#a fic needs to be written about this...opens my google docs...

[sickficideas]

thinking about how Awful akutagawa would feel with altitude sickness because of his already poor health and even worse lungs...he's so out of it and too fatigued to even think straight and breathing gets difficult. he will frequently pass out and he's lucky if he doesn't end up with high altitude pulmonary edema bc of his lungs

[versadies]

it's the pink apron phenomenon. everybody, i present; how do scara, diluc & xiao (seperate) take care of their beloved pink apron and how did they get it?

house husband au ofc ! apologies if ur reqs arent open (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`)

the origins of the pink apron ! (the way of the househusband au)

SALUTATIONS. THE ORIGINS OF THE PINK APRON (twothhau)

ADDRESSED. diluc ragnvindr, xiao, scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gn!reader)

CONTENT. fluff/no-angst, modern!au, househusband!characters, cheesiness, ooc?, mentions of yakuza, wanderer is referred to as “scaramouche” here, not proofread properly (couldnt access to google docs and my grammar checker atm so i apologize for any grammar errors 😰😰)

STAMP. after some inconveniences, the houshusbands find themselves in a situation where they now have to wear pink aprons, and to your surprise, they like it ! (or, how they get their pink aprons and why they kept it)

PENPALS. @scaraslover @saving-for-xiao @dawgimsohot @ragnvdnr @chiruru @aqualesha @renamichii @mrkamisato @shenhesl0ver @serami00 @serenareiss @hiqhkey @emperatris-rinaka @bystander36 @irisxiel @ladycoleigh @034ven @dear-dairiess @owozi8 @hadesaedes @chiro-chiro-kun @hersscherofyatta @mariusvonhangme @yuzuricebun @nejibot @hoshikistarlette @solaaresque @crowbird @lordbugs @flowersforayato @headintheclouddd @estelwrld @giyusimpsassemble @irethepotatosblog @moonlightaangel @alice0blog @shotosbrainrot @sniffoat @chihawari @mxsomn @kuni-kuzushii @jiminscarmex @mitsukii14 @nejibot @ylimeprive @sachispet @loreleis-world @sn-owo @starforecasts @someonetookmynamelmao @ceylestia @astrequa @ymikkos @reallysporadicarcade @melodyyamino @dudufodd @somberrock @yevenly @lemontum @nghing

POST-SCRIPT. it’s been so long since ive written a househusband fic sooo here you go my lovelies <333 !! enjoy the wholesomeness and cheesiness as always (might make a part two w other househusbands if the people demand so)

LINKS. TWOTHHAU MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST || TAGLIST

diluc.

It was supposed to be a joke for your husband.

You thought it would be great to buy an apron for him before you go home after finding out that it got destroyed, knowing how your husband would definitely need one for his baking classes and whenever he cooks. Out of all the aprons you could’ve chosen though, you just had to pick the one that made you laugh from imagining your lover wearing it.

When you first see a cute pink apron, you just know you have to buy it, giggling to yourself at the image of Diluc wearing it. Of course, you bought another one that’s actually for him and planned on giving it to him the day after he receives your pink apron gift.

Diluc didn’t mind how you were grinning mischievously when you gave him a paper bag that contained something he couldn’t tell until he brought it out. The image of your husband’s soft expression turning to utter confusion and horror will forever remain in your head.

“Is… This for me?” He asks hesitantly.

You nodded, trying to contain your laughter. “Yes.”

He didn’t ask further after that, nodding slowly before putting the apron back to the paper bag, and you thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The next day after getting ready for the day, you were about to give your husband his actual apron you bought for him until you noticed something different when you entered the kitchen.

No, it wasn’t the fact that your breakfast is a new and different meal like everyday, nor the music that’s playing on the radio, but rather your husband’s current style.

Lo and behold stands your loving husband, an ex-yakuza boss and one of the fiercest men in the land, wearing a cute pink apron that has a cartoon bear with a chef hat on it.

You try not to laugh. “..You’re actually wearing it?”

Diluc stops preparing your meal for a moment, turning his head to look at you. “Does it look… ridiculous?”

You covered your mouth to stop yourself from laughing, clearing your throat. “N-No I was just surprised you’d wear it.”

“Of course since it’s from you.” He responds, proceeding with his task once again.

You decided to hand over the paper bag that has his apron to him. “I was just kidding about that pink apron, this is the one I actually bought for you.” You explain.

He takes one look at the paper bag you’re holding before looking away. “I’ll try it out later. You should eat your breakfast before you’re late again.”

Your eyes widened a bit at his response, surprised that he didn’t instantly change it. It’s as if he wants to keep wearing it.

Not that you’re complaining though, it is quite a sight to see.

By the time you came back home from work after that shenanigan, you thought you’d see your husband wearing the black apron you bought for him, only for your jaws to drop when you saw him still wearing the same pink apron you bought for shits and giggles.

“Did the black apron not fit you?” You asked as Diluc grabs your bag and keeps it somewhere.

Your husband pauses for a moment. “...I forgot to try it on.”

You fight the urge to laugh again. “Really?”

No, actually. Diluc did try the black apron on as soon as he finished cleaning the house away but decided to continue wearing the pink apron. As much as he didn’t want to admit, the pink apron managed to rub on him after wearing it for only half a day.

What stopped him from removing it was the memory of you trying to hold your laughter whilst smiling so wide at the sight of him wearing it, causing him to decide to wear it from now on just so he could see you smile and laugh more.

Not that you’d know of course, he’d rather get teased for wearing this apron than get teased for being such a “big ol’ sweetheart” as you comment about him.

When it comes to this apron, he sees it as a reminder of what made life worth more than he thought: you. So it’s a responsibility to take care of it.

Other than that, the pink apron has also made him less intimidating to other people whenever he wears it outside (either because he forgot or just because he felt like it)! It’s a slight change when people start coming up to you two every now and then whenever you go out.

He made sure to thoroughly clean it whenever he makes a mess sometimes, making sure that no stain has been left ignored and missed. He also made sure he won’t make the same mistake that he did with his previous apron, so he’s very careful with not ripping it with his undeniable strength whenever he puts it on and removes it.

When he finds himself in a situation where he’s required to fight – which is a rare situation, really – he’ll make sure not one single person will lay a hand on him and on the apron. He’ll be disappointed in himself if he gets it destroyed!

Of course, he did not put your money on the black apron to waste. He’ll use it whenever he goes to baking class and whenever his pink apron is in the laundry. Either that, or you use it yourself whenever you cook with Diluc despite its size! It’s quite an endearing sight to see you and Diluc cooking together while wearing the aprons.

Eventually, it’ll be a normal sight to see your husband wearing such a cute apron, even if you sometimes chuckle or grin at it. To Diluc, it’s worth wearing it if it makes you happy, especially if he’s the reason for your cute smile <3

Plus, pink kinda suits his striking red hair as much as he doesn’t want to admit it hehe

xiao.

Xiao is a different story.

For someone like Xiao, no one had ever thought about him wearing something such as a pink apron – not when it seems to be something that someone with a cold and mysterious demeanor that neighbors tend to be intimidated by wouldn’t wear. If it weren’t for you, people might’ve thought he was a criminal who’s staying in a small town in order to hide from the police that’s looking for him.

So when the well-known aloof househusband comes out of your humble home wearing a pink apron with a cheesy text on it one day after a week of moving in, everyone is hella curious and hella shocked.

Is this the same man who everyone was scared of?!

It didn’t help that he looked as if he wasn’t bothered by wearing such a cute garment, as if he’s been wearing it for ages without the neighbors knowing it until now.

The real question is: why and how?

It’s simple really, all you had to do was nothing.

In reality, the apron he’s wearing is something he willingly wore by choice just because of the memories it brought.

As mentioned before in another post, Xiao rarely cooks back when he was still serving his boss and prefers instant foods since it’s faster and easier for him. But now that he’s a full time househusband who absolutely cannot afford to let you eat instant foods everyday, he knows he has to start cooking.

Cooking is no problem for Xiao, it’s just the mess he makes when cooking that he has a problem with.

He really can’t help himself making a mess, even when he makes sure to clean after himself, he always finds himself having stains and marks all over his clothing!

So when he tells you about his frustrations one night while lying down on your lap comfortably, you remember an old garment that you saw from your box while you were unpacking your things after moving in.

The apron was a gift from your friend as a joke, and you didn’t have the heart to throw it away since it would be a waste of money for your friend, hence how it got stuck in the old box for quite a while until your husband came along and needed one.

“I know it’s not something you like since it’s not really your color,” You said with a light laugh as you show him the apron that you managed to find among the boxes that were kept by the storage room, “but you can just use this until I buy a new one for you to use. With this apron, I’m sure you won’t put a mess on your clothes since it’ll fit you!”

“You don’t need to buy another one.” Xiao says as he grabs the pink apron from you without any signs of hesitation. “This is already good enough for me. I just needed something to make sure my clothes are clean when cooking meals, so thank you.”

Your eyes slightly widen in surprise, not expecting your husband to accept your offer so willingly without a complaint. “O-Oh? Alright then.”

And so began the days when you see your husband wearing the pink apron.

It felt like you’re still dreaming when you stumble to the kitchen after waking up and see your husband cooking a liyuean dish, wearing the apron that’s now cleaned and tended to by yours truly. You had to pinch yourself to be completely convinced that you’re in a reality where Xiao, one of the most well-known dangerous members in his organization, is wearing a pink frilly apron that has a big text that says “cook lover!” on it.

It turns out that he liked it a lot since it indeed prevented himself from making a mess on his clothing – besides the ones on his arms, but it’s completely better than having a mess all over him – thanking you once again for handing him the apron.

To be fair, Xiao didn’t really think he’d like it either since he only wanted something that can help him with his little problem, it was only when he decided to try cooking Adeptus' Temptation that he changed his mind.

When he first removed his apron, he was relieved that there wasn’t much of a mess! So he decided that yes, this is worth using everyday.

He takes care of it greatly, making sure that it gets cleaned and kept well. It’s as if it’s his most prized treasure, as you jokingly said. To your amusement, he didn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong, because you’re right, it is something that’s valuable to him. After all, he only wore it because it’s you who gave it to him.

Perhaps you didn’t know this, but your husband is always willing to wear anything you give him – like the cute green onesie you gave him that matches yours, the nice bracelet you bought that matches his beautiful amber eyes, the pink apron and so much more that he lost count of it. If you even gave him a chicken mascot, he’ll wear it without question.

Though, this particular apron is quite special for him, because it’s the first thing you’ve ever given him after he started his househusband lifestyle. He never thought he would enjoy being a househusband – let alone becoming one in this life after everything he went through. So this apron is somewhat a reminder of how far he’s gotten in this life and how he’s free to spend the rest of his life with the one he loves most.

It started to grow on him, he’ll admit. Sometimes he forgets to remove it after cooking, finding himself spending the whole day wearing it until he finally looks at himself in the mirror and realizes he hasn't removed it.

The time when he gives up on removing his apron after cooking was all thanks to when you forgot to bring your lunch with you, causing Xiao to run after you not knowing that he still has his apron on. It was only when you pointed out that he realized what he was wearing.

He lets out a sigh. Oh well, he might as well wear it the whole day instead of only when he’s cooking.

As long as Rex Lapis doesn’t see him in it, then he could care less.

Besides, wearing the apron outside made himself look approachable and friendly to most people in the neighborhood – particularly the kids, who all stare at him in awe because of how cool his hair is.

Sometimes, whenever he looks at the apron, he’s reminded of one cherished moment between the two of you whereas you prepare your meals together for the first time since he wore his apron, with you wearing your own apron that matches his as you share hushed laughs and smiles with one another.

He closes his eyes with a small fond smile at the memory.

Oh how he could never forget the taste of your love from the meals the two of you cooked.

scaramouche.

Honestly, getting that guy to wear an apron that has hello kitty designs on it is almost impossible, especially when it’s obvious that he’d rather bury himself than wear it.

Well, it would’ve been completely impossible if he wasn’t currently making tea in your kitchen wearing such a garment, looking unbothered despite hearing your giggles at the sight.

Your imagination came true thanks to timing.

You see, the way your lover works with cooking is that he always has to wear an apron even if he never makes that much of a mess. It’s just something he finds as a required thing to do since he doesn’t want his clothes to be dirty from making meals, so he’s always found wearing his black apron in the kitchen making dishes.

One thing led to another though, said black apron was ripped after an accident that he refuses to tell you, leading him to leave no choice but to buy a new one from the only store in town that sells aprons.

Bad timing for him really, because the store unfortunately ran out of aprons that are his size due to a client that ordered loads of it for baking classes. The man was horrified when he saw that the only aprons that were available and adjustable to his size were pink aprons with hello kitty designs on them.

What made it worse was that the store won’t be able to restock until next month or more, and so he was thinking: should he just wait for a month and not wear an apron until then? Or should he just go buy the pink apron so he can go on with his day peacefully?

He thought about it, and he wanted to wait for another month since pink isn’t really his color…

But he wonders what your reaction would be when you see him in such a garment…

“…I’ll buy that apron then.” He says, plastering his usual fake kind smile to keep up his kind charade, internally grinning to himself at the thought of your shocked face. “It’s not like anything will be different if I wear this one.”

And he’s right about that - if you exclude the fact that you’ve been staring at him as though he has two heads.

When you first came home unaware of the new change, you thought you were in another universe when your husband walks out from the kitchen to greet you with the apron.

Scaramouche knew he made a good decision when he noticed you staring at him for almost the entire night, trying to hold his cackling as he continued to act as if he wasn't wearing something he wouldn’t dare to wear.

“Since when did you have that apron?” You questioned with an amused smile as the two of you ate dinner together.

Your husband innocently looks at you. “What do you mean? This is something I’ve always been wearing?”

“Don’t try to gaslight me again..”

“Hehe, just wanted to check if it still does the trick.”

To tell you the truth, he actually just thought that he could just wear the apron until the apron he wanted was available in the shop. Just like what he said to the seller, nothing would really change from wearing the cute garment, and besides, seeing your reaction of him wearing it for the first time made it all worth it.

What he didn’t expect was how by the time the shop restocks the apron he wanted, he’s still wearing the pink apron.

It’s safe to say that he got used to wearing it. He takes care of it dedicatedly and dare say even more than how he took care of his old one. He makes sure to get it carefully cleaned after times when he gets a bit messier than normal. Sometimes he even unintentionally makes his outfits match with it, something you didn’t have the heart to tell him about since you thought it was cute of him.

Of course, unlike both Xiao and Diluc, Scaramouche refuses to come out of your beloved home wearing the garment. He doesn’t forget easily nor does he not mind others seeing him wearing it. The one time when he actually wore it was when you won a bet and made him wear it outside, causing him to reluctantly do it with his usual kind facade as he plans his revenge on you.

To be honest, the real reason why Scaramouche is still wearing the apron is because of its pockets.

With Scaramouch’s old apron, there was only one pocket that’s enough to fit only one item. The pink apron on the other hand has three big pockets that a few items can fit in – particularly his hand-sized recipe notebook, kitchen tools, and spices that he received from a dear friend of his who lives in Sumeru.

So yeah, it really is worth it getting the pink apron rather than waiting.

As you watch your husband making tea for the two of you on a chill weekend, you decided to bring up something about the apron.

“Hehe, remember when you were planning to keep the apron away back then as soon as the store restocked the black ones?” You said teasingly.

Scaramouche finally brings your drinks towards your table. “It would’ve been rotting in our attic by now but,” as he places the drinks in front of you, he places his hands on his hips with a proud smile, as though he’s showing off his outfit, “I realized it does fit my color after all.”

[tennessoui]

november ko-fi fic upload!

hello hello I feel like I am ~a little late, but I come bearing about 6k of a body swap au fic. there's no tumblr tag for this one unfortunately, but after like three years in this fandom i really wanted to try my hand at one of my favorite tropes

in this body swap au, they switch bodies during the aotc wedding between padmé and anakin which is so dramatic of them lmao and also so very messy

I just posted the link to it on my ko-fi! here is a little teaser of one of my favorite parts:

A commlink trills into the heavy silence.  It’s Anakin’s comm.  Obi-Wan reaches into his belt and pulls out the machine between one second and the next. “You’ve kept your commlink on?” The senator sounds confused, hurt, and offended. Obi-Wan knows he should have more empathy in his heart for her, but it is incredibly difficult. He flicks it open. Master calling, the display reads. “Yes, I did,” Obi-Wan snaps. “The galaxy is on the edge of breaking out into a war, Se—Padmé. I can’t ignore that when the Jedi could need me at any minute. As a senator, you should understand.” She recoils as if he has struck her, and he knows he should be ashamed. He knows he should soften his tone and spool the words back into a tight knot in his chest, but he cannot.  And a part of him thinks he is right. 

as a refresher, the way these ko-fi uploads work is:

Monthly supporters will be able to go into the gallery tab on my ko-fi and click on an uploaded image. The title of the image will be which au the ficlet fits into and how many words it is. The description beneath the image will be a quick summary of the au and a link to the google doc containing the ficlet. The “root” au post, aka the post that started the au on my blog, will be linked as well on that google doc

(though this one doesn't have a root post cause it was written sort of just on a lark)

[icewolfieposts]

claire's writing commissions!

i'm opening writing commissions! i've debated on this for a while and with some input this post is being made. i have an ao3 in which example writing can be checked here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icewolfie

i also have some google docs backed up with more recent prose if one wishes to look by request.

the fandoms i can write for currently include project moon (lobotomy corporation/library of ruina/limbus company), puyo puyo/madou monogatari, and bungou stray dogs. however i'm willing to stretch a little to other sources by request! these are picked more because i have confidence in having written for them before. for other sources, it just depends on whether i know them. see my about me for those details. (07th expansion and square enix sources will probably get a no though, sorry!)

pricing starts at $14 per 1k words. i can go up to 3k, but after that i will be burnt out of writing for that particular fic. money made from these will primarily be going to urgent payments for dentist appointments, as well as food and rent.

payment will be up front, and i will work in order of first commissioned for focus. i will let you know how many fics i need to complete beforehand. i use paypal and venmo.

i do reserve the right to refuse certain requests at any time.

you can contact me here on tumblr via dming, or i can give you my discord privately! please be patient with timing, as i do have a job outside of this!

thank you for reading!

[technically-ghostly-collection]

I said I’d be writing a Miguel O’Hara fan fiction. This is my first time actually posting a fan fic. It’s a slow burn, a brief summary is you’re a journalist in Nueva York. And your saved by the one and only Spiderman 2099.

If this does well I’ll post part two, I’ve already finished writing this fan fic in Google Docs and it does get smutty so I’ll be sure to disclose that if, again, this does well.

Part one | Part two | Part three

TW: Action Sequence, Violent Crime, Weapons, and Retaliation

Word count: 1,371

————————————————————————

When you published that article against Alcamex and their unethical working conditions and practices you didn’t expect that you’d get your ass handed to you for it. Or that you’d meet the one and only spiderman because of it. Fidgeting and squirming in your seat as your publisher agonizes over your article. You watch their eyes skimming over the screen. “So… what’s the verdict?” you ask anxiously.

“Well I think it’s fantastic, well written, academic. This is probably the best thing you’ve written yet” they look up over their glasses at you. “However, I hope you’re ready for the repercussions that will come from this. This will put a target on your back and you need to be prepared for that.”

You laugh a bit, sweat starting to make your collar damp. “I think I’ll be fine, what are they gonna do? Threaten me? Sue me? I’m the best journalist in Nueva York. There would be too much media coverage if they did anything to me.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

Weeks later and those words are still echoing in your mind as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it really was worth it in the end. As predicted those death threats came through but surprisingly there hasn’t been any legal action taken against you. The worst part is that’s what you’re most anxious about, ‘why hasn’t mr. Stone taken action yet’ you think to yourself.

Eventually after rolling your anxieties through your mind a few more times you slip into a restless sleep. Tossing and turning for a few hours before you hear something on the fire escape, eyes flying open the sudden noise shocking your system. At first you think it’s nothing, your downstairs neighbor uses the fire escape more often then you’d like but in an apartment complex can you really have peace? You try to roll over and go back to sleep when the sound of your window creaking open makes you sit up. Your heart rate rises and you can feel your breath quicken, you wait a few moments before hearing the window slide back in place.

‘Oh god I’m gonna die’ you think to yourself. In a panic you reach for the bat you keep beside your bed and slip a sock on the thicker end in case the intruder catches it. You slowly creep towards your door frame and tuck away in your closet, trying to take deep breaths to calm your heart. ‘Please just be a really smart racoon or possum or something’.

Your breath hitches as the door starts to slowly creaking open, eyes widening as you see a masked person creep in holding a gun. You swallow hard and wait for them to be fully in the room before jumping out and swinging at the intruder's head. Luckily for you, your sock trick has been successful, you don’t have enough time to figure out how they turned and caught the bat so quickly before you take another swing at their chest this time. You land a nice wack to their right side and watch the gun drop, kicking it across the room. You drop the bat before jumping onto the intruder as they scramble for the gun despite their new injury.

What you didn’t anticipate is that the intruder would have a friend come along with them, you feel hands grab your sides and gasp as you’re pried off your original target and tossed to the ground. You scramble to your feet and manage to dodge a punch before intruder number two lands a punch to your ribs. You gasp and grit your teeth, swinging at their head before hearing a gunshot ring out and feeling the skin on your side rip. You scream out and hold your side, luckily it just side swiped you, the adrenaline is keeping you going as you rush to the kitchen to get a knife or some other weapon. You dive behind the counter as more gunshots ring out, you can hear the wood slipping as the bullets claw through the island counter.

You wait for the gunshots to cease before grabbing the knife block, quickly ducking again and grabbing the giant chef's knife. ‘I’m so glad I sharpened these’ you think to yourself, trying to peek through the bullet holes at your attackers. You feel one of the aspiring murders grab your hair before you see them, scream out as they drag you around the counter and toss you across the room. You try to reorient yourself and get a grasp of your surroundings, the room is pitch black and all you can do is hold the knife close to your body, ready to be used.

“Who the fuck are you?! What do you want from me?!” you yell out, your eyes finally start to adjust and you see one of your attackers start to charge you. You slash the knife wildly and manage to catch their chest, you hear them scream out before they slap the knife out of your hand. You try to dive for it but the intruder grabs your arm and drags you back. “Get the fuck away from me! Get off me!”

In a panic you pull against the intruder and manage to bite his hand, your mouth filling with a metallic taste as he yells out again and punches you right in the nose. You’re instantly crying from the impact, hearing a sickening crack as your nose starts to spill blood down your face. Before you can think, you feel a gun press to your forehead and you start shaking.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was accepting your fate but you find yourself glaring up at your attackers, giving them a challenging look.

“Fucking shoot you coward” you grit out.

You close your eyes, anticipating the bullet to crash through you before hearing one of the intruders shout and the gun being removed from your forehead. Your eyes shoot open and you can see the man’s hand wrapped in glowing red rope, the glass from the window scattered across the floor as a man climbs through. All you can do is watch as the new contender kicks the original intruder and starts wrapping them in the ropes.

You feel pain enveloping your head again and scream out as the second intruder grabs your hair and pulls you up, getting you in a choke hold and holding you to his chest.

“Don’t come a step closer spiderman! Or I’ll kill the snake!” he shouts as he flexes his arm, making you gag and gasp for air.

There’s no fucking way spiderman is in your living room right now, then again, you hardly expected to be held hostage by an unknown intruder. You try to pull his arm away from your throat, refusing to give up and try to bite his arm before he covers your mouth with a gloved hand. You can feel his fingertips dig into your face and start crying more as his thumb presses against your freshly broken nose.

You watch spiderman pause, assessing the situation. You start to feel light headed as the oxygen is drained out of your lungs, clawing desperately at the intruder’s arm before feeling him suddenly release his grip on you. Gasping for air you fall to the ground and cough, swallowing as much oxygen as possible, at this point you could care less about the intruders, you’re just happy you’re alive.

You hear a scream ring out behind you and a body drop, you scramble away from the noise and turn around and watch spiderman wiping some blood off his lips, your former attacker laying at his feet and deathly still. He quickly pulls his mask back down as if you could see his features through the darkness before dragging the intruders to the window.

“T-thank you” you cough out, your throat and lungs now sore from the lack of air. The spider-man nods, not even saying a word before he grabs the two intruders and tosses them onto the fire escape. He turns back to look at you one last time before climbing out and dragging the intruders off with him.

[actuallyitsellie]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @tizniz, @hippolotamus, @diazsdimples, @perfectlysunny02, @dangerpronebuddie 💛

How many works do you have on ao3?

6 (but hopefully I'll have more soon!)

What's your total ao3 word count?

9,943

What fandoms do you write for?

911, but if we're counting the fics I have ideas and thoughts about there's a few more

Top five fics by kudos:

Buck, Bewitched

You're So Gorgeous (I can't say anything to your face)

Til Death Do Us Part

even in a different life, you still would've been mine

How Could He Not Know?

Do you respond to comments?

I always read them and appreciate them, but I'm not always able to answer. I do my best, though!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I'm not the greatest at angsty fics and all my currently posted ones either have happy or open endings, besides tomorrow comes which is only angst but kind of has an open ending.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

either you're so gorgeous (I can't say anything to your face), or til death do us part. I need to release more fics lol

Do you get hate on fics?

not yet (knock on wood)

Do you write smut?

nope!

Craziest crossover:

haven't written one yet, but I've had some crazy ideas lol

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

nope, and I'd probably cry if it happened lol

Have you ever had a fic translated?

no

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I co-wrote one fic called even in a different life, you still would've been mine with Sunny and Reggie

All time favourite ship?

I have a bunch! Definitely buddie, but I'm also in love with booth/brennan, hodgins/angela, chenford (rip), wopez, and there's definitely more I'm forgetting

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

it's in my google docs as "buck in wyoming." It's about Buck and Eddie getting into a fight, so Buck leaves the Diaz house, and next thing he knows, he's in wyoming. I'd like to think it's better than it sounds.

What are your writing strengths?

no idea

What are your writing weaknesses?

I think world building, plus environment description and details.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I think it's cool! I normally use google translate, but I love seeing people integrate other languages, especially when they provide the translation in the fic itself.

First fandom you wrote in?

if we're counting unreleased fics, then criminal minds. otherwise it's 911

Favourite fic you've written?

Again, either you're so gorgeous (I can't say anything to your face), or til death do us part (but I have some in the works that have the potential to be my favorite, so keep an eye out!)

NP tagging some mutuals (sorry if you've already done it): @underwaterninja13 @randomfandombisexual @fortheloveofbuddie @evanbegins @rebelrayne @actualalligator @justtuesdays @aspecbuddie @mattsire @theotherbuckley and anyone else who wants to join!

[asukiess]

💪?

hi luka!! 🥰

💪What motivates you to write?

I guess I don't exactly... know.

I remember last year there was a period where I was like, alright, let's give it up; you're practicing art anyway, do you need to write & publish? with a job and partnership and everything else, do I need to "waste time" staring at a doc with only 500 words written over a few hours?

so I went a week or two, and let my mind do other things, and I'd get a line or two of pretty prose in my head and I'd be like, ah, that's nice, but I guess I don't need to write it down.

but then I did anyway! and I was like okay, well, I don't need to make a story of it. and that's true anyway, like sketches in a sketchbook yknow.

but then I was like, why am I writing it down? is that "writing" as much as sketching is? just for the fun? stringing words together?

I think the long and short of it is that I just enjoy writing! I don't think my stuff is particularly everyone's cup of tea, and in some ways they're very morose or kind of nothing stories. looking at stats/ratios can also be a motivation killer. half the time, I wonder who wants to see the lovesquare in these situations lol.

but I really like when I get struck by some kind of creative force and a sunny day by the window sounds best spent with my laptop and google docs open.

I think on another strong note is that I remember fics I read from over a decade ago that comforted me at the time. I think about stories I wrote a decade + ago that felt comforting to write. and I think about maybe my stories being that for someone, too! maybe not now, but maybe years and years from now.

(ask game)

[notasapleasure]

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

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

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

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

I'm just gonna post it.

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

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

---

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

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

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

Kiaya Khatun's own eyes widened.

"You."

-

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

Only one pony remained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A friend is the one who beheads you.

A swindler puts a hat on your head.

A host who pampers you becomes your burden.

The Friend deprives you of yourself."

-

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

-

No voices were raised: raised voices travelled.

"Silly girl," Kiaya Khatun said softly.

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

"She is dead."

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

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

This brash effrontery made the courtesan laugh.

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

Russia needed warriors, not soothsayers.

-

Lymond crouched by the embers of the hearth.

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

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

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

He had returned to the building to protect his exit.

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

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

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

-

"It's early."

Lymond stood - too quickly. His head swam.

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

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

"I am fine," Lymond answered.

Jerott peered at him with a dubious expression.

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

"Have you been outside?"

Lymond let his arms open in a sort of shrug.

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

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

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

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

Jerott looked at Lymond with sharp new panic.

"Where is she?"

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

-

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

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

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

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

She had taken his place. That was all.

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

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

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

"She is looking for a new station."

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

"But I was going to marry her."

-

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

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

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

Kiaya Khatun had always been too curious.

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

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

-

"You don't understand."

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

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

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

"I understand." Lymond spoke softly but firmly.

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

Lymond's jaw tensed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerott flushed red, though the firelight camouflaged it.

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

Lymond sighed: "Ah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

This was precisely what Lymond had feared.

"I am losing time," he said warningly.

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

Attempting to shake him off was like negotiating with quicksand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To that one order, Jerott had remained faithfully compliant.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lymond regretted it, but he remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The boat," Lymond ordered through pressed lips.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

"Francis! Francis wake up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you in pain?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not look.

He did not let himself look.

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

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

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

Stay me.

Refresh me.

I am sick with love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[…]

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

[…]

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

-

"Are you leaving?"

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

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

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

"Would you not have use of me there?"

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

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

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

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

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

Jerott moved forward with a frown, his sluggish mind picking at the Latin. "There is no compulsion when friendship is offered freely. You barely have the strength to carry that pack. How will you make it even as far as Güzel's camp?"

The low red embers now illuminated Jerott from beneath, light picking out the worried angle of his brows, his flared nostrils and bow-curved lip. And - Lymond's eyes alighted on it instantly - the fresh wound on his jaw.

"I will manage. I have a great deal of experience with rowing through discomfort," he said sourly.

Jerott, seeing before him only a long and lonely journey West, spoke with exasperation. "You don't have to always do this alone."

The cornflower blue eyes, muddied by the red light, widened a fraction. "Alle þinges er maad of one alloon substance of one alloon ordinance. I will not involve those who do not need to become involved. I have allowed it to happen too often, and it has not been myself who has paid the price."

Jerott noticed the other man's gaze rest on his chin and touched his fingers to the injury. "This was an accident."

Lymond said nothing more. He reached for the oars that leaned in a corner of the hut with the fishing tackle, and Jerott felt panic, like drowning, push him another step closer.

"For God's sake, you don't always have to be the martyr!"

"I thought that martyrdom was done entirely for God's sake?"

Jerott made a noise of frustration and grabbed for his travelling cloak, its wool still damp from the earlier journey. Lymond flung the door of the fishing hut open and the gust of fresh oxygen made the embers glow brighter.

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

Lymond paused for a moment and then stabbed the oars into the knee-high drift at the empty doorway and began the task of forging a path.

Jerott surged forwards but stopped, stunned, when Lymond flipped his cloak back to lay a hand on the decorated pommel knop of his dagger.

"I will write word to you at Lyons. Go back to Volos and then to France. If I can send Marthe to you I shall."

"It seems a poor kind of charity," Jerott told him bitterly, but he stayed back on the limen, his hands braced in each side of the entrance as he watched Lymond toil at the snow.

Lymond made good pace, but Jerott saw the forced control of his movement, the uneasy line of his shoulders. Occasionally he had to stop and release a single, shuddering breath before he continued his work, and then Jerott would take a few steps along the path behind him, reluctant to simply turn away and let him go.

When he reached the water's edge and hooked the dory close to land, the slush of ice in the surrounding water hissed and chattered at the disturbance. A family of rooks started up a raucous chorus in the trees at the foot of the mountain, and above the lake a v of waterfowl coursed its way across the sky.

Lymond pulled the frozen oilskin from the boat and clambered in, his movements catching and stiff, and Jerott approached the edge only a little too late to step on board.

As the boat drifted and Lymond settled himself and his pack and oars, he called back once: "I need someone I can trust outside of Muscovy, Jerott. I need you to be my guide to the ongoing world." He looked up at Jerott, over the oars, and his face was shrouded and dark like the sky, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his unruly hair.

Jerott clenched his fists and breathed heavily. His fingers were frozen and his lungs ached; his boots and stockings were still damp from earlier, and now damp again anew, and the crisp air made the smell of wet wool a cloying distraction.

Once, the slender arms extended, willow-straight, and once, the oars dipped smoothly into the thick water before Lymond's arms were pulled back, close to his chest.

Then the mechanism that drove his perfect movements seemed to fail: a cog with worn teeth, an unoiled thread. The oars burst from the water roughly, with uneven angles. They wavered in the air and the arms shook and strained as they extended. Lymond bowed his head, his shoulders shaking, and he might have made a small sound of pain or frustration.

Jerott did not hear it. He did not take the time to steel himself, but plunged into the soupy water at the lake's edge, slipping down hidden, muddy banks, weighted and steadied only by the cold lakewater that poured mercilessly into his boots. The chill of it enclosed his skin instantly, dragging at his movements and travelling up his body like a fever. He pushed through it. He had to. Lymond had not travelled far, and Jerott had faith that the lake was not yet that deep.

It reached the tops of his thighs when he waded at last to the prow of the boat.

Lymond's head had raised, his eyes searching the darkness blankly as Jerott splashed closer. His mouth was locked shut and there was unmistakable fear in his expression.

Jerott spoke to him as calmly as he could through chattering teeth, tugging at the oars and removing them from Lymond's hands and the waters. "It's me, Francis. Let's go back." He laid the oars in the boat and turned to pull the shallow vessel back in among the frozen knees of the reeds.

"I did not ask..." Lymond whispered hoarsely.

Jerott swallowed a gulp of cold air and considered his speech between each slow, lapping footstep. "You never do," he finally grunted.

He fell to his knees once in getting to land, but his legs already burned with cold and he got to his feet methodically, tying the dory back to its mooring and extending a hand to Lymond, who could not see it.

"Francis, get up," Jerott tried to speak softly. He leaned and took a fistful of Lymond's brocaded cloak, and at last prompted the other man to unfurl, wobbling on the rocking dory.

Lymond insisted on taking the pack, fumbling for its straps, and levered himself unsteadily onto land with aid of the oars as well as Jerott's hold.

They struggled slowly back along the path in the snow, stepping up to the raised deck of the fishing hut and stumbling into a room no longer so well warmed by its neglected fire.

Jerott did not release his grip on Lymond, but he stopped, his legs freezing, burning, and his chest aching still more with a regret and a guilt that he did not understand.

"Francis..."

Lymond's eyes, dark and dilated, looked wild, but they did, at last, look at him. Then he tugged his arm free and Jerott realised how bruisingly tight he had been holding it.

"Oh, Christ," Jerott breathed. "I'm sorry." He stepped back, his palms placatory.

Lymond swayed like a birch sapling and reached a hand out - not for the wall, but for Jerott's fingers, which his icy grasp closed on as he stumbled to his knees.

-

Jerott's cold hands tried to capture Lymond's focus, to make his questions intelligible to the mind trapped within its brittle husk of agony. He cupped Lymond's face, he clasped his temples, and the coolness of Jerott's palms against the pulsing heat in Lymond's head made Lymond's eyes flutter closed in a moment's bliss.

Pain made his head feel light, but Jerott's hold seemed to tether him to the stuff of reality.

He had no answers for the questions he was bombarded with and he grasped, instead, at the cloth of Jerott's clothing.

Continue his journey or simply cease to be. Those had been the choices he had allowed himself.

Instead he was, once more, at the mercy of another's care. Not the impersonal, professional touch of Archie, not the unconditional sweetness of family, nor even the resentful acidity he had received from Oonagh. Jerott kneeled before him, his hands on Lymond's face, his eyes dark and wide and full of concern. Lymond's gloved hands pawed and clutched at his cloak and jerkin like a cat settling, unable to speak his need but seeking, in desperation, the respite that seemed to be on offer.

It was his body, he thought to himself between the strikes of pain in his head. His body that demanded Jerott's nearness when his mind could not rule with sense and articulation.

But he could not make his shaking fingers withdraw their plea, and Jerott drew him close against his chest.

Lymond's breath heaved, once more contained within the safety of Jerott's hold. His head was in Jerott's neck again - such an easy place to rest - and he gnashed his teeth in the darkness against Jerott's cold cloak, wishing, fervently for it all to be at an end.

Amid the agony in his head, Lymond forced a rough laugh out from his aching throat, determined that he should not have comfort if he could not have autonomy. "Well, Jerott. Twice have you held me and twice have you prevented me from leaving. I suppose now, like Proteus, I am to reveal my true form and grant you all that you wish."

He felt the results of his words instantly: Jerott flinched and let out a breath like he had been dealt a blow. Lymond felt the pressure of Jerott's Adam's apple move against his head when the other man swallowed.

"I ought to have left you in that boat to freeze?"

"Yes."

He did not even think about the answer, it had been on his lips before Jerott's sentence finished. Lymond clutched icy fists in wet gloves to his chest, leaning on Jerott with body alone, forcing Jerott to take his weight in his arms.

"No," Jerott returned, the single syllable wavering with horror. "No."

Lymond's laughter was devoid of joy: a hacking sound, the noise of a fox chewing its way out of a trap. "As you say. Then you have won me. The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott tried to lift Lymond's body from him, to hold his juddering arms and torso at a distance and meet his eyes.

Sullenly, Lymond kept his head down. He felt trapped by the pain, trapped by inaction, trapped by a slow recovery and a fate that he thought he had learned to be more resigned to. The rich care in his gaoler's expression did not ease his frustration. The tight grip on his upper arms pinched just enough that he bared his teeth and leaned into it, fighting Jerott's hold with his bodyweight.

"Christ, what do you think I want?" Jerott breathed in a horrified whisper.

From Lymond's throat emerged another rasp of sound that mocked the very idea of humour.

He finally raised his head to bestow a withering look on Jerott.

"I don't begrudge you it."

Jerott's face was very close, and Lymond leaned towards him, his body still tripping with spasms of pain even as his eyes delivered a challenge.

Confusion and disgust were all he was met with. Jerott jerked his chin away pointedly as he let Lymond fall against Jerott's shoulder again.

Lymond's forehead furrowed uselessly against the thick wool of Jerott's cloak. Its weave was abrasive against his screwed-up eyelids and it felt nothing of the furious struggle of Lymond's features in response to the pain. He rocked his head against the curve of Jerott's body, and he realised, with despair, that to be held against linen or skin would provide a far better distraction from the discomfort of his own corporeal prison.

His body's conflicting demands seemed to tear at his sinews and joints: pain and pleasure, cruelty and comfort. Care always came at a cost, did it not?

At last, a blankness, like a snowed-in landscape, followed his fury. The flames of frustration that had been fanned were reduced to white embers, cooling, crumbling as they settled into ashen byproduct.

He subsided against Jerott, breathing against the skin of his neck, and heard Jerott's rueful murmur as though through water.

"If you knew what you offered."

-

Jerott had dropped to his own knees in stunned recognition of the plea in Lymond's gesture. The gloved hand grasping his fingers had been an admission of need that Jerott fumbled to answer, shuffling close to Lymond like they were children sharing secrets beneath the kitchen table.

Jerott laid his touch on Lymond's shoulders as Lymond's fingers coiled and bunched in Jerott's cloak. He was able to see his surroundings now, Jerott was almost certain, but the pain made his expression into a death mask, rictus tight, the blue eyes bulging uncomfortably wide.

The embrace had seemed to calm Lymond, to stymy his frustration and anger, and it had given Jerott a sense of a contribution made. Lymond's form, even with the racking sobs of pain pulling through it over and over, felt right in his arms. It felt neat and compact, strong and graceful. When his face nuzzled Jerott's collarbone and his hands pulled at his clothes, when Jerott leaned his jaw on Lymond's head and let flaxen strands adhere, tickling, to his dark stubble, it felt as natural and as proper as anything else he used his body for.

So when, spitting venom, the creature in his arms had attempted laughter, Jerott was struck cold anew at the implication of Lymond's words. What had he won? His arms tightened reflexively on Lymond's body and then he made them loosen, trying to disentangle himself, to see Lymond's face and to understand the despair in that voice.

Lymond's body was limp, doll-like in Jerott's struggling grip, but the blue eyes glimmered from behind blond curls, mocking and hungry as he tried to absorb pain and turn it into a weapon of his own.

Jerott shook his head, not really wanting to hear a response to the question drawn from him. "Christ, what do you think I want?"

His arms folded across his body like an funereal effigy, Lymond shivered and made a sound, and looked at Jerott with something that perhaps was intended as a seduction.

"I don't begrudge you it."

His alabaster skin was clammy and the hollows of his eyes were purple and uneven. His lips were drawn into a thin white blade across his mouth and the fine, neat hairs of his brows were dishevelled from contact with Jerott's cloak. He leaned towards Jerott with the inevitability of a tree falling, and Jerott raised his chin aside to make his disinterest in the offer clear.

Lymond's face was against his shoulder again, pressing for comfort like a nesting animal. He would not unfold his arms to hold Jerott, but he would not let Jerott move away.

Jerott wrapped himself around that fragile form again and suppressed his own shivers. His legs were soaking wet and the cloth on them clung. The fire was perilously close to going out and the winter's night had enclosed the fishing hut and its surroundings.

But, now wordless, unable to speak or act upon the easement and solace he required, Lymond had stilled in Jerott's hold. He wished, it seemed, to be close, though he hated to acknowledge it, and Jerott would not drive him away in order to arrange his own comforts.

Jerott had seen Francis Crawford endure a great deal in the past years: fire and water, the blade and the thonged whip. Nothing had penetrated the marble-poised, expertly composed demeanour like this withdrawal though. External forces could be rebuffed or managed, met with raised chin and accepting defiance. But this was a pain from within: Lymond's own body turning against itself, matching and outwitting his defenses because the pain was a mirror of himself, accustomed to all of Lymond's tricks already. Jerott had never heard such misery as that contained in a single, unthinking word when he had asked if he ought to have left Lymond to perish on Lake Karla.

Yes.

Jerott knew how to handle wounds: sword, arrow, broken bones. He knew how to calm and control his own fears, how to push through pain and tap into the rush of aroused senses to keep on fighting. To keep on living. But he did not understand the sickness that ravaged Lymond in these intermittent raids. He did not understand the darkness or the desire for darkness.

He knew only that he would not leave a wounded man to travel alone unless the need was dire. And he clung to that principle, which he recognised and welcomed, and he understood that the impulse to stop Lymond from going was separate from the impulse to hold him close. The two needs may have joined in felicitous convenience when Francis had reached for his hand, but Jerott reassured himself that he could tell the difference, even if, in his pain, Lymond apparently could not.

The episode had passed, and Lymond lay unmoving against him. Jerott at last let his chin lower to rub against Lymond's hair again, let his eyes close as he re-examined what had passed.

He did not want a reward, or a prize. He had seen how Lymond deflected pain with his body - from himself and from others.

What do you think I want?

Jerott sighed and shifted his shoulder so that Lymond's breath warmed his neck. Lymond lay as heavily on him as before, and Jerott turned his cheek against the thickets of blond curls.

"If you knew what you offered..." he trailed off, imagination failing him.

-

[I think the next bit was written earlier than the above chapters - emotions are running higher, and as often happens with F/J I feel I have to go back and cool them down, and then they cool too much and inertia sets in. I was definitely overthinking this. It then turns into really fluffy smut that probably belongs with a totally different fic, but it's sweet and I like the headcanon that Jerott might know something about massage, so I'm plonking it here with everything else for anyone who's interested.

Just imagine I took a screenshot of that post saying 'all Jerott/Francis fic reads like it was written by Jerott as wish-fulfillment' and pasted it here. It is a post that has haunted me since I first went tag diving, and I will never escape the sense that it mocks every J/F fic I write.]

-

-

Shakily, Lymond drew the cocoon of blankets about his shoulders and plucked at the toe of one damp stocking. The fire was regaining warmth, but Jerott continued to fuss around it, prodding wood and kindling into rigid formation and judiciously failing to meet Francis's eyes.

"The attacks affect your memory also?"

"They do."

Finally, he looked up and scanned Lymond's expression. A frown scored his brow, but Lymond could not tell what source Jerott's temper drew on. He sighed and sat back, staring at Lymond over the rising flames and the thin breath of smoke winding its way towards the roof.

"What do you remember?" he asked grudgingly.

"Enough to surmise that I have been unjust."

Jerott shook his head and looked away.

Lymond wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to summon warmth from within his own body. "My intention was to leave, and yet I am still here. Will you resent me for that, when it was not my own choice?"

That struck a chord, hammer to string, and a shudder ran through Jerott's shoulders.

"You dream. And you speak when you do." He looked up, and trouble and care mingled in his eyes. "You feel you let them down. The child, your mistress. Philippa. God knows who else. Your family. I think. You miss them, but you say you cannot see them. I don't understand it, when it seems to bring you no relief to be away."

Lymond made himself hold Jerott's gaze, though his throat closed with hard tension and his eyes stung from the smoke.

"You have - twice - intended to take the dory out onto the lake, alone by preference, when it should have been as evident to you as the weather in the sky or the lateness of the day that you lack the strength."

Where he rested it against the floor, Jerott's hand formed a balled fist. His legs shivered and he moved them, sitting on the side of his thigh to hide his body's nerves. "You are not a prisoner here. I am not your keeper. But you would have - I couldn't leave you like that."

Silent, Lymond measured Jerott's hurt and confusion.

[…]

There was more he had said. Lymond could see it, he could practically taste the other words in his mouth, and in Jerott's miserable expression he saw their confirmation. In Lymond's mind was a store of language, a magpie's hoard of treasure gleaned from books and papers and people. Where his own wits failed him, he always had recourse to the prepared cleverness of others.

"The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott's eyes closed and he turned his head to the shadows, nausea crawling over his features.

Lymond watched him, very still and very wide of eye, conscious of the renewal of bodily charge that he felt in the wake of the migraines. Suddenly there was heat in his blood again, and he was like a clepsydra filling, drop by drop: it pooled in his belly, accompanied by the sensation of having come upon his own sentiments unexpectedly.

In rashness and in the desperation of pain, he must have offered himself: the prize for Jerott's loyalty. It had been a crass gesture, diminishing to both of them, but rooted, sure as a weed, in something real.

The idea of his offer being taken up produced an honest quickening of his pulse.

[…]

Once I loved a girl and wished to make her my wife, and once I loved a man and wished to make him my leader.

[…]

He caressed the stubborn bloom with his mind, wondering when its seed had settled. Gratitude may have nourished it, but probably it had rather thrived on neglect - Lymond did not recall its cultivation at any point between St Mary's and the Mediterranean.

It was not amor de profundis, of that he could be fairly certain, but it was within him, unlovely desire, scrabbling for purchase among the rubble of his being. It was selfish and heedless of all the others who had been hurt before, of all who had left their hurt on him in turn. Perhaps it was some state of bestial default, an insensible need, to which his parched self had turned when all others had fallen by the wayside: left behind, snatched away, driven from him for their own betterment and protection.

Lymond's lips twisted. As an invitation, it seemed that what he had said was akin to the death he had given the delly on the road to Volos. Nothing else had driven Jerott away - but that lack of finesse had probably done more than anything else Lymond might have tried.

"I have shown you improper thanks," Lymond said quietly. "But I once more owe you my life, it seems."

"You owe me nothing," Jerott snapped, getting to his feet.

He stormed two short, absurd paces to the edge of the small room and stood facing the wall, his breathing heavy. Jerott snuck a single glance over his shoulder.

"My clothes are soaked," he muttered.

Being a man of spiritual rather than physical shame, he began to remove each item with violent haste, loosening ties and freeing clinging cloth from skin that looked blue with cold even in the firelight.

Lymond, whose cloak, gloves and boots had been taken from him with care and the utmost gentleness, allowed a shiver of interest to run through his body.

Jerott laid his clothes over the rack he had created by the fire and stooped smoothly to pick up a blanket, one dry enough to be capable of warmth. He swung it over his shoulders and was momentarily displayed against its red pattern: lean and toned, the skin of his chest still swarthy even where it had not been exposed to the sun, fine black hair gathering in a line down his centre to draw the eye.

He met Lymond's interest with a glare and an astonished blush and wrapped the blanket about his torso loosely. It fell to the tops of his thighs, leaving stocky, muscled legs exposed and lit by the flames. His knees were scuffed and red, the colour of his mouth.

A pace away.

He might be at Lymond's side before either of them could catch breath, but Lymond had ruined any chance of that. Logic said that this was for the best - the depths of Jerott's attachments were notoriously abyssal. But loneliness had found a way to raise its grizzled head, loosed by the migraines, slipping free while the pain distracted Lymond. He wondered what Jerott's hold would feel like to a body not savaged by pain, what his embrace could do for a man who found himself all too sober and aware of what he had lost - as well as of the value of what remained.

"Francis. You're shaking."

Jerott frowned, and the distance between them drifted away like fire smoke. His hands reached for Lymond's wrists, his eyes studied Lymond's own. "Is it happening again? Already?"

Lymond blinked rapidly and shook his head. He tucked himself deeper into his own wrappings and dusted off a wan smile.

"No, no. I am just cold." He had not in fact noticed until asked, but although his core retained heat, his back and his feet had begun to feel like ice.

"You should take the wet stockings off," Jerott advised.

Lymond stared at him: guileless, impulsive, loyal to a fault. Unable to leave and unable to admit why he remained.

Oblivious to Lymond's grim resignation, Jerott sighed and his fingers shifted to the ties at the knees of Lymond's britches. He loosened them so as to reach the ribboned stockings beneath. He worked brusquely, but the feeling of his hot hands sliding silk down Lymond's calves was enough to make the air shudder in Lymond's throat and blood drop to the pit of his stomach.

Jerott froze at the sound and looked up. His head was bowed and his expression was difficult to read, but he let his fingers remain where they were on the folds of knitted silk.

"Are you all right?"

-

It was not an expression he could remember seeing on Lymond's face before.

It was not an expression he recalled seeing on anyone's face in recent times. Unless there had, perhaps, been a mirror in the tekke.

Jerott's fingers lay heavy on wrinkled silk, and he pressed them into the fabric, sliding it against Lymond's skin once more.

The heavy-lidded eyes widened minutely; the dark flourishes of Lymond's nostrils flared with another intake of air. The result seemed to be the same whichever stockinged leg Jerott stroked, so - he told himself prosaically - it was probably not a response garnered by bruise or injury.

He wrapped each hand around the athletic calves and their coverings, his weight on his own grazed knees, the blanket he wore hanging to either side of his naked body. Lymond's golden lashes moved quickly, like the wings of a small bird or a moth, and his lips parted as Jerott drew touch and silk together down to Lymond's two fine ankles. The golden hair on his milk-white skin glittered like embellished thread in the firelight. Jerott let one warm palm travel down the bare front of Lymond's shin, smoothing the soft texture beneath his touch, ostensibly trying to warm, but savouring the meeting of flesh.

Pleasurable sensation was somewhat spoiled by the sodden chill of the knitted feet, but Jerott pulled each stocking away quickly then, and sat back with a small, triumphant smile.

Lymond's breathing was noticeably rapid. Two spots of colour has risen to his cheeks and he held both covering and knees protectively close to his body.

As though the realisation of what he had done only now caught up to him, Jerott felt his own skin glow with heat. He blinked and his smile faded and he remembered to close the blanket around his body once more. Touch had stirred his flesh, and he gritted his teeth, trying to battle his bodily response with a regimen of thought and prayer from a lifestyle that was no longer his.

He looked down at Lymond's bare toes in penitence, overlaying the memory of warm, smooth skin with the sight of Lymond's damp-puckered feet, bloated and patterned and blued from their enclosure in damp cloth.

But he could not silence the need to know what Lymond's own response was. While Lymond had slept, Jerott had admitted to himself the existence of a feeling that he thought could never truly be reciprocated, and to feed it with hope was only to increase the inevitable disappointment.

But - there was nothing in existence like being looked on with pride and pleasure, those perfect, clever features appraising him and finding him worthy of trust.

The feeling that caused him to blush built in intensity: were Lymond's eyes on him, hungry and questing? Or had he looked away in shame and repulsion?

Jerott made himself raise his head to face Lymond, and found him staring back, closer than Jerott had thought he was, blonde curls in tousled disarray. He looked neither feral nor afeared, but his expression was not edited to fine control, and its openness made Jerott flinch - like he would flinch from staring direct into sunlight.

It took him a moment to notice that one of Lymond's hands had emerged from the blankets. Fingers as delicate as the petals of orange blossom extended an invitation to him: one that Jerott took before even considering what it could be. He laid his own hand across Lymond's, fingers wrapping around fingers.

I am sick with love.

With reserves of strength that surprised Jerott, Lymond held him and drew him close by the hand. Jerott approached, moving his knees against the hard floor, his eyes caught by hypnotic blue, until he was close enough, between Lymond's legs, for Lymond's other hand to touch his cheek.

Comfort me.

His eyes closed and he leaned into the contact. Gabriel had been free with such gestures, offering brotherly comfort and affection that did not need to be earned so dearly as Lymond's wary friendship. Hard breathing, after battle, a fond hand on his face; a calloused touch raising his chin when Gabriel saw Jerott look away doubtfully from the words of another Knight.

Stay me.

He swallowed and jerked his head away, squeezing his eyes tight shut. The cool backs of Lymond's knuckles tried again, brushing his jaw, sweeping around his chin until exploratory touch found the cut left by Lymond's spurs. It was not a brotherly touch: the crook of one finger bracketed the wound while Lymond's thumb extended upwards to Jerott's lower lip. The slight pressure of the thumb pad made Jerott's mouth open with a gasp and he tried, with all his fervour, to remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He had kissed her, hadn't he?

Jerott opened his eyes tentatively and looked across Lymond's knees to his face. His eyes were wide and quite dark, but the blue rim of his irises was like a secret only Jerott knew how to read. His mouth was set with determination - or regret? - and the firelight showed a divot between his brows where he frowned.

Jerott swallowed, but his throat was dry. "You told me you'd rather I had left you in the boat to freeze."

Lymond's frown deepened. His eyes watched his thumb as it continued to play along the underside of Jerott's lip.

The touch was an overstimulation of sensitive skin, and it began to feel to Jerott as though his lip has been numbed by caresses. He bit it to try and regain feeling.

"Having been provided with the time to reflect, I think I would choose to be here instead," Lymond murmured.

It seemed a familiar sort of deflection, and Jerott's smile was hard. "In preference to death."

Lymond's expression turned sharp and he withdrew the hand on Jerott's face, though his grip remained firm on Jerott's fingers. "That is not quite what I meant."

The heat of the fire made the exposed soles of Jerott's feet tingle. Its light moved over Lymond's changeable features, cycling through almost-expressions that played directly into Jerott's fears.

He wanted, very much, for the offer to be real. He wanted to surge into Lymond's arms, to feel that touch on his lips again and more. He wanted completion, connection, a revelation of contact that would change him utterly.

But he had been told to strip his altars. To let go of heroes, to let go of love.

"Then what do you mean?" Jerott asked bitterly.

Lymond sighed. "Militat omnis amans, Jerott." He looked tired, the shadows deep and richly coloured on his face.

"I want peace. I want to think of pleasure, not of pain or punishment. And - I fear that I am no longer able to."

As he spoke, Jerott's hold on Francis's hand tightened. He let go of the edges of blanket that he had clasped together and, falteringly, reached for Francis's cheek. His fingers brushed the barley-fine tips of curls, and he crushed them beneath his palm, feeling Francis's hair as a handful of foliage between their separate skins. His thumb smoothed the silken line of Francis's temple and he leaned close, testing his feeling, testing Lymond's assurances.

He could not remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He began to believe he had never done so. Jerott's mind filled instead with the memories of gemstones and signet rings held beneath his lips, of relics and swords, brotherhood and penitence.

He wavered close to Francis's face but found that he could not make himself do what he had in mind. With a gasp and a shudder he touched his forehead to Lymond's temple instead, then rolled his cheek against the other man's, breathing hard into the fine little ringlets that coiled around Lymond's ear.

"Yes," Jerott made himself say, the syllable a half-swallowed whisper. "I want to. To help you."

Francis clasped the back of his head and kept him close, but did not try and turn Jerott's face.

He had been a boy when he joked that the site of his home was in reality The Ostrich Inn. Still a boy when his father had arranged for them to stop there on the road to Solway, and Blyth the elder had been struck to rowdy laughter as he learned that every lady of the house already knew his son quite well.

If he had been just a boy then, what had he been before that, hunting kisses from the kitchen maids, making eyes at his father's well-dressed guests over the rim of his ale cup?

Elizabeth, he had never touched. She had died unblemished, a vessel filled with mystery and reverence. And for her sake, the boy he had been vowed to forgo all others. Guilt for breaking this vow should have compelled him to pull away, it should have stopped him from wanting the heat of Lymond's skin against his and the feeling of the other man's breath on his body. It should have been enough but it no longer was.

Jerott pressed his face into Francis's cheek, his ear, his hair, his neck. He threw both arms around Francis's thin shoulders and let himself be drawn forward, his hips between Francis's thighs, Francis's hands carefully, gently, keeping the blanket enfolded across Jerott's shoulders.

-

It was not, all told, the response he had intended to elicit. Thoughts of pain and punishment certainly ran alongside any thought of pleasure in Jerott Blyth's mind at that moment.

As though he had to wrestle himself into conviction,  Jerott squirmed his body against Lymond's, his face pressed into the open collar of Lymond's doublet, his hips seeking a comfortable position against the cloth of Lymond's breeches.

Lymond shut his jaw tight and felt his bodily response begin to press against the inside of that material. Heat, single-minded and insistent, was driven to that one part of him, pricking awareness of the naked body on top of him, of the tantalising closeness of Jerott's mouth to his skin.

The feeling of Jerott's own erection on the other side of his clothing was enough to convince him to seek more. Francis released the blanket that covered Jerott's shoulders and scooped his face from Francis's throat, raising it to his own.

He kissed him without preamble, not waiting for Jerott to imagine what was to happen. Francis pressed his mouth over Jerott's lips before they shut against him. He licked their bitten surface with his enquiring tongue. Jerott made a sound of surprise: pleased but uncertain, his lips vibrating with it beneath Francis's kiss.

A flush of desire leapt through Francis at this sensation and he pressed his mouth again to Jerott's closed mouth, seeking still for a response.

Jerott's hands fumbled to his shoulders and pushed Francis away slowly, though his grip was tight. While close enough, Francis's lips lingered on Jerott's, following up with kisses that brushed softly against hot skin, but he was repelled with inevitable force and had to look up into Jerott's wide-eyed expression.

Seeing something of Lymond's exasperation, Jerott managed a shaky smile - Francis wanted, savagely, to obliterate it with his kisses. He wanted, he supposed, to be deprived of himself as promised: in the physick of touch and taste it was possible to forget recent history and the foreboding future, and to live, momentarily, with no demands but those of his body.

But evidently, Jerott retained some reservations about this approach.

He sighed, breath cooling the saliva on his lips, his dark eyes round and black and astonished.

"Might we wait?" Jerott swallowed. His throat moved as though he wanted to laugh, but nerves stole the sound. "It has been...some time since I -"

Lymond had to bite his tongue to contain a rash comment on the proclivities of monks, but he did so, for the sake of the colour in Jerott's face.

Still Jerott frowned and looked again at Lymond's expression. "My God. When did anyone last say no to you?"

Francis scoffed and bit out a sharp crack of laughter. He tossed his eyes ceilingwards to avoid Jerott's earnest gaze, but he did not answer. By the time one was in another's bed chamber, or holding a naked body in one's arms, the time for saying no had usually long passed.

"You are saying no now, then?"

Jerott licked his lower lip. "For now. But I would like," his glance turned bashful again. "To bring you comfort."

He raised his hand to Lymond's hairline again and swept fingers through his curls. "If I might."

Francis shivered and wished it did not show. He closed his eyes and wondered what Jerott could intend - comfort was for children and the dying.

-

There were enough blankets to cover the hard floor as well as the two persons who lay down to sleep by the light of the fire. Lymond wore his linen shift and undershorts and was warm and still in the cupped form of Jerott's body. His breathing was steady, quiet, untroubled by the stresses and pains of consciousness.

Jerott's forehead touched the smooth skin of his shoulder where Lymond's shift had slipped, the collar stretched across the top of his back. His left arm curled around Lymond's small ribcage, held in place by Lymond's left arm. The cold soles of Lymond's feet pressed against Jerott's shins and the warm curve of Lymond's arse sat against Jerott's thighs.

Jerott's eyes were closed but he did not sleep. His knees prickled where ice had grazed them, his jaw tingled from the cut, and his muscles throbbed with heat from the exertion of the day. His thoughts grew ragged with protest and justification, with hallucinations of the smell of spikenard and the sound of Gabriel's voice.

He flattened his nose to Francis's skin and drew the deepest breath he could. He wondered if he would still smell the Aga Morat's perfume, stained into Francis's body.

But Francis smelled only of himself, and that was something Jerott was still new to: linen and leather, spice and incense lingering in his pores, the earthen, shoreside scent of exertion. He touched his lips then to the surface of Francis's body, covering the dark spots of his moles one by one with honest abstraction of thought. It was easier, knowing that Francis was asleep - that Jerott's curiosity was not about to be confronted by a sharp and worldly scrutiny.

He could not say why he had needed to postpone the consummation he knew he wanted. Tiredness, perhaps, fear of Francis's tiredness and the possibility of another migraine - perhaps, if Jerott wished to persuade himself of unselfish motives. But a deeper fear lingered in him, tangled and knotted up in the memory of Lymond's first offer. His body as a prize, to be collected by the last man standing, a cynical gesture of resignation when he found himself unable to choose for himself when and how to leave.

For ten years, Jerott had followed a man who had, in the end, discarded faith and loyalty and brotherhood without a second thought. Jerott had been a strut for Gabriel's vanity, a trophy of sorts himself: proof of Gabriel's leadership and worthiness, proof of Gabriel's persuasiveness and skill.

Jerott did not want, only, to be yet further proof of Francis Crawford's charisma.

It finally made sense to him, poised on the blurred edge of sleep, that there was one very simple way by which he could ensure that Francis wanted him. That he wanted Jerott from affection and not from some twisted notion of duty or reciprocity. Jerott had earned the rare coin of Lymond's gratitude before. He would simply have to do so again, in new ways. Timorously, his nerves jangling with anticipation, Jerott smiled against Francis's shoulder and the fingers of his left hand tangled around Francis's fingers.

He slept without dreaming.

-

Morning light meant nothing inside the snow-insulated hut. Jerott's skin was russet toned in the glow from the fire's embers, his dark eyes sparkling with interest.

Beneath strata of blankets - wool and cotton, waxed and frayed, stained and creased - Lymond's body shivered with involuntary glee at the expression in Jerott's black eyes. He lay in Jerott's loose embrace, the edges of his hands pressed against the hot skin of the other man's chest. For once, he was not cold; did not know for what or who he had gotten into this nest other than himself, from his own selfish desire. And now he simply waited, thrilled with curiosity.

First, with a slow care that made Lymond's eyes close as his body anticipated a grasping, hard touch, Jerott loosed a hand and it settled on Lymond's cheek. The meeting of flesh was soft, far softer than Lymond expected, and Jerott's fingers pressed against the hair above his ear, smoothing the strands back against his skull.

Jerott watched the motion of his own hand, his lips parted, wondering, and then he looked into Lymond's blue eyes.

The answer was there, risen to the lapis surface, but Lymond's mouth moved anyway: "Yes," he told Jerott.

Jerott's face flushed with colour and his hand settled, a form fitted to Lymond's jaw, and he raised his head from their shared pillow. He kept his eyes open until the last minute; his lips planting, pursed, against Lymond's own.

Lymond responded as he could, carefully, feeling a tremor of unfamiliar nervousness run through Jerott's body. Lymond's lips pressed against Jerott's closed mouth in return, his tongue raised against the back of his own teeth impatiently. He wanted, very much, to taste Jerott's flavour, to seek out the contours of his mouth with all the senses he had been given. To share the joy of touch given freely.

But he waited, allowing the first kiss of the morning to remain chaste, allowing Jerott the absorption of sensation, the experience of closeness, the long-unfamiliar reciprocity of affection.

A strand of Jerott's hair fell down to tickle Lymond's brow and he smiled within the kiss and fumbled a hand free of the covers to comb his fingers through smooth black locks, pushing Jerott's hair back with gentle insistence.

At last Jerott's mouth parted to release a gasp, and he let his eyes fall closed for a moment despite his curiosity. He ran his teeth over his lower lip.

When he looked again for confirmation in Francis's eyes, there was a renewed, fortified certainty in his steady breath and his firm touch on Lymond's cheek. It made Lymond shiver, the fierceness that glinted in Jerott's dark eye and the wordless depth of the colour that spread across his chest and neck.

Jerott bowed to him again and his tongue quested against Lymond's mouth, and Lymond opened and let him in.

Jerott's hand tightened against his jaw, feeling Lymond's response as taste encountered taste.

Lymond's confident movements sidled around Jerott's exploratory forays, guiding him, intercepting him, encouraging Jerott's pressure. Jerott covered Lymond's mouth with his own, savouring each meeting, his kisses learning precision, mapping out each new piece of flesh uncovered.

Lymond's fist closed in his hair, knowing Jerott's strength and impulsiveness, his body wondering when this methodical introduction would give way to something less ordered. The pressure of Lymond's grip elicited a moan, sound that he lapped up greedily with his own mouth, and there was an echo of response, Jerott sighed again, and again Lymond captured the expression of feeling.

When he drew back, Jerott's hand was shivering against him, and Lymond let his own eyes stay closed, his mouth curving into a grin at the simple honesty of Jerott's body.

-

For his part, Jerott let his fingers plough deeper into the corn silk curls, felt his heart hammer, too much for his chest as he lay cramped and gasping on his side. Francis was smiling, at or despite what he had done.  It seemed genuine, not mocking, and Jerott wondered what it felt like beneath his own hot mouth. He kissed the dimple at its edge and felt muscle and flesh respond as Lymond's smile deepened. He kissed the corner of his lips, then the centre, and let want drive him, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue between Lymond's smiling lips.

Lymond gripped him back, one hand around his jaw, the other sending smooth fingers over the skin of Jerott's collarbone and shoulder.

-

Caught up in his own eagerness, Francis coiled like a serpent and rose from the pillow of blankets. He pushed Jerott back and leaned his face and chest over him, pressing into the kiss, one hand holding Jerott's jaw, the other propped against the floor.

Jerott ruffled the loose sleeves of Lymond's shift, feathering touch and texture as he swept his hands up Lymond's arms. His fingers clasped at the base of Lymond's skull, and he pulled his chin free of Lymond's hold to stretch into the kiss.

Lymond used his empty hand to feel out the anatomy of the body beneath him. His fingers started in the hot groove beneath Jerott's jaw and followed the beating of his jugular to the sharp definition of his collarbone. The pads of his fingers spread across Jerott's sternum and stroked along the hair of his chest before his thumb swerved away to the side and pressed and flickered over one brown nipple.

Jerott bucked beneath him, his hips thrusting his hardened cock against Lymond's side. Francis gasped and laughed into his mouth, then pinched the tip of Jerott's nipple with calculated mischief.

Jerott swore and surged up from the covers, his hands on either side of Francis's face, his abdomen tightening as Francis let his roving hand drop to tease touch over his stomach and thighs.

His more customary violence of passion awoken, Jerott was not shy in manoeuvring Francis's body so he could get his hands beneath the edges of Francis's shift. He pulled at the cords of the linen undershorts and Francis heard stitches rip.

Another torrent of impatient language fell from Jerott's mouth as he leaned away to see what he was doing. Francis’s grin was delighted, and he could not help but remark upon Jerott's hurry after a decade's waiting.

He received a furious, heated glare in return and Jerott abandoned the tie to bend Lymond's body against him in another deep kiss. On their knees, swaying with imperfect balance, they tangled together until Jerott felt he had made his point and slid his hands once more to the waistband of Francis's underclothes. His fingers dipped inside the cloth, his knuckles on the skin to either side of Francis's navel and he pinned Francis with a look of warning and a small, subversive smirk.

Francis's eyes widened and he was on the cusp of protesting a shortage of spare clothes, but the breath he drew was obscured by the dry cough of linen tearing and his words did not get past Jerott's kiss.

The underclothes dropped down his arse but remained caught and tented on the shaft of his cock.

Francis smiled toothily into Jerott's kiss and nipped until the other man let him speak. "Very well then. Stronge in his despoylle, wel armed in the batayll."

Jerott's groan of amusement - or exasperation - buzzed against Francis's lips and his hands smoothed a path from the base of Francis's spine to the crease between arse and thigh. He gripped flesh and jerked Francis towards him, trapping body against body, rolling his hips to press himself fully against the folds of Francis's half-fallen underclothes.

They kissed until touch was sloppy, the skin surrounding Francis's mouth stinging from the roughness of Jerott's stubbled jaw. Jerott disproved Francis's apprehension that, once aroused to it, all his movements would be as full of bruising force as he could make them. Jerott's hands were gentle in the waves of Francis's hair, his fingers quested in the short ringlets at the nape of his neck. Soft down the hollow of his spine and around his hips, carefully plucking the cloth of Francis's undershorts away at last and rocking his body against Francis's with hot, pulsing regularity.

It was obvious that he would try to pull the shift up over Francis's body next - but it was more difficult to explain why Francis resisted.

Lymond clamped his elbows to the sides of his ribcage and said "No," with automatic firmness. His torso was marked with the mistakes of his past: cut and branded and flayed. It was a source of fascination to some and pity to others, and he did not want it to distract - to come, now, between himself and the unexpected pleasures of Jerott's touch, to encourage the doubt and dread that remained, ever-ready, on the edges of his mind.

Jerott's brows raised, his expression poised and worried. "I've seen it before, Francis."

"Not since it healed," Lymond snapped and shut his eyes, regretting the words and the tone. It was the reminder he could not resist giving: Jerott had ordered the most recent whipping experienced by Francis Crawford's ruined back. He had watched it all happen. Close enough to feel the mist of spattered blood.

Jerott's hands had ceased their exploration at the sharp protrusions of Lymond's hips. His thumbs moved over the sensitive place where bone came close to skin and he touched his lips to Francis's again, his mouth soft, open, lingering. It wasn't an apology, but it felt like one. Jerott did not try to raise the shift again.

His acquiescence did more to settle Francis's tightened nerves than any other persuasive words might have. The room was dark after all, and he had surely been in more compromising states around Jerott.

Francis banished the ticklish memory of Robin Stewart's gaze on his scars, steeled himself, and pulled the shift up in one swift motion.

He had barely discarded it when Jerott caught him up in another tight folding embrace, one arm about the small of Lymond's back, the other at Jerott's favoured position on the side of Lymond's face, his fingers in the soft hair above Francis's ear. He pressed his skin to Francis's skin and kissed him as though he had been waiting for the opportunity his whole life. He didn't look for the scars on Lymond's torso with his eyes or his hands, he just sought a dizzying maximum of touch.

Francis let himself sigh, a slipping of control, and pulled Jerott back down to the covers with him, grunting as his body hit the blanketed floor side-on.

Jerott laughed, lying on his back, his hair a scattered mess of spilt ink around his face. Mirth made him seem younger, his eyes closed trustingly, with genuine humour, and one hand reflexively grasping for Lymond's skin.

Francis stared, remembering the wild young man from Solway, his heavy, earnest gaze and sharp questions. There was so little he had left from then, and Francis was barred from returning to those others that remained. A swell of gratitude seemed to tower over Francis as he looked down at Jerott, the feeling dredged from deep within, carrying with it the chill of authenticity.

He was glad not to be alone. Not to be with Kiaya Khatun and her imperious assumptions. But here, with a reminder that Francis Crawford's life was more than just a string of disconnected events pushing him from pillar to post. A reminder that some things endured.

He aimed to put all of that feeling into his kiss, leaning over Jerott and moving his tongue with languid, eloquent motion. Judging by the noise that emerged from Jerott's throat and the way his cock twitched under Francis's hand, something of his intended message seemed to have gotten through.

Francis splayed his fingers over the hot, smooth skin of Jerott's dick and slid them down over his balls, kneading the soft flesh with gentle, probing touch. The muffled moan between their mouths contorted into a curse and Jerott's hand joined Francis's, holding him still while Jerott breathed hard against his lips.

"Wait. I can't. It won't take long," he said grudgingly.

Francis smiled angelically and dropped a garland of kisses along Jerott's brow. His fingers tightened again on the sensitive, velveteen skin and Jerott's back arched a little as he gasped.

"It matters not. I believe you will rise to the occasion more than once."

Whether Jerott's frown was for the concentration he tried to summon or for Lymond's pun was unclear. But he shook his head, his eyes closed.

"I want you to...I want to," he swallowed and laid his hand over Francis's once more, though he no longer tried to stop the strokes Francis was making at the base of his shaft. Jerott opened his eyes, his expression plaintive. "I want you to enjoy this also."

"Believe me, Jerott, I already am. And we are in no hurry. There is plenty more to be done."

Jerott looked like he might make some clever comment about forging a path through the snow or rowing across a frozen lake, so Francis precluded these suggestions by tightening his grip a little and increasing the speed and length of his strokes.

Jerott's throat curved towards the thatched roof, his eyes closed reflexively and his heels dug into the folds of the blanket beneath him.

Francis rolled to a kneeling position and clambered over Jerott's closest leg. He bent to use his tongue in tandem with his hand, pushing into the base of Jerott's dick with the tip of his tongue and licking along the length of the shaft.

The first clear discharge was already on his hand and glistening on the reddened dome at the end of Jerott's cock. Francis gathered the taste of him with lips and tongue and at last enveloped him in his mouth.

Jerott made an appeal to a number of the manifestations of the Christian deity as well as to several saints, but not one of them offered him a reprieve from Lymond's touch.

Indeed - it did not take long at all. Lymond's lips tightened, his tongue swiped the sensitive folds of skin, and he felt a rush beneath his hand as Jerott's hips leapt from the floor with sudden urgency.

Momentarily, his own movements slowing just as Jerott's jerking thrusts slowed, Francis raised his head, removing his lips gradually like a man sucking the juice out of a peach.

He sat up and swiped his wet lip with one thumb. He reached for and swigged from the flask of water, kneeling between Jerott's legs, while Jerott lay splayed before him, his eyes barely open but regarding him with a fresh new awe.

Francis responded to Jerott's open-palmed, begging hand by moving to stretch himself alongside the other body again. He ran his fingers against the lay of Jerott's body hair, ruffling dark strands before smoothing them down again. He rested his head on his elbow and smiled at the wondering look in Jerott's eyes.

Jerott rolled to face him, and took Francis's chin in his hand. He tightened his grip for a moment, keeping Francis's face held still and at a distance. His eyes scanned Francis's expression like it was a code he needed to decipher, like he suspected and feared some imminent revelation of underlying motive.

The lovers Francis had lain with before tended not to seek answers like those Jerott searched for. The coin of those transactions was common currency, from border brothel to Ottoman palace, and Francis Crawford knew its rates and exchanges well.

Less familiar was the insistent need in Jerott's serious expression. It was not a need for Francis's touch, for more of what he had given or could give. It was a need to please and a need to prove, a need to make certain the freedom of what was offered.

-

Jerott bit his lip and looked at the steady blue gaze and the wet red mouth - he had to steel himself, but this he did, and then he kissed Francis carefully, tasting what remained of himself on the other man's mouth. He had swallowed enough of the Mediterranean in his life to find the hot, salty taste less than startling, and he soon forgot his reticence.

Francis's tongue was seasoned, his lips felt swollen and soft beneath Jerott's kisses. He shuffled closer across the blankets and hooked one leg over Jerott's calves.

The strange, unsettling idea of his own discharge between their kisses made Jerott think of the rites and rituals of the ancients. Mingling blood with blood to forge new ties, tasting one another's flesh to prove that they would to do anything to remain by each others' side.

Jerott, his eyes closed, his hand on the uppermost side of Francis's face, his nose touching the other man's nose still, murmured a half-formed question. It seemed to him that it was a query that would appeal to Francis's broad knowledge and omnivorous sensibilities.

"What is it that Lucian says of the bond of friendship?"

As he had hoped, delight rang clear in Francis's response. "Lucian! I did not expect you to know the texts of the barbarians, Jerott."

"Not his satires. One of More's translations. A discourse on friendship? It was a popular text in the Auberge."

"Toxaris. Now that does make sense," Francis said, smirking and moving his head so that their noses brushed together. "Sacrificamus inquam haud tamen deos esse arbitrati, sed viros bonos."

Jerott's reply was firm. "Not sacrifice. About loyalty."

Francis's smile was sharp like that of the fox preaching to the geese. "Etenum simulat que incisis digitis, sanguinem in calicem destilla verimus, sumus que instinctis gladiis, ambo pariter ad moventes biberimus, non est quicquae quod deinde nos quiat dirimere."

Jerott blinked at the vivid imagery. "Yes. I had forgotten about the swords."

Francis's lips stretched wide and he summoned a sound of amusement from deep in his throat. It made Jerott shift impulsively: in order to lay his lips on the source of that noise he pushed Francis to his back, unpeeling his arms from his curled body to kiss Francis's Adam's apple; the firm cords of the tendons in his neck; the convergence between his collarbones.

Pinned down to the far side of Francis's body, Francis's fingers twisted and knotted with Jerott's and he chuckled again at Jerott's kisses, adding to the cascading vibrations in his throat, creating more waves of sensation for Jerott's hungry mouth to chase over skin.

Much as Francis's body was strange machinery to him, Jerott was well trained to observe and to learn from what he discerned. The first thing he had understood was how hungry any touch could make Francis - if it were offered in the appropriate manner.

And, Jerott thought excitedly, if he could also engage that steel trap mind...

Jerott pushed himself away from Francis's skin to prop himself above him.

"Do you know of a man named Paré? A barber surgeon."

A frown crossed Francis's brow, but with it he wore a bemused smile. He shook his head wordlessly, then Jerott saw his eyes widen.

"The man with new-fangled techniques concerning the treatment of bullet wounds?" Francis ran his fingertips down Jerott's sternum and belly and smirked at the shiver he elicited. "I don't know what your idea of pleasure entails, Jerott, but I prefer the firearms to remain outside the bed chamber."

Jerott grinned and tossed his hair from his face before lifting a leg over Francis, to sit astride his narrow hips and feel Francis's cock move enquiringly against his thigh. "He also has ideas about providing physick through touch. Massa," Jerott said in Arabic. He held Francis's face between his hands, his thumbs beginning to roll in circular motions over Francis's temples. "Le massage," he added in French.

Francis's expression was one of polite patience, but as Jerott increased the pressure of his thumbs, moving the supple flesh beneath and occasionally stopping to push his fingers firm and hard in trailing lines against Francis's scalp, Francis's face began to relax, and his eyelids fluttered lower and lower as his smile unfurled.

"Jerott, where did you learn this?" he said, his voice emerging as a weary gasp.

"There were a couple of Knights who had fought for the French at Piédmont before realising the threat of the Turk. Paré demonstrated his techniques there."

As the cranial massage seemed more likely to relax Francis to sleep than arouse him to other activities, Jerott gently removed his hands from his head and smoothed his fingers across Francis's chest, watching the near-invisible golden hairs shimmer as his touch passed over them. "I understand that it is particularly beneficial for the shoulders," he said hopefully.

Francis swept his own hands through his hair, familiarising himself with the sensation of his aching skull having been remade. He glanced up at Jerott, his eyes dark like royal dye, his expression thoughtful. "I think I should like that," he admitted, quite quietly. Combined with his serious expression it felt like a covenant, and Jerott leaned down to seal it with a kiss, luxurious and slow.

They rearranged their bodies, Francis turning carefully onto his belly and elbows, all tension in his joints renewed before Jerott's eyes. His back shone with scar tissue, like an iced-over lake of old pain, white and scored, puckered and ridged. Many of the wounds had blended and pooled together, but at its edges, at its sloppy borders, lone strokes had ploughed silvery furrows into flesh, and Jerott, who had been expecting it, still had to bite the inside of his mouth and shake his head. He had seen such things often enough - he did not forget his own role in the creation of some of the landscape before him now - but never had they felt as much like a knife between his ribs as this sight did.

He laid his palms flat over Francis's shoulder blades and rubbed his thumbs against the groove of his spine. The scarred skin was softer than anything he had touched in his life, but it moved and stirred beneath Jerott's fingers just as any other flesh. He let out a sigh and swept his hands up to Francis's shoulders and neck. Jerott flexed his fists against the tightly bunched sinew and muscle and Francis let out a sound like air escaping from broken bellows.

Jerott blushed with immediate pride, and began to settle into his motions, watching his own brown fingers knead Francis's fair body. There was little covering on Francis's light bones, but Jerott's hands found the places where smudges and twists of hard pressure worked their effect nonetheless. Once he knew that the sensation was pleasurable to its recipient, Jerott found it easy to leave his hands to figure their way around Francis's body without conscious direction: the hands of an expert horseman, they knew the benefit of finesse and caution as well as the brutality of combat. Thumbs and knuckles ground out stiffness from the column of Francis's spine, around the sweeping curves of his ribs, ruffling nerves where scar tissue met healthy skin, pressing down into the softer parts of his back: the hollow dimples above his arse and the subtle curve of his flanks.

Francis arched his spine and raised his arse beneath Jerott's body, pushing back into his touch and trying to muffle his moan in the arms that he held crossed beneath his forehead.

Jerott was drawn to the sound by need though, and followed the trail of his hands back up Francis's body, leaning forward to nuzzle his face in the curls at the nape of Francis's neck. Jerott kissed the overspill of hairs that trickled down into an uneven v at the back of Francis's head. He dragged his teeth along pristine, freckled skin at the curve where Francis’s neck met his shoulders and he felt his cock grow lively once more against the flesh of Francis's lower back.

Beneath his body Francis twisted like an eel. Newly facing Jerott, their faces close enough to mingle breath, Jerott saw the expression he had been searching for. Undeniable points of emotion coloured the pinnacles of Francis's cheekbones. His gaze was steady but on edge, seemingly alarmed by his own response, but he took Jerott's face in his hands and kissed him deeply, and Jerott at last let himself believe that this was not a hidden bargain. It was not merely Francis's body offered in exchange for Jerott's acceptance of his onward journey - something further had been secured.

Francis rocked against Jerott in the kiss, his cock a hot pressure between Jerott's legs, pushing into sensitive, hidden parts of his flesh.

Unwilling to cede the initiative yet again, Jerott guided his knee between Francis's legs to push them apart. He ran his hand up the length of Francis's thigh, then began to squeeze handfuls of muscle and to rub his fingertips against the smooth skin on the inner part of his leg. He felt Francis adjust to the position, stretching from the floor to maintain contact with Jerott's mouth, to steady himself with his own sure grip on Jerott's shoulders.

Jerott's fingers trailed their way down the taut muscle at the back of Francis's leg and pried his arse cheek from the floor. He fed his hand into the space between Francis's body and the blankets, searching for the textured line of the perineum, hot and enclosed between curving flesh.

The unexpected pressure of Jerott's finger at his arsehole made Francis flinch at first, breaking from Jerott's kiss with a smacking sound, regarding him with heavy breathing and raised brows.

Jerott merely lifted his own eyebrows and pushed again at the opening, stroking across and around it until he felt Francis stop clenching his muscles warily tight.

He still regarded Jerott thoughtfully though, and murmured through gritted teeth, his breath scorching on the skin of Jerott's cheek and ear: "You are full of surprises, Jerott," before Francis captured Jerott's earlobe in his mouth and sucked on it vengefully.

Jerott could not hold his gasp, but he kept his confidence on all else. It did not seem like the opportune moment to point out his experience with the tricks of the women at The Ostrich Inn, nor was it they who he wished to occupy his thoughts.

Two joints of his finger made their way within Francis, and Jerott grunted at Francis's weight and the pressure on his digit, while Francis made his own sound as Jerott's finger twitched inside him.

"Go deeper," he instructed, grasping Jerott's own arse with one straining hand. Francis lay back on the blankets, seeking the purchase to push back against Jerott's finger, his body relaxing rapidly to accommodate the touch now that he had settled into it.

Jerott strove to do as he was ordered. He twisted his finger to nudge the wall of flesh and muscle and heard Francis release a sigh of air. Using the strength of his wrist and swordsman's hand, Jerott made his touch cramp against the spot that seemed to make Francis most likely to whimper and bite his lip and flex his body against the spread of cloth below them.

Jerott used his free hand tentatively at first, acclimatising himself to the strange feeling of another man's cock in his grasp, but found that he could hold himself alongside Francis. Jerott thrust against his palm and against Francis's shaft and his eyes fell closed in concentration as he tried to align the gestures of his two hands and their two sets of hips. Flesh jumbled with flesh, sensation with sensation, desperate and reckless, dry and hot.

The first he knew of his success was not the bitten-back sound Francis made - a shudder of relief like a collapsing building - but the sudden lubrication on his hand and his cock as Francis's ejaculate spilled over all. Jerott gasped and swore as the warmth of it hit him, triggering a jolt within his own body that he could do nothing to control.

His hips moved under the sway of no intent, his body surged with bliss for the second time that morning, and his could not avoid daubing Francis's firelit skin with fresh discharge.

That which carried more momentum missed Francis's face and hair by mere inches as he jerked his head to the side, laughing.

Jerott looked down at the two softening dicks in his hold and laid Francis's down with a dazed sort of reverence.

"God," he gulped, removing his finger from Francis's body less gently than he intended, and holding both of his ruined hands before him in bewilderment. Each one was stained with the ink of sin, slick and shining in the dim light, but he felt no guilt or shame - only their shadow, the sense that he ought to feel them. Instead, his mind was as blank and settled as the pristine snow outside, dazzling and dazzled.

Francis was shaking, his head rolling to one side on the pillow of covers, his own palms hanging uselessly in the air above the puddled mess on his belly.

He was still laughing, now in total silence, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared helplessly. His chest was blotched with colour and his cheeks were darkened by blood risen to the surface; his curls were clustered and dark with sweat; and the same salty sheen sparkled on the skin of his abdomen and thighs.

Jerott collapsed back on his heels, one of Francis's legs still trapped beneath him.

"Sorry," he managed to mutter, though it was a response made out of obligation.

Francis sat up as though stung and hastened to be close to Jerott, yet he still smiled. The pool of fluids on his skin dripped, catching on the golden hair around his navel. He took each of Jerott's hands in his own, shamelessly, palm to sticky palm so that Jerott was suddenly afraid they would be joined never to be parted, a punishment for what they had done. Francis gripped him more tightly as he tried to pull away, his eyes steady, inviting Jerott to look at him and find calm.

Francis murmured something - French; poetry; Jerott's swirling mind thought - and kissed him softly.

His lips already seemed so familiar, so much like a welcome, and the vague cloud of Jerott's unease started to dissipate. With their hands entwined to each side they leaned together, and Jerott only shuddered a little as the cold, wet stain on Francis's belly was shared with his own skin.

"Apology not accepted," Francis smiled against his mouth. His fine lashes brushed Jerott's cheek when he moved his face closer, and he let Jerott lean, exhausted, against him in turn.

-

Jerott's body shuddered against his bare skin. He kept his head and his eyes lowered, though he let Francis retain a grip on his hands.

"There is nothing to apologise for," Francis said against the swell of Jerott's mouth. His body was chilled with fresh sweat, his back felt frighteningly exposed, but there was no taking back how good it had felt to have Jerott's touch on him, how strangely content he had felt when he looked up and saw a familiar, trusted face lit by the furnace of passion.

Jerott's breath caught and he leaned his cheek against Francis's.

"Nothing we did was wrong, Jerott," Francis murmured. Their bodies rested close, their hands to their sides, Francis's thumbs working softly over Jerott's, though his grip was firm and he would not allow Jerott to pull away. Not like this. Not after that.

"Did any of it feel wrong, to you?"

Jerott's neck tensed and his head flinched back from Francis's, just far enough that he could meet his eyes. A series of muscles moved in his face, around wordless lips and wide, dark eyes.

Finally, "No - " he managed to answer.

Francis's expression cut off whatever caveat he might have been about to add. Jerott drew in a gasp and his colour deepened beyond the red blotches on the high points of his cheeks. He looked wonderingly at him, so that Francis could feel his own skin grow hot again, and Jerott kissed him.

His fingers shivered from the cleansing snow, and Francis wiped them on the shift he had replaced over his quickly cooling torso. He stood in the doorway to the hut, gazing out onto the painfully bright morning landscape. The tracks they had made the previous evening, on Francis's last attempt to divert their course, had been covered by fresh snow. Their meandering path to the lakeside and back again to the door - that which had been ice and mud and snow churned together - had turned now to soft white curves, like a line of small tumuli on the land.

Francis's eyes narrowed and his breath coiled in the air. Only the rooks stirred, and the sun was too low to do any more than skim across the glittering surface of winter's coat, like a pebble on a lake. He could smell no other fire smoke but their own, could hear nothing over the cawing of the rooks, and felt dizzy at the weight of snow that now lay between him and Kiaya Khatun's caravan.

But it was not the dizziness that sucked at his consciousness like a swamp, nor did the sun's brightness feel like hot daggers in his skull. Francis wrapped his arms about his body and loosed a held breath, steady and slow. He watched the air bloom with it, expanding petals of condensation that drifted away from him, glittering as they caught the sun. For perhaps the first time since he had boarded a ship provisioned by Onophrion Zitwitz, he felt good, clear: clear-headed, clear-sighted, clear of pain. His whole body hummed with the freshness of sensation like that experienced around a newly-healed wound, when spiking, tingling nerves begin to reach out again in exploration.

Shy at first, the hands that wrapped around his body smoothed his shift beneath their weight, and Francis blinked at his own response: he did flinch protectively, but hardly knew it through the roiling tide that crashed against the nerves below his stomach. He wanted the touch of those hands, then; it was not complicated, physically.

As for the rest - could he think of this existing beyond the little hut, and to what end? - Francis supposed that might wait. Waiting was all they had left for the present.

"It's cold," Jerott's reminder was spoken quietly, with a vein of uncertainty. As though he expected Francis to tell him it was as mylde as a mornyng of May. As though, if Francis told him so, he might try and make himself believe it was true.

Francis stepped back against Jerott's body and let him push the door closed, Jerott's arm reaching around them both. Francis twisted about and closed his eyes against the darkness inside the hut. Gentle, wondering fingers were at his hairline again, combing, teasing against his scalp in warm tracks. Jerott's mouth was at his, brushing querulously and catching on skin, his lips skimming close to Francis's spreading smile.

Francis, so used to playing to the melodrama of romance, so used to folding his lovers over his arm, pinning them in a deep kiss of passion that was calculated to undo the mortar of their knees, laughed at first as Jerott's body curved over him, into him. He almost thought that he simply would not be bent that way, half expected a snap, like an overstrung bow breaking. But instead, there was just Jerott's palm, splayed wide in the centre of his back, easing out his trust as they leaned into each other, as Jerott's other hand supported his head.

Jerott was still undressed, and Francis had to slide his arms up Jerott's bare body to find purchase, fingers clawing and grasping at smooth muscle and the submerged outline of his bones. Francis exchanged the long kiss for a series of gasping, nipping touches, mouth to mouth, untidy and competitive, each man striving for the final touch.

It was Jerott who, at last, pulled away, allowed Francis to take more of the balance of his own weight back, and looked at him with an expression far too serious for Francis's liking.

-

And that's it! For now, probably for ever? Though if anyone wants to write gap fillers or a conclusion that would be very sexy and I'm totally cool fwith that happening.

So, from what I remember of this, the lads catch up with Marthe and Kiaya on the other side of the lake. I think they plan to sneakily infiltrate the camp because they realise exposing Marthe will just create dangerous chaos, and I guess they (Francis) think they can reason with Kiaya.

I think I imagined some Mexican stand-offs, Marthe definitely has a gun, and she maybe even got to use it.

Details of the resolution are not a thing I recall at all, but the satisfactory conclusion is, I think, that all four of them go to Russia. Maybe Marthe still gets the chance to cosplay as voevoda now and again, and Kiaya Khatun doesn't have to threaten any small boys because Marthe is keeping her busy. She and Francis probably still think of Marthe and Jerott as place-holders of a sort, and I think Francis always regrets the vulnerability of letting Jerott in - there would be some absolutely blazing rows about some of his Ringed Castle behaviour, even if it was mellowed a little by changed circumstances, it's still pretty wild, and there's a lot he'll be keeping from Jerott about family circumstances.

I hadn't really thought through to ultimate resolutions, but left it so Francis/Philippa could still be a thing, ideally with Jerott having come to terms with enough about himself and about Francis to accept that they're probably not an optimal long-term match. He's always got Danny, who will have been making eyes at him from the ranks all winter long. I also think Kiaya's ambition should mellow, she and Marthe should have a Gabriel mummy bonfire/sell him for parts like the Egyptians did with their mummies, and then retire to Lyon together to be weird traders/fortune-tellers/coffee-sellers. CRAZY idea! Marthe/Kiaya coffee shop AU!!! Get your stars read when you buy ten cappuccinos! Sorry we're all out of caramel syrup but we can grate a little dessicated finger bone on top? I'm sorry we don't take payment in cloth sir, but if you can spare that antique relic we'll toss in a whole bag of our finest roast beans. No? Oh well, just keep your eyes on me, that's it. What, no, that's not my wife behind you with a dagger haha, what are you suggesting?

[basil-appreciation-comic]

IMPORTANT UPDATE!!

the comic is cancelled. you probably already assumed that since i havent posted anything about it in a while but yeah the things dead now lol. mainly because i dont care much about omori anymore, the comic sucked, and it was too much effort. i feel kinda bad about leaving you guys in the dark for this long tho, so i thought id go ahead and include all the scrapped stuff for the comic that never got finished

while i was writing the comic i started a google doc that laid out ideas i had for future pages. heres that if you wanna know how the story ends

it was written over several months and (most) things are in order of where they go on the timeline not when i wrote them so it might be a little hard to follow

also some art i never posted

(at least i dont think ive posted the last one)

i quoted not liking this comic as one of the reasons i stopped so let me explain that with a list of things id change about this if i were to remake it (which i wont)

remove the swearing that was so stupid

make omori mute (and probably use sign language)

omori does not express fear or stress in-game, thats sunnys job. quit it

he also does not cry and generally shows emotions (even the big ones) in more subtle ways (which i think i was trying to shift towards later in the doc) idk why he was so emotional all the time

literally everything about how i portrayed omori actually that was all just awful

the panic attack scene is fucking embarrassing i have no clue what i was thinking. im so sorry for writing it like that i did 0 research beforehand

make it shorter why did i think that would work out

id probably just make it a fic, comics take way too much outta me compared to just writing things

it does not need a big epic ending and probably shouldve ended not long after they escaped black space

the romance is horrible but thats the foundation of the comic so idek what id do about that

stop making everyone talk like therapists 24/7

and yeah it has a lot of problems but i still do care about this due to the ammount of effort and love ive put into it, i just cant and dont want to continue it

so yeah thats where this story ends ig. i had a lot of fun along the way, and thank you so much for all the support. bigger thanks to that one sunflower discord server (if you came from there you know which one) for being my main motivation and support throughout this journey. sucks this comic never got to see its full potential but im relieved to finally lay it to rest. the blog will stay up for archival purposes but i will not continue the comic any further obviously. the ask box will remain open if you wanna say anything or if you have a question about the story or whatever. thanks for reading.

[theguynamedcrashy]

Hi guys, trans man who's poor here (relevant)

Good news, as of the day I'm posting this, I got my top surgery consultation! I have things to do before I can actual schedule the thing but in the mean time, I need to save up money! So to do that, I'm doing writing commissions. Want a specific fanfic written but don't want to do it yourself? In a fandom with no fans so you can't read anything? Already read 20 fics of the exact same thing but you need more? Look no further. This google doc here

will give you all the details about it. I have my prices, I got my fandoms I'm in but it can be any fandom, I got my will dos and will don'ts, I got snippits of things I've written so you can see my writing style I got them all. If you want to help me, a transgender man who's part time and who's mom won't pay for the cost, I need every dollar or cent I get. DMs are open and free to talk about more. Thanks for reading o/

[thedemonscrawler]

gonna procrastinate on writing by talking about writing woo

So, fun fact! Permission Slip is usually being written on two different documents at once, which should be but are not actually identical? And neither of them match the actual AO3 version you guys read?

1st Draft

The first draft is written with a combination of OpenOffice and Google Docs.

(I'll get to why that says Mobile Copy in a sec)

The OpenOffice document is meant to be the Master Draft of the fic. It's the entire story so far-- outline, notes, all the chapters written and the bits of chapters we haven't gotten to yet.

Yeah, it's lengthy. The reason it says 'Active Version' is starting around Chapter 5, I began saving a copy of the document up to the most recent chapter finished.

This is because of how I write scenes out of order, and having an older draft lets me go back for things that got rewritten. It's also really neat to see how various ideas evolved over the story, or how old some of the scenes are.

OpenOffice has the Master Draft, not just because it can handle it, but so I can put my laptop into airplane mode and write offline if I really need to focus. But the story doesn't stay there!

If you've seen the snippets I've shared, you know that sometimes they're highlighted in grey, like this:

(yeah you enjoy that snippet from Chapter 15)

The grey highlights are a system to tell myself 'this is a section that needs to be copied over to the other document', almost always a section I have just written that session. Feels good to have a whole page in grey.

So from OpenOffice, the grey sections are copied over to GoogleDocs, and become the 2nd Draft.

2nd Draft

..okay, so there are actually TWO GoogleDoc copies of Permission Slip. One of them is a 'master' version, just like the Open Office file. The other is the Mobile version. The master version has all of the chapters and outline and stuff, while the Mobile copy only goes back one or two chapters prior to the current one. Why?

Cos it turns out that when a document gets to be around 110 pages long, Docs starts being a little bitch and lags real bad on mobile, or starts crashing. So the mobile version was made so I could type on my phone. Same deal, new sections are highlighted in grey and copied back to the OpenOffice version when I'm on the laptop again.

Since the GoogleDocs version can be worked on from multiple locations, it's the one that gets the most edits. If there are substantial changes made they'll be copied back to the OpenOffice document, but minor edits aren't as crucial, and there are some sections that are pretty different between the two now.

From the GoogleDocs version on to the final(ish) version:

3rd Draft

The AO3 version should match the GoogleDocs version, and for the most part it does-- but not always. That last minute readthrough to catch all the spaces added after italics is also a time for minor edits. Missing words, dialogue rewrites, etc. There's one chapter that had a chunk written in the editor, but unfortunately I can't remember which one it is now 8'D only that it's between chapters 9 and 12. Naturally the AO3 version is the one you guys get to see.

Uuuuh yeah so. Overcomplicated system, go!

Also if you want a word processor for free, I recommend LibreOffice! Its based on the same open source software as OpenOffice, only it's actually still being updated and stuff (I still use OO just cos it's what I have 8'D).

Unfortunately I have yet to find a word processing app with cloud-based storage that can be edited from multiple devices, so I can't replace GoogleDocs with something better.

[asterekmess]

A Bit of a Conundrum

I've been waffling about this for a long time, and as I've already vented about it to my discord, I wanted to open it up to a possibly larger audience of my readers. And also complain about it more. XD I write. A lot. I have. A LOT of writing. We're talking like more than 2 dozen wips sitting in my google docs, some with 14k, some with 114k words in them. Some with a specific ending in mind, some with no plot beyond what's already written. Fuck dude, some aren't even Sterek/TW! I was fortunate enough to have someone go on my ko-fi and do a monthly donation to me for a few months. They stopped, which I'll never be mad at, but having them there at all, having someone say "I'd like to support your writing just for the sake of supporting it" meant a huge amount to me, and it made me think about all of my wips.

I don't post often, or regularly, or..well at all, for months and months at a time. This is because I almost only ever post fics when they're done. it's a personal rule of mine, and not one I used to follow when i first started writing fic. It's one I came up with shortly after finishing "Wanted" bc I felt terrible and pressured when I had to take breaks during that fic and when I couldn't keep up with a regular schedule for people. And for a long time it was a good rule for me. It helped me not to feel pressured or overwhelmed by the worry of abandoning a project on ao3 and getting bombarded with comments asking where the next chapter is. But as I've continued writing over the years, my wips have gotten more numerous, while my posted work continues to trickle in. I'm a chronic long-fic writer (though my currently posted fics don't reflect that), which means it takes way more time for me to finish a fic than it does for me to get distracted coming up with a NEW idea for a fic. It's hard to finish work. But that doesn't mean I don't love my wips. They're incredible. Some of them contain some of the best stuff I feel I've ever written. Poignant words and phrases and meaningful moments. And looking around at them, I realized that anyone who goes to support me on my ko-fi, or considers following me on Ao3, or even just subscribes to a series, isn't really getting to see what I"m actually doing. They see a fic posted every 9 months, or every year. There's no real indication that anything they do is helping me regularly, that they're even supporting a Current Active writer. In light of that, I've been considering starting to post wips of mine. The problems with that are numerous and a bit overwhelming, hence wanting to hear others' opinions and vent about it ad nauseum. I've got lots of wips, and if I were to start posting them, I wouldn't want to toss the whole wip out at once. But posting a chapter at a time every few days or even once a week, while it would mean a lot of content coming out, it would be a lot of content that I haven't finished. Cliffhanger chapters, and unfinished stories that I can't promise would ever be finished. And I know I don't owe my readers anything, but it's still unsatisfying to post something without an ending. Then there's the absolute overload of possibly too Much content for people. Getting an e-mail every other day about a new chapter for a fic you've no interest in reading isn't fun. And on top of all that, is the editing. Often when I'm struggling with a fic, I find that i need to go back and change the beginning. In honesty, part of why I wait to post until I'm finished with fics is bc semi-regularly I'll get to the end of a fic, go back to the beginning and edit it all over again to make it more cohesive. To me there is no such thing as a 'finished' chapter. only a finished fic. If I posted as I wrote, then I'd either not be able to go back and edit chapters, or if I DID go back and edit my chapters, they would then need updated, and people who'd read the first 4 chapters of something would end up needing to reread the fic to get the full sense of what I'm doing. But at the same time, posting my wips would mean finally getting to share some stuff that's been gathering dust for years in some cases, finally getting to see people's reactions to them. Finally getting to know that even if I don't end up finishing it, at least people can enjoy what's already been written. And of course, finally getting to show people that when they support me through donations or comments or what-have-you, they're supporting an Active writer, supporting work being made every day, even if it's not FINISHED every day. All of these things are stuff I'm trying to take into consideration, and it's been a hell of a struggle. Plus, as I'm unfortunately trying to manage doing a part-time job rn, just getting up the energy for this stuff is a big BIG task.

If you've got any thoughts or strategic ideas, I'd love to hear them. If not, s'all good, I mostly just wanted to vent. XD

[somany-fandoms-solittle-time]

“What’s so Special About the Moon?”

Jamil Viper x MC(insert character Mac)

(Ch. 1) – Ch. 2 – Ch. 3 – Ch. 4 – Next – Previous

This was originally supposed to be, like, a single chapter hurt/comfort before my OC (Mac) and Jamil as a song fic where they berate him and then sing a song referencing the moon… but then I had feelings and it’s becoming a more in depth character study between the two. Don’t worry! By the end of this mini series, there will be song lyrics and more sappiness… it’s just now that I’ve finished both Book 4 and Book 5, I need to reorganize the events and specific and whatnot. Some quick housekeeping as always: I tried to make Jamil to encompass both his dark & mysterious villain persona ALONG WITH him practically being a fucking child so that’s why I wrote him like *this* so yeah… I’m moving around the timeline so that Yuu/MC (aka Mac) has the weekend to GET THEIR SHIT TOGETHER LOL, Mac is about 19-20 (haven’t decided yet) and uses mixed pronouns as a heads up, Ch. 2 has a 1st draft written put still needs to be typed up and edited. If you see a typo NO YOU DIDN’T!!! This one of my first times trying a different writing doc that isn’t Google (cuz fuck Google) and it’s a little weird to get used to and edit stuff. It’s beta-d in the sense that licking the spatula while your mom bakes cookies and claiming that you helped… literally only a few paragraphs were checked over y’all.

Quick shout-out to @krenenbaker and @twst-beam for inspiring my writing thus far (and sorry for taking so long to post this lol!)

I’ll be releasing some type of overview of my OC eventually, but take these snippets as they go while I fall back in love with writing. You’ll meet Mac in full when xey are good and ready… anyway, please enjoy Chapter 1 of my new fanfiction, “What’s So Special About the Moon?”

“Here. You can use this one,” Jamil directed towards the plain (compared to the rest of the dorm) laundry… mat? There were several industrial sized washer and dryers, a couple moderate-sized one’s that would fit a regular apartment complex, and a long wall designated area for hand washed items. Jamil was keeping the door prompt open with his hips; his slight frown of concentration and the flick of his Magic Pen were the only signs of the current spell he had going. Turning around, MC was slightly surprised by the massive piles of fabric that was being corralled in via multiple a massive sheet tied to multiple brooms. They still couldn’t fully grasp the concept (and power) of magic and seeing it so casually performed on a day-to-day basis was kinda daunting.

“Thanks again for letting us use the space along with showing me how to properly clean all these fancy duds and whatnot.” the Ramshackle Perfect awkwardly trailed off. Their focus was split between stealing peaks at the Scarabia Vice Warden, not wanting to bother the already busy Sophomore, and surveying over the dusty, damaged antique pieces the two stripped from the halls of the previously abandoned dorm. Rugs, carpets, curtains, furniture covers (in varying state of disrepair) dulled of their once rich and vibrant color. The patterns were a mix of stuffy academia and the quiet comfort of a grandparents cottage living room. Both extravagant, yet understated. It’s a style lost to time, but not quite a revived ancient aesthetic.

At this point MC was fully lost in thought; they desperately needed to clean, fix, organize and decorate the dorm in preparation to host so many guests. Even with his limited memories, they had a feeling they’d never hear the end of it from his parents.

“Don’t worry about it much.” Jamil said, interrupting their musings. “Honestly, I’m doing this as much for myself as I am helping you.

With a flick of his wrist, Jamil organized the seemingly random crumbled piles of fabric by condition, color and use. His movements while cleaning were quick, smart, and efficient-- all while patiently showing Mac which order to start in along with the best way to clean them.

“Ya’ know…” MC broke the relative quietness between the two workers, “Even with everything thing that happened over break, I understand why Kalim still trusts you; I almost can believe that you’re not that bad of a guy.” Jamil gave xem a startled (and exasperated) look, but they continued before he could respond: “I fail to see how helping the person who ruined your ‘world domination’ plans—”

“They were hardly World Domination level!” He quickly snapped. His embarrassment led to him tugging his hood further down his face, teeth slightly clenched, and dilated eyes as MC continued listing all the ways he’s “helped” them out.

The magic-less Perfect laughed to themselves the more conflicting emotions flew across Jamil’s face. Eventually those same emotions were compressed behind a cold, smooth mask. Limestone slabs and stiff mud brick walls were swiftly constructed between the two working-class students. Something about it didn’t sit right with Mac.

“Hey I’m not saying what you pulled wasn’t a dick move! But you’re also not the first overly-traumatized teen boy I’ve had to deal with… and between what you’ve said about yourself, plus thing’s I’ve heard and seen, I’m starting to think you’re not nearly as complicated as you think you are.” The longer they argued *to* him, the more Jamil’s mask began to crack; there were a few holes in his walls he didn’t account for. Xe’s a tad more observant than I remember, but weirdly just as persistent, Jamil internally rolled his eyes.

“I could still change my mind and send you back to deal with the Pomefiore Wrath(tm),” He mumbled while gracefully lugging the newly cleaned (and damp) furniture coverings into an empty drier. Despite his harsh threat, MC still remembered him assuring the other this laundry room was only ever used by him after Kalim’s parties.

The large machines and larger working space was specifically added for the servant to clean and repair any decor or Asim Family Treasures when Kalim’s recklessness caused a larger mess than usual. This meant that Mac and Grim (who was originally supposed to be helping… where the hell was he anyway?) could do as many loads needed without worry. On top of the borrowed space, the Housewarden himself had cheerily has assured them, his Oasis Maker would replace all the water used ten times over!

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted once again as Jamil relented, “I told you, I’m doing this to help me.” After receiving an unconvinced eyebrow raise, Jamil began to explain, “Kalim might’ve announced us as equals but I still have a job to do. If he got sick while spending Allah knows how long in a dusty, dirty, shabby condemned building like Ramshackle I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It’s not nearly that bad anymore!” the sole-human resident of said dorm argued, but was quickly shut up with a tired gesture towards the untouched loads of laundry left to be done.

“On top of that,” Jamil smirked “Even a common peasant like myself wouldn’t sleep in a rundown garbage heap if I can help it.” His smirk slowly slide off his face from his face as the insulted Perfect almost ripped the handful of soapy doilies, that they were previously scrubbing by hand, as xey prepared a retaliation.

“OK, first of all! This whole Inferior-Superior shtick isn’t going to prove your point. If I’m being totally honest, I’m pretty used to the bratty, arrogant attitude of teenagers by now (even if I wasn’t Leona is a thousand times worse).” They turned their full body to face the 2nd year boy before continuing the assault. “Secondly, even just doing the bare minimum would’ve been fine, considering I’ve slowly been deep cleaning them place room by room. This is just last minute cleaning considering I wasn’t expected to host six extra people in two days.”

The shock of Mac’s care and attention to detail couldn’t win over Jamil’s newfound freedom to be right… and sassy while doing it. “Keep in mind you wouldn’t be the only one having to deal with Vil. His expectations are much higher than my personal standards—”

“Getting there!” MC interrupted again. “It’s not like Vil and whoever else couldn’t magic things better or get things done over at Pomefiore.” However, their fire started to die down with their obvious lack of understanding of magic. Not that Xeir level of intellect ever stopped them from talking out of their ass during debates… even if this wasn’t exactly shaping up to be anything like Debate Club back home.

“Not the point!” Mac built back their steam after thoughtlessly shaking off any internal distractions. “Third of all,” Jamil groaned not-so-quietly, “third of all, you didn’t have to show me how to do it. Nor did you have to continue helping me. There’s only so much I could pay you back in favors and it’s not like you’ll make back the time and energy spent. You’re obviously a bit of a piece of shit but I don’t totally blame…”

Jamil suddenly gave Mac his full attention. He smoothed any emotional tells from his face and readied himself to actively dissect what ever left xeir mouth and any messages in between the lines. The silence prompted Mac to drip extra sincerity as they begin to ramble without thinking.

“… I get why you did what you did. You’re not totally forgiven, but it’s not like I’ll hold a grudge over you forever. Whenever I joke about Winter Break I thought you knew it was just that: a joke.”

The two stared at one another for a few beats. Jamil betrayed nothing that he was thinking, but Mac could practically feel the exasperation flooding off of him in great waves. The disbelief pushing and pulling off of him, despite remaining stone cold to zeir admission. So, of course, they continued with slight for fever:

“Yeah, okay, you held us all prisoner, enslaved via hypnosis your entire dorm, and nearly killed multiple students. Twice.” Mac cringed at their own blunt statement, “… But why would you go as far as you did, if you didn’t care! What your parents, and more specifically your culture, put you through wasn’t fair—but you obviously still love and cherish them!”

At this, he seemed to get even more guarded. It felt patronizing to be hold how he supposedly felt or why he should feel a specific way. They hadn’t been there. They hadn’t grown up as a Viper in the Desert, constantly reminded by Kalim’s Mirage of wealth what he could never have. They didn’t know the FIRST thing about the Scalding Sands—!

“… How do you know anything about my parents? Did Kalim--?!” He choked out infuriated at the mere implication.

“Relax Viper! It’s all in the Secret of The Ooze™”

“What?”

“Never mind…”

The usual absurdity of MC’s references (much to xeir chagrin that no one seemed to understand them) Jamil allowed himself a shadow of a smirk. Right about now they’d drop what they were saying and instead empathize with him over terrible bosses. They’d both fall back into a familiar pattern of quiet understanding while making playful small talk; maybe Xe’d make a remark over how “hellish” the desert temperature is and moan about being “a poor Northern forced into the sun” before dragging them both off to grab an abominably sweet drink that Kalim would still put sugar in. Xe had always been could at mediating with the other students at NCR.

However, they didn’t drop it. They continued to push him… especially when they realized that he expected the conversation to have ended and started to relax. Xey pushed and pushed and pushed. Finally, they had circled back to him rebelling from his status.

“What? You think I’d be Happier staying a lowly servant?! I’d rather cut my own tongue out than remain bending to Kalim’s will for the rest of my days.” He huffed, still not stopping his assault on the pile of laundry in front of him.

A frustrated sigh left Mac as Xey tried to get their point across, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M SAYING!… Obviously, you don’t love being forced into child labor or having to pretend to be something you’re not, but that doesn’t mean you’re totally being honest with yourself either. Rebelling adolescents often do a complete 180 of who they once presented as in an extreme action to feel validated.”

Jamil scoffed in indignation at the impromptu therapy session he’d been forced into.

“Just because you were forced to lie sometimes as ‘Servant Jamil’ doesn’t mean those memories or feelings weren’t authentic!”

“My Childhood, my Pride, my ENTIRE LIFE was stolen from me before I could even open my eyes, Mac! Who could cherish that sort of future?”

“I’m not disputing that! I’m not trying, in any way, to imply that what you went through didn’t fucking suck. But just because you’ve started saying the quiet part out loud doesn’t mean you’re being totally honest either. Switching one mask for another just means nothing has changed but your ability to bitch about-it to the kid you literally Grew Up With, Jamil.” A tired resignation was growing in their eyes as they headed to the end of xeir rant.

It was clear MC was starting to speak in circles and xey weren’t going to be able to get through to them. A heavy weight sunk deep in their chest, slowly sliding to xeir stomach the more he misunderstood the magic-less student. I saw him drown in the depths of his own helplessness and self-pity, but even after he’s been pulled out it’s like he can’t help but dive back in for a swim. It was a suffocating thought while Mac watched as Jamil once again went stone-faced… Like what he was about to say would be his final shield before walking away. It’s a shame that the Ramshackle Resident had become too used to throwing bombs over walls and blowing verbal shields to smithereens after months of being stuck in Twisted Wonderland.

“I’m not sugarcoating or bowing down to anyone anymore. I won’t bite my tongue. I won’t put on a Happy Face to Kalim’s idiotic, half-thought out ideas again. I’m slowly gaining my freedom, something you clearly don’t understand. Just because you’re as blind as he is doesn’t mean anything! What more could you want from me?!” He hissed his final insult before finally stepping away from his station. Not leaving the room, he aggressively got himself a cup of water from one of the sink and gulped the unfiltered water down.

“Just because you’re not hiding your bitter, knee-jerk reaction from an unfair world doesn’t mean you aren’t still hiding away and lying about your more vulnerable emotions.” Mac whispered in an emotionless tone. “Cutting a part of your past off and pretending it was never there is doing yourself a disservice and lying to those that still care about you… And there sure-as-shit isn’t much that I hate more than a Fucking Liar.”

. . . . . .

The lacy doilies sat in a sudsy basin, left forgotten as the two students stood a mere paces from each other—both maintaining an uncomfortably intense eye contact. The sloshing thump of the washers and stirring hum of driers harmonizing were the only song to accompany the two’s stare down. A short hiccup as Mac took a drawn out breath was the only reaction between the two of them. The combined heat of Scarabia’s sun (barely past 10am) and the humidity of continued use of machinery didn’t help the suffocating air in the wide laundry room. Not to mention the loud, stifling silence to boot.

MC usually held back such honest commentary (not that they weren’t blunt) unless Xe deemed it necessary: think high stakes and a sense of urgent drama. But something about Jamil and Kalim’s situation reminded them of himself. The two’s intertwined dance of class, history, loyalty and betrayal, friendship and loss, and such overwhelming guilt reminded the dimension hoping stranger of home. Whatever that meant.

But this was no time to get lost in their own problems and Trauma’s. They’d went too far (again) and that means xey should be the bigger person (again) and deescalate the situation before he hated them (AGAIN). Which means, MC would be the one to break the silence and run away again.

“Ya’ know what? Grim’s probably burned the school down already. Don’t worry about,” Ze gestured blindly to the numerous stations they’d started, “this mess. I’ll rope my little Rat Gremlin and the Freshies into finishing this up. Hell, I could probably convince Rugs to pitch in for lunch or something. Bully the Music Club with helping in exchange of random sheet music I still remember from home.”

Their rambles became more spastic as they noticed Mr. Sugar, Spice and Not-So-Nice break out of his own trance and try to reply. “Seriously! Just enjoy the break… Not that it’s my place or responsibility to be butting in anyway. I will be back in, like, 10 minutes and from here-on-out minding my own damn business. Sorry. Whatever. See you sometime after Sunday, I guess?” Their entire monoluge Mac was slowly backing out of the room before turning around in xeir spot and just short of sprinting their way out of the dorm. A few passerby Scarabia students stopped to eavesdrop on xeir muttering… watch them leave.

Without getting a word in Jamil stood unmoving, watching the Ramshackle Perfect leave swifter than the desert wind shifting the dunes. Almost on auto-pilot, he simply left to go back to his room and do as he was told; enjoy his break. His day off. The day he could do what he liked and didn’t necessarily have to prioritize work. A day he spent working to help and assist the pitiful, magic-less loser that was dropped-kicked into another reality and forced to play nice with a University filled with overpowered and hormonal teenagers while having no way home… And in return was insulted, psychoanalyzed, and thrown aside before he could get a word in edgewise.

“Son of a STREET RAT!!!!!” It was clear he’d need a few hours to calm down before he could even think of trying to enjoy the rest of his Saturday off.

[phoebesspikytitties]

Masterlist!!!!!!

here is our masterlist, separated into our separate writings!

🌸

Baby, kiss it better P1 - This fic is about 2.8k words of Julien and Lucy taking care of Phoebe on a bad day where she really, really needs it. dom phoebe and lucy, sub julien, smut

Hold me like you're the tie that binds... Phoebe and Julien turn the tables on Lucy after she acts like a brat all day, and she loves every second of it. impact play, Smut

🦷

Black Hearts - You and Lucy see each other at a party for the first time in years, and surprisingly remembers you. Fluff, flirting, buildup.

Yes ma'am (p2 to black hearts) Going on a date with lucy ends up with going home together. Smut

Greenroom games, You're on tour with the boys, immediately there is a spark between you and phoebe, and now everyone knows it. Softish dom phoebe, Smut.

Encore (p2 to Greenroom games) After the greenroom shenanigans, and Phoebe going topless on stage, the two of you go out on a late night date. Bondage, Smut.

Breakfast Club, After the last show of tour, Julien and you end up in a hotel room together. The tension between you breaks. Smut

Didn't know what i was in for, Lucy "accidentally" teases Julien on stage, and Phoebe tries to hide her jealousy. Bondage, some pain play, Smut.

Owner intros below the cut!!

Owner Intros !!

We will be using the emojis 🌸 and 🦷 to determine who's posting what

Hi, I'm 🌸!

I've been lurking in several different fandoms and letting drafts brew in my Google docs for years now, but this is my first time actually putting anything out that I've written for fandom.

I love so many bands and so many silly little niche TV shows, but boygenius and MUNA have been taking up most of my brain space for the last year, so this is going to be my outlet for the brainrot :)) I'm willing to write anything throuple-centric for boygenius, and I'm open to dipping my toe in some x-readers as well if that's something people are interested in. As for MUNA, I'll probably write some threesome fic as well as x-readers. I will be writing fluff, smut, and perhaps some hurt/comfort type angst if the spirit moves me. With that being said, PLEASE SUBMIT YOUR SUGGESTIONS!!! Feel free to put anything you want to see written in the ask box and if it resonates for one of us we'll write it :))

Please know that despite the fact that I am writing rpf, I know that this is entirely fantasy and it is not meant to be realistic or harmful by any means. If you don't like it, don't read it, and if you do like it, welcome!!!

Hi!!!! I'm 🦷:)

🌸 got me into this, and honestly I love it! Same as them my brain has been taken over by boygenius, Billie, and MUNA. My top song this month was letter to an old poet, if that tells you anything about me. Honestly there is not many boygenius fics out there and I figured it'd be fun to write my own, and after one I'm already loving it!

I'm looking to write some x readers, jucy, pb & j, lucy x phoebe, but also want to try some munagenius if anything pops into the brain. As for billie, I'm wanting to write more fluff than smut, because soooo much smut of her exists i feel like I'd be re-writing someone else's story, but again if something pops into my brain, I'll probably post to see if anyone would be interested!

Like 🌸 said, I mean no harm at all by anything that I write about the boys or otherwise. This is purely for fun and entertainment and is not reflective of how I view them as people, or how they are as people. Like they said, don't like, don't read !!

[brzatto]

i remember distinctly at some point i promised myself i would finish blue chicago moon before my birthday (lmfao) and now it is my birthday .. and unfortunately it’s been weeks since i’ve touched a google doc in general much less that fic but to celebrate i’m posting an excerpt from a later part in the fic i’ve had written out for a while now. enjoy ^_^

They’re laying in bed together, after, the way that’s become more casual as of late, more natural; they take turns taking drags from the same cigarette.

Carmy’s telling some story, “And then Pete—”

Richie interrupts him with an exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes, and Carmy smacks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “I know, I know, stop it—but Pete’s not bad. Really. He can be cool, sometimes, like actually cool—”

Richie groans, rolling away from Carmy, except the bed’s too small for him to go anywhere, so he really just turns onto his other side—Carmy rolls after him, propping himself onto his elbows so he can wrestle Richie onto his back, stubbornly crossing his arms over Richie’s chest and leaning his weight onto him to keep him there; he reaches over to crush the rest of the cigarette into the ashtray. “I’m serious, Pete’s not that bad, and maybe if you’d actually give him a chance or opened up to him a bit more Sugar wouldn’t hate you as much—”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault that Sugar hates me? When have I ever given a shit about what she thinks?” Richie gripes, and Carmy rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t actually, you know. You just have a tendency of being a complete and utter piece of shit—”

“What, is she still fuckin’ mad at me for that one time—”

“You mean when you said women shouldn’t run for office,” Carmy interrupts him flatly.

“That was a fucking joke! And it was, like, twelve years ago! I love women in office! I fuckin’ voted for Hillary in 2016—” he ignores when Carmy snorts in his face, incredulous, “—and maybe if she actually had a sense of humor sometimes she wouldn’t have ended up marrying that goddamn fucking narc. Has the personality of fuckin’ wet tissue paper. You know how many times he’s tried inviting me over for a fuckin’ family barbecue or some shit like that? Like I’m the one who actually needs an invitation. Probably just trying to trick me into making friendship bracelets with him while watching Paw Patrol or some other fuckin’ propaganda—”

Richie’s rant continues, and it’s so ridiculous that Carmy can’t help the genuine laughter that bubbles out of him at the mental image of it, ducking his face into his arms to hide his smile; except Richie’s caught on and started laughing, too, chest rumbling beneath Carmy’s weight, and it honestly surprises him, how at ease he feels. Naked under the covers, lying on top of Richie of all people, and he’s actually laughing.

Carmy doesn’t really use the word happy to describe how he feels because he thinks it’s too loaded, too precarious, too complex. He doesn’t want to say he’s happy because the notion is difficult for him to pinpoint, and even when he does it usually doesn’t last too long anyways—but he feels… light. All of his usual heaviness absent for once. He feels good.

When he brings his face back up he finds Richie already looking at him, focused on his face, the trace of a smile still present in the curve of his lips, and Carmy can’t tell what the emotion in his eyes is but it looks a little bit like—marvel. It’s the same way Marcus looks at the pages he’d printed out of Carmy’s cookbook, carefully and lovingly taped onto the wall of his station, the fascination of discovering something new, of resonating with it; and Carmy doesn’t know what to do with that.

But then Richie’s eyes fall a bit, fixing themselves on a specific part of his face—Richie’s hand comes up to cup it, nothing unusual by now, but Carmy’s overcome by the warmth he still feels in his chest at the touch, this simple intimacy. Richie’s palm is familiar and calloused around his cheek, and it makes Carmy want to lean into it.

“What’s this from?” Richie murmurs questioningly, running the pad of his thumb gently down the skin of his cheek, just below his right eye, and it takes a moment for Carmy to realize he’s talking about his scar. “Fall into a barbecue again?”

Carmy huffs, half amused. “No. No, uh… it’s stupid. Happened while I was drunk, years ago. Back in New York, when I first left.”

Richie raises his eyebrows at that. “What, you actually got into a fuckin’ fight? I mean, sounds dope, but having a sick ass battle scar on your face isn’t really in character for you, no offense.”

Carmy rolls his eyes. “No, it wasn’t a fight—I… was drinking, and it was kind of just something I did, in the very beginning, I guess. In my downtime, by myself in my apartment because it wasn’t like I had any friends or anything better to do, and it was just supposed to be a way to keep myself occupied. Get me to fall asleep faster, if anything, so I wouldn’t fucking lie awake in bed all night thinking about shit. Except that time it backfired on me, because I got—” Carmy breathes out through his nose, an almost amused, self-deprecating laugh, “So drunk, and all I could think about was—Mikey.

“And I was just so fucking upset. I felt hurt, you know. Had been hurt for the whole past year, and I’d deleted Mikey’s number off my phone months ago so I wouldn’t do anything monumentally fucking stupid like call him while I was drunk or something. And I think I was just… fed up, at that point. I was so fuckin’ angry, at Mikey, at myself, at everyone that I just… kind of had this meltdown. Nearly trashed my whole fuckin’ apartment. Was breaking shit, throwing shit around, and when it was over I found myself in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time. And I hated what I saw, because it didn’t feel like me. I never felt like myself back then. Didn’t know who I was supposed to be without Mikey and Sugar and everybody else around, and I hated that about me.

“And eventually all I could think about was—” Carmy cuts himself off, thinking about the words. How to say them. “How much I needed… a change. How much I wanted to. But I think I took that a little too literally, or maybe I just wasn’t fucking thinking at all, because I just… slammed my face into the mirror, as hard as I could. Like I was in a fuckin’ movie or something, you know. And there was all this fuckin’ glass, blood everywhere, my face totally fucked, all that shit. It was a mess. I could barely fucking see.”

Richie watches him recount the story with quiet intensity, and even though Carmy doesn’t look back at him he can feel Richie’s eyes on his face, gaze intent. But it doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable, or awkward, or exposed, the way having someone’s undivided attention usually makes him feel. In the moment, he simply just feels listened to. Richie’s watching him, but Carmy doesn’t feel watched; just seen.

“So what happened after? Just bled out all over your fuckin’ floor?”

Carmy huffs. “No, I, uh… had to take myself to the hospital. It was, like, three in the morning. Got four stitches out of it, and still showed up to work the next day.”

He’s expecting Richie to make fun of him, honestly. And why wouldn’t he? He thinks it might just be because of the good mood he’s in, but Carmy’s surprised to find that he doesn’t feel any residual bitterness recalling the memory. Thinks if he were anybody else he’d laugh at himself, too.

Richie doesn’t make fun of him, though. “That might actually be the most hardcore shit you’ve ever told me.” Richie sniffs. “Almost as hardcore as walking off a stab wound, anyways. You’re getting there.”

Carmy actually laughs, the memory of it amusing now that it’s all behind him. It seems fucking ridiculous, looking back on it now. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like a lifetime ago; when he tries to think about it now, he feels like a spectator of his own life, watching the events unfold from someone else's perspective, or like standing from the outside and looking in. He gets that feeling a lot, Carmy thinks.

“You know, I never actually asked you about that. Were you good? Like, was the wound deep, or…”

“Gee, thanks for the concern. Not like it happened, like, six fuckin’ months ago. Glad to know I mean so much to you.”

“Shut up and just tell me. And you probably really did fucking deserve it.”

Richie scoffs. “Couldn’t fucking tell you. Hurt like a goddamn bitch when it happened, though. Got Ebra to patch me up. Couldn’t sit right for a couple weeks, but it was whatever.” He sniffs. “At least it was somewhere people don’t see it. Not sure if that’ll make for a cool scar story in the future.”

“What, like mine was?”

“Nah, yours is just depressing. Do me a favor—next time somebody asks, just tell them you got it in a bar fight like a normal person.” Richie says, and then after a pause, “That why you don’t drink?”

It’s this question that finally makes Carmy feel embarrassed for some reason, glancing up at the ceiling. “Something like that.”

“Damn. And I thought Mikey was the one who was fucked up.”

Carmy laughs a little again, in spite of everything, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. Guess it runs through the fuckin’ family.”

“They call you guys the Bears for a reason,” Richie says simply. But he still has his hand on Carmy’s face, running his thumb over his scar absentmindedly, like trying to soothe away pain that hasn’t been there for years. It’s a subtle sort of intimacy, quiet and tender. It’s Richie’s touch and not the recollection that makes Carmy’s chest prickle, and he wonders briefly if this is something he ever did with Mikey: lying in the dark, listening to each others’ stories, touching without thinking about it.

He wonders if this is how Richie treats those he cares the most about, or maybe if he’s just gotten close enough to be able to experience this side of him. If this is what it’s like to be Richie’s best friend, to trust someone wholeheartedly, sharing moments that are quiet and intimate and vulnerable.

“Alright,” Richie continues, making Carmy glance up. “Your turn.”

Carmy looks at him quizzically. “My turn for what?”

“Ask me something. Nothing off limits, everything on the table. You shared something about yourself so it’s only natural for me to do the same.”

Carmy frowns a little at this, if only because the notion is strange to him. It’s not like he’s never been open and honest with Richie before—in fact, those moments have been occurring more often than he’d honestly like to admit—but it feels different, this way. To be given the opportunity, no holds barred, because usually Carmy refrains from ever prying too deep; not just with Richie, but with everybody.

He rolls off Richie’s chest back onto the bed, lying on his side with his head propped in his hand as he considers. Richie is surprisingly patient for once, offering him the silence to think, and the whole thing honestly just makes Carmy flustered.

“Is there…” Carmy starts uncertainly, hesitating, but continues when Richie turns to him, expectant. “Is there a reason why you keep your ring?”

Richie stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before glancing down at the golden wedding band on his finger, like he’d forgotten that it was there, like he didn’t even know he was wearing it. Then his expression twists, incredulous, like he can’t believe that out of all the things Carmy could’ve possibly asked him about it’s his goddamn wedding ring.

“Why, does it make you jealous or something?” Richie teases him. “Does it make you feel like you’re my mistress?”

Carmy’s face turns hot, but he tells himself it’s out of annoyance rather than embarrassment. “You know what? Forget I asked.”

Richie chuckles, running his knuckles over Carmy’s side placatingly. “Nah, nah, I’m kidding. Uh… if I’m being honest, it’s, like, a distraction. Something for me to worry with. I stopped wearing it after me and Tiff split, but I started wearing it again after Mikey. I dunno. I guess after he died it felt like… nothing was right. Just everything gone to complete shit, and the ring just felt familiar. Like, having it there reminded me of this time in my life where I kind of, sort of had things together, and I guess I just wanted to feel that way again somehow, even if in reality it’s the complete fuckin’ opposite.”

Carmy nods slowly. In a sense, he thinks he gets it. Clinging onto that sense of familiarity; needing the illusion of stability in his life. He understands him.

[choicesficwriterscreations]

CFWC's Writer of the Month:

Lucy-268

Each month CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers, and this month’s writer of the month is CFWC's very own, @lucy-268! We hope you will enjoy learning more about her and her work below! The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog: lucy-268 Blog Masterlist

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

During the COVID quarantine in 2020. I played Bloodbound and Bloodbound 2. Then High School Story. I finally got tired of PB/Choices asking me if I wanted to try Open Heart.

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

Because Facebook keeps track of things you search for, it asked me if I wanted to join a Choices group. There was a post about Open Heart fanfics on Tumblr. So I dusted off my old Tumblr account.

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

I am a cat person, but Lucy was the best dog ever. She was my Mom’s dog that mom brought with her when I moved here from PA to VA to save me from having to drive back home every other weekend. 

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

I am an introvert. A lot of people around me overwhelm me and I had an aunt who always made comments like, glad you decided to join us. Similar to this post.

5- How long have you been writing fanfiction?

For choices, since 2020. In a previous life, I wrote Harry Potter fics. I wrote Hinny stories that are still available on fanfiction.net and Livejournal. But with few exceptions I won’t tell anyone the username I used then. 

6- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to write about?

Open Heart.

7- Share the first fanfic you wrote with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were writing it today?

This is the first fic I posted. I had an HC for Charley’s backstory and the brother she was close to, along with some of the brother’s friends. I think I brought the friend back in one other fic. At one point, I thought about bringing him in as an LI for Sienna. I would probably change it.

8- What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

I Would Not Change a Thing. It’s personal to me because I know a couple of people who have semi colon tattoos. After I posted the fic, someone who has since left the fandom shared with me that she got the same tattoo that I gave Charley.

9- Do you have a fic that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to be but found could use a little more love?

My first one was well received. The fandom was more robust then, and I felt welcomed into the community.

I think some of my Tobias/Samantha fics are better than others I’ve written, but because of the size of the fandom and the pairing (not Ethan), they aren’t well-read.

10- If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why? 

I don’t often write smut, so we can eliminate that. I generally get more ideas for fluff, but I'd hate to not be able to write angst when the mood strikes.

11- Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

Yes, There are a few pieces of Charley, Samantha, and especially Maggie (I even used my grandmother’s name there). Even a little bit of Emma from TNA.

12- What element of writing do you struggle with most?

The ideas for fics. And dialogue. And time.

13- Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Did you look in my google docs folder? I have about 100 docs in there. Some are saved in files labeled Sunday Six that I need to go through and pull ideas from save fics together. I have three artworks I either commissioned or won that I need to write fics for, including a cat T/S adopted, a winter fic for T/S, and E/C’s wedding.

14- If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first? 

Nope.

15 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing? 

They aren’t active in the Choices fandom much, but two who were very welcoming to me when I started writing were @openheart12 (who asked to be tagged even though she had never read anything I wrote!) and @anothermansjeans (formerly oofchoices), who did some of my first moodboards. Thank you both for the kindness you showed me.

@jamespotterthefirst - Your fics were some of the first I read, and I was so happy when you started to read my works. You are a true friend, and I feel blessed to have you in my my life.

@jerzwriter -  You are my go-to person when I need someone to talk to. I love your ideas, and I wouldn’t want to run CFWC with anyone else.

@genevievemd - You always find the best David Gandy photos. I admire your dedication to completing two series of Smiles. And did it daily.

@liaromancewriter - You are always willing to help with everything. Your Ethan x Cassie is great, but I love Maxenna. (And I still need to finish your original!)

@potionsprefect - I love Victoria as an MC. I admire how you have developed the personalities of your twins (and I’m jealous that I don’t think I have accomplished that yet.

@bex-la-get - It took me a while to find you, and I miss you now that you are on a hiatus. But I love your bookstagram accounts. I can’t forget to mention your cat videos of Percy and Odin.

@danijimenezv - Thank you for giving me the story idea for I Scream, You Scream. Thank you for sharing your stories of your vet internship.

@writer-ish - You always pop up with just the perfect comment or gif. I just wish you’d do it more often.

@a-crepusculo - Another fellow cat person. One of my favorite fics is your When It Rains. I love the idea of Ethan being free enough to stop and dance in the rain.

@storyofmychoices - Thank you for all you do for the fandom in general. Your writing inspired me to read both Mother of the Year and Save the Date.

@burnsoslow - See the above comment. Your Drake and Alyssa inspired me to read The Royal Romance, at least the first one. I was avoiding it because Choices kept trying to make me read it. I miss wackydrabbles, even though there are plenty of fic prompts around.

I am sure there are so many others I should mention, and I’m sorry for anyone I forgot.

16- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series? 

I would not change a thing; see question 8 above.

17- Do you write original fiction? 

I have some stories started.

18 -  What other hobbies do you have?

Reading, cooking, baking, and playing with my cats.

19 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

💚😻🤦🏼‍♀️