#who is delighted and fascinated they BOTH came back and sort of indulgently lets him try

[werewolves-are-real]

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

[aotimagines]

Aperture [1]

Hey. Remember when this blog hit 5,000 followers and I mentioned I was going to be writing something self-indulgent? The moment has finally arrived, lol. The idea spiraled way out of control before I could stop myself so here we are. This is probably not what the anon meant when they sent this in, but I couldn’t stop myself from plotting this story out. It’ll probably have around 8-10 chapters and I want to be realistic and say I’ll be able to update frequently, but there are no promises. My goal is for a new chapter every two weeks, but it’ll probably be closer to once a month. It will contain NSFW at some point, so minors do not interact. To the anon who sent this request in almost a year ago, I am so sorry this has taken me this long to write. I apologize and hope that this suffices. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

“Could you lift your head and look towards the camera, please?”

Your breath was nearly whisked away from your lungs at the sight of your model’s eyes flickering towards you, the intensity swirling behind his irises rooting you to your spot. They reflected the ocean itself—deep, vibrant, and tumultuous just like rolling waves and you felt yourself drowning at sea. You could barely tear your eyes away from his ethereal beauty; from the sharp angle of his jaw, to his sinewy, sun-kissed skin. Each and every ripple of muscle resembled someone akin to a Greek statue over real life and the longer you looked at your model, the more difficult it became to stop your eyes from gazed lower…

Immediately, you brought your camera back up to your eye to conceal your reverie and took another photo, peeling the camera back to examine the frame you had just taken with more intense than you should have. “Great!” Your voice came out rushed and quick—high and pitchy. You wanted to die right then and there on the spot, but you needed to act more professional even if you couldn’t resist the temptation to ogle your client’s perfectly sculpted, perfectly nude body.

It was wrong. It was beyond heinous but, the instant Eren Jaeger walked out to your photoshoot and shed his robe, his stunning looks had been on your mind. As a professional photographer, you had seen your fair share of models, both nude and not, so why were you acting so ridiculous? There was something undeniably electric about Eren and the way he was able to express so much emotion through his eyes alone. After having worked with him for only an hour, you could definitely see why he was scouted to be a model. There was an air of shyness that radiated off him despite the wave of confidence that brimmed so brightly from within. It was cute, which felt foreign and almost like an insult when thinking about the man standing before you.

Still, you needed to maintain your composure and do your job. You could allow yourself to be dazzled by your model for a moment, but now you needed to get back to work. Standing, you exchanged a friendly smile with Eren and motioned to his hands, pointing out, “Do you mind if we get some close-up shots of the watch? I know the campaign said that they wanted a full body shot, but I’d like to give some other options…”

“Sure,” he agreed, his electric gaze never leaving your face even as he held out his wrist and loosened the tension. Immediately, you snapped into your role as the photographer and began taking photos, unaware that you inching several steps closer.

Captivated with the elegance of his long, deft fingers, you became enraptured in your own little world and mindless gave instruction and praise, your prior embarrassment all but gotten. You were unaware of the way Eren’s eyes were glued to your every expression; the way your tongue would push through your lips as you found an angle or shape you liked. As exhilarated as you were to photograph him, Eren was, in kind, just as thrilled to way the way you worked. It was difficult tot keep cool and focus on his job with the way you moved around him, the sheer delight across your face almost tangible. He had been subjected to many photographers, some good and bad, but never…

“Okay!” Your voice dragged him from his thoughts, your lips curved into a soft, gentle smile. “I think we got it? Good work, Eren. You were great.”

“Ah—thanks,” he replied, the fabric of his robe hitting his shoulders before he realized it. One of the assistants must have gotten it for him and it took him all but five seconds to realize that he was still standing before you, naked. His cheeks heated up, a tennis ball lodged in the back of his throat, but he managed to force out, “You were a good photographer. It was, uh…easy to follow your instruction.”

You were positively beaming by the time he glanced at your face, eyes wide and sparkling. “Thank-you! That means a lot, especially since I’m kind of new to working on a professional set and everything.”

“Seriously!” Eren couldn’t believe that he was still continuing the conversation—continuing to praise you, a complete and utter stranger—but here he was. Eren was not the type of person to be physically attracted to anyone right off the bat, but there was something so…mesmerizing about you that he couldn’t bring himself to stop talking. “It was a nice shoot. I didn’t even realize we were here for a couple hours.”

“Me either,” came your confession, camera clutched between your hands. “You take direction really well. Oh!” As if an idea just came to your head, you moved to the monitors behind the lights and popped out your SD card, gently sliding the chip inside the reader. Angling your chin, you glanced up at his features, your eyes shining with complete and utter excitement. “Want to see some of the shots? I usually offer to let the models see so they can view the before and after.”

“Uh…” Eren contemplated it for a moment, his mind very cognizant of the fact that he was still only wearing a robe. You seemed completely oblivious to it, which dashed some of his prior thoughts. A moment passed by until he cracked a smile and moved closer to gaze down at the computer monitor. “Sure. I don’t really get a chance to see what I can improve on, or anything.”

Your fingers clicked open the file folder, pulling up the images you had taken not even ten minutes ago. Scrolling through, your eyes darted from one side of the screen to the other as if making mental notes about which ones you wanted to save for editing, later. “Here—this one is really nice,” you said, double-clicking the image until it was pulled up for Eren to see. Despite his nudity being on full display, Eren couldn’t help but notice how…tasteful it was done. Truly, like mentioned in the job description, his focus was on the multitude of watches adorning his wrist, but there was something else about it that…

It was like you had managed to dig deep inside of him and photograph his soul; his emotions. Everything was displayed in his eyes and it took Eren a second to recognize himself. His silence made you worry, hastily bringing up, “Of course, they will look better with editing in post, but—”

Eren shook his head, cutting off your explanation before you could really begin. “No, it’s—it’s not that! Really, the photos are…” He floundered for the right word to describe what you had created; what you had managed to pull out of him and then captured on film. No other photographer had managed that before, so to see himself like that was a little…

“It’s different,” he concluded, gaze still lingering on the images on the screen. “I’m not used to seeing myself look like that. You’re an amazing photographer and I’m sort of struggling to come up with a better compliment than that.”

Visibly, you relaxed upon hearing his praise, pride swelling inside your chest when you realized that he liked the photos. “It makes it easier when my model is able to pull from within, too,” you countered, finally looking up at him after what felt like an eternity. Eren’s eyes met yours and it was like a magnetic field was drawing you closer to him, but you refrained from your urges and settled for exiting out of the photos. It took everything inside of you to swallow back the attraction and fascination that was bubbling inside of you, which only made you antsy and anxious to begin the editing process.

“Anyways, I should let you get dressed. I’m sure you’re itching to get out of here.”

“Ah, right.” Reluctantly, Eren broke eye contact first and stretched, the fabric of his thin robe inching higher against his toned thighs. You jerked your head away from him to conceal the heat crawling across your cheeks and praised whatever deity above that Eren hadn’t paid any attention to your sudden shy demeanor. He seemed to think to himself for a moment before exhaling deeply and walking off, leaving you to skim through the multitude of images you had taken.

A period of time passed because, the next thing you knew, Eren was back by your side, his silky, chocolate-colored tresses pulled back into a bun that rested at the nape of his neck. Small hairs framed his face, only fanning the fuel to his already handsome, boyish looks. You swallowed thickly and offered a smile, rising from your chair to ask, “You heading out?”

“Yeah, but I actually wanted to ask you something, first…” Eyebrow quirked, you watched Eren rock back and forth on his feet, a nervous energy teeming off of him. While the two of you knew nothing about each other outside of first and last names, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was typical behavior. He seemed to self-assured whenever he spoke. Was there something wrong with the photos after all? Before you could ask, Eren’s hand shot out and encircled around your wrist, preventing you from turning away or moving back to your computer screen. “Listen,” he pressed closer, temporarily catching you off guard with how bold he was being, “there’s a party happening later tonight. I really don’t want to go, but my manager said it’d be good for connections and I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

“Why?” The question escaped your mouth before you could process what was happening, confusion written across your features. You didn’t pull away from his touch, however, and repeated after a moment of clarity, “You barely know me, Eren. We’re strangers. Shouldn’t you invite one of your friends?”

Eren fell silent for a moment before an uncharacteristic smirk danced across his lips. There was something fierce about the glimmer in his eyes and his body language exuded an amount of confidence he had only displayed the instant his eyes locked with your camera lens earlier that afternoon. He leaned in closer, studying the way your face heated up, before murmuring in a low tone, “I saw the way you were looking at me, earlier.”

Embarrassed, you averted your eyes to the ground. “I’m—I’m sorry! Really, I sometimes get lost in my work and you are beautiful, so I…got swept away. It was unprofessional and I swear it won’t happen again, if we happen to work together.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Eren chuckled, the sound so dizzying that you felt yourself drawn to it—to him—like a moth circling a flame. This was a dangerous game you two were playing and you weren’t sure what kind of out come Eren was looking for. Rather, he released your hand and stepped back, the intensity gone and replaced with a softer, kinder smile. “I liked your photos,” he simply stated, his hand resting against his hip as he continued to stare at you. “And you liked what you were able to get out of me. I just thought it’d be a good opportunity to each to know one another.”

“Professionally?”

“Both,” he easily quipped with a shrug of his shoulders.

You ran a hand through your hair, teeth catching your inner cheek. “I don’t know.”

“How about this.” Eren reached for the sharp on your desk and ripped the cap off with his teeth, balancing the piece of plastic between his two lips. Before you could protest, he grabbed your hand again and began to write numbers into your palm, a string of digits staring back up at you. “When you decide what you want to do, you can text me. Even if you don’t want to go with me, specifically, it’d be a good idea to make connections. You said yourself that you’re new to the industry.”

You had said that, didn’t you? Eren’s number stared up at you, silently replaying your words from earlier like a broken record until a heavy, shaky sigh pulled from your lips. You didn’t know what his intentions were, but you figured that you could worry about that, later. Even if you couldn’t decipher Eren’s true nature, the prospect of getting your name out to more people in the industry was too tempting to ignore. “But what do I wear?” you asked weakly, watching as Eren’s features lit up like a light.

“It’s cocktail, but whatever you have should be fine. I really don’t care about what other people are wearing, either way.”

You couldn’t help but laugh genuinely at this, pointing out with amusement dripping from your tone, “Aren’t you a fashion model? Shouldn’t you care about stuff like that?”

Eren scoffed, lips twisted into a smile. “Nah. That kind of stuff is stupid.”

“But then why…?” You stopped, shook your head, and moved to the desk where your cellphone rested. Holding it up, you tilted your head to the side. “So, I’ll text you? I’ll need an address, you know.”

Eren’s name was being called from across the building—probably whoever he brought with him, you noted—but his eyes still lingered on you even as he began to step away. “It’s for seven-thirty. See you!”

You watched as he jogged away until he was completely out of sight, your heart hammering against your ribs repeatedly. You weren’t sure what the hell had just transpired, but the area where his fingers brushed your skin tingled pleasantly as an aftershock effect.

You were way, way in over your head.

[commander-diomika]

Pairing: Zolf Smith/Cel Sidebottom Word Count: 2100 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Spanking, Asexual Character, Non-Sexual Kink, Kink Negotiation, RQG kinktober, Kinktober 2021, Aftercare Prompt: Spanking Summary: Cel has a favourite method of stress relief that they haven't indulged in awhile. Zolf seems like the kind of person who would be able to help. Notes: Trans feminine non binary Cel coz why not? You know they've got the potions to make just about anything work.

Cel has always admired Zolf’s hands. Like a miniature of his stature, they were broad, probably twice the breadth of Cel’s slender ones, and yet there was something so deft and gentle about them. The way that Zolf tied a complex knot, or kneaded dough, held a certain fascination for them.

“I wanted to ask something from you, Zolf. A favour, probably, and I know you like helping people but I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes but I was just thinking that if y-”

Zolf held up one of those delightful hands and Cel stopped. “I’m listenin’, Cel. What can I do for you?”

“There’s this thing, that I like, it’s sort of a stress relief thing, and I haven’t had a chance to do it in a long time and I know you would be very good at it-”

“Cel. Specifics, please? I can’t say yes ‘r no if you don’t tell me what you’re askin’.”

Cel took a sharp breath in, their eyes bright and guileless, “I’d like you to spank me.”

Zolf looked momentarily poleaxed. Wherever he might have guessed this was going, that was NOT it.

“But I want to say, it’s not a sex thing. It’s honestly just,” they fluttered their hands as if extrapolating, “-nice! And I came to you because I know that you wouldn’t read into that anything that wasn’t there because, well, that’s just the kind of person you are.”

Zolf turned the idea over slowly, not even realising when he started to slightly nod his head. “I reckon I could do that for you.”

…

Cel led Zolf to their room, face glowing with excitement.

“Ok!”

Zolf wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, or how to get started on such a strange request, but he trusted that Cel knew enough about their needs to lead the way.

“Now, first question. Would you be comfortable if I was naked? I know some people make a big thing out of nudity. Honestly, I’d just be more comfortable that way, but! Only if you are also comfortable with that.” For once Cel actually managed to finish their sentence and waited for Zolf’s response, head tilted.

Zolf shrugged. He was on a similar page when it came to nudity. It meant exactly no more or less than what people assigned to it. “Whatever you like. This is your show.”

Cel beamed and started on the buttons of their shirt. Zolf admired the unique aesthetics of their body as they undressed, long limbs, surprisingly square and sinewy shoulders, small peaked breasts and their prick resting soft between their legs.

They left the goggles perched jauntily on the top of their head. Zolf, whilst not completely certain what they did, knew they were magically imbued. He didn’t find it too strange that Cel might prefer to leave them on even in an intimate situation. Or if it was strange, no more than Cel usually was.

“Do you think I’ll be at a workable height if I lean over this desk?” Without waiting for a response, Cel cleared the surface of said desk with a tinkling clatter of metal and mystery components.

Zolf’s mouth twitched in a fond smile. “Should be right.”

With another absolutely winning smile, Cel turned, moved the chair, and leant their long torso over the surface, perching on their elbows. The table was of a height that folded them to a right angle, maybe a bit sharper if they rested their chest all the way down.

Cel looked over their shoulder, stomach giving a little thrill of excitement as Zolf came over. It really had been too long, and they were looking forward to having those lovely hands on their backside.

Zolf rested on hand in the small of Cel’s back, and waited, as if for some kind of starting signal.

Right! Cel realised through their anticipation. For all that Zolf always radiated an air of reassuring competency, there was every chance he’d never done this before. Perhaps Cel had gotten slightly ahead of things by stripping off and presenting their bare arse to him over a desk.

“So, if you just… give me a few whacks and I’ll let you know where things stand? Focus on this rounded part-“ they indicated with a hand “- but I’d like it if you went down my thighs a bit as well.”

“I’m guessin' you’d prefer if I try not to touch b’tween your legs.” Zolf clarified.

“Yes, correct. There’s “nice, neurochemically stimulating pain,” and “ouch no fun” pain and I’d definitely prefer the former and not the latter. If you just keep a nice steady pace, the area will warm as blood comes to the surface in a mild inflammation response, my tolerance will build, and you’ll be able to increase intensity.”

Zolf smiled that fond little smile again as Cel continued. “We can calibrate a nice starting spot together. I don’t think you’ll get too carried away, but if it’s too much I’ll just say “stop” or if I need a moment I’ll say “pause.””

Zolf simply nodded. That was the information he had been seeking, plus the typical Cel extra. “Ready?” was all he said.

Cel nodded, and Zolf wound up and gave their buttock a smack with a tempered amount of force. Their arse was quite lean and firm beneath his hand.

“Oof! Yes! You can go up from there, by about twenty percent to start.”

Zolf wasn’t entirely sure his understanding of his strength could be broken down to a percentile, but he did his best.

Together, they calibrated. He’d give two or three spanks, Cel would offer feedback, and he’d go again. After two or three rounds of this, Cel settled their chest all the way down to the desk, cushioning their head on their forearms.

“That’s perfect, Zolf, thank you! Continue just like that!” They gave their hips a little inviting wiggle. “Please,” they added as an afterthought, voice slightly muffled into the desk.

Zolf gave a small chuckle and continued.

He settled into a rhythm; It was surprisingly satisfying. By Cel’s metric he was probably using about fifty percent of his strength, alternating cheeks with one hand still resting in the small of Cel’s back. He brought the blows down their thighs and was rewarded with a little squirm and a delighted puff of air from Cel as he did so.

Zolf’s palm grew warm, and Cel’s pale skin reddened beneath the firm blows. He watched their torso melt a little further into the desk, and when they turned their head, he noted that same red flush across their cheekbones. He slowed momentarily when they gave a small moan, but they hadn’t asked for a pause, so he could only take that as a good sign.

A few minutes later Zolf changed hands, coming to stand on the other side of them. He expected the small pause to be filled with Cel’s usual chatter, but they remained silent.

Zolf didn’t think he’d ever been a room with Cel without hearing them speak for this length of time.

When his other hand had grown as warm from impact as the first, Cel spoke. “Pause.” Their voice was breathy in a way that Zolf had never heard before. He paused, and without thinking took both hands and gave both of Cel’s arsecheeks a massaging squeeze. Cel sighed with pleasure.

“My tolerance has definitely gone up. If you could increase the intensity? I can take about twenty to thirty percent more.” They dropped their head back onto their forearms, and again, after a sufficient pause for it to occur to them, they added, “Please.”

Zolf gave what was asked of him. The flesh under his palms was achingly warm now, and on the rounded parts where he had been hitting most frequently, there was a slight raised area, starting to darken from flushed pink to a deeper, purple tinged colour.

When they asked for another pause, this time they sounded drunk. They got their arms underneath them and straightened up.

“Had enough?” Zolf asked, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d intended.

“No, no it’s just-” They turned blinked somewhat owlishly at him, their cheeks a delightful shade of pink. “My legs are starting to give, a little. Which is good! I am nicely full of the endorphins released by this kind of process.”

They licked their lips, and Zolf couldn’t help but think that Cel looked incredibly cute like this.

“If it alright with you…” For the first time in this whole scenario, they sounded hesitant. “Could I lie down? In your lap, maybe? Only if you’re comfortable with that.”

Zolf swallowed. As they came up off the desk and turned, Zolf couldn’t help but let his eyes dip to their crotch. Well, he didn’t have to dip very far, with their height difference. Cel’s prick was still soft between their legs. Perhaps if they had been hard, he might have felt awkward about taking them into his lap, but it seemed they had been accurate in reporting that this was purely about sensation for them.

He nodded, and went to settle on Cel’s bed. Before Cel joined him, their hands fluttered, reaching toward their head as they considered something. “Hm,” was all they said, again surprising Zolf with their lack of patter.

Cel clambered onto the bed with shy smile. They crawled over him and draped their long body across his thighs, arse perked up over his lap. Zolf could feel a touch of tension in the body where it touched his. Cel turned their head to look at him, thoughtful through their slightly sensation-drunk haze.

“Um,” they said, and brought their hands up, delicately removing the goggles and handing them to Zolf. “Could you put those on the dresser, please?”

Zolf couldn’t help but feel he was being handed something more than a pair of goggles as he obeyed.

Cel closed their eyes, and sighed, unsteady but relieved. “Could you- not hard- but could you hold onto my hair?” Again, Cel was shyer than Zolf had come to expect from them. “Only if your comfortable with it.”

Zolf smiled and his stomach swooped a little at that. There was something warm in his chest, this feeling of being trusted with something rare and precious. “Sure.”

He curled one hand into the short hair at the nape of Cel’s neck, and as he gripped, he felt that last measure of tension go out of the body resting against his.

“Ready?” He asked softly. Cel nodded, slightly pulling their own hair in his grasp.

The shift in energy from the desk to the bed was palpable as Zolf started up his firm blows again. Cel sighed, and whimpered and shifted against him, and this time they didn’t need to speak; Cel had fed Zolf enough data for him to be able to read the request for more, and harder, and faster. He felt his own breath start to quicken from exertion, let his smacks rise and swell and push, seeking more of those little pleasured gasps that Cel now seemed more comfortable releasing.

He wasn’t quite giving them everything he had, but through the nice, dreamy rhythm he had fallen into, he found himself marvelling that this skinny alchemist could take as much as they were. The sweet spots of Cels’ arse was now dark with pre-bruising and their toes curled and rubbed into the coverlet on the bed.

He gave a few hearty spanks and Cel gasped into the covers. Zolf felt them go completely limp. Suddenly there was just a puddle of sweaty half-elf in his lap.

“Cel? Hey now.” He ran his hand up Cel’s spine, suddenly worried. “Is that enough?”

Cel groaned out an assent and rubbed their face against the covers. If they were wiping away tears, Zolf didn’t mention it. “Yes. I- thank you, Zolf.”

He helped Cel off his lap and they laid their long body out flat, their tall hair flattened with sweat against their forehead. They smiled dreamily at him. “That. Was. Perfect.”

Zolf felt any worry drain out of him, and his heart felt full and delighted. There was nothing he liked more than helping people, no matter that this was a new and unconventional method of doing so.

“Is there anythin’,” his voice felt wobbly and he cleared his throat to try again. “Anythin’ you need now? Healin’, water?”

Cel shook their head at both the offers, then smiled, a bit less bright than their usual smile, something hazier and more relaxed. “Actually. I wouldn’t mind a hug. Only if you’re-”

“-comfortable with that,” he finished with Cel and their mouth twisted wryly. “’Course.” He laid down next to them and gathered the loose-limbed half-half elf to his chest.

They stayed like that for a long moment, before Cel piped up, their voice sounding steadier for being held. “Zolf?”

“Mm?”

“I just realised- uhm- should we perhaps have sound proofed the room first?”

[mordoriscalling]

Secret pt.2

A follow up to my fanfic about Geralt talking (and eventually confessing his love) to Jaskier in Polish, thinking that Jaskier doesn’t understand. @artistsfuneral came up with that glorious idea in this fic! Now, pt 2 is about how Jaskier learns the language, as requested by blue_midnight on AO3. Hope you enjoy! 

(This fic also includes background, brief Lambert/ Aiden)

At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it’s Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. Why on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.

It must be some kind of language. Geralt uses it when talking to his horse a lot. Jaskier almost finds the behaviour endearing but then the witcher speaks in that tongue when answering many of his questions. Jaskier just wants to get them better acquainted but Geralt couldn’t care less about the offerings of friendship, apparently.

Even though the witcher can be a right bastard like that, one thing is clear from the very start: Jaskier can only wish to be half the man Geralt is, but the world thinks it’s Geralt who is less than human. Jaskier finds he can’t stand by and let it happen.

It’s a simple exchange. They both need each other to prove that they’re more than what everyone thinks they are. The transaction is uncomplicated: Geralt fights monsters for Jaskier to sing about, Jaskier softens the hearts and the minds. As time passes, however, it changes and becomes more complex: they share food, rooms and coin, start caring for each other in all the small but significant ways.

Five years pass and it’s a friendship in full bloom, but Geralt still often talks to him and snaps at him in that damned tongue, like he doesn’t think Jaskier worthy of knowing his thoughts. It’s never stopped angering him but at this point, he’s also intrigued in what Geralt wants to hide and why the hell it seems to concern him so often. (A certain feeling that shall not be named blooms in his chest at the thought and he squashes it).

Then there’s that one bath. Geralt looks at him as if he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world which, fair, Jaskier is interesting if he does say so himself, but not that much. It’s on that day that he decides to learn that bloody language, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt that winter and searches the vast library through and through. The librarians shoot him looks indicating their suspicion about him being a maniac but Jaskier is simply a man on a mission. In the middle of winter, his madness finally bears fruit – he finds an ancient book written in a language he has never seen. “Wiedźmiński bestiariusz” the title says. Inside, there’s a loose piece of parchment with the first few paragraphs of the book translated, including the title – “Witcher Bestiary”. The book is full of sketches of monsters and descriptions, the words containing several strange letters. Many passages aren’t readable anymore because they’ve faded with age but Jaskier treasures the book anyway. He spends the rest of the winter copying all the legible pages, indulging in life’s pleasures much less, which only fuels the rumours of his insanity. All the while, he hopes that this is the language Geralt has been using.

The answer comes surprisingly quickly in the surprising shape of another wolf witcher. They stumble upon each other in late spring in Redania. It’s such a funny coincidence that there’s no way Jaskier’s not going to make the best of it.

“See, master witcher,” Jaskier says as they drink ale together, “When I rummaged through my university’s library, I stumbled upon an interesting volume.” He forgets to mention the translated passages as he pulls out his copy of the book and lays it on the table in front of Lambert. The witcher’s eyes widen when they rest upon the title and Jaskier knows this is it. He grins and carries on, “It seems to be full of precious knowledge and wisdom, yet it’s written in a language I don’t understand. It concerns monsters, so I was hoping a witcher could assist me in decoding this tongue.”

Lambert says nothing for some time, only regarding Jaskier with suspicion. “Why would you want to learn it?” he questions.

“Call it academic curiosity.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. Hadn’t Jaskier spent so much time with Geralt, he would certainly squirm under the hot, searching gaze.

“It’s not a secret language of your guild, is it?” he asks to break the tense silence.

“It’s not,” Lambert answers, “But no one really bothered before, is the thing. Dunno what to make of you.”

Jaskier sighs and decides to reveal the malice of his intentions because, from what little Geralt told him of his brothers, he knows that Lambert will appreciate it. “Listen,” he says as he leans in towards the red-haired witcher, “just imagine how it’ll freak Geralt out when he finds out.”

Lambert lets out a delighted laugh. “Fuck, I wanna be there when it happens.”

Jaskier can’t make any promises of the sort, so he says nothing to that. Instead, he asks, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“We’ll see.”

Lambert’s reserve didn’t make sense at that moment but Jaskier almost wishes he didn’t find out why the witcher was so cautious about his enthusiasm.

It turns out the language is a demonic creation. Lambert starts explaining some basic words and phrases to him and it already makes Jaskier’s head spin – there are so many forms and conjugations that Jaskier’s task of achieving fluency in that damned tongue suddenly appears almost too daunting. Almost.

He still wants to see the look on Geralt’s bloody beautiful face.

Lambert lets Jaskier join him on the Path for a few weeks. Throughout that time, he teaches Jaskier a bit more, especially how to read in the language. The wonderful thing about it is that, once he knows all the rules of pronunciation, he can read everything out loud. The dreadful thing is that the pronunciation itself is so tough and tongue-twisting that it may as well be a form of diabolical punishment inflicted upon Jaskier for all the transgressions he committed.

Lambert laughs when he voices his frustrations. “Przyzwyczaisz się.” You’ll get used to it, the witcher answers, his voice producing the mad consonant clusters with ease.

“I doubt it,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath.

The two of them part ways as Jaskier pays for Lambert’s services with a song. Jaskier saw the wolf witcher take down a vampire in a truly spectacular manner, so it was no hardship. After Lambert leaves, Jaskier starts learning on his own. Whenever Geralt hunts, he reads out loud from his copy of the bestiary (and how Geralt never overhears it is truly beyond him. Melitele likes him calling upon her tits so frequently, it seems). He tries to decipher the words in the book using all knowledge he has, translating some more passages. He and Lambert also exchange letters but Jaskier fails at writing in the tongue miserably. The last one he wrote returns to him with a multitude of Lambert’s corrections and a short note from the witcher himself:

"Cały list do przepisania, skowroneczku." The whole letter needs rewriting, little lark.

Jaskier huffs at the nickname, ruffling his figurative feathers in indignation. Although a lark’s voice is beautiful, very much so, its plumage is too plain. Jaskier could never. He would be a blackbird at the very least. Or a siskin. A bullfinch, preferably. If Jaskier was honest, a peacock would best fit to describe his exterior, but the sounds peacocks make aren’t pleasant, so he would be willing to settle on some colourful songbird.

Damn Lambert, in any case. The witcher knows far too well how to rile him up. It’s a bit unnerving.

"Skowronek to nie jak ja." Lark doesn’t sound like me, Jaskier answers in the next letter.

"Rzeczywiście, tak ładnie nie śpiewasz." True, your singing isn’t that pretty, Lambert writes back.  

Damn him indeed. Jaskier responds to that comment with a simple, efficient “fuck you”, to which Lambert replies “chciałbyś” you wish.

Jaskier can’t exactly deny this. He would certainly show his appreciation for Lambert’s fiery spirit if not for one little, tiny problem. The problem is so minuscule that Jaskier does everything in his power not to think about it. He seeks out lovers constantly and falls into the Countess de Stael’s arms almost every winter. She wants his attention now, as it’s a puppy love no longer, but during his stay at her palace, someone else always catches his attention. She kicks him out the moment she finds out. And so their romance goes, rinse and repeat.

No matter whether Jaskier winters at the Countess’s court, Oxenfurt, or some other place, he always devotes much of his free time to search for any book containing the Witcher tongue, as Jaskier started calling it. There isn’t much anywhere, and Lambert’s letters are few and far in between. Jaskier can feel himself getting stagnant in his learning and he can’t afford it. Not now, after six years of gargantuan effort that he’s put in already. Not when Geralt sometimes says something to him in that quiet, warm voice, and he still doesn’t understand.

Jaskier seems to enjoy more of Melitele’s blessing than he really should because, just when he’s getting desperate, there’s a godsend dropped on his way on a lovely spring day.

Quite literally dropped, since that witcher falls from a tree Jaskier’s about to walk under as he’s on his way to find Geralt. There’s a cat medallion around the witcher’s neck, and his body is gravely injured. He’s unconscious and Jaskier takes the liberty to use his witcher potions to help him not die. After he finally opens his eyes the next day, he introduces himself as Aiden.

It takes Aiden two more days to stand back on his feet. Soon after he manages that, Jaskier makes him trip when he speaks in the Witcher tongue to him, and the poor Cat witcher actually falls to the ground when Jaskier mentions Lambert. Sensing some story there, he sticks by Aiden’s side for a week or two. They make fast friends and promise to write to each other frequently.

Aiden’s letters are just what Jaskier needs to improve. The witcher is more expansive than Lambert and a touch flirty, which is perfect. As their correspondence goes on, Jaskier grows to like him only more and more. Not that much, though; he’s still stuck in the merry old mess of admiration and friendly affection getting out of hand. At least he’s not the only one – the story that Aiden and Lambert share is there in the letters, between the lines, and Jaskier is clever enough to see it.

Jaskier and Aiden meet for a drink in Novigrad once. When they’re deep into their cups, they start whining about their predicament.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Aiden grumbles.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

Ten years of learning the Witcher tongue have passed when Jaskier finds Geralt fishing for a djin in the lake near Rinde. He’s known Geralt for sixteen years now, so it takes him exactly one moment to see through the sorry excuse of insomnia. Destiny can’t be trifled with like that, he knows, so he doesn’t let it happen.

When Jaskier sings his friend to sleep, Geralt wonders about deserving him, that silly witcher. As if it wasn’t Jaskier who could only dream of deserving Geralt. As if Jaskier wasn’t a cheater, a homewrecker and a bastard who shouldn’t even deserve to look into those warm, gold eyes that allow a peek into the heart of gold.

As they meet Yennefer, the chemistry between her and Geralt is so strong that Jaskier can almost see the sparkles fly. Jaskier holds his breath all throughout their stay in Rinde. After they leave and nothing happens, there’s no relief. Now the witcher and the sorceress can get together any time and Jaskier turns bitter at the ripe, sweet age of thirty-four.

He lets go of many things after that. The silly affair with the Countess, caring about what the educated think about his works. He lives, breathes and grows, at last, fuelled by the one thing that he’s driven by best – sheer, absolute spite. Jaskier’s learnt the Witcher tongue out of spite (among other motives that he refuses to think about), and out of spite he will survive now, no matter how much he worries about a purple-eyes sorceress being such a great match for the White Wolf that even he wants to write a ballad about it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask, of course, and Geralt doesn’t say. They keep travelling together and Jaskier basks in the glory of knowing exactly what Geralt says about him when the witcher thinks he doesn’t understand. It’s wildly satisfying indeed but only up to a point – until the day Geralt calls him beautiful. Jaskier accepts the compliment with a smile, since it is the truth after all, but he can’t trust his voice to answer. He tries to fight the idiotic hope blooming in his chest and blames the warmth in Geralt’s gaze on the firelight. He reminds himself that Geralt doesn’t see him that way because it’s only women that the witcher’s ever been interested in. Life goes on.

Then his world crashes around him as he hears the words about love leaving Geralt’s mouth. That is when he can’t hold it in anymore and his secret is out. Or both his secrets, really.

It’s so freeing that he’s heady. Or maybe the giddiness can be all on Geralt. Or perhaps on the fact that, when Jaskier bares his heart in the Witcher tongue, it touches the witcher’s heart to its very core. He can feel it, in the way Geralt clings to him, and he already knows he won’t find any words to describe it properly in any language he knows.

That's how he knows it's something worth living and loving for - it means too much for words.

***

A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! This fic is also available on AO3. Part 3 is coming, hopefully soon. It will be a 5+1 kind of thing about Geralt and Jaskier using the language. 

Part 3

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

Ghost Wedding: The Remix

So, uh, here’s the first actual fanfic I’ve written, and the first full length piece I’ve written in literal years. I wrote it for my own amusement, after weeks of eating up various bits of TWST lore and scenes and going “But, how would the whole Ghost marriage story have gone with a Yuu who was more like me a goth bisexual disaster?

What follows is a series of vignnetes, starring a Yuu who’s the only girl in NRC, with deeply questionable taste, told in the second person. Please let me know if you enjoyed it, I crave positive feedback and like when other people enjoy the things I like.

Contend warnings for blood, body horror, emeto, coarse language and pretentious word choices.

You've been here a while. En-Arr-See wasn't precisely a safe place, what with your dorm being a condemned hellpit of tetanus and black mold, and powerful magicians having mutagenic psychotic breaks only curable by kicking their ass so hard it flies out their mouth. But certainly, it wasn't boring, and you'd made friends. You had your scrappy ginger Ace in the hole; your serious mamas-boy Deuce; your funny little not-a-cat Grim. Hell, you even have your Horned Boy, he of the poison-coloured eyes that never seem to leave your face when you talk about fun things like books and music and the moral imperative of dissolving the monarchy. And, you were on speaking terms with a good chunk of others. So, when your favourite little robot came up to Crowley, yelling something about ghosts kidnapping his brother, you took his hand and said, "Ortho, show me what's going on." After all, you won't let anything happen to Idia. You have plans for him yet.

~*~*~*~

Some beauties might launch a thousand ships, and in your (objectively correct) opinion, while Idia's beauty wouldn't lead to a ten year siege of Troy, he'd certainly convince everyone attending Whitby Goth Weekend to haul off into the sea with a beat of his lashes. The first time you'd seen him, you'd simply stared in slack-jawed awe. He was luminescent; even leaving behind the fiery hair that flashed and swelled behind him, his eyes were a bright clear amber, and his skin translucent, with his own blue veins serving as the detailing in the marble. Add in the deeply circled eyes and the bluish discolouration of the lips, and the figure he presented was arresting, astounding, more beautiful and unreal than anything you'd conjured up after staying up all night reading ghost stories. "Magnificent," you'd said to yourself, and if your friends gave you a strange look, well, fuck 'em. They have no sense of beauty or taste.

Unfortunately, the intensity of your gaze proved too much for him, and he'd fled. You'd had no time to pursue the object of your infatuation either, class would soon begin, and Grim was yelling. Later, then. There's all the time in the world to ask after the fine young man with the lamplight eyes.

~*~*~*~ "Oh no," you said when Ortho showed you the video. "She's really hot."

Grim gawked and Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you take from this?"

"You're the one with an all-boys school. What's a girl like me to do when a pretty girl pops up?"

"She's a ghost, Yuu."

"That's the best part."

"My brother-"

"I'll help you, dear." You set a hand on Ortho's shoulder. "He must be so frightened, right? I'll do what you need." 

Before anyone could say anything else, a racket started up outside, and things got a little busy.

~*~*~*~ "Do you mind if I sit?"

Idia looked up at you. starting at the intrusion. His face was awash in blue from the conjured screens around him, his lips gone black. "...Why?"

"Tables are full. I'd rather not eat standing." He didn't explicitly say no, so you settled across the table, a few chairs down. He made a fascinating tableau as you picked at your lunch, flicking through and typing at the screen. Lines of code, schematics for all sorts of tech, occasional comics all flit across the pane of light in a million shades of blue. Until...

"Could you pretend I'm a bug?"

You squinted. "What." What the actual hell did he mean by that.

"Pretend I'm not here. I'm beneath notice."

You stop for a moment and smile, faint enough that he can't see the devil in it. "You want me to treat you like an insect."

"Yes." Hard to see in the light, there was a small twitch by his temple, a barely perceptible shake in his long fingered hands.

"Alright." With that, you slide down the table to directly across from him, settle you chin in your hands, and stare at him unblinkingly.

"?!?!?" The squawk he made was undignified and deeply, deeply endearing. "What are you doing?"

"You asked me to treat you like an insect." You smile at him, full of mischief and good cheer. "So I'm looking at you very closely. I'm taking in every sweet action, and delighting that the day has conspired to put something so wonderful in front of me."

Oh, who would have thought that this blue boy could turn so pink! As he pulled his hood up, you chuckle and move back to your tray. "I'll let you be," you say, and did indeed, for the amount of time it took him to close up shop and flee back to the depths of Ignihyde. When you waved at him as he went by, he nearly tripped in his haste.

~*~*~*~ "Stop laughing."

The boys did not listen.

"May others show you the kindness you've shown Idia if you're in a bind."

"You're just mad because she's gonna kill your-"

"Grim? Shut the fuck up. Now; who's helping."

After a chorus of 'no's, you drag your fingers through your hair. "I hate all of you so fucking much right now... Ortho, your ideas?"

Ortho's idea was deeply enticing but Crowley would not have the school leveled, and thankfully, the two of them threatened and guilted the others into helping. You'd have to say thank you later, but god, then Crowley might think you actually liked him instead of just finding him funny, and who needed that in their life?

"Alright, so... A plan?"

~*~*~*~ As badly as he might've liked to have escaped, there was only one empty seat in the class, and it was by him. So, Idia threw his hood up, along with his headphones, and started blatantly ignoring you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." A faint grunt and he turned away from you.

"Shroud," you intoned in the most sepulchral tone you could, setting you hand in his field of vision. He whipped his head at you, the fire in his eyes nothing compared to the changing colours on his head.

"WHAT."

You raise your hands in supplication, trying to still your racing heart. "I'm sorry dude. I wanted to ask where you got your screens?"

"My screens?" His eyes flicked back to his schoolwork, hovering in the air. "I made them myself."

Your face lit up in awe. "That's amazing dude, holy shit. How'd you do that? It's a damn miracle."

"Ah... well..." Two sides warred within him - pride that someone recognized his tech genius, and his deep seated anxiety that anyone trying to be nice was just fucking with him. Fortunately for both of you, pride won out. "It's certainly something complicated for a magicless normie like you to understand." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Do you really want to hear?"

You fixed him with a level look. "Never call me that again. Now, start like I'm five and go from there."

He stared back at you, and you stared right back. "Indulge me, Idia."

He gave you a smile full of sharp, crooked teeth, and while you tried to still the palpitations the sight of them gave you, he started with very basic theory, and went from there.

~*~*~*~ "You are not going to seduce the ghost bride, Yuu."

"Why the hell not?"

"You're a girl?"

"You're kinda plain."

"You're fat."

"She's probably straight?"

You point in turn at Leona, Azul, Vil, and Kalim. "So?, no I'm plenty hot actually, get fucked, and... Okay, That is a good point. But Kal, you have no idea how many straight girls I've managed to kiss."

"I think you'd die, Shrimpie," Floyd said as he flopped heavily over your shoulders, giggling as you attempted to untangle yourself. "And you're short."

"Yeah, but you have no idea how hot I am when I'm actually try- Shut up, Vil - Like, I clean up so good you guys. I even made a suit a couple weeks ago -"

"That's convenient? Weirdly so?"

"I found suiting that wasn't moth eaten and decided to have fun, at least-" You finally escape from the noodly arms of Leech the Wild One. "Let me suit up and show you? I can be so sexy, you guys. Come on."

In answer to the confused silence, you took your keys out of your pocket and chucked them at Deuce's confused face. "Adeuce! Grim! It's on the vanity in my room!"

"But ghosts?"

"Say you're clearing out things so that we won't bother... No, actually just go the balcony way."

"You can't unlock the balcony from the outside without a lockpick, it only locks from the inside."

A moment of silence. "Lilia, what the fuck?"

He shrugged. "I moved everything two inches to the left once to see if you noticed."

"I wasn't imagining things?!?"

This'll take a moment to sort out, and the clock is ticking...

~*~*~*~ You truly liked the woods! Green and quiet. Full of things that crawled and scurried, little friends that squeaked and croaked and hissed. The occasional precious treasure of a small bone or edible mushroom. So, you were quite surprised when you found Idia, miserable, crouched beside a fallen log.

"... Skipping gym?" Going by the uniform, the most likely answer. "Or did you finally realize that outside doesn't always bite?"

He scowled at you, and you stifled a giggle when you realized that yes, he was actually covered in bug bites. "They should replace this with a mall."

"You hate malls. Too many people." You reached out a hand, and pulled him to his feet. Idly, you wondered if he'd let you try and fit your hands around his waist, but thought better of asking.

"Game stores are alright. No one bothers you in one, or in arcades. And." He stopped, as he brushed the dirt from his legs, before continuing in a mumble you only got the gist of.

"Me and Ortho will be your big, scary guard dogs?"

"... Who'll notice me with both of you?"

"Everyone." Because he's the most beautiful person in the room, and they'd be mad not to look. "Because you show up so rarely. It makes it all the more noticeable when you are out, so everyone pays attention." You held out a hand. "I'll take you out the back way so you don't get in trouble."

No dice. He held his hands in close. "I'll just follow."

"Alright. Why'd you go out this far in the woods with no map, anyways?"

"There's no cell service..."

"Clearly, we need to turn your blood into a wi-fi signal, instead of liquid sugar."

He huffed, but he did follow you, and was actually approaching a good mood once you escorted him through the Ramshackle gates.

~*~*~*~ "Hey, what did I miss?" It took entirely too long to get a single lock of hair to to a perfect insouciant flip over your forehead, even with the eternally stylish Sam's help.

"She's slapped everyone who went to propose, and when she does you're paralyzed for 500 years."

"Christ," You say as you adjust a pin on your lapel. "We have to get Idia back, he'll get what? A week before he gets the hand."

"She's so fussy!" yelled Grim. "You have to sing and have a dog and she hates poison flowers."

"Clearly, she has no taste." Honestly,you thought her taste was just fine, what with thinking Idia was the finest of the bunch. He was very princely, if your tastes ran to exquisite corpses with the personality of a neurotic goblin. "Who wouldn't want poison blossoms?" Tie? No tie? Tie? No tie? No tie. And unbutton. Leona wishes he had this chest.

"We know she has no taste because she chose Idia."

You chose to ignore that, and clapped. "Okay, Round Two!"

~*~*~*~ The truest tragedy of this school was that it was all boys. Not that boys were bad by any means, you certainly enjoyed them, but... girls. Tall girls! Short girls! Busty girls! Petite girls! Butch girls! Femme girls! Fat girls! Girls!

So many kinds of girls, and you, in all of your plump and handsome glory, were the only girl in an entire high school. Welcome to hell.

You accepted no gifts that came unvetted. You had friends ward the everloving bajeezus out of your dorm room. Grim was more than happy to test your food and drink for tampering, but it was exhausting. You at least knew that any food you ate at the Mostro Lounge was clear, but that was only because everyone was too damn scared of the eternally hovering Floyd to try anything while there.

 So, you eat a lot of vending machine snacks.

You've been standing there for fifteen minutes, trying to figure out the best combo with your limited funds, when someone coughed behind you.

"??? Oh, hey Idia." You stepped aside while he shuffled up to the glass and peered in. "Anything to recommend? I got this." You waved your bill in the air.

He only looked at you a moment before looking back at the machine. "That won't get you much."

"Ah, don't I know it. But it's all I got."

He still wasn't looking directly at you, but a smile started to creep across his face. "Get your bag."

"Wha-" He was already tapping out a beat with the keypad, blue sparks flying from his fingertips, the machine starting to groan and shiver. With a final note, the snack machine gave a final heaving shudder - and every single snack fell to the bottom of the machine.

He was so proud as he smiled at you, reaching down and pulling a single bag of gummies from the spilled mess. "You first."

And, as you stuffed your schoolbag and pockets full of thieved goods, praising his genius, his cleverness, his skills, he just glowed.

~*~*~*~ "I guess you were ahead of the game, Yuu. She hates that no one's dressed up properly. And..."

"And? You raised an eyebrow at Ace.

"You do look stylish. But you need backup."

"Of course. You'll all rescue people while I distract her!”

"But what if she slaps you?"

"You'll step in if that happens. But we have to dress you all up."

"Did you makes spares?"

"No." Tragic, everyone would look so cute in summerweight green wool. "Let's ask Sam, he's got everything."

~*~*~*~ "Okay, Ortho, you see?" You held his back to your chest, and raised your hand in front of his face, palm away from him. As you wiggled your fingers, you could see movement on the back of your hand. "Those are tendons. Those, and the muscles, are what move the bones, make your hands move. If you put your fingers here," you say as you place his fingertips over the moving lines, "you should be able to feel it."

"I do! They go up and down. What's the popping?"

"That's my faulty joints, we'll cover those another day. Now," you flipped your hand over, and moved his fingers to your wrist. "You feel that?"

"That is your pulse! It's not as string as it should be."

"I'm not always in the best of health. So, Ortho. My hand moves by muscles and tendons when I think of it. My blood moves through my body, one beat at a time, and you can feel it. Right?"

"Right."

"You," you say, as you take Ortho's other hand. "Your hand moves by motors and servos, when you think about it. Electricity and magic moves through your body, in beats so fast we can't perceive it, and it's as measurable as my pulse."

"... Because I am a robot."

"Because you are a bit different. But we're both alive, we're both real, just in different ways." You turn to look at Ortho directly, and he looks back at you with yellow eyes that are actual, real lamps. "Don't let anyone ever say you're not real, or alive, or good enough, just because you're different."

And though you can't see it, you can feel Idia smiling from the corner of his room.

~*~*~*~ Alright. No more time for memories, only the here and now. You've got a heart full of love, a pocket full of ring, and a head full of stupid. You're as prepared as anyone else who went in. Start on your left foot, and...

"Hello? Excuse me?" You make a cursory knock at the doorframe before stepping in. "I heard there was a wedding."

The bride - Eliza - whirled on you, and stopped. She was even more of a vision in person, airy translucence and fine, sweet features currently arranged in confusion. "Ah- Yes! I'm getting married to my darling Prince Idia! Right away, so-"

Not if I have my way about it, you thought to yourself as you arranged yourself in a perfect bow, one hand behind your back. You pretended not to notice Idia trussed up with rope, but you filed the sight away for later. "How wonderful. I wish you only happiness. But it must wait."

Before she could get her hand ready, you straightened and fixed her with your best smile. "My dearest princess, I cannot let this happen until I dance with the most beautiful person in this room. It would be improper to do so with a newlywed, and I cannot know peace until I dance. Would you be so kind, my fair princess?"

She was still baffled. "Aren't you a girl?"

You keyed up the brightness. "I am, and I dance very well. Would you indulge me, my dear?"

You could see her considering it. "You... are rather princely. Can you lead?"

"Of course. May I?" Again with the bow, and to your delight, she returned with a flawless curtsy. Hand in hand, you began.

~*~*~*~ It was delightful, to dance with this silly ghost girl. Everywhere your bodies touched, from her hand in yours to what would have been a fine chest, but was instead a clean and elegant ribcage festooned with pearls, heat seeped away and left only a chill as cold as clay. Her footwork was flawless, considering she no longer had feet, and she was so easy to chat with. She asked you about your dog (none currently, but you'd love to have one, and there was Grim in the meantime), your singing, (little voice to speak of, but that was what vocal coaches were for), and why you wanted to dance with her (because when would the chance ever come again? Unless fairest Eliza considered her for forever and a day.)

"But what of dear Idia?" She'd almost looked towards where Idia no longer was, having been unknotted long ago, but you drew her back in before she could notice the chaos around her.

" 'Dear Idia', though as beautiful as the moon in the sky, has cold feet, my love. He's afraid of dying. But I? I'd cherish you for all of eternity." You leaned in closer. "I am not afraid of dying, beloved. To journey with you through realms beyond mortal reach. I can think of nothing more exciting than to cross the barrier to the other side, hand in hand with you. In the words of a fine sir from my home, 'to die by your side/the pleasure, the privilege is mine'. Please, please consider me, please..."

Here's how it should have gone: She said yes, and you put the ring on her finger, and all was well. But you'd awakened such a sweet hunger in her, she could not wait for propriety. Instead, she grasped your face and kissed you with the passion of five hundred years search, found.

~*~*~*~ It was so pleasant at first, that you couldn't help but return it. When had anyone ever kissed you with such passion? But quickly, the chill began to overtake you. It could have been bearable, but after that was pain. You started to shake, uncontrollably, as every nerve in your body was scraped away with a rusty blade, and as you weakly tried to push away, as blood began to flow from your eyes, your mouth, every pore and orifice, she still would not let go. All you could think was it hurts it hurts it hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts and, as you slipped to a grey place beyond where pain could touch you, you barely noticed the cacophony around you, or something hurtling towards the two of you from the corner of your eye.

Something blue.

~*~*~*~ When you finally woke up, through a drugged and painful haze, you couldn't tell where you were. When you jolted up, the pain of it sending you into a nauseated fit of blood-flecked coughing, a familiar yelp sounded, and you turned to see Idia, little the worse for wear.

"You're up, uh..." He fumbled something onto the table, behind his back. "I."

You just looked. At him, at the surroundings. A hospital bed, with gifts and flowers (most filched from the wedding venue, but someone had stuck Jade's poison blossom into a vase and set it in the far corner). Idia was the only one present, seeing as it was the middle of the night.

"Ortho's getting things you might need. I... I hate hospital scenes..."

"Hurt's over.” You tried to settle yourself more comfortably, failing miserably. “Here comes the comfort." You reached out a hand, as he looked anywhere in the room but you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." More silence.

"Shroud." He hesitantly placed his hand in yours, tinting pink as you pulled the sleeve up. The sight of it made you gasp. His fine wrist, so small even you could put your fingers around it, was mottled with deep bruising, blacks and purples set so deep into the skin that there was crusted blood on the surface, despite being unbroken. It was so, deeply, incredibly...

Beautiful. It was all you could do, not to press your lips to his wrist and taste his pulse as it flitted under his skin. To clean the blood away with your own tongue and cover the marks that your hungry ghost princess had made with your own teeth. Not hers. Yours.

Really, no wonder you'd been so enchanted with Eliza. You're cut of the same cloth.

"It must hurt."

He jerked his hand away, making you both wince. "What the hell is wrong with you? They only reason you're not dead is everyone pouring so much healing magic into you that it exhausted almost everyone. I." You could see flickers and flashes of orange sparking along the full length of his hair. "I'm not worth dying for. Why?"

What do you tell him? That it was the right thing to do? That you wanted to prove that you could woo a pretty girl? That you didn't want him dead? That you were a possessive bitch that couldn't stand the idea of someone else having him, even if unwilling on his part? All were true, but what do you say?

It proved a moot point, as when you opened your mouth to say something, anything, something shifted within you, and the only thing Idia received was a gout of blood square in his face.

~*~*~*~ After you'd slept, you reached for your phone in the thin morning light. Your friends where texting well wishes and condolences, and explanations of what happened after you went down (It seemed Idia had tackled Eliza clean off of you, and after some chaos she ran off with her retainer, rending this entire day moot). Even more interestingly, you found a text from an unknown number:

- I'm still mad at you.

You huffed to yourself, and after a bit of thought, start to text back.

- Dude I'm so sorry about the uh. blood puke. - I'll pay for cleaning - Also you know, you could have just asked for my number a long time ago? - Like a normal person? - Who doesn't break into phones to steal said numbers while I was unconscious next to you, what the fuck dude - That's not what this is about though. - You've got every right to be mad - That whole day was traumatizing, and you didn't deserve any of it - I'd rather sort this out in person but if text is easier for you right now we can do that - One last thing though

You stopped, and thought Do I actually do this? and went what the hell.

- I still need that dance I went in to get from you

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome To Backwater ch.4 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch is settling into small town life.

~~*~~

Read Chapter Four on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

The rest of Stretch’s week went about the same way as the first few days. Work in the morning, movie in the afternoon, dinner with Red at night. After what Red told him, he’d been prepared to Groundhog’s Day his way through his next visit with Doris if needs be, braced for a few reminders until he made a good enough impression.

For their second meeting, he got another popcorn just for her, tucking it into the cupholder on the opposite side of her seat. She was barely formed before she was leaning down to breathe in the buttery smell of it and from that angle, he didn’t have to witness any of her less appetizing manifestations. He also brought strawberry-flavored twizzlers, bought from the store and smuggled in under his shirt since the only candy at the concession stand was raisinets and those tasted like chocolate-covered dirt, no thanks.

He wasn’t too worried about going over his entertainment budget. Red paid him yesterday and they hadn’t discussed an hourly rate, but a hundred bucks under the table wasn’t bad for a few hours work a day, especially since Red had recently taken more of an interest in feeding him. Seemed he’d taken his brother’s order to look after Stretch pretty seriously and he started leaving packets of donuts on the counter in the morning or little boxes of sugary dry cereal to munch between customers. In the evening, Red dragged him back to his apartment at night for more Wheel of Fortune and food, either deliciously left by his unseen brother or frozen dinners.

It made Stretch feel even more like a scrawny lost puppy found in a parking lot, but he couldn’t say Red’s sudden adoption was unwelcome, especially since it meant less of his dwindling funds were wasted at ‘Mama’s’ getting takeout. Not that he couldn’t access his bank account, even Backwater had an ATM at the gas station, but the second he popped that plastic into the slot, he’d be advertising where he was. Better to save that as his last measly dollar, ‘hail Mary’ pass.

After indulging in her popcorn vice, Doris sat back up to her normal prim posture and there was a certain restrained excitement in her voice as she said, “You came back.”

“’course i did,” Stretch said from around his current twizzler even as he nursed a secret delight at being remembered. “i said i would, didn’t i?” He wondered what other friends she’d made and possibly forgotten, aside from Red. Maybe she thought she’d been alone all this time when she actually had others who came to see her on the weekends?

Whatever the truth was, there wasn’t much point in asking. Not like she’d know the truth, anyway, and Stretch wasn’t planning on ghosting her. Her smile was Mona Lisa subtle and probably held as many unspoken secrets, and that was fine. Stretch wasn’t a guy to pry. They sat together through ‘The Road to Morocco’ and he didn’t even mind when Doris hummed softly through all the songs.

On the third day since their haunting introduction, she appeared before the movie started while he was playing ‘Candy Crush’ on his phone and pointedly ignoring the messages piling up. She looked fascinated, watching the flickering lights from the game. “What is that contraption, Stretch?”

Hey, points for being remembered again, but then, he’d been here every day so far. He wondered idly how it would go if he took a day or two off.

Stretch held his phone out to let her get a better look. “you ever have a telephone in your house?”

“Of course,” she said, but her eyes, both pale blue and ghostly pale at the same time, were on the android, “My parents were on the exchange. Mama used to call Central all the time so she could chat with the ladies’ in her church group.”

Stretch wasn’t quite sure what that all meant, but the movie was starting soon so there wasn’t time to ask. “well, this little gadget is a kind of a phone and a camera, plus a few other things on top.”

Probably better not to bring up the deal with the internet just yet.

Her eyes went wide and round, without an ounce of disbelief. “You can take photographs with that?”

“yeah, sure. here.” He turned it on selfie mode and tipped his head her way, waiting until he was sure to catch her good side before pushing the button. One click later and there was his grin and her translucent open-mouthed astonishment, frozen in time. He held out the phone so she could get a good look. “see? i can get it printed later, but for now, we can see how it looks.”

“That’s wonderous,” she whispered in hushed awe. “You don’t even have to wait to develop it!”

“yeah, it is pretty cool.” It was, honestly. He didn’t really think about it too often but carrying around a little supercomputer that also took pictures was actually pretty wonderous. He remembered getting his first phone when they came to the surface, a huge upgrade from the taped-up flip phone he’d scavenged from the dump. Playing with all the apps, taking tons of pictures of him and Blue. He’d forgotten that wonder when it all became commonplace and it was nice to have a reminder.

Doris reached out as if to touch, but her finger passing through the screen. Her hand fell away and she didn’t look happy anymore, more pensive, her delight fading as some other thought filtered in and force it to sink.

He wondered if the culture shock was kicking in. He asked, low, “you okay?”

“Yes, of course.” She pulled out a hankie and dabbed at her eyes. “I simply haven’t seen myself in, oh, a very long time, I think.”

Shit, he hadn’t thought of that. She probably hadn’t made too many trips to the ladies’ room in the past few decades and now he was double-glad he hadn’t accidently caught one of her bloody ‘flickers’, she didn’t need to see that. “i’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t be sorry,” she assured him, “I’m happy to have seen it.” She smiled then, pretty as a picture, “you’re a good friend.”

“trying to be.” For as long as he could, anyway. The lights started to dim and Stretch tucked his phone away. They both settled into their seats to watch ‘Casablanca’, him munching on his popcorn, her giving hers the occasional sniff, and both of them ended up sniffling as Sam played ‘As Time Goes By’, Stretch into his sleeve and Doris into her lace-edged hankie.

He didn’t know what past lover Doris was thinking about, but he hoped it was a nice memory and not one that helped her on her brutal path over to the other side. His own memories were more bitter than sweet, and he replaced both with more butter-soaked popcorn. At least that was a taste he could stand.

~~*~~

The store opened late on Sundays and closed early, only staying open long enough for anyone who needed a quick pick up or a treat for their kiddos after church. Stretch didn’t have the slightest interest in religion, not even his own, but he listened for the deep clang of the church bells gonging through the town announcing the mass exodus, and rang up all the Humans that came in dressed in their Sunday best.

At least none of them seemed to hold his lacking against him. Their smiles as they paid for the ice cream treats that their kids were already devouring were the same as they’d been all week and the only raised voice in the shop was a mother admonishing her son to ‘Be careful of that nice shirt, Billy, don’t you be getting chocolate down your front!’

By the time he hung up the closed sign at three on the dot, there hadn’t been a customer in nearly an hour anyway. Probably everyone was holing up at home for an early supper out of the scorching heat. He swept the floor, locked the door, and that was done. He wandered back to Red’s apartment in hopes of a little early supper of his own, knocking briefly before stepping inside, “red?”

“out here,” floated back to him. The door that led to the backyard was open, only the screen keeping the humming insects at bay. Stretch went out on the porch where Red was sitting in one of the rickety rocking chairs he kept back there. His leg was propped up on a scruffy cushion atop a low stool, the pantleg oddly deflated and his shoe lying beneath the rocker. Next to him was a small cooler with beers floating in a shallow pool of water and the remnants of ice cubes. Dangling from his loose fingertips was a smoldering joint, faint wisps of pale smoke trailing from his darkened eye sockets.

Stretch went out, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. There was a sofa on the back porch even more ancient than the one in the living room and it puffed up a cloud of dust when Stretch flopped down on it. “you’re letting out all the cold air,” Stretch said.

Red snorted loudly, “you ain’t paying for it.”

“that is true,” he agreed. “i don’t pay for a lot around here, ‘cause you are a generous soul. speaking of,” he waved a vague hand at the joint that was nearly falling out of Red’s fingers, “gonna share that, too?”

Red didn’t even look in his direction, only blindly handed over the roll. The first hit was skunky-sharp, the smoke burning in his ribcage in a way that plain tobacco just didn’t, and Stretch was careful only to take a small toke to start. Red was the kind of asshole who either got cheap shit to match his cheap beer or he’d get the sort of weed that would have Stretch afraid to get up from the sofa because he might fall off the world. Better to start slow and figure it out from there.

Turned out to be somewhere in the middle and left him in a perfectly mellow buzz, all his stressors suddenly distant and unimportant. Stretch lived up to his name by sprawling out as far as he could on the moldering sofa, his sneakers dangling off the arm as he and Red passed the joint back and forth.

“ain’t bad, yeah?” Red said lazily. He took another toke, breathing out words and smoke, “ain’t legal here, yet, but the sheriff is one of my poker buddies.”

Stretch twisted to look at him, “seriously?”

“nope, but his kid is the one selling, so i figure he don’t mind.”

Stretch wasn’t sure if any part of that sentence was true and couldn’t be bothered to care. Blurry reality was so much better than having it sharp and in focus. The haze dug in deep beneath the surface, settling right and making itself at home. That was probably the only reason Stretch asked, bravely thoughtless, “so, why did your brother want me to leave town?”

“ehhhhhh," Red drew the sound out like it was a word of its own, his chair creaking on the dry wood of the porch as he rocked back, "he's jus' paranoid. folks that ain't used to backwater can get into trouble here sometimes."

“yeah, i can see how a town with only one bar can be loaded with problems,” Stretch snorted, “the locals aren’t as generous with their beer as you?”

“you’d be surprised at the kinda trouble you can find in a small town.” That sounded a little more bitter than expected and Stretch glanced at Red to see what kind of lemon he was biting down on. But Red wasn’t chewing on anything; instead, he was tugging at his pant leg, clumsily rolling the denim up. Stretch started to look away, didn’t want to make his landlord and new weed dealer uncomfortable but Red only let out that rough, scoffing laugh of his. “may as well look if you’re gonna be askin’ about the real shit.”

So he did, taking in the rounded nub of bone leftover from an obviously surgical amputation, the leg missing from right below the knee joint. Red only slumped back in the chair as Stretch studied it, giving every appearance of not caring. Unless, you know, a person wasn’t a complete moron and Stretch was at least one rung up. He could see the overbrightness in Red’s eye lights, the tight grit of his teeth, his jaw working even when Stretch fell back on the sofa.

Stretch asked with carefully affected boredom, “you’re telling me i’m gonna lose a limb if i keep hanging around? ‘cause when you offered to let me stay, i didn’t know the rent might be a literal arm and leg.”

A beat of silence, then Red chuckled roughly. The ice in the cooler rattled as Red reached in and grabbed a beer, loudly popping the tab and raising the can in a mocking toast, “heh, you got inches to spare, anyway.”

“only below the belt,” Stretch said, agreeably. “so what did he mean, then, that leaving isn’t an option?”

“eh, he didn’t really mean that.”

“he said it. leaving won’t be an option, that was what he said.” Stretch was a hundred percent on that, it was the sort of thing a person remembered very clearly, no matter how stoned.

Red only shrugged, rolling his shoulders with lazy ease, "toldja, he’s paranoid, is all. small town life ain’t bad, once you get used to it. folks settle in and don't want to leave. s'nice here, people are nice.” His sharp-toothed grin widened. “'m here, ain't i?"

“can’t argue with that." Stretch reached out and managed to catch hold of the cooler with the tips of his fingers. He tugged it close enough to fish out one of the beers. "does your brother live in town?"

"i ain't telling you where he lives,” Red said decisively, “ain't risking my meal ticket for your illusions of possible booty call."

Stretch choked on a mouthful of beer, thin streams running out of the sides of his mouth as he coughed, “i wasn't…" He broke off, stoned-stupid and too aghast to come up with a decent protest past the obvious. "that's your brother!"

"yep,” Red agreed, “all that means ‘s i am immune to his charms. don't mean i can't see 'em and you was staring at his ass like you wanted to take it for a lil’ test drive. telling ya right now, that ain’t a good idea.”

Stretch slumped down further on the sofa, sulkily muttering out, “the quality of your brother’s ass notwithstanding, i promise you, i am not on the lookout for any kind of call, booty or otherwise.”

“good,” Red grunted, “while we’re having this little soul to soul, you wanna tell me exactly what you’re running away from that got you all the way out to this neck of the proverbial woods? i can guess at the basics, but the finer details elude me.”

"digging out the best vocab for me, i’m honored.” Stretch rested his half-full can on his chest, played with the tab until it broke off then toying with the bit of aluminum. “not really. i broke up with someone and it sucked. i don't want to talk about it." He slanted his boss/landlord a look, "that a problem?"

"nope," Red took another swig from his beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "man's business is his own, even when he ain't a man. already toldja, stay as long as you like." His easy voice went serious, weirdly intent, "one thing, though, them woods out there, you see ‘em?"

Stretch managed to lean up on an elbow, squinting out at the trees that were far enough away that the house regrettably didn’t fall under any cooling shadows. "yeah, it's kinda peaceful, i guess. if you like that kinda thing." Stretch didn’t, not really, the only greenery he was interested in was rolled up in Red’s joint.

"peaceful. sure. that's all fine and dandy, but don't you go walking out there at night, you hear me?"

It wasn’t easy, but Stretch managed to sit up, working at his wobbly balance to give Red the full weight of his disbelief, “uh. why the fuck would i?”

“didn't say you would,” Red said, a touch defensively, “just sayin’ don’t.

“no, seriously, why would i? do i look like the token monster extra in a horror movie?” Stretch let out an exaggerated shudder, “no thanks, no, no, no. no splitting up, no checking the funny sound in the basement, none of that shit. why, what happens if you go into the woods at night? ‘cause i’m cool with the town ghosts but i’d need a better door lock and a pay raise if you guys got vampires hanging around.”

Red gave him a strange look, his sockets narrowing around his bleary eye lights, "what the…no, you honey roasted nutbar! woods are bigger’n they look, i don't wanna have to dig up a search party to find your scrawny ass if ya get lost, is all!”

"seriously, me wandering in the woods at any time of day is the last thing you need to worry about.” Stretch wondered absently if that was actually a problem around here, people hying off into the woods at midnight, yeesh, might as well wear a ‘free snack’ sign while they were at it and speed up the process.

"great, i'll add it to the bottom of the list. vampires,” Red muttered in disgust, “fuck me.” Then louder, “mind me on this one, you hear? i ain’t your daddy, but i’m taking a liking to you, kid, want ya to hang around a in the land of the livin’ a while.”

That struck Stretch as absurdly funny. He started giggling and couldn’t stop, curling up on the sofa as he cooed, “aww, c’mon, daddy, you don’t wanna roleplay? if i do go in the woods, do i get a spanking?”

He ducked from the can Red threw at him halfheartedly, beer spraying out and splattering the porch, drying almost instantly on the parched wood. Stretch rescued it before it could soak the sofa, tipping the can back and drinking down the last warm mouthful.

“shut the fuck up and hand me that roach,” Red grumbled. He did, and they sat that way for the rest of the afternoon.

The sun was going down by the time they went inside, casting a bloodred glow over the horizon that extended across the not-so-distant trees. Stretch gave them a last look as he waited for Red to strap his prosthetic back on and head inside, maybe for canned ravioli, maybe for one of his brother’s much tastier meals. The leaves were visibly rustling despite the still air, heavy branches waving and creaking. Whatever breath of cool air that ran through the woods didn’t make its way into town.

Stretch shrugged mentally and followed Red as he limped his way through the back door. Air conditioning was better than breeze any day of the week, including Sunday.

~~*~~

tbc

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 147: Felix Felicis

The door would not open this time. Frank was the first to check, as he'd landed face first against it. He turned with a weary sigh, but was pleased to see whatever the three had been arguing about seemed to have mellowed out remarkably fast. Potter still looked peeved, but he went back over to Sirius and Remus quickly and the three were instantly smiling for the others' company again. He'd been of no bother in Mrs. Cole's office, just leaning against the door and watching rather than interacting with a distasteful look on none of them. It wasn't until Potter snickered and gestured up in here that Frank did too and took in the rest of the place.

They were in an unused classroom, chairs on tables and the desk plain, but there were birds circling above them all, at least a dozen.

"If one of them shits on me, I'll hex the lot," he promised. "If I never see another bird again when we get out of this it'll be too soon."

"That's a shame," Lily told him as she watched with wonderment.

Frank let go of his annoyance at once, it wasn't hard for how clearly delighted she felt, and none of them had defecated yet. "Would you like me to teach you the spell to conjure them? Little advanced Transfiguration practice never hurts."

Lily beamed and agreed at once, eagerly following Frank's movement.

Sirius got his opportunity fast enough when Prongs explained why Regulus was slightly red in the face and slowest to get to his feet. He wasn't really intoxicated, Sirius could tell that much, especially as their most recent turn around seemed to have worn off the majority of the alcohol. He was just buzzed and more giggly than usual while Peter bit his lip and watched.

"Not just going to stand for that are you Moony?" He waved his hand in the two's vicinity. "Prefect and all, surely you should go keep an eye on the situation!"

Remus rolled his eyes but guessed Sirius was still encouraging him to talk to Peter more than anything, going over regardless and engaging over the book as the three of them broke off every couple of sentences to launch more ideas about what all these memories could mean.

"You can't tell me it didn't bother you, the spell he used," Sirius said quietly, watching Prongs carefully. It wasn't a dark spell, the severing charm was used to cut through anything thicker than wood, but that was his point. If Peter had used the same spell on Moony instead of what Prongs did, Remus would have been hurt even worse, it might not have been so easily fixed in time...

James didn't answer right away, and Sirius nodded in some relief James had been downplaying how much it did bother him then. Prongs still spoke in a neutral voice though, "it's still the principle of the matter Sirius, I'm not angry."

"Nor am I," he was quick to promise, finally getting James to look at him in relief. "I'm just saying, I'm done pretending he doesn't bother me. I won't stop him from joining the Order, but I won't volunteer to go on missions with him. I won't avoid him, but I'm not going to keep trying to force anything either." It was not lost on him he still hadn't been able to help either of them in the moment, he didn't know what anyone else would have done, and that was still hitting him more relentlessly than anything. He didn't trust Peter's help, but he'd had no choice to let Evans fix up his brother while he kept Moony from getting a glimpse of anyone while he was freaking out like that. The last thing Remus had needed was to possibly start attacking himself or anyone else in further distress as he kept a vice like grip Sirius had been happy to take.

There was no easy answer he could have gone back to do again, and it was making him sick.

James nodded slowly and whispered, "that's fair." He reached over and thumped him on the chest, but Sirius could still tell he was sorry for his choice even as he tried to relax. It had worked out, this time...

"Same with Regulus," he added after a moment just to get a rise out of him, making James smile now.

"Good, he's a bad influence," he smirked.

"Thought that was me?" Sirius pouted. "Are you insinuating I'm a good influence?"

"The best," James assured. Both boys stopped their teasing abruptly when Quidditch practice was a fail, and what Harry walked in on next.

Sirius wolf whistled while James fell to the floor laughing again. They were all so exhausted, there wasn't a straight face left in the room as hilarity ensued for Harry's expense of jealousy erupting as he found Ginny snogging Dean.

"Doesn't really surprise me I guess," Lily straightened herself long enough to say in between giggles. "Harry's mentioned her once a year at least for some reason or other, it was bound to happen."

"Are you mad?" James wheezed. "This came out of bloody nowhere! He called her Ron's little sister a few chapters ago, now he's daydreaming about killing Dean he's so jealous! This is insanity!"

They started bickering then, still fighting off smiles a bit as they debated, and the others watched in a sort of gob-smacked silence for several moments before Regulus pleaded, "can't we change the subject? I've heard more than enough of this from Ron and Hermione all year."

"Aww, I didn't even think you'd notice," Sirius teased. "Have you even kissed anyone yet?"

Regulus went just the slightest bit red in embarrassment which could definitely just be delayed laughter, but held his brother's gaze, not breaking an inch to show the answer was no. He was starting to think he'd never want to with as much drama would apparently come with it all.

Peter mercifully decided to keep reading though, even amongst the still smattering of indulgent happiness that came from Harry's sudden concern about being in love with his friend's sister. Sirius caught Remus' eye from across the room and gave him a little wink, who grinned back remorselessly to his ever growing amusement. At least Remus never freaked out about this kind of shit.

Ron's following attitude wasn't as funny to hear about, and he wished he could just tell that idiot to go snog someone already if that was really his problem, but Harry's solution didn't feel better!

"Oh, Harry, no!" James groaned with the first honest flares of disappointment his son's apparent solution to help Ron was to give him his luck potion the day of the game!

"That's cheating that is, Hermione getting him onto the team is bad enough. What's the point of playing Quidditch if you won't rough it," Sirius scowled, trying hard not to say the words too venomously about Harry, but he really didn't appreciate what he was hearing.

The others were fascinated to see a line those two finally wouldn't cross, Lily was watching in open avidness now and Potter didn't even notice he had his sole attention on the book. Him and Black grimaced for every lucky break that occurred, and it was the least spirited game they'd ever participated in. Not one cheer for a goal saved!

Only Regulus seemed to notice or care for the fact Malfoy hadn't attended this game because he was out sick apparently, and his ever growing off screen problem was even more interesting than Quidditch for once.

They were all admittedly distracted by the after math of the game though, Harry's little trick. His two parents laughed hardest of all, and neither even seemed to notice they were so impressed with their kid. It was like a perfect melding of the two, a prank and a little underhanded moral boost by using a potion to solve a problem that Lily gladly would have done.

When Peter kept going though and they all heard how Ron celebrated with Lavender, the birds became a sudden worry Hermione's spell was going to lash out at them. Lily even threw up a shield charm, just in case they mistaked her red hair. Thankfully they did not, but nobody was smiling anymore when they did attack Ron in the book and Hermione ran off sobbing.

[carpstan]

hi @wasp-factor! i'm your secret santa. i just wanted to say how happy writing this fic for you made me - i love gakushuu too, even though i never had the chance to write about him before, hopefully it's in character. i know you like gakushuu/isogai, and i tried to include it in the fic (apparently i really like this ship, i never thought about it before). i hope you'll like it and, since we don't know each other, maybe we'll become friends. happy holidays!

Asano Gakushuu discovers the magic of Christmas

He had done it on purpose. There was no other possible explanation.

Winter holidays were approaching and the headmaster himself had given class A a social studies assignment about the influence of Christmas. Normally, Gakushuu would not have minded writing a paper on a topic that he deemed to be quite fascinating, but that was really not the case: the headmaster apparently thought it would be delightful to have everyone discuss a different aspect of the main theme, so joining all the students’ essays would result in a rich dissertation that would cover every little detail. The problem was the theme he got. 

According to the instructions he received, his task was to understand what made Christmas so appealing to people in terms of improvement of their mood and behaviour; in easier words, he had to investigate the odd phenomenon known as “the magic of Christmas”. Oh, and he had to provide actual evidence to support his thesis as well. He had to go on the streets and interview people. 

So, his father absolutely did that on purpose. Forcing him to reflect on a social event he considered not only pointless but plain out dumb, while also having him interact with random strangers who were likely just as dumb was an extremely clever way to torture him. Like that was not enough, he knew he could not complain about it with his friends, who he was sure considered him lucky and would have immediately said he got the best topic. The audacity.

It could have been literally anything else. And to say he was almost excited - no, not the right word. He was intrigued when the theme was announced. He had made some research on his own and he had stumbled upon an interesting article regarding the frailty of a consumist economy which revolves around a single month of extreme consumptions, he would have been ready and enthusiastic to write about it. Ren got that part instead. Now that was luck.

Well, he better start to plan out his actions. First of all, he was going to complain to his friends: they were not going to understand him, but he still needed to get rid of some frustration. Then he would start right away. The deadline was two weeks from then and he needed to get properly organised to avoid spending too much time on this project. The sooner he turned it in the better.

---

It was not going as well as he expected. He thought everything would have run as smoothly as usual, but he should have taken some factors into account. The problem was that for the first time in his life, he found himself in the unenviable position of talking about a topic he had no knowledge nor experience of. 

His father and he never celebrated Christmas, or any holiday to be fair. Their house was the only one in the neighbourhood, or maybe in the whole city, which was completely missing decorations. Once he was asked how he felt about it, and the truth was he did not feel anything at all. His family was not religious, and not believing in Jesus Christ sounded like a perfectly good reason not to celebrate his birth to him. He did not mind his house keeping its sobriety either; being exposed to flashing lights for more than two minutes gave him a mild headache, actually. He never thought it was sad, or whatever people said about those who did not celebrate, it was just behaving like usual in a time of the year which was just like any other period.

Still, he was having some troubles doing his deed. He had decided to start off with the interviews, since he knew from the beginning he would have had to rely on other people’s experiences, and also he wanted to get rid of the most distressful part first. That turned out not to be a good idea too.

Well, to be fair he did not have a choice. He just seemed to be particularly unlucky with the people he met. He tried his best to select those who looked more likely to actually answer his questions, but these last days also did their best to remind him the one thing he’s not good at: understanding others.

He wanted to develop a good thesis, so his intention was to gather information from people belonging to different social classes, age groups, gender, occupation and so on; he had thought that, if he had been able to analyse the phenomenon through different perspective, he would have also found the key to see the whole picture. Apparently he could have not been more wrong. 

Apart from being dragged down a rabbit hole of war stories and memories of a long dead man by an old lady, witnessing a college student have a full on mental breakdown and having a business woman tell him that her children were ruining her life and their expensive desires were driving her crazy - that would have been helpful, if only he had got the part about the economy - he received the same answers from everyone. And those were not answers he could work with.

A lot of his targets claimed that presents were the best part - both receiving and giving. It made sense, at least the part about receiving, because he really could not see the appeal of wandering all day through the streets - oh, the irony - looking for gifts and getting crazy while trying, and probably failing, to figure out what someone might appreciate. Again, it could have been an interesting take to explore for the economic aspect, but he should stop thinking about that.

No, the tradition of presents was actually a decent starting point, maybe it was kind of shallow and too closely connected with the intrinsic materialism of a consumerist society - okay, enough - and it was not completely clear to him why everyone was so obsessed with Christmas and not any other holiday if it was just about gifts, but he could make it work. What actually bothered him was the other answer he frequently received.

It was lights. People actually told him that they liked the little lights all over the buildings and all the other decorations. Lights. Was he supposed to say that what made the population radically change its habits and attitude in the month of December depended on lights? What is wrong with everyone?

Exchanging presents and “festive atmosphere” really was all he got. He could feel his average grade suffer. He was not going to let it happen, let alone because of a social studies assignment on the magic of Christmas. 

---

It was his fifth day of scanning the streets for someone who would give him some good material to work on. He had been reviewing his notes and the night before he had had an idea: it was his last resort, but time was running fast. Reluctantly, he made his decision. He was headed towards the 3E building and he intended to make a truce.   

When he did arrive at the building he could not find anyone. Class E was definitely odd, but how skilled each of them appeared to be at getting through that hell of a path down the mountain was beyond weird if you asked him. Maybe it was for the better, he thought. He would have found another way, he did not need any help, certainly not from them. 

Just as he was about to head back he noticed someone walking out of the building and towards him. Isogai arrived at the spot where he was standing fast, stopping at an appropriate distance before speaking.

- Asano-kun, I didn’t expect to see you. Do you need anything?

He did not look too happy to see him there, but he was very polite, just like it was expected from him. Isogai also seemed eager to know what brought him there, which was legitimate; he swallowed down his pride and forced himself to do what he came for. 

- Actually, yes, I do.

Gakushuu straightened his back before continuing.

- I’m writing an assignment for social studies about the social effects of Christmas and I need to interview some people. I haven’t received any satisfying answer so far, so, would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?

Isogai was surprised by what he could tell. Fair, he thought. He was not aiming at him specifically, but any 3E student would have had the same reaction. Or a way less polite one. He had to admit, he was quite content having met him: he did not insult him and sent him away, which was already a lot, and Gakushuu did have some sort of respect for him, if he could call it that. He acknowledged he was smart and most importantly he was skillful enough to be able to use his intelligence to do a good job as class representative. He was from class E, so he mostly despised him, but a little less than he despised the others. 

- Of course. What is it?

He had hesitated for a couple of seconds before pronouncing the words, and Gakushuu guessed he had debated whether he should indulge in their conversation or not until the very last moment. 

- Do you consider Christmas important?

Isogai pondered his words upon answering.

- My family is Christian, but I’ll admit we don’t give much weight to the ritual celebration. Apart from that though, we do take Christmas seriously.

Gakushuu nodded slowly. Not religion then. He had already figured that bit on his own, religion might have been a relevant fuel in the past, but it could not get such an effect in these times. It was time to ask the infamous question then: he really hoped he was not going to hear presents and lights again; this really was his last resort.

- If not religion, what is it that makes Christmas so special? How is it different from any other holiday?

Isogai took yet another pause.

- Well, it is the only holiday that brings my whole family together. On Christmas day no one is at school, or at work, and even if it happened before that we had to spend it in the hospital, we still were all together.

A small smile was forming on his face as the words rolled out of his mouth; he may have not even realised the corners of his mouth rising ever so slightly.

- We also usually get to eat a meal that is a little more elaborate than our usual, and since we cook all together too it’s another chance to spend as much time as possible with each other without worrying about everyday’s problems. It’s the one day we can live completely carefree. And since everyone else tends to feel more generous, they leave higher tips, which is convenient.

Family. Was that the key? It was the message that also laid under those college students who mentioned some dishes that their relatives were going to cook and that they were looking forward to eating. He should have understood before, he told himself, but he knew he could not. He just could not. He was never going to understand what it really meant, he knew because he had forced himself to do it before. Even those times he had tried to picture a cohesive family, he still did not manage to get past the notion that the concept of family itself is supposed to be on a higher level than most things. Why would something one had no control over ever be so important? How could relationships decided by casuality alone be more relevant than those born out of mutual choice? It did not mean anything to him. He was never going to understand. 

But at least he had enough material to write a good essay now. He could have just thanked Isogai and left, but there was that last sentence he had said. He did not think too much before opening his mouth again.

- Don’t you think that’s hypocritical?

Isogai now gave him a full, conscious smile, even though it had a shade he could not quite place: it looked almost sympathetic. He shrugged before finally replying.

- Maybe it is, but I’m not in a position to judge, if anybody is.

Gakushuu was not sure about what he should do with that statement. It was something to think about.

- Alright, that’s all I needed. Thank you, Isogai-kun.

---

Gakushuu did not write the essay right away. Instead, he took his time to adjust all the information he had gathered. He did not take any notes while talking to Isogai, but he soon realised that was not going to be an issue at all: he remembered all his words perfectly, he noticed, and he proceeded to write them down in the evening. 

Later, he caught himself thinking about that conversation more than once. They did not even say much, and he wished they had taken some more time. Speaking with Isogai again was something he would have liked; they did not have much in common, but he still thought they might have some interesting discussions, if only they had the chance. 

He actually ended up handing in his paper on the last day. It was not usual for him, or, to be honest, it should be said it had never happened before. He knew he had made excellent work.

---

It was not evening yet, but the sun had set long ago. The sky was clear and a soft yet glacial wind was blowing; Christmas lights seemed brighter when the moon was not high up in the sky, drowning the stars themselves with their overwhelming glow. After a careful analysis, Gakushuu was confident in confirming that he hated them, and the flashing ones still gave him a mild headache. How all those people could appreciate them was forever going to be a mystery. 

Mindlessly walking through the city centre, he was still thinking about that assignment. It had kept him occupied for a good portion of time,  and he was glad it was now something he did not have to worry about anymore. As he was passing close to a café, something at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He stopped by the side of the street, unsure of the reason, and peeked through the café’s window: there he saw Isogai serving a couple of elders with a warm smile on his face. He was working hard, probably, no, surely looking forward to spending the next day with his mother and siblings. The man he had just served handed him what looked like a very generous tip, and his mind trailed back to that one conversation again. He could not understand Isogai’s situation either, he had to admit it, at least to himself. At the moment, it felt okay. Realising he could not understand everything for once did not feel like a tremendous crime he had to atone for. It actually seemed to him that he could empathise with Isogai, just for a second, and despite knowing it was nothing but an ephemeral feeling that was going to be gone in a flash, it made him feel well. Maybe poor people deserved rights, after all.

Then Isogai noticed and his face went pale. Gakushuu did not immediately interpret that reaction correctly, but he soon became aware of what his presence there had meant in the past: he thought he was going to tell his father about it. 

Isogai excused himself and rushed outside to meet him without even bothering to grab a coat and started talking before Gakushuu had the chance to clarify his intentions. 

- Asano-kun, I know I shouldn’t be working but I really-

- I’m not going to report you to the headmaster.

Gakushuu interrupted him immediately. Isogai did look significantly relieved.

- I was just passing by. But since I’m here I wanted to thank you for helping with my assignment. It was an interesting conversation.

Isogai’s eyes were wide open - he almost looked like a deer caught in the headlights. But soon he started to warm up and reserved him a smile similar to the one he gave to the clients in the café.

- Oh, I’m glad I was helpful. It was interesting indeed.

Gakushuu could almost feel himself starting to smile in the moments of silence that followed, which he hurriedly broke. 

- Well, it’s cold. You should head back inside.

He quickly said then. Isogai was almost shivering actually, but he looked somehow pleased. Gakushuu suspected he had seen him smiling, but he could not be sure.

- Yeah, that’s right. Merry Christmas then, Asano-kun.

He greeted him; his smile might have been brighter than those Christmas lights.

- Merry Christmas, Isogai-kun.

He really did not despise him that much.

---

After leaving the café, Gakushuu decided to head home. The walk was not long and he deemed it quite relaxing. He was not paying a lot of attention to the familiar buildings of his neighbourhood: everything was in place, just as it was when he had left the house in the morning. 

Except there was a difference, a small detail that could have gone unnoticed and that most people had surely missed, but which appeared like a massive change to his eyes: on his house’s front door there was a Christmas wreath. It was small and quite simple, but it was there. He stared at it for what might have been a whole minute before snapping out of the shock and entering the house. 

He found his father sitting on the sofa reading a book like nothing had happened, but he was the only person who could have put it there. 

- What does it mean?

Gakushuu asked as soon as he arrived in the living room, without bothering to greet him first.

- What is it? 

His father asked, his eyes still fixed on the book in his hands. 

- The Christmas wreath on the front door, what about it?

- I don’t know what you’re talking about. 

Gakushuu stared at his father for a handful of seconds, before huffing what sounded like a “whatever” and going straight to his room. There, he allowed himself to smile.

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ At long last; a *very* belated Roaring Twenties Rarepair Exchange gift for the amazing @bobbimorseisbisexual (lazyfish), who prompted “Scis & Spies + Regency AU".

This fic was inspired by the show Gentleman Jack, which is technically set in the Georgian era but it's pretty close! It’s also the longest thing I’ve written in like a year, and my first ever S&S fic! Though it may not be apparent from the appalling lateness, I had a great time writing this; I hope you enjoy it too <3

Rated T. Mostly fluffy. Relationships: Scis & Spies (Bobbi x Simmons x Fitz x Hunter, polyamory)

Read on AO3 (3800wd)

The Jacks and the Gentlemen

Barbara Elizabeth Morse was a woman of a peculiar kind. She always had been.

Ever since she had developed the capacity to loathe things, for example, Barbara had loathed her name; in particular, the foremost. But the fact that she insisted on being addressed as “Bobbi” instead was merely the first in a long line of deviations she took from the expected norm of her assigned sex so that by young adulthood, she had permanently marked herself as quite the oddity.

Growing up, Bobbi had no interest in the banal niceties expected of a woman of her station, and less than none in frills and petticoats or tending house. Even learning the arts and languages and traipsing around her family’s estate on horseback became dull and boring after a time. What was the point after all, Bobbi reasoned, of broadening one’s horizons if one was only permitted to gaze at them from the safety and mundanity of one’s lace-curtained bedroom window? What was the point of developing a sharp mind if it was allowed only to consume and perform as it had been told? It was a gilded cage to be sure, but a cage nonetheless, and so Bobbi dedicated much of her life to spreading her wings and flying free of it.

To this end – and despite much protest from her hand-wringing family - Bobbi left the comforting cloister of her estate and travelled the world; whereupon she discovered and indulged in many a fascination that had been denied her for so much of her young life. She experimented with tailored coats and hats, trousers, cravats… She studied science and medicine, biology, strategy… She delighted in romantic challenge and chase and left many a heart broken in her wake. She was even married for a time, to a disgruntled British naval officer, but it didn’t stick. Few things did as, quite the opposite of bored, Bobbi became rather restless; all but consumed by the need to discover what the world held in store for her.

When came the news that she had to return home, it was devastating. Without the benefit of hindsight, it hardly seemed to Bobbi that there could be a new and equally enticing journey about to begin. Yet, she had never been one to be cowed by things not going her way, and so she held her head high – a little too high, perhaps, when she insisted upon driving the carriage home herself; fearing, not that she would admit it, that her recently-returned nightmares of the carriage walls closing in around her would finally come true.

Bobbi endured the talk of her home town with as much dignity as she could muster – and as both a woman of high class and exceeding stoicism, that amount was not insignificant. Still, she could not entirely pretend, to herself at least, that it did not bother her; the way they all seemed to talk about her as though she was the small one, the poorly achieving one, having done nothing with her life but travel and dabble in knowledge after knowledge. Even the ones she thought might understand seemed to be hopeful that her return was a sign she was ready to settle down, and the more times this was insinuated, the more Bobbi wanted to cut off her own hair, denounce all civilisation, and steal away into the night. She had the skills and the courage to do it now. The only thing stopping her was the need to rebuild her estate before her family’s finances collapsed entirely and left a few dozen good people out of work and home.

… Although, if she were being completely honest, it did not hurt matters that she had also been invited for tea with the newest and most curious of her neighbours, one Miss Jemma Anne Simmons.

Miss Simmons was a pretty young woman, but her arrival was making a splash in the papers as much for her scientific mind as for her elusive inventor fiancé, and her appearance of apparently Shakespearean beauty. So, as much as Bobbi had been weighed down by tired social occasion after tired social occasion with the socialites that flittered through town on the ever-changing wealth of this new age of industrialisation, she had a feeling in her gut that this one was going to be different.

That feeling certainly was not nerves, Bobbi insisted to herself as she stepped over the threshold of the Fitz-Simmons house – and then again, as she was announced and ushered into the parlour, to find Jemma in all the resplendent glory the papers had promised. The woman seemed delicate, refined, and delightfully feminine in all the ways Bobbi knew she herself was not and Bobbi – who had always been a rather brash sort – felt herself oddly humbled by Jemma’s smile.

“Good afternoon,” Jemma greeted, “it’s Barbara, isn’t it?”

Bobbi couldn’t help but cringe. “Please,” she requested, “call me Bobbi.”

“Oh yes, of course. My apologies.” Jemma curtsied a little – and was that a blush? “It’s lovely to have you, Bobbi. Would you care for some tea? Of if you would prefer, I can send for coffee…”

She reached for the bell, but Bobbi raised a hand to stop her.

“Tea would be wonderful,” she agreed. “Young Hyson, if you have it - black, with no sugar. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Jemma nodded, and began to pour. And yes, that was definitely a blush. Bobbi was even feeling a whisper of her own as Jemma added – as if she was trying to hide how desperately she wished Bobbi to acquiesce –

“I wonder if we might take tea outside this afternoon. I’ve been positively beleaguered with meetings today and I must see to my plants.”

A woman after her own heart. Bobbi smiled.

“Of course. We should stretch our legs after all.”

“Then it is decided.”

Bobbi’s heart dared to flutter in her chest as Jemma’s cautious hostess’ smile erupted into a beaming grin. The woman took hold of her skirts – revealing boots much like Bobbi’s own, rather than slippers that might have matched her otherwise refined ensemble – and took off out of the parlour door with great gusto. Finding herself drawn to follow, this time undeniably by more than her botanist’s interest alone, Bobbi strode after Jemma as best she could while reeling at her own spoonishness.

As they traipsed across the lawn, Bobbi marvelled in the delight Jemma seemed take at being out of doors, and drank in the prelude to the greenhouse – half snatched away by the wind though it was – with which the other woman was regaling her. Bobbi found herself entranced by Jemma’s spirited expression; the way she revelled in the trials and tribulations of seeking and transporting her large collection of exotics, unfazed even as the wind began to pull locks of her perfect hair from its arrangement and blow them unceremoniously into her face. And then –

“Oh, excuse me, Bobbi,” Jemma pleaded, and her expression narrowed into a scolding sort of glare. Bobbi followed the line of it and saw a ladder propped against the side of what appeared to be a disused chicken coop, and a figure hunched atop the rickety roof in an overcoat and goggles, fixing some contraption or other to the highest point of the pitch.

“Ho, Fitz!” Jemma hollered, as the figure lost hold of a tool and it fell to the dirt. He cursed.

“That’s Fitz?” Bobbi blurted. “Your Fitz?”

“You sound surprised,” Jemma noted.

“I meant no offence, it’s just – I’ve met quite a few of these entrepreneurial types and generally they’re rather… obnoxious.”

Jemma scoffed. “Oh, believe me: he’s plenty obnoxious.”

Resolute, she handed her cup of tea to Bobbi, hitched her skirt up a little higher with both hands and made a bee-line for the chicken coop, until she was close enough that her boots were in the muck.

“Fitz!” she called again.

“Yes, love?”

Fitz’s head jerked up at the call, and he saw her and Bobbi and apparently not the loose tile on which he had stepped. Before he could do any more than yelp in surprise, he had slipped and fallen flat on his back, coughing and spluttering and winded. His curls looked madder than ever as he lay there in resignation, and spat a soiled feather from his pouting mouth.

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma lamented. She locked an arm with her fiancé and hauled him out of the sludge. “I told you to wait until Mack could come down and help with all this.”

“Mack and I are building the mechanical milling machine,” Fitz corrected. “This is a sonic fox repellent. It’s just a prototype but – Oh, sorry. I’m Fitz, by the way. Leopold Fitz, technically, but please don’t call me that.”

“Barbara Morse, technically,” Bobbi greeted. “But please don’t call me that either. I prefer Bobbi. Sonic fox repellent, you say? Let me know if it works – I might have to purchase a couple for myself.”

“Well, uh, thank you, but um –“

“But Mack will be here any minute, dear,” Jemma interrupted, waving Fitz toward the house. “Go and clean up now. Go! Honestly.”

“Yes, dear.” Fitz rolled his eyes, but smiled at his fussing fiancé as he retreated toward the house. Jemma slogged the rest of the way to the chicken coop and retrieved the screwdriver he had dropped, setting it on a step of the nearby ladder in case he went looking for it later. Bobbi looked on with nought to do but hold the two teacups steady, and she was a little surprised to find that despite what perhaps should have been a heart-wrenching reality check - to discover that the most recent object of her affection was indeed happy with someone else - Bobbi felt nothing but delight. No jealousy, no despair. And, if anything, a redoubled sense of yearning.

“Sorry about him,” Jemma apologised as she returned to Bobbi’s side to fetch her tea. “He’s a lovely man, really, and very intelligent, but he’s not accustomed to being complimented by beautiful women.”

“Well, with you around you think he’d be used to it by now.”

Jemma laughed, and raised an eyebrow as she took a sip. “Careful, Ms. Morse, you’ll give a lady ideas.”

The delivery of it was coquettish, light-hearted, but still Bobbi couldn’t help feeling that she’d crossed a line. She thought of poor sweet Fitz, and her heart sunk.

“I- I’m sorry, Miss Simmons. I meant nothing of it. Just that… Mr Fitz is a very lucky man.”

Seeing that she had sent Bobbi skittering, Jemma hurried to backtrack so emphatically that she almost spilled her tea.

“Oh, please! No need to apologise, it is all in good spirit – It was I who misspoke without the proper context. You see, Bobbi – may I still call you Bobbi? – your reputation precedes you in this regard but perhaps mine does not. Oh, dear.” Flustered, Jemma paused to gather herself and suddenly wished very dearly for a side table on which to deposit the lukewarm, useless beverage in her hands. “You see, I have been known to uh, entertain the attentions of the fairer sex myself. Not only am I not in the slightest offended by your perfectly innocent compliment, but I- I’m afraid I must confess I’d rather hoped you were being flirtatious.”

Bobbi gaped. “But… Fitz? I couldn’t. You’re engaged. It’s- it would be-”

“Fitz and I have an understanding,” Jemma clarified. At least, she phrased it like it was a clarification, but Bobbi only stumbled deeper into her confusion. She’d only seen the pair interact for a few odd minutes and already the connection was clear.

“He doesn’t- He’s not in love with you?” That man? Are you sure? Perhaps she would have to rethink her own calibration for stoicism if he had managed to keep that a secret.

Jemma shook her head.

“I’m not explaining this right. It never comes out simply, does it?” She clicked her tongue, tutting to herself as if musing on a new location for a particular pot, and not resolving the several short circuits sparking off inside Bobbi’s mind right now. It seemed like hours before she finally began again to explain:

“Fitz and I have been friends for the longest time,” she said. “As we grew and discovered that each of us had rather taken to those of our own sex we thought, if we were to live and love as our true selves well then, why not make it a marriage of convenience? Of course, he went and fell in love with me, didn’t he – and I him, do not misunderstand me: by some very blessed coincidence, we are very much in love. But our arrangement still stands. Fitz would not take offence in the slightest if you and I were to… explore any possibilities that may… arise.”

“…Right.”

“I can see that you need some more time to process,” Jemma observed. “Well, if I haven’t scared you off entirely – let’s say no more of it, for now. Come. Let me show you the greenhouse.”

They said no more of it for the rest of the afternoon, and for several days after that. They wrote little notes back and forth, about tea and chickens and foxes and plants, and very much not about the other topic of the day. Jemma waited for Bobbi to broach it and Bobbi – despite thinking about the arrangement with increasing regularity as time went on – dared not. The exact reason for it eluded her; did she fear that perhaps she had misread something, and that Jemma had not in fact, meant what she had said after all? Did she fear being the other woman – as she had been asked and offered many a time by men and women alike who did not have such an arrangement with their partners? Or did she fear the opposite instead; that she had finally found someone as unusual and brilliant and queer in every way as she herself was? Perhaps even two someones?

No doubt, there was some combination of all three tangled up in this knot in her chest, but it was the latter that kept Bobbi going to her desk in the middle of the night, pulling out a pen and paper, and not… quite… putting… the words down.

Or putting them down, and crossing them out.

Or putting them down, and throwing them in the fire.

As she watched the pages curl and blacken, Bobbi could taste the bitter memory of the last time she’d found herself in such a position. She had few regrets in her life, but one of them was that day; the day she’d let (or rather, driven) her former husband’s last words to her fall into the fire. There had been a lot more anger involved that time around, she recalled, and no shortage of jabbing at sparks with the fire iron, to make sure she’d got every last bit. This time, it felt like a step in the wrong direction. Like she was waiting to release the breath she was holding, or for the knot in her chest to untie and it never would.

I fear I must, were the last words she could discern now, from the letter she had burnt. She reached for the poker with a tremor in her fingers, and gritted her teeth. One good jab, and it would all be over. Then again, there was a blank spot just there. She could save it, if she were careful – and quick, as the words were already shrinking before her eyes.

I fear I  

I fear

Fear  

And then they were gone. And her breath was still caught in her chest but she lifted her head. She may have burned her bridges with the Midshipman after all, but she could still remember that infuriatingly rakish daredevil smile of his.

“Come on, love,” he used to like challenging her. “A little fear is nothing to be afraid of.”

It was something that had always bound them; the rush of taking risks, the revelling in new horizons. It was every reason she had to have left her home in the first place; perhaps that was what had made their relationship last so long, despite the warning signs. And as Bobbi reflected upon this image of herself, kneeling at her hearth, clutching a fire poker with a shaking hand at some unearthly hour in the morning - and not for the first time at that - she had to laugh. This was exactly the reason Hunter had broken up with her and after all this time she had to admit, the limey was right: as much as she purported to be bold and confident, to love a challenge, she was a coward when it came to affairs of the heart.

But Bobbi was no fool. She knew regret, and she knew the value of a wasted opportunity. She had regretted leaving Hunter enough times in her life thus far; she dared not waste such an opportunity again.

So she stood, and reached for her coat. Never mind the nightgown, never mind ringing for Davis; Bobbi figured, she could tack a horse herself just as quickly and if she didn’t take action now the fear might just get the better of her. Perhaps the boots, though, rather than these flimsy slippers – yes, she should take the boots.

She pulled them on in a fluster, hopping in through the stable door, and tacked up in the dark as fast as her fingers remembered how. Of course, she could walk to the Fitzsimmons’ – they were only next door after all, just a little ways down the road - but it was far too late at night for that, and God forbid it would give her too much time to think.

Fortunately, Belle was fleet of foot and it was not long at all before she was clattering up the FitzSimmons’ driveway, her heart in her throat. There was a carriage she did not recognise in a nearby pen. Did they have a guest? Should she turn back? Belle whinnied low as if warning her, and Bobbi swallowed her fear once again. If she did turn back, no doubt she would find herself achingly alone by the fireplace for many more nights in her life, and as much as she treasured her independence, she didn’t want it to be like that. Not when it didn’t have to be.

Bobbi slid from the saddle, and as she tied Belle to a nearby post she spared a thought of gratitude that she had decided to wear boots for a little relief against the chilled and dewy cobblestones. With a deep breath, she approached the threshold, and knocked, and rang the bell.

Seconds passed, and though she counted them along their way they still somehow felt like minutes. Like hours. Bobbi watched every breath steam in front of her and after the third she closed her eyes and reluctantly wondered what it would be like to just give in to the dread, and forget the whole thing.

Just as she was on the knife’s edge of giving up, however, the door opened a crack.

It was Fitz, with his soft curls and his shirt loose and dishevelled, and upon recognising the figure who stood at his door, a rather bewildered expression.

“Jemma, dear,” he called, “I think- I think it’s for you.”

And so Jemma came to the door as well, and looked Bobbi up and down. A frown crossed her features, concerned and curious, as she ushered Bobbi inside.

“Are you alright?” she wondered. “I… hadn’t heard from you.”

“I know.” Bobbi bounced on the spot. With adrenaline keeping her blood pumping, she hadn’t realised it was quite so cold. “I know. It’s my fault. I meant to tell you so- so many things. I was flattered- I am flattered. Exceedingly so. I just…”

“It’s perfectly understandable,” Jemma assured her. “I should never have sprung something so… unconventional on you like that!”

“But being unconventional is why I like you.” It blurted out with no restraint, and Bobbi felt her heart warm when Jemma smiled. “And it’s not the- the arrangement itself that worries me. I suppose I thought you were mocking me; that you might not have been taking me seriously.”

“Bobbi.” Jemma looked her square in the eyes, and very deliberately reached out a hand to take hers. “We were very serious – and still are, if you’ll have us.”

Fitz nodded his agreement earnestly, and at last, Bobbi felt the knot in her chest begin to untie.

“Well then,“ she confessed, “I suppose my answer is yes.”

Jemma beamed, and clapped in delight.

“Wonderful!” she cried. “Won’t you come in for a drink to celebrate?”

“Certainly,” Bobbi agreed. The fear was fading much faster than she had anticipated, and she smiled at her companions with genuine warmth in her heart. “I would love a brandy, if you have it.”

“I’ll pour you a glass,” Fitz said, and scoffed. “If Hunter hasn’t taken the last drop.”

“If- who?”

Bobbi stammered, and let Jemma and Fitz usher her into the lounge without protest, with hardly a thought as she checked back over what she had heard. Surely it couldn’t be…

“Where’ve you been, lovelies?”

That voice, she knew it. The spinning, slightly drunken dance he was doing as he poured himself a glass. Even that scruffy beard, and the medallion of St Anthony that gleamed on a leather thong around his neck as he turned away from the fireplace and back toward the door - Bobbi couldn’t see it from this far away but she knew, she knew that’s what it was.

Apparently, he knew her just as quickly too, as he froze mid-dance and mid-pour and stared. Not too long ago, he would have made a snide comment to try and to get a rise out of her – speak of the devil? she could imagine he would say - and a rise she would gladly have given him. But this time he simply… stared.

“Uh…” Fitz wondered from the sidelines. “Do you two know each other?”

Jemma elbowed him, and hissed for him to hush, but it barely registered to Bobbi. She was too busy watching Hunter, waiting for him to burst the bubble of nostalgia and rose-coloured glasses she had no doubt shaded him with. Any second now.

Instead, he smiled, and held the last glass of the brandy out to her.

“It’s good to see you, Bob,” he said.

“It’s good to see you too.”

[franklyshipping]

Day 7 ~ Christmas 2019 Ego Fanfics

Day number 7 here we are, we're already a week in! Now let's see what happens when someone exposes a tickle spot in front of a curious android....LET'S DO IT!

TAGGING: @ed-edlee and @google-switchy-red

Have you ever napped in front of a fireplace? If you haven’t, then I seriously recommend it to you because it is a hell of a magical experience. The warmth doesn’t leave you for a few hours after you wake up, and no matter the surface you’re lying on whether it be carpet or wooden flooring, you never wake up with any aches or pains. The magic of fireplaces, you’ve got to love them. Ed Edgar was partaking in the magic currently, stretched out in front of the hearth, close enough to relish in the warmth whilst there was still a safe space between the guarded flames and the cowboy.

He’d spent the morning hauling in chopped wood, he’d been working hard and was relishing in the all the work he’d done with a nice indulgent rest. He wore only his shirt, trousers and suspenders, and was barefoot since all the traipsing about had given him quite a bit of cramp in his poor toes, but thankfully they were recovering. He wasn’t the only one either, Gooper had set up his festive nest near the fireplace and was currently letting out little gurgly, snorty snores as he too relished in the warmth. Soon though, another entered this sweet scene; namely, Google Red.

The android had found himself at, what was apparently known as, a ‘’loose end’’ with no real tasks on his agenda, and so he’d been traipsing through the household in an ambient search of social companionship to pass the time. Red let out a satisfied hum when he spied Ed Edgar, and wandered over; upon checking Ed’s vital signs and seeing that he was partaking in a nap, Red decided to sit on the floor near him and simply wait for him to awake. Red very much had the initial intention to wait patiently, since it wasn’t generally in an android’s tendency to become distracted in a human sense.

However, he and his siblings had been transitioning into the world of emotion recently, with the help of Oliver….so in this case, Red didn’t manage to maintain the patience he’d hoped to maintain. He found his attention being swayed toward Ed Edgar’s resting bare feet. Red found that he had developed a general fascination over the body of humans and often ran down a lot of his charge with late nights of research into the body’s systems and modes of function and such like; since he and his siblings were only fashioned based on the exterior image of humans, he couldn’t exactly use his own body as research.

When it came to extremities, Red was fascinated, particularly with feet. He was curious about how such body parts could be so durable in terms of carrying the whole body with movement, whilst still maintaining an intricate delicacy of structure as well as arguable tenderness and integrity of nerves; it was the ah….latter point of this that Red was thinking about as he looked at Ed Edgar’s exposed soles. He sat cross-legged in front of them, his gaze flicking between Ed’s sleeping face, and his resting soles. Logic was telling him that it would be rude to conduct a nerve experiment on Ed’s feet whilst he was asleep…but for some reason, an impulse in Red carried his hand forward….and spurred him to swipe a fingertip up one of Ed’s soles.

‘EEE! Hehey whahat the heck? Ya can’t tihickle a man while he’s sleepin’! That’s bad ticklin’ etiquette!’

Red was both delighted and amused by how instantly Ed awoke and squeaked from the light tickle, rambling in quite an adorable fashion as he rubbed his eyes and looked towards the person who had rudely awoken him. Ed’s eyes widened a tad, because he was certainly not expecting it to have been Google Red who’d spontaneously tickled him….and he was certainly not expecting to see the smirky smile that grew on the android’s face.

‘And yet I have heard the common argument that, by leaving your feet bare and exposed, you were implicitly asking to be tickled on your feet.’

Red wasn’t lying, he’d heard practically every single ego make that argument when it came to tickling somebody; if a tickle spot was exposed for a prolonged amount of time, then the person was asking for it (however Red DID realise that this only applied in the ego household because everybody had a common and known liking for tickling, and he understood that with anybody else in any other situation this would certainly NOT apply; the egos were simply a unique bunch when it came to ‘’tickling etiquette’’). At Red’s words, Ed flushed a light pink, rubbing the back of his neck as he let out a half-cough half-laugh.

‘Whahat….ah…heh u-uhh…th-that uh….that ain’t t-true….’

It was absolutely true. I don’t know about you guys, but I feel that whenever your feet are particularly achy or tired after a long day, your craving for feet tickles just somehow rises? Ed Edgar was certainly feeling that, he was craving touches that distracted him from the aches in his soles and toes, but he wasn’t going to readily admit that! He had a hard-ass image to maintain dammit! Red however, easily saw through the cowboy’s stammered lies. Ed inhaled sharply when Red reached towards his feet, but let out a pleasantly surprised hum when he felt warm fingers start to rub his ankles.

‘You need not be coy with me, what you desire is perfectly acceptable and understandable. Particularly today. I know you have been labouring all day for the household, for all of us, so it is more than reasonable to assume that after such labours, you require some care. Tickling your feet is a perfectly logical method of relaxation, the gentle stimulation could rid you of any unpleasant muscle cramps and aches you may be experiencing…’

Red spoke softly as he observed Ed, and felt a warmth in his core as he watched the man slowly start to relax at the preliminary treatment at his ankles. Also at this point, it was far more than Red’s intrigue in feet driving him to do this, it was also out of affection for one of his human family members who deserved to be rewarded for such strong contributions and work. Ed couldn’t deny that he wanted this, and hearing all those kind words from Red made him all the more eager to accept what he was offering. He looked to the android with a soft grin in place.

‘W-Well ah…when ya put it like that, I guess I can’t really argue with that sorta logic….’

Red smiled warmly at Ed, before taking his feet and placing them in his lap happily, he was very eager to get started. Ed had already let out a light giggle as he watched Red looking at his feet intently, analysing them and humming. After a few moments, Red looked to Ed with a playful smile.

‘Well firstly, I have concurred that you have perfect feet.’

Ed flushed a bright red, NOT having expected a compliment like that, especially since no-one had ever bluntly complimented his feet like that before.

‘O-Oh….th-thanks buddy that uh, th-that’s real nice of ya to say…’

Red smiled, feeling very content at having made Ed feel good about himself. Now, the android set about ghosting his fingertips over Ed’s soles, keeping his gaze fixed on Ed as he spoke.

‘You are very welcome. Now, your feet are particularly ticklish, aren’t they Ed?’

Ed let out a quiet whine, softly scrunching his feet at the teasy, ghostly sensations as he replied.

‘Y-Yeah….’

Ed’s smile was hidden behind his hands as he watched Red’s grin widen, and seeing that sort of glee from the android really amped up how flustered Ed was becoming. The android now set about tracing up and down Ed’s soles with all his fingertips, determined to tickle, but also to soothe.

‘Ahh yes, I see you have already scrunched up your feet from my light touches. See if you can relax them for me, so that we may start relieving any built up cramps by loosening up the muscles here.’

Ed was giggling deep giggles into his hands, trying to control his breathing as his bare feet twitched in Red’s lap. The lightness was already tickly as hell, but Ed wanted to try and fight against it so he could beat those cramps back.

‘Ohohoh jeheez ohohokayokayokay g-gihimme aha sehec…’

Red chuckled a tad.

‘Take your time, I think it is reasonable to say that neither of us are in a hurry for this to end.’

That made Ed snort into his hands as his eyes crinkled with his widening smile, he didn’t reply to Red, but the android could very much tell that Ed agreed with him. Red observed Ed curiously and amusedly as he traced up and down his feet, watching how Ed giggled and panted in an attempt to control his breathing…and slowly but surely, he managed to un-scrunch his feet. Ed let out a soft gasp amidst his gentle mirth as he realised he’d actually managed to do it amidst the tickling, which made Red chuckle.

‘There now, was that so difficult?’

Ed’s eyes widened as he spluttered very indignantly at Red, because it was in fact really bloody difficult thank you very much!

‘Yehehehes ahactuhually!’

Red chuckled, and decided to target his teasy tracing at the smooth balls of Ed’s feet as he replied with complete and utter ‘’sincerity’’.

‘Oh, please forgive me for my ignorance.’

Ed’s eyes widened as he let out a squeal, and for a moment Red saw Ed’s legs twitch in a way that suggested Ed was about to pull his feet away….but to Red’s amazement, Ed fought the instinct. It still really tickled though, and don’t think for one second that Ed didn’t pick up on Red’s sass.

‘Hehehehey! Dohohon’t y-yohou behe t-teheasy, th-thihis ihis meheant to behe sohoothing mehe!’

Red raised a teasing eyebrow at Ed as he retorted.

‘You were the one who consented to being tickled on your feet, how you react to the tickling is your problem Ed.’

….oh Ed was SO going to get this punk back for this…well, at a later date though, since the relentless scratching at the balls of his feet was occupying Ed’s focus right now. He covered his face entirely with his hands too as he giggled and snorted frantically; his feet twitched and his toes wriggled in the most adorable fashion too.

‘Y-Yohohou’re sohoho frihihickin’ mehehean!’

Red cocked his head at Ed, replying in a musing tone.

‘How so?’

Ed whined, curling up his torso partially in the hopes he could hide away even more as those evil, precise blunt nails just kept on scratching and scratching and scratching. The balls of Ed’s feet were one of those tickle spots that, if you just kept on tickling, they would just get more and more ticklish; this was something Red was beginning to realise as he noticed Ed’s giggles starting to transition into cackles.

‘Yohohou juhuhUHUST AHAHARE DAHARNIT!’

Ed exclaimed, cackling into his forearms as crimson blazed on his cheeks and down his neck, and this was a blush that even his magnificent facial hair couldn’t hide. Ed was caught between feeling tortured, and feeling like he was having the time of his life; it tickled really damn badly, but the aches that had been at the soles and balls of his feet had just…gone. He soon came out of his thoughts though, when Red’s voice came out rather lowly.

‘Well that’s not very nice.’

Red mock frowned at Ed, before deciding to inch his fingers up to Ed’s toe stems, planning to gently trace them since he figured they would both be very achy and VERY ticklish. Of course, he was correct on both counts.

‘YOHOU-EEENATTHERE!’

Red stopped, since he didn’t want Ed going into hysteria, his primary objective was to relieve him of cramp rather than provide him with more after all. The android raised an amused eyebrow at Ed when he saw that the cowboy had resolutely curled his toes, thus hiding the undersides of his toes stems from him…Red was certainly not going to have that.

‘Ed…uncurl your toes.’

‘Noho.’

‘Ed-‘

‘Nuh uh.’

‘Come on-‘

‘Bite me.’

‘Ed liste-‘

‘I will kick ya in your droidy gonads.’

Red’s lips parted as he crossed his legs with a soft pout, making Ed snort and hurriedly change his statement; he wouldn’t wish a kick to the gonads on his worst enemy.

‘Wahait I take it back I take it back, I would never! I love ya too much!’

Red pursed his lips at the grinning cowboy, but he did believe him, Red realised that the statement had only come about as a result of the somewhat banterous atmosphere.

‘Good, can we agree to keep my gonads out of this?’

‘Sure thing bud.’

Ed saluted him playfully with a giggle, which satisfied Red…before they then came back to the conflict at hand.

‘So are you going to uncurl your toes-?’

‘Hell naw!’

Ed had his arms folded tight at his chest resolutely as he kept his toes curled, shaking his head determinedly. However, Red wasn’t one to give up easily either.

‘Fine, so you are content with me tickling the balls of your feet for the foreseeable? Despite them being a tickle spot that only becomes more sensitive as more and more stimulation is applied? When instead, for a short amount of time only, you could uncurl your toes.’

Ed’s jaw dropped….god forbid if Red ever teamed up with Darkiplier; that would be a true tag team of malevolence right there.

‘….you’re an evil little shit…’

Ed muttered under his breath, before taking a deep breath, uncurling his toes, and screwing up his face in preparation for what he knew was going to come. And the tickling did come, but perhaps not in the way Ed had expected. He’d been anticipating swiping fingers and devilish scratching…but instead, it was streams of cool air.

‘Is this as evil as you were anticipating?’

Red whispered with a hint of smugness, before returning to blowing cool air against Ed’s toes stems, making his toes twitch and wiggle only very gently so as not to distress the muscles too much. Ed of course did squeal and giggle at the treatment, but arguably….it was soothing.

‘Y-Yohohou s-smuhug lihihittle shihit….’

Ed’s giggles were deep and warm, he had never thought that tickling under his toes could have been so pleasant; obviously he loved tickling, but when it came to under his toes it was only nice for a few seconds before it became unbearable. This was so…nice. Red smiled and hummed as he blew cool air under each and every toe stem, making sure he got calm little wiggles out of all of Ed’s toes.

‘I shall take that as a compliment.’

Red smiled when he heard Ed splutter and snort.

‘Yeheheah yohou dohoho thahahat…’

Red blew a bit of air in-between his toes as he cooed.

‘What was that?’

Ed squeaked and jumped, his giggles getting a tad higher pitched as he hurried to reply.

‘N-Nohohothihing!’

‘Mmm, that’s what I thought…’

Red kept Ed giggling and squeaking in the gentlest, most relaxing manner for a good few minutes, because it was the sort of tickling that you could just enjoy without getting too worn out if it was prolonged. When Red did stop and lean up and away from Ed’s feet, Red felt the strongest instance of joy that he’d felt ever since he’d first accumulated emotions. Ed was lying there, pink cheeked, with a broad grin on his face as he looked up at Red.

‘So….was the tickling satisfactory?’

Red was eager to know whether he’d actually managed to help Ed in terms of ridding him of any discomfort, and Ed’s grin only widened at his question.

‘It was….ihit was amazin’! But ah, don’t go spreadin’ it around okay? I’ve got an image to maintain.’

Red couldn’t help but let out a light laugh at that, before nodding softly.

‘I shall keep this interaction to myself Ed, you have my word.’

They both smiled, before Red had a little thought; he wasn’t quite used to the vocabulary and idioms associated with the festive holidays, but he was nearly certain that this phrase was correct to say.

‘Also….Merry Christmas Ed.’

Ed blinked a few times, before softly laughing and replying.

‘Merry Christmas to you too Red…ya wanna cuddle?’

Ed opened his arms to the android, which made Red blush a tad since the only times he’d been cuddled were by Oliver, but he nevertheless accepted. Red learnt a few more festive things during the season of course, but the one he came to cherish most was the experience of falling asleep with the lasting scent of chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

WOOO HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS NEXT FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DO WOOOO LUV YOUS XX

[eldonash]

Moth to Flame| Orobas & Roland

Summary: Orobas and his maker Haxian are caught by Officer Roland. Where in the past such a thing would have ended with another death, Orobas finds himself fascinated at the radiant, good heroism Roland naturally has. Things turn south as Orobas’ darker, sadist side surfaces, but in the end, surprisingly, Orobas wants Roland to live and lets the officer also save the woman. 

Orobas wanted to over-indulge tonight. Hunt the perfect person, and share them like a little snack with his maker, Haxian. In the past, they wouldn't be picky, grabbing someone random and uncaring of the environment and drain them together in an alleyway, or a car. Either leaving them near death and gently compelled or tossing them wherever and moving on. Back then, before the internet, it was easy to elude police, FBI, and all those government names with enough suggestions. It was even easier when emperors ruled the lands, and all they had were swords and a warrior's mindset. Now, with satellites and recordings, they did have to be a little more discreet. Right now, they had a beautiful, middle-aged business woman traveling through White Crest between on a bench at a bus stop. It was controlled and casually appearing. The moonlight was peaceful, and her laughter quieter now that it's getting later, and she was in a haze of loss life. Orobas had her hand in his own, dragging his fingers over each knuckle, and admiring her jewelry. 

"I don't get the allure of diamonds," he said casually, "the crystals Morgan brought me are more beautiful than them." 

Being new to town, Roland was still getting a feel of the layout and made it a point of going out to patrol regularly. It helped him get a lay of the land and catch crime as it was happening. For a town that’s population was a fraction of Boston’s, the death rate was alarmingly high. Too many of those cases were left unsolved for Roland’s liking. He walked through the dark streets, keeping an eye out for anything that was out of the ordinary though he found most of this town to be just a little strange. Small towns had a way of being stuck in time. It was quickly turning into his new normal. He liked his coworkers well enough and it was much more comfortable sleeping in a home that was previously shared with Isabel. 

As he made his way down the street, he saw an interesting sight near a bus bench. What were these guys doing to this woman? She seemed to be near lifeless and Roland felt the need to interfere. Something wasn’t right here. “Stop right there,” he said with a booming voice, “What’s going on over here?” 

Orobas rose a lazy brow at the man lumbering over, with his plain shirt, and surprisingly a decent body for his age. The vampire's lips and eyes were stained red, and he licked them as if contemplating if having one, more would do him any favors. His stomach was already swollen and quite satisfied, but sometimes Orobas didn't just want to feed. Haxian said gently in his mind, so nosy, as he nuzzled into her neck and hid his demon face. Orobas put on the airs of innocence, legs crossed, and gently draped her fingers on his knee with precise position to seem natural. "Good evening officer, are you patrolling these parts tonight?" he asked respectfully, "is there something for us to worry about tonight? We all are-- just waiting for the bus to arrive."  

Roland’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the scene. Was that blood on his lips? The woman seemed to be out for the count. The questions coming from the man left him slightly perplexed. This woman appeared very much unconscious and he was asking if there was other trouble in the area. It didn’t make sense. Bending his knees slightly, he made himself a little shorter to try and get a better look while giving the man an answer. “That’s why I’m out here. Nothing to worry about and I intend to make sure it stays that way.” Not seeing any movement from the woman, he asked, “What’s going on with your friend here?” If she was in fact conscious, she could speak for herself. Something about their set up had a very twisted feeling to it that he couldn’t quite place. 

When he bent his knees, Orobas thought how easy it would be to push him over, break his ribs and cut--. The lust of a gruesome slaughter was always within in him, a dark blimp that gave his species all the hatred, but made him in particular so much worse. His attention was uncanny and eerie, without a blink, or a twitch of dead muscle, almost a statue resting on a bench as he examined the situation. Orobas was old enough to lure thought, to suggest things, how much of it stuck wasn’t always easy when evidence was right in front of him. “You know they both drank themselves into a fit, on a school night as well-- college kids am I right?” he forced an inhale, and sighed. “I was trying to get them home but couldn’t get them on the bus, so we sorta got stuck here until they sober up.” 

Though Roland enjoyed a good pour of bourbon, he could never understand getting so drunk that you passed out. He always liked to maintain a certain degree of control that just wasn’t possible when you were passed out on a bus bench. If they were that drunk, they may need to see a doctor. In Boston, he’d come across several college kids who needed to get their stomach pumped. He shook his head and said, “It looks like these two may need a doctor then. If they’re passed out on a bus bench, they may have alcohol poisoning.” He bent his knees slightly to give himself a closer look. They definitely didn’t look good. Damn kids and their lack of self control when it came to partying. 

This man was out here doing his best, and it caught Orobas off guard at being struck with so much kindness in the mists of hiding the fact this woman was dying. Was this the best version of a human? A soul that held lawful good as their moral alignment like a torch against the evil before them? To make Orobas question if he should be doing this at all with only a damn glance. He watched every little wrinkle in his face move when it frowned at his lie and the creak of his knees as he bent down in trust. The concern made him nauseous, like walking near the hallowed ground of a church. 

How could he be so righteous? Orobas swept out in a blink of an eye. He had a long blade, with an ivory handle and silver blade under the cop's chin and against his throat. "You are noble; you know that? It's not even your looks, it's-- this goodness coming off you that is confusing," he shuttered, pushing for an answer. "How is it you are like this so easily and naturally?"   

Before Roland knew it, the man in front of him had a knife out. Roland knew something was fishy about this and felt his own hand reaching for his glock. The question threw him off. What was so wrong with being noble and good? This guy seemed pretty twisted. He wondered if he was one of those macabre cosplayers. “Not quite sure what you mean,” he gruffed, “You know, it’s against the law to pull a weapon on an officer.” 

"Is it?" he was astonished at the reaction and absolutely delighted, he flipped the blade away. He saw the jerk in his hand to reach for his gun, and Orobas wanted to hear it go off. "So calm-- how..." it almost growled out. If he had breath, it would be rising and falling quickly to expose his emotions. The fresh blood in him hovered under his flesh to give a faint warmth to his cheeks yet twisted, monstrous darkness in him curled around in his still chest, elongating his fangs, and his eyes sinking into a grayish tint of exposed death. "How-- did you stop that reaction officer? Why didn't you just hit and disarm me?" 

Roland’s hand still stayed on his gun. The knife may have no longer been at his throat, but it was clear this individual was unstable and needed to come down to the station. If he played this right, he could manage this without physical violence. At the suggestion from the strange man that he should’ve just hit him, Roland found himself shaking his head. “I had my gun ready the whole time. I try not to resort to violence unless the situation deems it absolutely necessary. Needless violence doesn’t protect and serve the community.” He was confused, but this man seemed fascinated that he was grounded in his morals. There definitely had to be some drugs at play here. He blinked a couple of times, he swore his teeth seemed longer and his eyes seemed changed. “Sir, I’m going to need you to come back to the station with me. Whatever you and your friends are making you a danger to yourself and others.”

“So you don’t just hurt people because you like it? Or because it feels good? Or because you get mad?” It wasn’t questions to be answered, so much as Orobas cataloging what he was seeing. To anyone, he would always seem psychotic eventually, his sadism was linked profoundly to his psyche and it spilled out. Right now, he could tell Officer Roland was ready to handle him, a spring, one touch away from releasing. As the human's eyes were on him, Haxian was gone from sight. A blur of motion, and a flutter of wings as a swarm of bats flapped loudly into the night sky. Orobas knew his maker was sedated and not concerned for him. The girl's body slumped with the missing person, and Orobas let her fall with a thud. “What defines danger to you Officer?” Another question, paired with an intensity as Orobas not once had stopped looking at the other. 

Roland was becoming more and more perplexed by this man. He was clearly on some sort of drug, but it was becoming clear he was more of a threat than initially thought. His grip on his gun tightened as he pulled it out of his holster. “No, I don’t like hurting people and it doesn’t feel good. I don’t want to hurt you right now so hands in the air please.” The other man on the bench seemed to have vanished. A trick of the lights almost made it look as if a bat flew off, but that was impossible. The woman was left slumped on the bench and Roland was almost positive that blood was here. This was much worse than your standard college kid party shenanigans. The barrel of his gun was pointed at the younger man and he sternly said, “Enough of the cryptic questions, hands up.” 

Orobas rose his hands slowly, eyes wild and excited. The white ivory dagger glistened between them, but he didn’t make a move to drop it. “You know, if you deal with me-- she will die.” The statement was truthful, her chest rose in pathetic attempts to keep oxygen in her dwindled bloodstream, but every second would matter. “Tick tock, tick tock, slowly, and slowly, she dies,” he hummed it like a tun. Then something flickered over his form. A blur of motion and he screeched, a ‘nails on the chalkboard’ sound that threatened to make his eardrums bleed. It exposed his fangs even more, and further transformed his features in an ashly haunting corpse. The monster, who was always well dressed, and hidden under the facade of amusement parks and loyalty rose up, the faintest flutter of wings above. Orobas Ash, in truest exposure, someone uncaring, cruel, and true evil would let her live. “You see I have changed a bit,” his head tilted, cohesion forceful but spoken with a dark tone. “Go on officer-- forget me and save her.” 

Normally, Roland would have prioritized the man who was clearly a danger to society, but something compelled him to go toward the woman who was quickly bleeding out. This crazed man was definitely someone who took the macabre stories of the town a bit too seriously, he could tell as much from the bite marks on the woman’s neck. He tried to fight his body’s draw to the woman and said, “You stay right there while I get her an ambulance.” He quickly knelt down and examined her further, she was bleeding a lot. He spoke into his radio, “I need an ambulance on the corner of 5th and Main as quickly as possible.” He ripped the sleeve from his own shirt and used it to press down on her wound to try and slow the bleeding. 

His gaze lingered on the thick curve of his neck as he turned to speak into his radio, the way he still remained calm, collected-- even without the compulsion was still confusing Orobas who wanted him to scream. The desire to cut his hand and press it to her lips to see if she’d turn into a monster was almost impossible not to want. But the officer deserved to save her, and Orobas had promised he’d stop taking so many lives. He watched just for a second more, before the shadows swallowed him up. His steps swift, and familiar, as he moved between the darkest spots and found himself in step with Haxian. “He might remember a bit of you,” Haxian warned, and Orobas shrugged. “I might just want to see him again.” 

[josiecarioca]

Hey 🙂What were some of your favourite things to write in "Post War"?

Hey yourself! :D Oh, dear, where do I even begin with this one… I think anybody who reads the stuff I write knows I love 3 things: diaologue, long inner monologue/train of thought and historical references. 

 Diaologue: here´s the thing, Snape is SNARKY. I mean if you ask anybody to describe him the word “snarky” will easily be among the top 10 or even 5 words they´ll use. He´s smart, quick, he´s absolutely done with everybody´s bullshit and he´s got a sharp tongue on him. The man can give you a brutal come back. So of course writing diaologue for him is awesome, but you need an interlocutor who can take what Snape can give. So I try to write Evelyn as a foil to that. She´s as quick-tinking and as sharp tongued as he is, but she´s much more chill and she´s got a more light-hearted type of wit about her. So Severus´venom doesn´t have much of an effect on her, other than she finds it extremely amusing. She engages him and provokes him just for the fun of it. And it´s a sort of dynamic I love, because it´s both fun and, in a way, sexual. It´s like intelectual foreplay. Which is just delightful to write. 

 Long inner monologues: kind of my weakness. I love character studies, and I love overanalyzing characters. Figuring out where the characters come from, what they´re thinking, going through their decision process, it´s just fascinating, and I´m the first to admit I over-indulge on it. Since I chose to start “Post War” from where Snape´s story ended, there´s a LOT of back story to address. In canon Snape is only ever seen trhough the eyes of others. So if I am to shift the focus and have him be the protagonisty of his own tale, I need to address a bunch of things canon left unsaid. I need to go back into his past and pull everything back so I can write how it all affected him and who he is in my story. Then you have Evelyn, who´s an entirely new character. How do I flesh out a new character, when I´m already working with a pre-existing character? How do I fit her into this universe? How do I let the reader know who she is, and what are her struggles? Same way I do with Snape, I pull her past back and go inside her head. 

 Now historical references. I purposely chose to make Evelyn a medievalist, and I also purposely chose to have Salazar, Rowena and Helena featured in this story because, simply said, I love history. I majored in history, I went back for a masters in history, I read history in my free time. I just love it. And I feel like wizarding history should play a larger role in the HP universe. Because there´s so much in terms os social structure, habits and social conflict in this universe that needs historic persperctive. The idea of adding a Muslim-Medieval Spain angle came out of left field, and it´s just because it´s a historical period I personaly enjoy. But I do think adding these sort of “Indiana Jones-esque” aspects to a story that already has political elements and features espionnage heavily (the boring kind of inteligence and research based espionnage but stiil) gives the story a more layered, more epic kind of “texture”. (I should add “writing smut” to this list, but nah…I´ll behave)

[trespeak]

What's your favorite house album?

Wow, that’s a toughie. Might just have to give you a list instead.

This ended up being pretty long so I’ve put all the big descriptions I wrote for each of ‘em under the cut, but here’s the gist:

Daft Punk, Discovery (2001)

Kaskade, Fire and Ice (2011)

deadmau5, For Lack of a Better Name (2009) and 4x4=12 (2010)

Phantoms, Phantoms (2017)

Justice, † (2007) 

Lazy Rich’s singles

Porter Robinson/Virtual Self – Spitfire (2011) and Virtual Self (2017)

I like a lot of deep house and electro house, so most of my picks here are within either or both of those subgenres (as well as progressive house, in deadmau5′s case).

For more of my thoughts (and there are many!), see below.

Daft Punk, Discovery (2001)

Accept no substitutes. For Guy-Manuel de Homem Christo and Thomas Bangalter, making quality tunes seems to just be second nature. Their second album replaces the underground, city-street feel of Homework with a shiny, discotheque-ready sound that stands on the shoulders of giants but does so as a means of updating and widening the reach of their own influences (with “Harder Better Faster Stronger”’s use of “Cola Bottle Baby” as a perfect example thereof). My favorite track on the record, “Digital Love,” perhaps only barely qualifies as house, but between the earnestness of the vocoded lyrics and the heart-stopper of a guitar solo, I don’t even mind – who cares about genre conventions when you’re a smitten robot? It’s utterly brilliant and its era exists as the gold standard for many DP fans, myself included among them.

Kaskade, Fire and Ice (2011)

Ryan Raddon’s seventh album and the one I hold the most nostalgia for. An ambitious effort on Kaskade’s part, Fire and Ice is a double album, with original tracks on one side and remixed, chilled-out versions of the same songs on the other (geddit?). The ICE mixes are something of a mixed bag, with some having more reason to exist than others, but the Fire side of the album earns it a place here on its own, with Skrillex and Raddon giving us their own brilliant take on a classic track from Guy Manuel de Homem Christo on “Lick It,” as well as the smooth vibes of Ryan’s collaboration with his band Late Night Alumni and Inpetto on “How Long.” Another standout track: “ICE,” a big, bumping jam Ryan made with Dan Black and Dada Life.

deadmau5, For Lack of a Better Name (2009) and 4x4=12 (2010)

Oh, Joel. These days he’s earned a controversial status as full-time internet troll alongside his career as a musician, but he’s still had a palpable impact on the industry at large (pop juggernaut Marshmello more or less owes his entire career to the allure of the man in the cute mask, and while Daft Punk did it first, Mello’s own interpretation is particularly and explicitly influenced by the way deadmau5 did it). These two albums dropped when I was twelve/thirteen and still opening my eyes to the wide world of electronica, and I think they’re particularly significant as the point where I went from being a casual fan of it to a devotee, sparking an investment in the Scene® that I still have to this day. The degree of control Joel flexes over his work at its peak was unprecedented for the time and still holds up now – “Strobe,” the album closer on For Lack Of, is particularly notable in how it makes ten minutes feel like no time at all in how it builds and shifts with just a few simple, powerful elements in play at a time. “Ghosts ‘n Stuff” earned Joel and vocalist Rob Swire a crossover hit, and “Raise Your Weapon” stands as an early illustration of what the North American take on dubstep would sound like in the years to come. 

Phantoms, Phantoms (2017)

Kyle Kaplan and Vinnie Pergola’s debut record is a clever mission statement for their work. Their deep house tunes are infused with pop sensibilities, placing them in company with contemporaries like Jamie xx and Disclosure as house DJs making an effort to bridge the gap between the radio airwaves and the dance floor. My favorites include “Just a Feeling” with Verite, a modody track called “Downtown,” and the utterly brilliant “Need You Closer,” a collab with Hayley Kiyoko that easily converted me into the Church of Lesbian Jesus. (Their recent work is also worth a nod as well – they’ve been building up singles to drum up interest in a new EP, including one of their best tracks to date, a driving progressive house tune called “Designs for You.”)

Justice, † (2007)

Gaspard Auge and Xavier de Rosnay’s debut record remains their best. There’s so many iconic tracks on this one: The slick vibes of “Genesis” and “Newjack,” the ever crowd-pleasing “D.A.N.C.E.,” the pumping “Phantom” and its sequel, the nu-disco sleaze of “DVNO”, and the ear-splitting delight of “Waters of Nazareth.” The record earned them a positive, if daunting, comparison to fellow French house pioneers Daft Punk, and while their work on it shares an obsession with taking diverse samples and reconfiguring them into their own image, Justice’s fascination with the macabre aesthetic of 70′s horror films and the rock ‘n roll ethos of T. Rex earned them a distinct spot in the pantheon of electronic acts with this record (as well as its followup, the different-but-still-great Audio, Video, Disco).

Feed Me - Feed Me’s Big Adventure (2011) and Calamari Tuesday (2013)

Jon Gooch was one of the earliest musicians to emerge under deadmau5′s mau5trap label, and still shines as one of its leading acts today (High Street Creeps, released earlier this year, has jams for days). While he started his career making drum ‘n bass tracks as Spor, the bulk of his work since 2009 has been under the Feed Me alias, where he’s dabbled in all manner of electronic but mostly hews close to the realm of electro house. Gooch’s experience in making complex tunes meant that Feed Me came out swinging, with tracks like “Grand Theft Ecstasy” and “Muscle Rollers” exhibiting a confidence and technical skill from the outset that most producers would kill for on their first record. By the time his first proper full length released two years later, he’d developed a consistent feel that made collaborations with indie bands (”Love Is All I Got,” with Crystal Fighters) and soulful singers (”Last Requests,” with Jenna G) feel as natural as hard-hitting bangers (”No Grip” and “Death by Robot”). Mix in a little bit of both and you get “Ophelia,” a anthemic ballad made with YADi – my favorite song from the record, and a earworm that still sticks with me six years on. Love, don’t let me drown…

and some honorable mentions!

Lazy Rich’s singles! Richard Billis is a Canadian DJ who retired from producing tunes in 2017, but for the decade or so he was releasing music, the electro house singles he released were nothing short of iconic. Songs like “Blast Off” (with Hirshee and Lizzie Curious) and “Flash” (with Hot Mouth) are energetic, breezy and danceable. There’s nothing quite like a good Lazy Rich drop; his beats hit the dance floor with the weight of a truck, and have a sonic diversity among them that would predict the electronic scene’s shift toward the dynamism of future bass. It makes me sad that we won’t get any more of them, but Billis left behind such an evergreen catalog of singles that it’s hard to be down for very long. (I used to use his remix of Zedd’s “Stars Come Out” as a theme song of sorts on an old website where you could be a DJ with your friends. The fond memories are strong with this one.)

Porter Robinson/Virtual Self – Spitfire (2011) and Virtual Self (2017) – Leave it to Porter Robinson to carve out a completely separate musical persona just to hearken back to his halcyon days as a young producer. My initial introduction to him was just after he’d emerged from the hands-up scene, while he had his eyes set on stardom through what he called “complextro,” and it was surprising to find that his work not only lived up to its genre classification but actively carved out a market for its sound, even before Porter had dropped an album. If the dubstep and house feel of Spitfire was a revelation, the DDR vibes of the Virtual Self EP are a revitalization; similar in ethos, but with an owned, Serial Experiments Lain-styled technological aesthetic. Porter does a lot of work to keep the two projects separate (even going as far as to delineate live shows between the aliases), but rather than fragmenting his work the distinction only ends up strengthening his catalog, in much the same way Jon Gooch’s work as Feed Me complements his earlier collection as Spor.

JOYRYDE’s singles and upcoming album - John Ford Jr. is an English DJ who knows what he likes: fast cars, bumping house beats, mean-muggin’ rap jams, and making tunes that blend all of the above in one way or another. His JOYRYDE project is only a few years old, emerging in 2016, but it’s very much the culmination of years of diggin’ in the crates and building a sound that blends the hip-hop influences of trap with the boogie-bounce sensibility of house. No sooner is this evident than the “parental discretion is advised” warning (and subsequent punchy opening bars) that welcomes you into “HOT DRUM,” though his other tracks (including “MAXIMUM KING” and the Rick Ross-assisted “WINDOWS”) share that kinetic energy. He’s one to watch!

Also worth your time:

Oliver’s Mechanical EP and their album Full Circle

Mord Fustang’s All Eyes On… compilations

Botnek’s singles from 2016 onward

Chris Lake’s releases with his label Black Book Records

Self Help by Walker and Royce

pretty much everything by Ellie Herring and Chrissy (Murderbot)

Fantasmas by Zavala

anything Wolfgang Gartner has made (particularly his early 2010s singles)

That’s all I got for now. If you made it this far, you’re an angel. Thanks for indulging me :)

[setaripendragon]

Learning To Share - Roy - Part 7

Winry :: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 Roy :: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 Maes :: [Coming Soon] I finally figured out how to make this part do what I want! I’m still not 100% happy with the ending, but it’s close enough, and I figure I’ve made everyone wait long enough for this conclusion already. So, here it is. (And thanks to @thiatereika for their lovely comments that convinced me to dig this WIP out again <3)

Roy took Riza on a starlit picnic a little way outside the city itself, with all of her favourite foods and a bottle of wine he may have been saving for a day like this. It was a strangely humbling experience. He hadn’t seen Riza smile that much since before her father died. She was the picture of professionalism at work, and work made up of so much of what held them together that they rarely spent much time together away from the office. Seeing her with her hair down – literally and figuratively – was a startling reminder to Roy of just how much she kept hidden most of the time.

Then Edward made good on his promise, and ate lunch with Roy in the military cafeteria. There he regaled Roy with the story of how Winry had laughed herself sick when Edward told her and Al about wanting to date Riza. She and Al hadn’t had a problem with it, like Edward had predicted, and Al had said something about Edward having a type when it came to women, and Winry had been flattered by the comparison, in between mocking Edward for his military kink.

Then, Riza caught them both by surprise and took them on their first group date to a tiny, out-of-the-way bookshop that seemed to specialise in rare old texts. It was maybe a tactical mistake, because they almost lost Edward to the books, but once they’d pried him away at closing time with promises to return another day, he did thank Riza quite thoroughly, so perhaps she had known what she was doing after all. That was a night Roy wasn’t going to forget any time soon.

Al invited the pair of them to have dinner at the Elric-Rockbell-Chang residence, and while it took Riza a while to relax, Roy found that, after their middle-of-the-night heart-to-heart, he was almost at ease in Winry’s presence. They could have a conversation that was actually closer to friendly than civil, and at several points they ended up sharing exasperated or fond looks over Edward. It was good.

Roy was happy. More happy than he had been in a very long time, and really, he had Edward to thank for just about all of it. And with Riza there to hold them together, to keep them from being stupid martyrs when they didn’t need to be, Roy was far, far less frightened of losing him. Which meant it was time to face the music, and introduce Edward to his mother.

“Why are you telling me?” Riza asked when Roy explained his plans. “I’ve already met your mother.”

“Yes, exactly.” Roy replied, knowing he sounded plaintive and desperate and not caring. Admittedly, a big part of why he didn’t care was the way Riza’s eyes lit up with amusement and indulgence at his tone. “I could use the moral support.” He paused, and then added. “Also the backup, because if this goes how I’m expecting it to, we may very shortly be experiencing another coup.”

Riza did give a small huff of laughter at that. “Yes, alright.” She agreed, and Roy relaxed all at once. Funny, how this relationship business felt so much easier – for all it’s added complexity – with more people involved. “Hmm, you know, now that I think about it, they are rather similar sorts of people. I’m sure there’s a fascinating psychological paper in there, somewhere.” She mused, merciless.

Roy cringed. “Please stop.”

“Are you sure you still want me to come?” Riza challenged, tone light with her amusement.

“Against my better judgement, yes.” Roy assured her, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I think it would be nice, to do this together, all three of us.” Riza gave him such a shrewd look that Roy felt that all his secret hopes and fears were being laid out for her perusal, but in the end, she didn’t comment on whatever she might have read in his expression, just kissed him again.

And then the day arrived.

“This is a brothel.” Edward announced, stopping dead on the pavement outside Madame Christmas’s to stare.

“Yes.” Roy confirmed, a hand on Edward’s back to nudge him towards the door. Edward didn’t budge, and a glance at his expression showed golden eyes narrowed in a sharp, almost scientific sort of curiosity.

“This is where we’re meeting your mum?” Edward checked.

“Yes.” Roy said again, long-suffering and amused in equal measure.

Riza was the one who took pity on Edward. “It is her place of business.” She pointed out. “And she lives upstairs, with the girls who don’t yet have the funds, or the inclination, to invest in their own residences.”

“So Roy’s mum works in a brothel?” Edward asked, still more curious than anything else, and it made Roy smile. A glance showed him a similarly fond expression on Riza’s face, and she gave him a knowing look when she caught his eye. There weren’t, after all, many people who would take that sort of thing in stride, but they had both known that Edward would. It was good to be proven right.

“Yes, she does.” Riza confirms for him, amused.

Edward finally started moving again, head swivelling this way and that as they passed through the door and across the tastefully decorated room cluttered with tables and booths and mood lighting – nearly empty at this time of day – to the bar. Roy’s mother was already there, leaning one elbow on the bar and watching them with a shrewd gaze and raised eyebrows. Her eyes flicked pointedly from the hand Riza had tucked into Roy’s elbow, to the hand Roy had placed low on Edward’s back, and Roy smiled helplessly.

“Edward, this is my mother, Chris Mustang.” Roy introduced, removing his hand from Edward’s back to gesture towards said woman. “Madame, this is Edw-”

“Whoa, wait.” Edward interrupted. “Your mum owns a brothel?”

“I do.” Chris said in a her smoker’s rasp. “That a problem?”

“What? No.” Edward dismissed the idea with little more than a baffled squint in Chris’s direction. “It just explains a hell of a lot about this one.” He explained, jerking his thumb at Roy and starting to grin. “He grew up here, didn’t he?”

“Well, not here. New establishment. But yeah.” Chris replied, clearly sizing Edward up with more curiosity and respect than she had been before.

Edward laughed. Roy side-eyed him. “Do I want to know?” He asked.

“No, it’s just… when I used to watch you sucking up to the brass, I used to think you played them as well as any whore, but I never actually caught on that you were playing them like a whore would.” Edward explained, looking delighted.

Riza burst out laughing, one hand up and covering her mouth in a paltry attempt to disguise the mirth. Even though it was at his expense, Roy couldn’t help just staring at her, because it was such a rare and precious thing, her unrestrained laughter. At work, Riza was always professional, of course, but even in private, she was always just a little bit restrained. Roy appreciated that about her, the quietness of all her emotions, the peace and steadiness of her company, but it was still a wonder to watch Edward provoke her to genuine, startled, brilliant laughter like this.

When Roy managed to tear his eyes away and look up at his mother, Chris was already watching him, an all too knowing look in her eyes. She snorted at him, then jabbed a finger at Edward, looking Roy dead in the eye, and proclaimed; “You keep this one, kid.”

Which was the exact same thing she’d said about Riza, when Roy had introduced them. Back then, Roy had spluttered and back-pedalled and hedged, because Riza hadn’t been his, then, not really. But of course his mother had seen right through him then, just like she did now. Only, this time, Roy didn’t have to deny anything. That was a good feeling.

“I plan to.” Roy assured her. “For as long as he lets me.”

“Pfft.” Edward scoffed, going pink. “You’d need to get Riza to chase me off at gunpoint if you ever wanted me gone.” He stated, and Roy hid his besotted smile in the corner of his mouth. Everyone present would see it anyway, but he felt a little less unravelled by the force of his emotions for the attempt.

Riza huffed, a sound of fond exasperation. “I think I might be a little compromised in that regard, Edward.” She pointed out, shooting him a fond look. Edward went pink.

“Huh. So it’s like that, is it?” Chris asked, looking between the two of them with dawning understanding. Then it was Riza’s turn to look faintly embarrassed, while Edward just shrugged and nodded like it was no big deal.

Roy hadn’t thought it was possible to be this happy at any one moment. “It was Edward’s idea.” He explained to Chris, who nodded like that made sense.

“It was Riza’s idea.” Edward protested. “She ambushed me with it. In your office!”

“I’m happy to share the credit.” Riza offered magnanimously, looking smug, and Edward answered with one of his shit-eating grins, and Roy just basked in the moment.

Chris knocked him out of his love-addled daze when she made a sharp – but approving – sound in the back of her throat, straightening up and nodding once. “It’s about damned time. Watching you pine-” A pointed look at Roy. “-and dither-” A even more pointed look at Riza. “-was getting old.”

Riza’s mouth twisted with faint annoyance, and Roy agreed with her, although he just felt resigned to people ignoring him when he said; “I was not pining.”

At the same moment, Riza echoed him with a much less plaintive, more dignified; “I was not dithering. I had valid reasons not to rush headlong into anything.”

“It stopped being rushing over a decade ago, girl.” Chris countered sternly, and Riza glared back, irritated, but not quite up to arguing the point. “And call it whatever you want, Roy-Boy, but you can’t deny that your heart wouldn’t know the concept of ‘moving on’ if it came at you with a cudgel.”

She did have a point, Roy had to admit, but he still objected to the word ‘pining’. Maybe it was petty to quibble over the semantics of it, but he couldn’t help himself. “Pining implies that I was unhappy just because there was no physical aspect to our relationship. I wasn’t.” He stressed.

“Yeah, but you’re more happy now.” Edward pointed out, leaning into his side. Roy tipped his head in acknowledgement, letting his arm curl loosely around Edward’s waist. “All we have to do is get Hughes in on it, and we’ll be golden.” Edward added.

“If only.” Roy mused, wry and wistful.

Riza made a small sound of realisation and understanding, and Roy looked over to see her looking at him like she was seeing an entirely new facet of him and was taking the time to really study it. It made him feel just a touch self-conscious. “I hadn’t realised you’re in love with him.” She mused quietly. “But it makes a lot of sense.”

Roy shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. “I have tried to keep it to myself.”

“You’re very good at that.” Riza acknowledged.

“It’s not exactly hard.” Roy pointed out. It earned him a dubious look on both sides, which had him rolling his eyes and looking to his mother for help explaining. She just laughed at him and left him to flounder. “It’s not as if I need any more confirmation than I’ve already got that he cares for me.” He explained pointedly. “Anything else would be nice, of course, but it’s also rather superfluous.”

Edward had a faint smile on his face that suggested he understood, even though he still found the situation more sad than Roy honestly thought it warranted. Riza, on the other hand, looked a little startled, but even as Roy watched, the expression melted into aching fondness. Roy shook his head at them, tugged them both closer, and endured the evening of his mother’s teasing. It was worth it.

[ferryboatpeak]

would love to hear how tom/ben/meri came about

thank you for indulging me, anon. buckle up for the wear you like a necklace backstory i never intended to think about…

so ben’s got a film project that’s going to take him to france for three months, and meredith is jolly well going to go with, because (a) summer in the south of france, and (b) she is not going to be a single parent for three months, no way. maybe ben’s going to be on set 14 hours a day, but that’s better than him being completely gone for three months. and anyway it won’t just be her and ruby… she can get an au pair, right? right.

hiring someone abroad turns out to be too hard, and finding the right candidate who’s willing to pick up and go to france with them for the summer is also hard (this person’s going to live in their house, meredith’s getting a bit picky about it), and one night over drinks she’s self-consciously bitching to an old friend from university about this extremely white people problem. her friend, who went into academia, recognizes a pretty sweet summer setup when she sees one, and mentions that maybe she’s got a grad student who’d be interested. sure, meredith says, connect me. her professor pal puts out some email feelers to a few of her favorite students and tom’s the one who replies.

meredith’s a bit surprised when her friend sends her tom’s contact information… she wasn’t expecting to hire a manny… but tom’s emails are all spelled correctly, and when he comes to the house for an interview he’s absolutely charming, and good with ruby, and when she makes them tea tom rinses out his mug and puts it in the dish drainer without meredith even asking, so she hires him.

tom babysits a couple of evenings in the spring, so ruby can get comfortable with him. he’s in that post-undergrad period of life when adulthood is something he’s supposed to have achieved, or to achieve in the very near future, and yet it also feels kind of abstract and distant. adulthood is the provenance of people like his parents.

but now, suddenly, adulthood also means ben and meredith. the way they look when they’re going out for the evening, the way they talk to each other, the photos on the hallway table of the two of them smiling on travels to exotic places, the neatly labeled jars of spices in their kitchen, the vase of flowers on the table, the indulgently stylish furniture in ruby’s nursery… this, tom thinks, this is a kind of adulthood he likes. this is the way he would like to be an adult.

he walks through the quiet house after ruby goes to sleep, noticing little details. ben’s slippers by the door, the soft throw on the sofa, the books on the coffee table. he stops at the threshold of ben’s office and peeks through: framed posters and signed photographs from ben’s projects on the walls, an elaborate desktop setup with two monitors, a flatscreen above the fireplace. (the pictures of one direction and the poster from harry’s show at the garage don’t really register because tom’s never paid attention to any of that music.)

there’s some kind of fancy caprese salad in the fridge; help yourself, meri had said. tom gets a bowl of it and a fork from the drawer – it’s heavier than tom thought a fork should be, with a nice tapered handle – and sits cross-legged on the sofa. he’s careful about what he pulls up on netflix; ben and meri might notice the search history. on the coffee table, the baby monitor hisses softly with white noise. he’s going to have this life for an entire summer, and he already doesn’t want to let it go.

ben’s leaving the logistics of temporarily relocating to france in meredith’s capable hands, so he’s a little surprised but not terribly interested when she mentions she found an au pair, and oh by the way it’s a guy. he becomes considerably more interested, however, the first time they come home from a date night and he meets tom. tom is effortlessly charming because he’s tom and also because he’s already decided meredith is a Very Cool Boss and he’s very curious about the other half of the equation. ben asks tom about school, and where he’s from, and figures out what tom’s owed for the evening and tips him well. by the end of that five-minute interaction, tom’s decided that ben is also going to be a Very Cool Boss, and tom has also resolved that he is not going to wank about the thought of ben bossing him around. definitely not. that would be weird.

later, upstairs:

“can we talk about the babysitter?” ben asks, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

“no, we cannot talk about the babysitter,” meredith says, rolling her eyes at him in the mirror, in a tone that conveys the exact opposite of what she’s saying.

“i think we can talk about the babysitter,” ben says, and sticks his toothbrush in his mouth. he watches meredith in the mirror as he brushes vigorously.

meredith leans toward the mirror and pats a fingerful of something from a small gold jar onto her face. “he’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“think he’s…  hmm… open-minded?” ben asks, as he spits into the sink. he bends down to splash water into his mouth.

“we can’t fuck the babysitter,” meredith says automatically. she flicks her toothbrush under the tap and adds toothpaste to it. her eyes cut toward ben in the mirror and she mumbles through the toothbrush, “wait, would you?” (she’s not going to be able to get it out of her head now, the image of little blonde cheekboned tom on her husband’s cock.)

“i… wouldn’t rule it out,” ben says, looking at the ceiling as he flosses. their arrangement with harry has opened ben’s mind to all kinds of things. but they haven’t hooked up with harry since ruby was born. seems like an awfully convenient coincidence to have somebody who looks like tom moving in with them.

“if we did,” meredith says a few minutes later, after they’ve turned out the light, “we’d have to be careful about it.” ben’s pillow rustles as he turns his head to look at her. “he’s our employee, we can’t just… i don’t know. it’s not like harry, you know?”

“see what happens, i guess” ben says, and meredith snuggles her shoulder against his before they fall asleep.

what happens is that the summer goes swimmingly. having tom around reminds them of when harry lived with them, except without the burden of the sort of nominally parental role they felt obligated to play for harry. tom’s an invaluable extra pair of hands, and he’s just so easy to have around, as if he makes every conversation brighter. they don’t want to compare him to harry – nobody else can ever be harry – but harry’s kind of a lot sometimes. tom’s not exhausting in the way harry can be exhausting, and right now ruby’s quite exhausting enough for everyone. tom’s pleasant, lowkey, helpful presence is just the right thing.

meanwhile tom is basking in their approval, reveling at being let into their life. his attraction to ben and meri is all tangled up in wanting to be what they are, wanting to have what they have. he wants it all. sometimes it feels like he’s a part of it, and sometimes it feels like he’s never going to get close enough. he wants in, all the way in.

one night at dinner it comes up that tom was a ballroom dance champion when he was a teenager. ben and meri ask fascinated questions, and meri finally insists that tom dance with her.

[remember those insta stories of tom dancing with jez butterworth and laura donnelly on the terrace at their french country house, the inspiration for this entire au? that’s where we have arrived, friends. (please watch that link, tom just snuggles right up to jez and it is VERY HARD for me not to ship it.) anyway.]

tom waltzes meredith around the terrace. they’re laughing and counting out the beat and tom’s careful not to trod on her toes even when she misses a step. meredith gives a surprised whoop! when tom dips her at the end, after they’ve circled around so they’re right in front of ben. “that was lovely,” she says, straightening up, still in his arms. they’re eye to eye now, and meredith doesn’t let go. “can i kiss you?” she asks, her eyes sparkling.

the question delights tom down to the very soles of his feet. he waits for a nod from ben, and then, like the star ballroom partner that he is, he takes the lead. it’s an easy, friendly kind of a kiss, both of them testing the waters and finding them good.

they smile at each other for a moment afterwards, and then meredith says, “all right, now teach ben something. he never wants to dance with me.”

“that’s a shame,” tom says, and holds out his hand to ben. ben is indeed a terrible dancer, and their circuit around the terrace is more of an awkward shuffle, tom trying to prod ben into leading and ben not entirely sure of where his hands go, all while tom is still riding the adrenaline rush of having just kissed ben’s wife and also being super super conscious of ben’s hand on his back, which feels entirely different than dancing with meredith (in a very exciting way.)

tom looks up at ben when they’re finished, his hand still at ben’s waist, and it is VERY VERY obvious that tom wants ben to kiss him, and so ben does. (it is unclear if meredith says “do it” in the background, tom’s not able to focus on anything other than ben.)

more kisses are shared that night, and the nights that follow. everyone gets a little handsier, a little looser, testing out the humming current of possibility that’s carrying them all along, the shared understanding that something’s going to happen. they lean closer and closer to the edge until one night in the kitchen ben has his arm around tom and tom presses his hip into ben’s – let me in, let me in – and ben lets tom slide in front of him and wraps his hands around tom’s waist and whispers into his ear as his thumb traces the button of tom’s shorts “do you want me to touch you?”

“yeah,” tom breathes, tipping his head back against ben’s shoulder, “yes, please.” ben gets him off right there in the kitchen, with tom’s hands braced on the countertop and meredith watching from the other side of the island, her breath quickening to match tom’s.

afterwards she cups tom’s jaw in her hand and kisses him on the temple and thanks him – as if he’s done her a favor, tom thinks in confusion – and tells him to get a good night’s sleep, and then she leads ben upstairs by the hand and they have frantically hot sex like they have not had since well before the baby was born. (thereby banishing any lingering doubts about whether they should be involving their nanny in their sex life.)

tom doesn’t clock that that’s what’s happening. he only knows that ben got him off and he didn’t get to reciprocate, and it’s an affront to all that he stands for. he wants to be let in, he wants to be of use, he wants to anticipate and fulfill their needs. it drives him crazy all the next day, and by the time ben and meri invite him upstairs the following night he’s practically begging to suck ben off, which meets the needs of everyone involved just fine.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Marigold

(A Spicyhoney ‘The Village’ AU)

Summary:

Rus is adjusting to his new home and new ways

The story so far:

Crimson

Yellow

Blue

Blush

Sallow

Russet

Spice

Whiteout

Sable

Blue on Black

Midnight

Ebony Falling

Golden

Magenta

~~*~~

Read ‘Marigold’ on AO3

or

Read More here

For the first couple days in his new home, Rus spent most of his time resting in bed. Being locked up in a chilly room for days on top of traveling through the snowy woods hadn’t done him well. He wasn’t precisely ill, but weariness gripped him, demanding long hours of sleep. Drowsy as he was, Rus couldn’t help his guilt at not being able to help keep house. His feeble attempts were firmly dismissed by Edge any time he tried to rise on shaky legs, and he was forced to meekly remain, guiltily enjoying his rest. Their pallet had no bedstead and instead was a cushiony pile, lush with furs and blankets. More comfortable even than his feather tick at home and considerably larger. Sleeping in a pallet of furs was a decadence he hadn’t even known existed, snuggled into silky warmth and drowsed away the hours, waking only to eat or bathe. His brother would have scolded him for his indulgence, but he was newly married. Surely a bit of spoiling was to be expected. And spoil him Edge did, often bringing him meals in bed, a seedy sort of porridge or soup like the Mother Dog served. His concern was charming, but even Rus was having enough of it. On the third day, he slipped out of bed while he was alone, ignoring the wobble to his legs as he quickly dressed. His clothes were freshly washed, laid out on a nearby outcropping. When Rus plucked up his shirtfront and sniffed it, he smelled not the clean soap his brother made for laundry, but a warmer spicy fragrance, reminiscent of mulled cider. It was a bit like Edge himself and perhaps it was shameful, the little thrill it gave him thinking about smelling like Edge. He didn’t care, the ideas about shame that were preached back at the village could stay in their prayer meetings. Edge hadn’t returned yet, so Rus took the opportunity to explore a bit. He admired the paintings on the walls of the bedchamber, the glowing swirls done in soothing blues and greens, with scattering of flowers between them. A tentative hand held above it confirmed that they radiated heat. It was fascinating and perhaps a trifle unnerving. Not that Rus was about to complain, his own home with Blue tended towards chilly in the winter months and he was often forced to spent his days sitting by the stove, bundled in blankets. No, no, it was not his home, not any longer, Rus reminded himself sternly. His home was here and he was going to have to stop being wishy-washy about it. Thinking of Blue made tears prickle, though, and Rus hastily distracted himself with the rest of the room. The low table he’d seen before was oddly close to the ground, made of a solid slab of wood that was sanded down until the wood was silky. Instead of chairs, there were cushions arranged around it, and he decided it was meant for sitting on the floor. A little alcove was nearly hidden in a corner and a peek inside reveal a sort of wardrobe, crimson cloaks hanging alongside the dark one he’d fled in. Some of his own things were neatly folded and set along the rocky outcroppings and it gave him a sort of warmth to see his belongings alongside Edge’s. A sense that he truly did belong here. Blue would have liked it, this order. A place for everything and everything it its place. Come to think of it, there was a sort of fresh-scrubbed appearance to the room and some things seemed quite new. The cushions around the table, for example, were bright with color, not at all worn from use. It occurred to Rus that Edge had likely been gussying things up in preparation of bringing him here, the way the bachelors in the village prepared their homes for the coming of a bride or bearing groom. Imagining Edge returning here alone, bereft, seeing those new cushions and well-scrubbed floors after Rus turned him away made his soul ache. Well, no matter now. He was here and he was going to prove that he wasn’t a burden. Cautiously, Rus peered out of the entrance to the chamber. He’d only been out the past few days to bathe, carried by Edge both times. There was little chance of being lost, the painted stars led the way. Even the floor seemed warm to his stocking feet; his boots weren’t with the rest of his clothing, perhaps they were at the cave entrance? In any case, Rus tiptoed his way down the tunnel, partly searching for Edge, mostly indulging in curiosity. He paused at the cave mouth to the pantry, wavering between exploring and continuing his search. In the end, that curiosity got the best of him and if Edge were to end up looking for him, he would be easily found. As pantries went, it was, well, rustic, surely a cave in the woods fell into that category. Even so, Rus imagined that seeing it would soothe any concerns his brother might have had about sending Rus to live here. He might well be delighted to have one like it himself. There weren’t any of the familiar sacks of flour and sugar, but instead many cleverly woven baskets in various sized crowded together. A curious touch revealed them to be made of reeds and each one was brimming with grains and dried fruit. Long ropes of dried fish and meat hung from the ceiling, interspersed with braids of herbs and onions, and the space was filled with a rich, smoky aroma that made hunger growl in his soul. The sight of such largess was soothing, to know they would be well-fed during the long, cold months of winter. Rus filched a slice of dried apple from one basket with the same mischievous nature that sent him plucking a cookie hot from a cooling rack, chased away by the tune of his brother’s scolding. Honestly, he needed to stop thinking of Blue. Hopefully, he would be seeing him in just over a week, there was no need to keep dredging up unhappiness. Rus was firmly putting thoughts of his brother aside as he turned back to the entryway…and directly into Edge who was standing behind him. Rus yelped, nearly choking on his pilfered apple slice and he chewed with frantic guilt, hoping his sheepish unspoken apologies were visible on his face. Edge only seemed amused, and his fingers were gentle on Rus’s chin as he urged him to tip his head up. It took Rus a moment to realize Edge’s searching gaze was to decide if he were well and Rus batted his hand aside impatiently. “i’m fine! i can’t be a layabout all winter, can i.” From Edge’s look, he supposed Edge thought he could very well lie about and take whatever spoiling came his way. Well, Edge was about to learn he couldn’t have his way all the time, Rus decided, and that was when he caught sight of Edge’s other hand. He held what looked like a few plump partridges, likely the last of the season. “oh, here, let me—" Rus reached for them and Edge held them away with a frown. “come now, i’m not much of a cook, but i’m perfectly capable of dressing out game. let me help!” It was always difficult for him to guess precisely what Edge understood, but in this case, Rus’s intentions must’ve been clear enough. Edge handed over the partridges with reluctance. Now that he had his feathery burden, Rus realized there was a different problem. “oh. um, i need a knife. and a table, i’m not sure.” Involuntarily, Rus glanced at the ground, reluctant to prepare food on it for a number of reasons. One corner of Edge’s mouth twitched up in amusement and he silently led Rus deeper into the pantry. On the back wall was a sort of preparation area, a rocky outcropping polished carefully smooth. A variety of utensils were in another woven basket at the back of the shelf and from it Rus plucked a knife. He inspected it curiously. It seemed to be made of stone rather than steel, beautiful shaped, and the handle was of antler or horn. Well, knife was a knife. It felt a bit awkward to clean and dress the birds under Edge’s scrutiny, but his hands had done this enough times that they hardly needed his guidance.

Triumphantly, he set the cleaned birds at the end of the stone shelf, allowing Edge to inspect his work. He was about to go wash his hands when strong arms surrounded him from behind. Rus squeaked in surprise as Edge buzzed a ticklish kiss against his cheekbone, laughing helplessly as he squirmed in his embrace. “let me go, fool, i need to wash,” Rus scolded. But the obvious pride in Edge’s gaze followed him through to the washroom and Rus scrubbed his hands quickly, eager to return. When he came back, Edge was sitting by a large stone similar to the one Mother Dog had used, light and heat beginning to rise from it. He gestured for Rus to sit next to him and with more patience than even Blue had ever shown him, guided him through seasoning one of the birds with herbs and wild onions. Both were set directing atop the stone, sizzling loudly, and soon mouthwatering aromas rose. In no little time both partridges were cooked, set into an earthenware dish and taken to the low table in their room. Rus ate his portion proudly with his bare fingers, licking away the grease. His brother would have been horrified at his manners, but sitting here with Edge, one of the plush cushions under him, eating a tasty meal that he’d helped make was a previously unknown delight. After that, Edge often included him in cooking, teaching him to make the morning porridge and even those flat, round breads that Mother Dog had fed them. Cooking seemed less intimidating with Edge teaching him and it was rather thrilling to be able to contribute. The first morning he successfully made porridge without Edge, he brought it proudly to their room, ladling out a bowlful for his husband. Under his uncertain scrutiny, Edge lifted his bowl, bowing over it in a solemn sort of gesture before he dug in. After a single spoonful, he quickly pronouncing it, “Good.” That one simple word swelled in Rus’s soul, and he grinned shamelessly, ladling out a bowl of his own. And there it was, he could be useful for Edge. He wouldn’t be a burden on his new spouse with little to offer. That was one problem solved. The next problem he had wasn’t so simple. Rus never would have guessed a home made of rock could hold such warmth and life. His own home back in the village held some of that. But it also held silences of loved ones who would never speak again. It held lonely winters where he spent his days alone, waiting for his brother to come home to him. He spent some time on his own here, true. Edge went out every morning and evening, but he was never gone terribly long. Checking snares wasn’t nearly as time consuming as tending to ill patients and whether his traps yielded anything or not, they weren’t about to starve. Whenever he was gone, Rus kept busy with a new and unexpected hobby. On his fourth day here, Edge led him through to a part of the cave Rus hadn’t yet seen. The starry path guiding from above dwindled as they went into an alcove that was darker and cool. Rus hardly had a chance to shiver before Edge moved away from him, crouching nearby. With a low murmur, a large, rounded stone filled with a reddish glow, unlike the brighter shine of their flat cooking rock. What was once frightening now seemed almost commonplace and Rus sat by the glowing stone, waiting for the cave to warm. It was then he saw the bowls, small, roughly hewn crockery and a peek within showed a different color in each. Paints, Rus realized, and he watched in fascination as Edge picked up a brush and began dabbing at one of the walls. More of the carefree swirls that graced the cave entrance, in deep, rich shades of crimson. He’d hardly added to it before setting the brush aside, selecting another from a small pouch and offering it to Rus. “oh, i couldn’t possibly,” Rus protested. “i’m no artist, i’ll ruin it.” A scoffing sound from Edge made it clear what he thought of that. Again, he offered the brush, urging softly, “Rus, pretty.” Well, how could he refuse that invitation, Rus thought ruefully. Whether he meant anything Rus painted would be such or simply Rus himself was anyone’s guess. Edge turned back to his own artwork, leaving Rus to hesitantly inspect the paint pots. Somehow, the thought of using crimson still made him uncomfortable. He’d grown accustomed to it, but it was Edge’s color, not his own. The rich blue was tempting, but Rus set it firmly aside. Something different then, something for himself. A bright orange caught his gaze, the same deep color of autumn marigolds and that shade called to him. He gathered up the little pot, then held up his brush, studying it curiously. The paintbrush was not the horsehair one he was used to from springtime whitewashing, but some sort of fibrous plant material, the stem braided into a sort of handle. He dipped his brush into the pot and walked over to an empty expanse of wall, hesitating with his brush close to the stone. The wild, glorious swirls and comets that Edge decorated the walls with were lovely, but they didn’t speak to him. With cautious daubs, Rus painted instead a triangle, then another at its tip. Slowly, he worked, gaining confidence with each sweep of his paintbrush. He switched colors, adding a bright yellow and a vibrant green, precise geometric shapes. It was almost like piecing a quilt, finding patterns within that traveled down the length of his brush to the stone. Time passed unnoticed and Rus was rinsing his brush for another color change when a soft touch on his wrist startled him. “are we finished for the day?” Rus groaned and stretched, joints popping. They must have been painting for hours, he’d covered a section of wall nearly as tall as he was! The hours had slipped away from him while he focused on his pattern. Edge was standing by the wall, studying his work closely and Rus waited nervously for his pronouncements. But instead of a declaration, Edge leaned in and carefully breathed against it. From the point of his breath, light branched out, following along the lines of his painting until all of it was illuminating. It filled with formerly dark alcove with light and warmth. “Good,” Edge announced, and Rus swore he felt that same glow of warmth in his soul. After that, Rus often returned on his own, branching out with new patterns that met and twined with Edge’s, artwork that was uniquely theirs.

And so, they kept their days busy with work and amusements.

Their nights they slept cozied together in their comfortable pallet, buried within furs and blankets, with Edge stripped to his bare bones and Rus in his nightshirt.

That bed was where Rus’s problem lay. Their bed, but it couldn’t quite be called a marital bed yet. For all that Edge held him close before sleeping, murmuring silky words that Rus knew along with ones he didn’t, his hands did not stray, only rested chastely upon him. The kindness of it brought tears to his sockets, all of Edge’s gentle care. Without words, Edge understood that something had happened to send Rus fleeing into the wood and he hadn’t implied in the slightest that he was growing impatient for any of the traditional spousal rights.

That caring was what drew Rus’s affections from the beginning. But that one terrible night was fading into memory, best left in the past, and Rus was beginning to think more on their earlier days, the teasing touches and flirtation. He wanted that back. He ached for Edge’s hands to stray, for his kisses to deepen. He wanted to touch and be touched in return, and when he woke from heated dreams, a hand pressed between his legs where he was damp and throbbing, he longed to be able to turn to Edge and demand his own rights. He was beginning to suspect Edge would never ask. Well, if Edge wasn’t going to step forward with a claim, then Rus would, and he’d find a way that was clear in any language.

He only needed to decide how.

~~*~~