eyes were purple and uneven. His lips were drawn into a thin white blade across his mouth and the fine, neat hairs of his brows were dishevelled from contact with Jerott's cloak. He leaned towards Jerott with the inevitability of a tree falling, and Jerott raised his chin aside to make his disinterest in the offer clear.

Lymond's face was against his shoulder again, pressing for comfort like a nesting animal. He would not unfold his arms to hold Jerott, but he would not let Jerott move away.

Jerott wrapped himself around that fragile form again and suppressed his own shivers. His legs were soaking wet and the cloth on them clung. The fire was perilously close to going out and the winter's night had enclosed the fishing hut and its surroundings.

But, now wordless, unable to speak or act upon the easement and solace he required, Lymond had stilled in Jerott's hold. He wished, it seemed, to be close, though he hated to acknowledge it, and Jerott would not drive him away in order to arrange his own comforts.

Jerott had seen Francis Crawford endure a great deal in the past years: fire and water, the blade and the thonged whip. Nothing had penetrated the marble-poised, expertly composed demeanour like this withdrawal though. External forces could be rebuffed or managed, met with raised chin and accepting defiance. But this was a pain from within: Lymond's own body turning against itself, matching and outwitting his defenses because the pain was a mirror of himself, accustomed to all of Lymond's tricks already. Jerott had never heard such misery as that contained in a single, unthinking word when he had asked if he ought to have left Lymond to perish on Lake Karla.

Yes.

Jerott knew how to handle wounds: sword, arrow, broken bones. He knew how to calm and control his own fears, how to push through pain and tap into the rush of aroused senses to keep on fighting. To keep on living. But he did not understand the sickness that ravaged Lymond in these intermittent raids. He did not understand the darkness or the desire for darkness.

He knew only that he would not leave a wounded man to travel alone unless the need was dire. And he clung to that principle, which he recognised and welcomed, and he understood that the impulse to stop Lymond from going was separate from the impulse to hold him close. The two needs may have joined in felicitous convenience when Francis had reached for his hand, but Jerott reassured himself that he could tell the difference, even if, in his pain, Lymond apparently could not.

The episode had passed, and Lymond lay unmoving against him. Jerott at last let his chin lower to rub against Lymond's hair again, let his eyes close as he re-examined what had passed.

He did not want a reward, or a prize. He had seen how Lymond deflected pain with his body - from himself and from others.

What do you think I want?

Jerott sighed and shifted his shoulder so that Lymond's breath warmed his neck. Lymond lay as heavily on him as before, and Jerott turned his cheek against the thickets of blond curls.

"If you knew what you offered..." he trailed off, imagination failing him.

-

[I think the next bit was written earlier than the above chapters - emotions are running higher, and as often happens with F/J I feel I have to go back and cool them down, and then they cool too much and inertia sets in. I was definitely overthinking this. It then turns into really fluffy smut that probably belongs with a totally different fic, but it's sweet and I like the headcanon that Jerott might know something about massage, so I'm plonking it here with everything else for anyone who's interested.

Just imagine I took a screenshot of that post saying 'all Jerott/Francis fic reads like it was written by Jerott as wish-fulfillment' and pasted it here. It is a post that has haunted me since I first went tag diving, and I will never escape the sense that it mocks every J/F fic I write.]

-

-

Shakily, Lymond drew the cocoon of blankets about his shoulders and plucked at the toe of one damp stocking. The fire was regaining warmth, but Jerott continued to fuss around it, prodding wood and kindling into rigid formation and judiciously failing to meet Francis's eyes.

"The attacks affect your memory also?"

"They do."

Finally, he looked up and scanned Lymond's expression. A frown scored his brow, but Lymond could not tell what source Jerott's temper drew on. He sighed and sat back, staring at Lymond over the rising flames and the thin breath of smoke winding its way towards the roof.

"What do you remember?" he asked grudgingly.

"Enough to surmise that I have been unjust."

Jerott shook his head and looked away.

Lymond wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to summon warmth from within his own body. "My intention was to leave, and yet I am still here. Will you resent me for that, when it was not my own choice?"

That struck a chord, hammer to string, and a shudder ran through Jerott's shoulders.

"You dream. And you speak when you do." He looked up, and trouble and care mingled in his eyes. "You feel you let them down. The child, your mistress. Philippa. God knows who else. Your family. I think. You miss them, but you say you cannot see them. I don't understand it, when it seems to bring you no relief to be away."

Lymond made himself hold Jerott's gaze, though his throat closed with hard tension and his eyes stung from the smoke.

"You have - twice - intended to take the dory out onto the lake, alone by preference, when it should have been as evident to you as the weather in the sky or the lateness of the day that you lack the strength."

Where he rested it against the floor, Jerott's hand formed a balled fist. His legs shivered and he moved them, sitting on the side of his thigh to hide his body's nerves. "You are not a prisoner here. I am not your keeper. But you would have - I couldn't leave you like that."

Silent, Lymond measured Jerott's hurt and confusion.

[…]

There was more he had said. Lymond could see it, he could practically taste the other words in his mouth, and in Jerott's miserable expression he saw their confirmation. In Lymond's mind was a store of language, a magpie's hoard of treasure gleaned from books and papers and people. Where his own wits failed him, he always had recourse to the prepared cleverness of others.

"The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott's eyes closed and he turned his head to the shadows, nausea crawling over his features.

Lymond watched him, very still and very wide of eye, conscious of the renewal of bodily charge that he felt in the wake of the migraines. Suddenly there was heat in his blood again, and he was like a clepsydra filling, drop by drop: it pooled in his belly, accompanied by the sensation of having come upon his own sentiments unexpectedly.

In rashness and in the desperation of pain, he must have offered himself: the prize for Jerott's loyalty. It had been a crass gesture, diminishing to both of them, but rooted, sure as a weed, in something real.

The idea of his offer being taken up produced an honest quickening of his pulse.

[…]

Once I loved a girl and wished to make her my wife, and once I loved a man and wished to make him my leader.

[…]

He caressed the stubborn bloom with his mind, wondering when its seed had settled. Gratitude may have nourished it, but probably it had rather thrived on neglect - Lymond did not recall its cultivation at any point between St Mary's and the Mediterranean.

It was not amor de profundis, of that he could be fairly certain, but it was within him, unlovely desire, scrabbling for purchase among the rubble of his being. It was selfish and heedless of all the others who had been hurt before, of all who had left their hurt on him in turn. Perhaps it was some state of bestial default, an insensible need, to which his parched self had turned when all others had fallen by the wayside: left behind, snatched away, driven from him for their own betterment and protection.

Lymond's lips twisted. As an invitation, it seemed that what he had said was akin to the death he had given the delly on the road to Volos. Nothing else had driven Jerott away - but that lack of finesse had probably done more than anything else Lymond might have tried.

"I have shown you improper thanks," Lymond said quietly. "But I once more owe you my life, it seems."

"You owe me nothing," Jerott snapped, getting to his feet.

He stormed two short, absurd paces to the edge of the small room and stood facing the wall, his breathing heavy. Jerott snuck a single glance over his shoulder.

"My clothes are soaked," he muttered.

Being a man of spiritual rather than physical shame, he began to remove each item with violent haste, loosening ties and freeing clinging cloth from skin that looked blue with cold even in the firelight.

Lymond, whose cloak, gloves and boots had been taken from him with care and the utmost gentleness, allowed a shiver of interest to run through his body.

Jerott laid his clothes over the rack he had created by the fire and stooped smoothly to pick up a blanket, one dry enough to be capable of warmth. He swung it over his shoulders and was momentarily displayed against its red pattern: lean and toned, the skin of his chest still swarthy even where it had not been exposed to the sun, fine black hair gathering in a line down his centre to draw the eye.

He met Lymond's interest with a glare and an astonished blush and wrapped the blanket about his torso loosely. It fell to the tops of his thighs, leaving stocky, muscled legs exposed and lit by the flames. His knees were scuffed and red, the colour of his mouth.

A pace away.

He might be at Lymond's side before either of them could catch breath, but Lymond had ruined any chance of that. Logic said that this was for the best - the depths of Jerott's attachments were notoriously abyssal. But loneliness had found a way to raise its grizzled head, loosed by the migraines, slipping free while the pain distracted Lymond. He wondered what Jerott's hold would feel like to a body not savaged by pain, what his embrace could do for a man who found himself all too sober and aware of what he had lost - as well as of the value of what remained.

"Francis. You're shaking."

Jerott frowned, and the distance between them drifted away like fire smoke. His hands reached for Lymond's wrists, his eyes studied Lymond's own. "Is it happening again? Already?"

Lymond blinked rapidly and shook his head. He tucked himself deeper into his own wrappings and dusted off a wan smile.

"No, no. I am just cold." He had not in fact noticed until asked, but although his core retained heat, his back and his feet had begun to feel like ice.

"You should take the wet stockings off," Jerott advised.

Lymond stared at him: guileless, impulsive, loyal to a fault. Unable to leave and unable to admit why he remained.

Oblivious to Lymond's grim resignation, Jerott sighed and his fingers shifted to the ties at the knees of Lymond's britches. He loosened them so as to reach the ribboned stockings beneath. He worked brusquely, but the feeling of his hot hands sliding silk down Lymond's calves was enough to make the air shudder in Lymond's throat and blood drop to the pit of his stomach.

Jerott froze at the sound and looked up. His head was bowed and his expression was difficult to read, but he let his fingers remain where they were on the folds of knitted silk.

"Are you all right?"

-

It was not an expression he could remember seeing on Lymond's face before.

It was not an expression he recalled seeing on anyone's face in recent times. Unless there had, perhaps, been a mirror in the tekke.

Jerott's fingers lay heavy on wrinkled silk, and he pressed them into the fabric, sliding it against Lymond's skin once more.

The heavy-lidded eyes widened minutely; the dark flourishes of Lymond's nostrils flared with another intake of air. The result seemed to be the same whichever stockinged leg Jerott stroked, so - he told himself prosaically - it was probably not a response garnered by bruise or injury.

He wrapped each hand around the athletic calves and their coverings, his weight on his own grazed knees, the blanket he wore hanging to either side of his naked body. Lymond's golden lashes moved quickly, like the wings of a small bird or a moth, and his lips parted as Jerott drew touch and silk together down to Lymond's two fine ankles. The golden hair on his milk-white skin glittered like embellished thread in the firelight. Jerott let one warm palm travel down the bare front of Lymond's shin, smoothing the soft texture beneath his touch, ostensibly trying to warm, but savouring the meeting of flesh.

Pleasurable sensation was somewhat spoiled by the sodden chill of the knitted feet, but Jerott pulled each stocking away quickly then, and sat back with a small, triumphant smile.

Lymond's breathing was noticeably rapid. Two spots of colour has risen to his cheeks and he held both covering and knees protectively close to his body.

As though the realisation of what he had done only now caught up to him, Jerott felt his own skin glow with heat. He blinked and his smile faded and he remembered to close the blanket around his body once more. Touch had stirred his flesh, and he gritted his teeth, trying to battle his bodily response with a regimen of thought and prayer from a lifestyle that was no longer his.

He looked down at Lymond's bare toes in penitence, overlaying the memory of warm, smooth skin with the sight of Lymond's damp-puckered feet, bloated and patterned and blued from their enclosure in damp cloth.

But he could not silence the need to know what Lymond's own response was. While Lymond had slept, Jerott had admitted to himself the existence of a feeling that he thought could never truly be reciprocated, and to feed it with hope was only to increase the inevitable disappointment.

But - there was nothing in existence like being looked on with pride and pleasure, those perfect, clever features appraising him and finding him worthy of trust.

The feeling that caused him to blush built in intensity: were Lymond's eyes on him, hungry and questing? Or had he looked away in shame and repulsion?

Jerott made himself raise his head to face Lymond, and found him staring back, closer than Jerott had thought he was, blonde curls in tousled disarray. He looked neither feral nor afeared, but his expression was not edited to fine control, and its openness made Jerott flinch - like he would flinch from staring direct into sunlight.

It took him a moment to notice that one of Lymond's hands had emerged from the blankets. Fingers as delicate as the petals of orange blossom extended an invitation to him: one that Jerott took before even considering what it could be. He laid his own hand across Lymond's, fingers wrapping around fingers.

I am sick with love.

With reserves of strength that surprised Jerott, Lymond held him and drew him close by the hand. Jerott approached, moving his knees against the hard floor, his eyes caught by hypnotic blue, until he was close enough, between Lymond's legs, for Lymond's other hand to touch his cheek.

Comfort me.

His eyes closed and he leaned into the contact. Gabriel had been free with such gestures, offering brotherly comfort and affection that did not need to be earned so dearly as Lymond's wary friendship. Hard breathing, after battle, a fond hand on his face; a calloused touch raising his chin when Gabriel saw Jerott look away doubtfully from the words of another Knight.

Stay me.

He swallowed and jerked his head away, squeezing his eyes tight shut. The cool backs of Lymond's knuckles tried again, brushing his jaw, sweeping around his chin until exploratory touch found the cut left by Lymond's spurs. It was not a brotherly touch: the crook of one finger bracketed the wound while Lymond's thumb extended upwards to Jerott's lower lip. The slight pressure of the thumb pad made Jerott's mouth open with a gasp and he tried, with all his fervour, to remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He had kissed her, hadn't he?

Jerott opened his eyes tentatively and looked across Lymond's knees to his face. His eyes were wide and quite dark, but the blue rim of his irises was like a secret only Jerott knew how to read. His mouth was set with determination - or regret? - and the firelight showed a divot between his brows where he frowned.

Jerott swallowed, but his throat was dry. "You told me you'd rather I had left you in the boat to freeze."

Lymond's frown deepened. His eyes watched his thumb as it continued to play along the underside of Jerott's lip.

The touch was an overstimulation of sensitive skin, and it began to feel to Jerott as though his lip has been numbed by caresses. He bit it to try and regain feeling.

"Having been provided with the time to reflect, I think I would choose to be here instead," Lymond murmured.

It seemed a familiar sort of deflection, and Jerott's smile was hard. "In preference to death."

Lymond's expression turned sharp and he withdrew the hand on Jerott's face, though his grip remained firm on Jerott's fingers. "That is not quite what I meant."

The heat of the fire made the exposed soles of Jerott's feet tingle. Its light moved over Lymond's changeable features, cycling through almost-expressions that played directly into Jerott's fears.

He wanted, very much, for the offer to be real. He wanted to surge into Lymond's arms, to feel that touch on his lips again and more. He wanted completion, connection, a revelation of contact that would change him utterly.

But he had been told to strip his altars. To let go of heroes, to let go of love.

"Then what do you mean?" Jerott asked bitterly.

Lymond sighed. "Militat omnis amans, Jerott." He looked tired, the shadows deep and richly coloured on his face.

"I want peace. I want to think of pleasure, not of pain or punishment. And - I fear that I am no longer able to."

As he spoke, Jerott's hold on Francis's hand tightened. He let go of the edges of blanket that he had clasped together and, falteringly, reached for Francis's cheek. His fingers brushed the barley-fine tips of curls, and he crushed them beneath his palm, feeling Francis's hair as a handful of foliage between their separate skins. His thumb smoothed the silken line of Francis's temple and he leaned close, testing his feeling, testing Lymond's assurances.

He could not remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He began to believe he had never done so. Jerott's mind filled instead with the memories of gemstones and signet rings held beneath his lips, of relics and swords, brotherhood and penitence.

He wavered close to Francis's face but found that he could not make himself do what he had in mind. With a gasp and a shudder he touched his forehead to Lymond's temple instead, then rolled his cheek against the other man's, breathing hard into the fine little ringlets that coiled around Lymond's ear.

"Yes," Jerott made himself say, the syllable a half-swallowed whisper. "I want to. To help you."

Francis clasped the back of his head and kept him close, but did not try and turn Jerott's face.

He had been a boy when he joked that the site of his home was in reality The Ostrich Inn. Still a boy when his father had arranged for them to stop there on the road to Solway, and Blyth the elder had been struck to rowdy laughter as he learned that every lady of the house already knew his son quite well.

If he had been just a boy then, what had he been before that, hunting kisses from the kitchen maids, making eyes at his father's well-dressed guests over the rim of his ale cup?

Elizabeth, he had never touched. She had died unblemished, a vessel filled with mystery and reverence. And for her sake, the boy he had been vowed to forgo all others. Guilt for breaking this vow should have compelled him to pull away, it should have stopped him from wanting the heat of Lymond's skin against his and the feeling of the other man's breath on his body. It should have been enough but it no longer was.

Jerott pressed his face into Francis's cheek, his ear, his hair, his neck. He threw both arms around Francis's thin shoulders and let himself be drawn forward, his hips between Francis's thighs, Francis's hands carefully, gently, keeping the blanket enfolded across Jerott's shoulders.

-

It was not, all told, the response he had intended to elicit. Thoughts of pain and punishment certainly ran alongside any thought of pleasure in Jerott Blyth's mind at that moment.

As though he had to wrestle himself into conviction,  Jerott squirmed his body against Lymond's, his face pressed into the open collar of Lymond's doublet, his hips seeking a comfortable position against the cloth of Lymond's breeches.

Lymond shut his jaw tight and felt his bodily response begin to press against the inside of that material. Heat, single-minded and insistent, was driven to that one part of him, pricking awareness of the naked body on top of him, of the tantalising closeness of Jerott's mouth to his skin.

The feeling of Jerott's own erection on the other side of his clothing was enough to convince him to seek more. Francis released the blanket that covered Jerott's shoulders and scooped his face from Francis's throat, raising it to his own.

He kissed him without preamble, not waiting for Jerott to imagine what was to happen. Francis pressed his mouth over Jerott's lips before they shut against him. He licked their bitten surface with his enquiring tongue. Jerott made a sound of surprise: pleased but uncertain, his lips vibrating with it beneath Francis's kiss.

A flush of desire leapt through Francis at this sensation and he pressed his mouth again to Jerott's closed mouth, seeking still for a response.

Jerott's hands fumbled to his shoulders and pushed Francis away slowly, though his grip was tight. While close enough, Francis's lips lingered on Jerott's, following up with kisses that brushed softly against hot skin, but he was repelled with inevitable force and had to look up into Jerott's wide-eyed expression.

Seeing something of Lymond's exasperation, Jerott managed a shaky smile - Francis wanted, savagely, to obliterate it with his kisses. He wanted, he supposed, to be deprived of himself as promised: in the physick of touch and taste it was possible to forget recent history and the foreboding future, and to live, momentarily, with no demands but those of his body.

But evidently, Jerott retained some reservations about this approach.

He sighed, breath cooling the saliva on his lips, his dark eyes round and black and astonished.

"Might we wait?" Jerott swallowed. His throat moved as though he wanted to laugh, but nerves stole the sound. "It has been...some time since I -"

Lymond had to bite his tongue to contain a rash comment on the proclivities of monks, but he did so, for the sake of the colour in Jerott's face.

Still Jerott frowned and looked again at Lymond's expression. "My God. When did anyone last say no to you?"

Francis scoffed and bit out a sharp crack of laughter. He tossed his eyes ceilingwards to avoid Jerott's earnest gaze, but he did not answer. By the time one was in another's bed chamber, or holding a naked body in one's arms, the time for saying no had usually long passed.

"You are saying no now, then?"

Jerott licked his lower lip. "For now. But I would like," his glance turned bashful again. "To bring you comfort."

He raised his hand to Lymond's hairline again and swept fingers through his curls. "If I might."

Francis shivered and wished it did not show. He closed his eyes and wondered what Jerott could intend - comfort was for children and the dying.

-

There were enough blankets to cover the hard floor as well as the two persons who lay down to sleep by the light of the fire. Lymond wore his linen shift and undershorts and was warm and still in the cupped form of Jerott's body. His breathing was steady, quiet, untroubled by the stresses and pains of consciousness.

Jerott's forehead touched the smooth skin of his shoulder where Lymond's shift had slipped, the collar stretched across the top of his back. His left arm curled around Lymond's small ribcage, held in place by Lymond's left arm. The cold soles of Lymond's feet pressed against Jerott's shins and the warm curve of Lymond's arse sat against Jerott's thighs.

Jerott's eyes were closed but he did not sleep. His knees prickled where ice had grazed them, his jaw tingled from the cut, and his muscles throbbed with heat from the exertion of the day. His thoughts grew ragged with protest and justification, with hallucinations of the smell of spikenard and the sound of Gabriel's voice.

He flattened his nose to Francis's skin and drew the deepest breath he could. He wondered if he would still smell the Aga Morat's perfume, stained into Francis's body.

But Francis smelled only of himself, and that was something Jerott was still new to: linen and leather, spice and incense lingering in his pores, the earthen, shoreside scent of exertion. He touched his lips then to the surface of Francis's body, covering the dark spots of his moles one by one with honest abstraction of thought. It was easier, knowing that Francis was asleep - that Jerott's curiosity was not about to be confronted by a sharp and worldly scrutiny.

He could not say why he had needed to postpone the consummation he knew he wanted. Tiredness, perhaps, fear of Francis's tiredness and the possibility of another migraine - perhaps, if Jerott wished to persuade himself of unselfish motives. But a deeper fear lingered in him, tangled and knotted up in the memory of Lymond's first offer. His body as a prize, to be collected by the last man standing, a cynical gesture of resignation when he found himself unable to choose for himself when and how to leave.

For ten years, Jerott had followed a man who had, in the end, discarded faith and loyalty and brotherhood without a second thought. Jerott had been a strut for Gabriel's vanity, a trophy of sorts himself: proof of Gabriel's leadership and worthiness, proof of Gabriel's persuasiveness and skill.

Jerott did not want, only, to be yet further proof of Francis Crawford's charisma.

It finally made sense to him, poised on the blurred edge of sleep, that there was one very simple way by which he could ensure that Francis wanted him. That he wanted Jerott from affection and not from some twisted notion of duty or reciprocity. Jerott had earned the rare coin of Lymond's gratitude before. He would simply have to do so again, in new ways. Timorously, his nerves jangling with anticipation, Jerott smiled against Francis's shoulder and the fingers of his left hand tangled around Francis's fingers.

He slept without dreaming.

-

Morning light meant nothing inside the snow-insulated hut. Jerott's skin was russet toned in the glow from the fire's embers, his dark eyes sparkling with interest.

Beneath strata of blankets - wool and cotton, waxed and frayed, stained and creased - Lymond's body shivered with involuntary glee at the expression in Jerott's black eyes. He lay in Jerott's loose embrace, the edges of his hands pressed against the hot skin of the other man's chest. For once, he was not cold; did not know for what or who he had gotten into this nest other than himself, from his own selfish desire. And now he simply waited, thrilled with curiosity.

First, with a slow care that made Lymond's eyes close as his body anticipated a grasping, hard touch, Jerott loosed a hand and it settled on Lymond's cheek. The meeting of flesh was soft, far softer than Lymond expected, and Jerott's fingers pressed against the hair above his ear, smoothing the strands back against his skull.

Jerott watched the motion of his own hand, his lips parted, wondering, and then he looked into Lymond's blue eyes.

The answer was there, risen to the lapis surface, but Lymond's mouth moved anyway: "Yes," he told Jerott.

Jerott's face flushed with colour and his hand settled, a form fitted to Lymond's jaw, and he raised his head from their shared pillow. He kept his eyes open until the last minute; his lips planting, pursed, against Lymond's own.

Lymond responded as he could, carefully, feeling a tremor of unfamiliar nervousness run through Jerott's body. Lymond's lips pressed against Jerott's closed mouth in return, his tongue raised against the back of his own teeth impatiently. He wanted, very much, to taste Jerott's flavour, to seek out the contours of his mouth with all the senses he had been given. To share the joy of touch given freely.

But he waited, allowing the first kiss of the morning to remain chaste, allowing Jerott the absorption of sensation, the experience of closeness, the long-unfamiliar reciprocity of affection.

A strand of Jerott's hair fell down to tickle Lymond's brow and he smiled within the kiss and fumbled a hand free of the covers to comb his fingers through smooth black locks, pushing Jerott's hair back with gentle insistence.

At last Jerott's mouth parted to release a gasp, and he let his eyes fall closed for a moment despite his curiosity. He ran his teeth over his lower lip.

When he looked again for confirmation in Francis's eyes, there was a renewed, fortified certainty in his steady breath and his firm touch on Lymond's cheek. It made Lymond shiver, the fierceness that glinted in Jerott's dark eye and the wordless depth of the colour that spread across his chest and neck.

Jerott bowed to him again and his tongue quested against Lymond's mouth, and Lymond opened and let him in.

Jerott's hand tightened against his jaw, feeling Lymond's response as taste encountered taste.

Lymond's confident movements sidled around Jerott's exploratory forays, guiding him, intercepting him, encouraging Jerott's pressure. Jerott covered Lymond's mouth with his own, savouring each meeting, his kisses learning precision, mapping out each new piece of flesh uncovered.

Lymond's fist closed in his hair, knowing Jerott's strength and impulsiveness, his body wondering when this methodical introduction would give way to something less ordered. The pressure of Lymond's grip elicited a moan, sound that he lapped up greedily with his own mouth, and there was an echo of response, Jerott sighed again, and again Lymond captured the expression of feeling.

When he drew back, Jerott's hand was shivering against him, and Lymond let his own eyes stay closed, his mouth curving into a grin at the simple honesty of Jerott's body.

-

For his part, Jerott let his fingers plough deeper into the corn silk curls, felt his heart hammer, too much for his chest as he lay cramped and gasping on his side. Francis was smiling, at or despite what he had done.  It seemed genuine, not mocking, and Jerott wondered what it felt like beneath his own hot mouth. He kissed the dimple at its edge and felt muscle and flesh respond as Lymond's smile deepened. He kissed the corner of his lips, then the centre, and let want drive him, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue between Lymond's smiling lips.

Lymond gripped him back, one hand around his jaw, the other sending smooth fingers over the skin of Jerott's collarbone and shoulder.

-

Caught up in his own eagerness, Francis coiled like a serpent and rose from the pillow of blankets. He pushed Jerott back and leaned his face and chest over him, pressing into the kiss, one hand holding Jerott's jaw, the other propped against the floor.

Jerott ruffled the loose sleeves of Lymond's shift, feathering touch and texture as he swept his hands up Lymond's arms. His fingers clasped at the base of Lymond's skull, and he pulled his chin free of Lymond's hold to stretch into the kiss.

Lymond used his empty hand to feel out the anatomy of the body beneath him. His fingers started in the hot groove beneath Jerott's jaw and followed the beating of his jugular to the sharp definition of his collarbone. The pads of his fingers spread across Jerott's sternum and stroked along the hair of his chest before his thumb swerved away to the side and pressed and flickered over one brown nipple.

Jerott bucked beneath him, his hips thrusting his hardened cock against Lymond's side. Francis gasped and laughed into his mouth, then pinched the tip of Jerott's nipple with calculated mischief.

Jerott swore and surged up from the covers, his hands on either side of Francis's face, his abdomen tightening as Francis let his roving hand drop to tease touch over his stomach and thighs.

His more customary violence of passion awoken, Jerott was not shy in manoeuvring Francis's body so he could get his hands beneath the edges of Francis's shift. He pulled at the cords of the linen undershorts and Francis heard stitches rip.

Another torrent of impatient language fell from Jerott's mouth as he leaned away to see what he was doing. Francis’s grin was delighted, and he could not help but remark upon Jerott's hurry after a decade's waiting.

He received a furious, heated glare in return and Jerott abandoned the tie to bend Lymond's body against him in another deep kiss. On their knees, swaying with imperfect balance, they tangled together until Jerott felt he had made his point and slid his hands once more to the waistband of Francis's underclothes. His fingers dipped inside the cloth, his knuckles on the skin to either side of Francis's navel and he pinned Francis with a look of warning and a small, subversive smirk.

Francis's eyes widened and he was on the cusp of protesting a shortage of spare clothes, but the breath he drew was obscured by the dry cough of linen tearing and his words did not get past Jerott's kiss.

The underclothes dropped down his arse but remained caught and tented on the shaft of his cock.

Francis smiled toothily into Jerott's kiss and nipped until the other man let him speak. "Very well then. Stronge in his despoylle, wel armed in the batayll."

Jerott's groan of amusement - or exasperation - buzzed against Francis's lips and his hands smoothed a path from the base of Francis's spine to the crease between arse and thigh. He gripped flesh and jerked Francis towards him, trapping body against body, rolling his hips to press himself fully against the folds of Francis's half-fallen underclothes.

They kissed until touch was sloppy, the skin surrounding Francis's mouth stinging from the roughness of Jerott's stubbled jaw. Jerott disproved Francis's apprehension that, once aroused to it, all his movements would be as full of bruising force as he could make them. Jerott's hands were gentle in the waves of Francis's hair, his fingers quested in the short ringlets at the nape of his neck. Soft down the hollow of his spine and around his hips, carefully plucking the cloth of Francis's undershorts away at last and rocking his body against Francis's with hot, pulsing regularity.

It was obvious that he would try to pull the shift up over Francis's body next - but it was more difficult to explain why Francis resisted.

Lymond clamped his elbows to the sides of his ribcage and said "No," with automatic firmness. His torso was marked with the mistakes of his past: cut and branded and flayed. It was a source of fascination to some and pity to others, and he did not want it to distract - to come, now, between himself and the unexpected pleasures of Jerott's touch, to encourage the doubt and dread that remained, ever-ready, on the edges of his mind.

Jerott's brows raised, his expression poised and worried. "I've seen it before, Francis."

"Not since it healed," Lymond snapped and shut his eyes, regretting the words and the tone. It was the reminder he could not resist giving: Jerott had ordered the most recent whipping experienced by Francis Crawford's ruined back. He had watched it all happen. Close enough to feel the mist of spattered blood.

Jerott's hands had ceased their exploration at the sharp protrusions of Lymond's hips. His thumbs moved over the sensitive place where bone came close to skin and he touched his lips to Francis's again, his mouth soft, open, lingering. It wasn't an apology, but it felt like one. Jerott did not try to raise the shift again.

His acquiescence did more to settle Francis's tightened nerves than any other persuasive words might have. The room was dark after all, and he had surely been in more compromising states around Jerott.

Francis banished the ticklish memory of Robin Stewart's gaze on his scars, steeled himself, and pulled the shift up in one swift motion.

He had barely discarded it when Jerott caught him up in another tight folding embrace, one arm about the small of Lymond's back, the other at Jerott's favoured position on the side of Lymond's face, his fingers in the soft hair above Francis's ear. He pressed his skin to Francis's skin and kissed him as though he had been waiting for the opportunity his whole life. He didn't look for the scars on Lymond's torso with his eyes or his hands, he just sought a dizzying maximum of touch.

Francis let himself sigh, a slipping of control, and pulled Jerott back down to the covers with him, grunting as his body hit the blanketed floor side-on.

Jerott laughed, lying on his back, his hair a scattered mess of spilt ink around his face. Mirth made him seem younger, his eyes closed trustingly, with genuine humour, and one hand reflexively grasping for Lymond's skin.

Francis stared, remembering the wild young man from Solway, his heavy, earnest gaze and sharp questions. There was so little he had left from then, and Francis was barred from returning to those others that remained. A swell of gratitude seemed to tower over Francis as he looked down at Jerott, the feeling dredged from deep within, carrying with it the chill of authenticity.

He was glad not to be alone. Not to be with Kiaya Khatun and her imperious assumptions. But here, with a reminder that Francis Crawford's life was more than just a string of disconnected events pushing him from pillar to post. A reminder that some things endured.

He aimed to put all of that feeling into his kiss, leaning over Jerott and moving his tongue with languid, eloquent motion. Judging by the noise that emerged from Jerott's throat and the way his cock twitched under Francis's hand, something of his intended message seemed to have gotten through.

Francis splayed his fingers over the hot, smooth skin of Jerott's dick and slid them down over his balls, kneading the soft flesh with gentle, probing touch. The muffled moan between their mouths contorted into a curse and Jerott's hand joined Francis's, holding him still while Jerott breathed hard against his lips.

"Wait. I can't. It won't take long," he said grudgingly.

Francis smiled angelically and dropped a garland of kisses along Jerott's brow. His fingers tightened again on the sensitive, velveteen skin and Jerott's back arched a little as he gasped.

"It matters not. I believe you will rise to the occasion more than once."

Whether Jerott's frown was for the concentration he tried to summon or for Lymond's pun was unclear. But he shook his head, his eyes closed.

"I want you to...I want to," he swallowed and laid his hand over Francis's once more, though he no longer tried to stop the strokes Francis was making at the base of his shaft. Jerott opened his eyes, his expression plaintive. "I want you to enjoy this also."

"Believe me, Jerott, I already am. And we are in no hurry. There is plenty more to be done."

Jerott looked like he might make some clever comment about forging a path through the snow or rowing across a frozen lake, so Francis precluded these suggestions by tightening his grip a little and increasing the speed and length of his strokes.

Jerott's throat curved towards the thatched roof, his eyes closed reflexively and his heels dug into the folds of the blanket beneath him.

Francis rolled to a kneeling position and clambered over Jerott's closest leg. He bent to use his tongue in tandem with his hand, pushing into the base of Jerott's dick with the tip of his tongue and licking along the length of the shaft.

The first clear discharge was already on his hand and glistening on the reddened dome at the end of Jerott's cock. Francis gathered the taste of him with lips and tongue and at last enveloped him in his mouth.

Jerott made an appeal to a number of the manifestations of the Christian deity as well as to several saints, but not one of them offered him a reprieve from Lymond's touch.

Indeed - it did not take long at all. Lymond's lips tightened, his tongue swiped the sensitive folds of skin, and he felt a rush beneath his hand as Jerott's hips leapt from the floor with sudden urgency.

Momentarily, his own movements slowing just as Jerott's jerking thrusts slowed, Francis raised his head, removing his lips gradually like a man sucking the juice out of a peach.

He sat up and swiped his wet lip with one thumb. He reached for and swigged from the flask of water, kneeling between Jerott's legs, while Jerott lay splayed before him, his eyes barely open but regarding him with a fresh new awe.

Francis responded to Jerott's open-palmed, begging hand by moving to stretch himself alongside the other body again. He ran his fingers against the lay of Jerott's body hair, ruffling dark strands before smoothing them down again. He rested his head on his elbow and smiled at the wondering look in Jerott's eyes.

Jerott rolled to face him, and took Francis's chin in his hand. He tightened his grip for a moment, keeping Francis's face held still and at a distance. His eyes scanned Francis's expression like it was a code he needed to decipher, like he suspected and feared some imminent revelation of underlying motive.

The lovers Francis had lain with before tended not to seek answers like those Jerott searched for. The coin of those transactions was common currency, from border brothel to Ottoman palace, and Francis Crawford knew its rates and exchanges well.

Less familiar was the insistent need in Jerott's serious expression. It was not a need for Francis's touch, for more of what he had given or could give. It was a need to please and a need to prove, a need to make certain the freedom of what was offered.

-

Jerott bit his lip and looked at the steady blue gaze and the wet red mouth - he had to steel himself, but this he did, and then he kissed Francis carefully, tasting what remained of himself on the other man's mouth. He had swallowed enough of the Mediterranean in his life to find the hot, salty taste less than startling, and he soon forgot his reticence.

Francis's tongue was seasoned, his lips felt swollen and soft beneath Jerott's kisses. He shuffled closer across the blankets and hooked one leg over Jerott's calves.

The strange, unsettling idea of his own discharge between their kisses made Jerott think of the rites and rituals of the ancients. Mingling blood with blood to forge new ties, tasting one another's flesh to prove that they would to do anything to remain by each others' side.

Jerott, his eyes closed, his hand on the uppermost side of Francis's face, his nose touching the other man's nose still, murmured a half-formed question. It seemed to him that it was a query that would appeal to Francis's broad knowledge and omnivorous sensibilities.

"What is it that Lucian says of the bond of friendship?"

As he had hoped, delight rang clear in Francis's response. "Lucian! I did not expect you to know the texts of the barbarians, Jerott."

"Not his satires. One of More's translations. A discourse on friendship? It was a popular text in the Auberge."

"Toxaris. Now that does make sense," Francis said, smirking and moving his head so that their noses brushed together. "Sacrificamus inquam haud tamen deos esse arbitrati, sed viros bonos."

Jerott's reply was firm. "Not sacrifice. About loyalty."

Francis's smile was sharp like that of the fox preaching to the geese. "Etenum simulat que incisis digitis, sanguinem in calicem destilla verimus, sumus que instinctis gladiis, ambo pariter ad moventes biberimus, non est quicquae quod deinde nos quiat dirimere."

Jerott blinked at the vivid imagery. "Yes. I had forgotten about the swords."

Francis's lips stretched wide and he summoned a sound of amusement from deep in his throat. It made Jerott shift impulsively: in order to lay his lips on the source of that noise he pushed Francis to his back, unpeeling his arms from his curled body to kiss Francis's Adam's apple; the firm cords of the tendons in his neck; the convergence between his collarbones.

Pinned down to the far side of Francis's body, Francis's fingers twisted and knotted with Jerott's and he chuckled again at Jerott's kisses, adding to the cascading vibrations in his throat, creating more waves of sensation for Jerott's hungry mouth to chase over skin.

Much as Francis's body was strange machinery to him, Jerott was well trained to observe and to learn from what he discerned. The first thing he had understood was how hungry any touch could make Francis - if it were offered in the appropriate manner.

And, Jerott thought excitedly, if he could also engage that steel trap mind...

Jerott pushed himself away from Francis's skin to prop himself above him.

"Do you know of a man named Paré? A barber surgeon."

A frown crossed Francis's brow, but with it he wore a bemused smile. He shook his head wordlessly, then Jerott saw his eyes widen.

"The man with new-fangled techniques concerning the treatment of bullet wounds?" Francis ran his fingertips down Jerott's sternum and belly and smirked at the shiver he elicited. "I don't know what your idea of pleasure entails, Jerott, but I prefer the firearms to remain outside the bed chamber."

Jerott grinned and tossed his hair from his face before lifting a leg over Francis, to sit astride his narrow hips and feel Francis's cock move enquiringly against his thigh. "He also has ideas about providing physick through touch. Massa," Jerott said in Arabic. He held Francis's face between his hands, his thumbs beginning to roll in circular motions over Francis's temples. "Le massage," he added in French.

Francis's expression was one of polite patience, but as Jerott increased the pressure of his thumbs, moving the supple flesh beneath and occasionally stopping to push his fingers firm and hard in trailing lines against Francis's scalp, Francis's face began to relax, and his eyelids fluttered lower and lower as his smile unfurled.

"Jerott, where did you learn this?" he said, his voice emerging as a weary gasp.

"There were a couple of Knights who had fought for the French at Piédmont before realising the threat of the Turk. Paré demonstrated his techniques there."

As the cranial massage seemed more likely to relax Francis to sleep than arouse him to other activities, Jerott gently removed his hands from his head and smoothed his fingers across Francis's chest, watching the near-invisible golden hairs shimmer as his touch passed over them. "I understand that it is particularly beneficial for the shoulders," he said hopefully.

Francis swept his own hands through his hair, familiarising himself with the sensation of his aching skull having been remade. He glanced up at Jerott, his eyes dark like royal dye, his expression thoughtful. "I think I should like that," he admitted, quite quietly. Combined with his serious expression it felt like a covenant, and Jerott leaned down to seal it with a kiss, luxurious and slow.

They rearranged their bodies, Francis turning carefully onto his belly and elbows, all tension in his joints renewed before Jerott's eyes. His back shone with scar tissue, like an iced-over lake of old pain, white and scored, puckered and ridged. Many of the wounds had blended and pooled together, but at its edges, at its sloppy borders, lone strokes had ploughed silvery furrows into flesh, and Jerott, who had been expecting it, still had to bite the inside of his mouth and shake his head. He had seen such things often enough - he did not forget his own role in the creation of some of the landscape before him now - but never had they felt as much like a knife between his ribs as this sight did.

He laid his palms flat over Francis's shoulder blades and rubbed his thumbs against the groove of his spine. The scarred skin was softer than anything he had touched in his life, but it moved and stirred beneath Jerott's fingers just as any other flesh. He let out a sigh and swept his hands up to Francis's shoulders and neck. Jerott flexed his fists against the tightly bunched sinew and muscle and Francis let out a sound like air escaping from broken bellows.

Jerott blushed with immediate pride, and began to settle into his motions, watching his own brown fingers knead Francis's fair body. There was little covering on Francis's light bones, but Jerott's hands found the places where smudges and twists of hard pressure worked their effect nonetheless. Once he knew that the sensation was pleasurable to its recipient, Jerott found it easy to leave his hands to figure their way around Francis's body without conscious direction: the hands of an expert horseman, they knew the benefit of finesse and caution as well as the brutality of combat. Thumbs and knuckles ground out stiffness from the column of Francis's spine, around the sweeping curves of his ribs, ruffling nerves where scar tissue met healthy skin, pressing down into the softer parts of his back: the hollow dimples above his arse and the subtle curve of his flanks.

Francis arched his spine and raised his arse beneath Jerott's body, pushing back into his touch and trying to muffle his moan in the arms that he held crossed beneath his forehead.

Jerott was drawn to the sound by need though, and followed the trail of his hands back up Francis's body, leaning forward to nuzzle his face in the curls at the nape of Francis's neck. Jerott kissed the overspill of hairs that trickled down into an uneven v at the back of Francis's head. He dragged his teeth along pristine, freckled skin at the curve where Francis’s neck met his shoulders and he felt his cock grow lively once more against the flesh of Francis's lower back.

Beneath his body Francis twisted like an eel. Newly facing Jerott, their faces close enough to mingle breath, Jerott saw the expression he had been searching for. Undeniable points of emotion coloured the pinnacles of Francis's cheekbones. His gaze was steady but on edge, seemingly alarmed by his own response, but he took Jerott's face in his hands and kissed him deeply, and Jerott at last let himself believe that this was not a hidden bargain. It was not merely Francis's body offered in exchange for Jerott's acceptance of his onward journey - something further had been secured.

Francis rocked against Jerott in the kiss, his cock a hot pressure between Jerott's legs, pushing into sensitive, hidden parts of his flesh.

Unwilling to cede the initiative yet again, Jerott guided his knee between Francis's legs to push them apart. He ran his hand up the length of Francis's thigh, then began to squeeze handfuls of muscle and to rub his fingertips against the smooth skin on the inner part of his leg. He felt Francis adjust to the position, stretching from the floor to maintain contact with Jerott's mouth, to steady himself with his own sure grip on Jerott's shoulders.

Jerott's fingers trailed their way down the taut muscle at the back of Francis's leg and pried his arse cheek from the floor. He fed his hand into the space between Francis's body and the blankets, searching for the textured line of the perineum, hot and enclosed between curving flesh.

The unexpected pressure of Jerott's finger at his arsehole made Francis flinch at first, breaking from Jerott's kiss with a smacking sound, regarding him with heavy breathing and raised brows.

Jerott merely lifted his own eyebrows and pushed again at the opening, stroking across and around it until he felt Francis stop clenching his muscles warily tight.

He still regarded Jerott thoughtfully though, and murmured through gritted teeth, his breath scorching on the skin of Jerott's cheek and ear: "You are full of surprises, Jerott," before Francis captured Jerott's earlobe in his mouth and sucked on it vengefully.

Jerott could not hold his gasp, but he kept his confidence on all else. It did not seem like the opportune moment to point out his experience with the tricks of the women at The Ostrich Inn, nor was it they who he wished to occupy his thoughts.

Two joints of his finger made their way within Francis, and Jerott grunted at Francis's weight and the pressure on his digit, while Francis made his own sound as Jerott's finger twitched inside him.

"Go deeper," he instructed, grasping Jerott's own arse with one straining hand. Francis lay back on the blankets, seeking the purchase to push back against Jerott's finger, his body relaxing rapidly to accommodate the touch now that he had settled into it.

Jerott strove to do as he was ordered. He twisted his finger to nudge the wall of flesh and muscle and heard Francis release a sigh of air. Using the strength of his wrist and swordsman's hand, Jerott made his touch cramp against the spot that seemed to make Francis most likely to whimper and bite his lip and flex his body against the spread of cloth below them.

Jerott used his free hand tentatively at first, acclimatising himself to the strange feeling of another man's cock in his grasp, but found that he could hold himself alongside Francis. Jerott thrust against his palm and against Francis's shaft and his eyes fell closed in concentration as he tried to align the gestures of his two hands and their two sets of hips. Flesh jumbled with flesh, sensation with sensation, desperate and reckless, dry and hot.

The first he knew of his success was not the bitten-back sound Francis made - a shudder of relief like a collapsing building - but the sudden lubrication on his hand and his cock as Francis's ejaculate spilled over all. Jerott gasped and swore as the warmth of it hit him, triggering a jolt within his own body that he could do nothing to control.

His hips moved under the sway of no intent, his body surged with bliss for the second time that morning, and his could not avoid daubing Francis's firelit skin with fresh discharge.

That which carried more momentum missed Francis's face and hair by mere inches as he jerked his head to the side, laughing.

Jerott looked down at the two softening dicks in his hold and laid Francis's down with a dazed sort of reverence.

"God," he gulped, removing his finger from Francis's body less gently than he intended, and holding both of his ruined hands before him in bewilderment. Each one was stained with the ink of sin, slick and shining in the dim light, but he felt no guilt or shame - only their shadow, the sense that he ought to feel them. Instead, his mind was as blank and settled as the pristine snow outside, dazzling and dazzled.

Francis was shaking, his head rolling to one side on the pillow of covers, his own palms hanging uselessly in the air above the puddled mess on his belly.

He was still laughing, now in total silence, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared helplessly. His chest was blotched with colour and his cheeks were darkened by blood risen to the surface; his curls were clustered and dark with sweat; and the same salty sheen sparkled on the skin of his abdomen and thighs.

Jerott collapsed back on his heels, one of Francis's legs still trapped beneath him.

"Sorry," he managed to mutter, though it was a response made out of obligation.

Francis sat up as though stung and hastened to be close to Jerott, yet he still smiled. The pool of fluids on his skin dripped, catching on the golden hair around his navel. He took each of Jerott's hands in his own, shamelessly, palm to sticky palm so that Jerott was suddenly afraid they would be joined never to be parted, a punishment for what they had done. Francis gripped him more tightly as he tried to pull away, his eyes steady, inviting Jerott to look at him and find calm.

Francis murmured something - French; poetry; Jerott's swirling mind thought - and kissed him softly.

His lips already seemed so familiar, so much like a welcome, and the vague cloud of Jerott's unease started to dissipate. With their hands entwined to each side they leaned together, and Jerott only shuddered a little as the cold, wet stain on Francis's belly was shared with his own skin.

"Apology not accepted," Francis smiled against his mouth. His fine lashes brushed Jerott's cheek when he moved his face closer, and he let Jerott lean, exhausted, against him in turn.

-

Jerott's body shuddered against his bare skin. He kept his head and his eyes lowered, though he let Francis retain a grip on his hands.

"There is nothing to apologise for," Francis said against the swell of Jerott's mouth. His body was chilled with fresh sweat, his back felt frighteningly exposed, but there was no taking back how good it had felt to have Jerott's touch on him, how strangely content he had felt when he looked up and saw a familiar, trusted face lit by the furnace of passion.

Jerott's breath caught and he leaned his cheek against Francis's.

"Nothing we did was wrong, Jerott," Francis murmured. Their bodies rested close, their hands to their sides, Francis's thumbs working softly over Jerott's, though his grip was firm and he would not allow Jerott to pull away. Not like this. Not after that.

"Did any of it feel wrong, to you?"

Jerott's neck tensed and his head flinched back from Francis's, just far enough that he could meet his eyes. A series of muscles moved in his face, around wordless lips and wide, dark eyes.

Finally, "No - " he managed to answer.

Francis's expression cut off whatever caveat he might have been about to add. Jerott drew in a gasp and his colour deepened beyond the red blotches on the high points of his cheeks. He looked wonderingly at him, so that Francis could feel his own skin grow hot again, and Jerott kissed him.

His fingers shivered from the cleansing snow, and Francis wiped them on the shift he had replaced over his quickly cooling torso. He stood in the doorway to the hut, gazing out onto the painfully bright morning landscape. The tracks they had made the previous evening, on Francis's last attempt to divert their course, had been covered by fresh snow. Their meandering path to the lakeside and back again to the door - that which had been ice and mud and snow churned together - had turned now to soft white curves, like a line of small tumuli on the land.

Francis's eyes narrowed and his breath coiled in the air. Only the rooks stirred, and the sun was too low to do any more than skim across the glittering surface of winter's coat, like a pebble on a lake. He could smell no other fire smoke but their own, could hear nothing over the cawing of the rooks, and felt dizzy at the weight of snow that now lay between him and Kiaya Khatun's caravan.

But it was not the dizziness that sucked at his consciousness like a swamp, nor did the sun's brightness feel like hot daggers in his skull. Francis wrapped his arms about his body and loosed a held breath, steady and slow. He watched the air bloom with it, expanding petals of condensation that drifted away from him, glittering as they caught the sun. For perhaps the first time since he had boarded a ship provisioned by Onophrion Zitwitz, he felt good, clear: clear-headed, clear-sighted, clear of pain. His whole body hummed with the freshness of sensation like that experienced around a newly-healed wound, when spiking, tingling nerves begin to reach out again in exploration.

Shy at first, the hands that wrapped around his body smoothed his shift beneath their weight, and Francis blinked at his own response: he did flinch protectively, but hardly knew it through the roiling tide that crashed against the nerves below his stomach. He wanted the touch of those hands, then; it was not complicated, physically.

As for the rest - could he think of this existing beyond the little hut, and to what end? - Francis supposed that might wait. Waiting was all they had left for the present.

"It's cold," Jerott's reminder was spoken quietly, with a vein of uncertainty. As though he expected Francis to tell him it was as mylde as a mornyng of May. As though, if Francis told him so, he might try and make himself believe it was true.

Francis stepped back against Jerott's body and let him push the door closed, Jerott's arm reaching around them both. Francis twisted about and closed his eyes against the darkness inside the hut. Gentle, wondering fingers were at his hairline again, combing, teasing against his scalp in warm tracks. Jerott's mouth was at his, brushing querulously and catching on skin, his lips skimming close to Francis's spreading smile.

Francis, so used to playing to the melodrama of romance, so used to folding his lovers over his arm, pinning them in a deep kiss of passion that was calculated to undo the mortar of their knees, laughed at first as Jerott's body curved over him, into him. He almost thought that he simply would not be bent that way, half expected a snap, like an overstrung bow breaking. But instead, there was just Jerott's palm, splayed wide in the centre of his back, easing out his trust as they leaned into each other, as Jerott's other hand supported his head.

Jerott was still undressed, and Francis had to slide his arms up Jerott's bare body to find purchase, fingers clawing and grasping at smooth muscle and the submerged outline of his bones. Francis exchanged the long kiss for a series of gasping, nipping touches, mouth to mouth, untidy and competitive, each man striving for the final touch.

It was Jerott who, at last, pulled away, allowed Francis to take more of the balance of his own weight back, and looked at him with an expression far too serious for Francis's liking.

-

And that's it! For now, probably for ever? Though if anyone wants to write gap fillers or a conclusion that would be very sexy and I'm totally cool fwith that happening.

So, from what I remember of this, the lads catch up with Marthe and Kiaya on the other side of the lake. I think they plan to sneakily infiltrate the camp because they realise exposing Marthe will just create dangerous chaos, and I guess they (Francis) think they can reason with Kiaya.

I think I imagined some Mexican stand-offs, Marthe definitely has a gun, and she maybe even got to use it.

Details of the resolution are not a thing I recall at all, but the satisfactory conclusion is, I think, that all four of them go to Russia. Maybe Marthe still gets the chance to cosplay as voevoda now and again, and Kiaya Khatun doesn't have to threaten any small boys because Marthe is keeping her busy. She and Francis probably still think of Marthe and Jerott as place-holders of a sort, and I think Francis always regrets the vulnerability of letting Jerott in - there would be some absolutely blazing rows about some of his Ringed Castle behaviour, even if it was mellowed a little by changed circumstances, it's still pretty wild, and there's a lot he'll be keeping from Jerott about family circumstances.

I hadn't really thought through to ultimate resolutions, but left it so Francis/Philippa could still be a thing, ideally with Jerott having come to terms with enough about himself and about Francis to accept that they're probably not an optimal long-term match. He's always got Danny, who will have been making eyes at him from the ranks all winter long. I also think Kiaya's ambition should mellow, she and Marthe should have a Gabriel mummy bonfire/sell him for parts like the Egyptians did with their mummies, and then retire to Lyon together to be weird traders/fortune-tellers/coffee-sellers. CRAZY idea! Marthe/Kiaya coffee shop AU!!! Get your stars read when you buy ten cappuccinos! Sorry we're all out of caramel syrup but we can grate a little dessicated finger bone on top? I'm sorry we don't take payment in cloth sir, but if you can spare that antique relic we'll toss in a whole bag of our finest roast beans. No? Oh well, just keep your eyes on me, that's it. What, no, that's not my wife behind you with a dagger haha, what are you suggesting?