#but i guess he's a lot more sensible now he's been sober a year than he ever was when i was a kid

[lifeofroos]

A/N: Guess who had an idea and had to write it down? (My writing slaves that's who). (This thing is also on AO3 and FanFiction.net!). 

Apollo got himself drunk (Or, as he calls it, ‘a little tipsy’). Dionysus decides its time for him to take a break and they end up talking. 

Non-shippy, but it is about love. Trigger warnings: Mentions of alcohol and drunkenness.  

Much too lovely a night for commitment

Apollo let out a joyous, drunken laugh. ‘That I just had the chance to meet a lady like you tonight!’ He looked at the lovely woman in front of him, who hid her blush behind her hand. 

‘You’re too kind.’

‘Never to someone like you!’ 

She giggled. ‘Are you sure you didn’t drink a little too much?’

‘Perhaps, but what would it matter?’ He slightly tilted his head. 

‘Maybe you should take a second look at me in a minute or so…’ she carefully adjusted her necklace. ‘So I know that you are sure about it.’

Apollo winked. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I hope it doesn’t feel like forever.’ 

He turned around and strudded away, a little unsteady on his feet. 

As soon as Apollo was out of his sweethearts’ line of view, he felt someone tug on his arm. ‘Hey, who…’

‘Come, Apollo,’ he heard a firm voice say. 

‘What are you…’ He looked aside, to his brother Dionysus, who was giving him a sly smile. 

‘You need some fresh air. You’re drunk.’

‘No way, only a little tipsy…’

‘Come.’ Without further complaining, Apollo followed him out of the ballroom, into the garden, from which one could see the river. In his hazy state, Apollo couldn’t remember what river it was again. In which country were they even? Italy? Egypt? America? 

‘Why don’t you take a look at the Rhine and maybe you’ll calm down.’ The Rhine! Then this must be… uh… ‘I know what you are thinking. It doesn’t really matter where we are.’

‘No?’

‘No. That's for when you’ve sobered up a little.’

‘Ah.’

They both got quiet. After a few minutes, Apollo felt his brain getting clearer. ‘We’re in Germany.’

‘Yes.’

‘Cool.’ He sighed, still more than a little tipsy. ‘Why did you think I needed some fresh air?’

Dionysus rolled his eyes, which Apollo did not notice. ‘I just saw you talk to that girl… Marlene? I am not sure. Before that, you were talking to two other girls, and even before that to some guy. I thought I’d come knock some sense into your head.’ 

‘I am very sensible.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I love them all! Every single one! Genuinely!’

‘Yes, Apollo, you do, that’s the problem.’

‘Why is it a problem? I just like… all of them. Everyone. I have enough time and love for all too.’

‘I know, ‘Pollo. I think, when you’re more clear-minded, you’ll realise why some others don’t see it that way.’

Apollo stayed quiet for a few seconds. ‘Hmmm.’ 

‘What is it?’

‘I just can’t choose. They’re all so amazing.’

‘All of them, now?’

‘All of them. And I cannot choose.’ He swayed around a little and sighed. ‘Tell me how you chose, Dio.’

‘Huh?’ Dionysus looked at him. ‘What?’

‘How did you manage to choose? You must have known a lot of great guys and gals too, yet, you managed to pick one of them…’

‘Choose Ariadne as my wife, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I… I just think she’s the best. Maybe not the most beautiful, the kindest or the smartest of all women ever, but certainly the best. And of course she is beautiful and kind and smart, too...’ 

‘How did you know that she was the best? I mean, it has been close to three thousand years since you got married…’

‘Four-thousand,’ Dionysus muttered, ‘Close to four-thousand.’

Apollo slowly nodded. ‘Insane, dude. That is long. How did you… know she was the one when there was so much time ahead of you?’

Dionysus shrugged. ‘I just did. How did you know you loved those four pretty things just now?’

‘I just felt it!’

‘Well, then.’

‘But that is different! That is short love. You picked someone for the rest of your lifeeee.’

‘I knew, Apollo.’

‘Ah. You sure?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, through gritted teeth. 

Apollo didn’t catch the annoyed tone. ‘Haven’t you ever regretted it? Even for just a moment?’

Dionysus lifted his hand with the intention of slapping his brother across the face. When he saw Apollo’s drowsy look, his anger ebbed away. Maybe Apollo was clearer now than he had been ten minutes ago, but he was still drunk. Dionysus’ gaze trailed off. 

‘Eh… sorry if I…’

‘Sh. I am thinking of an answer.’

Apollo nodded and looked back at the Rhine. The steady stream made him feel calmer. 

‘Apollo?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I have never regretted it, not even once. Of course there are arguments and fights and ups and downs, but I don’t regret getting married to Ariadne and making her immortal. That…’ he took a deep breath. ‘That does not mean that it was wise to get married when we were so young. I don’t think either of us realised how long forever really is, or what immortality really meant.’

‘After she died, it took you a few years to get her back from the Underworld...’

‘I felt like it was expected of the gods to forget their mortal loves.’

‘And you did-not.’

‘No. Even after two years, I didn’t. I went to get her back. And I would do it again. Still, it was naïve. It turned out beautifully, but it was extremely naïve.’

Dionysus slowly spun around the ring on his finger, suddenly very aware that it was there. ‘Yet, you, you are almost five-thousand-years old. You are not that naïve anymore. You could go and choose someone.’

‘But I wouldn’t know who! Maybe, if I could marry all of the nine muses, then I’d do it, but I ca-hant!’ 

‘Just do it! I couldn’t marry a mortal princess either!’

‘No-ho…’ Apollo breathed deeply and sunk down onto the ground. He looked up at the stars and sighed. ‘It’s a lovely night, Dionysus…’

Dionysus looked up, at the stars. ‘It is. Shame I am spending it with my drunk brother.’  

‘No, you don’t mind,’ Apollo muttered.

‘Hm.’

‘I am a little tired…’

‘Did you promise those girls and guys anything?’

‘I… nothing I can’t do tomorrow?’

Dionysus sighed, but it ended in a chuckle. ‘Let’s get you home, then. I’ll bring you to your wives.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Dionysus helped Apollo up again. 

‘You should tell Ariadne you love her,’ Apollo muttered. 

Dionysus raised his eyebrows. ‘I do, ‘Pollo.’

‘Do it again.’

‘I will,’ Dionysus quietly agreed, before teleporting both of them back to Olympus.

A/N: I kinda stole the ‘all the nine muses’ from @bfire92...Go read her fic, she wrote three gods and a new apartment, it's good (That being said, I díd ask permission to use it and it isn’t that big in the fic).

[joelmillerthirstqz]

From this prompt: Joel meets y/n and he makes it his MISSION to fuck her. Throw in a daddy kink if you’re brave

(I did, with ten thousand character-intensive caveats. Porn with obligatory plot, is there a tag for that? Anyway have some suspiciously assertive Joel)

---

Joel moves throughout the rooms of his house, picking up one occupation after the next, bored around one in the afternoon and faced with the reality that he neither remembers nor knows what to do with actual free time, safety, and space of his own. Tommy and Maria had brought some kind approximations of traditional housewarming, but much of his home was furnished by the previous resident and he sat there overwhelmed by spatial possibility. For all his griping about Ellie’s perpetual stream-of-consciousness chattering, the silence roared in his ears like he’d been dragged downstream.

Do people just go drink now? Just talk to each someone to pass the time? he thinks to himself, frustrated. By the time he could legally go to a bar, he’d been twenty-one and Sarah had been three, her mom long gone. He hadn’t spent time alone since the outbreak—always Tommy or Tess and others in between nearby. Acute problems to solve, no time for chronic reflection.

Tommy brought a lone box of possessions from his apartment with a case of cheap beer the night Sarah’s mom left, hanging around more tangibly than any other family had and often taking Sarah to school once Sarah was old enough. Tommy joked that it was more like Joel having two kids to deal with; Joel ribbed him for perpetually flirting with the very clearly married moms of his niece’s classmates.

Joel gulps a breath, self-flagellating with the idea that he hadn’t been able to protect Sarah when Tommy and Maria so clearly deserved to have their own child, forgetting as ever that his brother executed the soldier that shot Sarah before he could get to Joel—without a blink.

Wonderful. That’s what you do alone with your thoughts for two seconds. Jesus, Joel, he grumbles inwardly.

He’d been dragged to so many damn things since settling in Jackson and didn’t know what to do when it was his choice, so he looks outside. If Ellie’s light is on, he’ll go awkwardly try to make conversation, see if she’s okay. If she’ll be caught in a forgiving mood; if not, if he’s really pushing it.

Joel’s boots thud softly on the flagstone they’d carefully laid together, a path for her to get up to the house without soaking her sneakers through. Tonight, though, she’s gone or playing dead, so he sighs and shrugs a coat on, headed for the Tipsy Bison.

————

Joel spent a nontrivial amount of his time lately fending off interested parties in Jackson.

It was just cuffing season, he dismissed—encroaching fall making people a little weird. Since he’d begun to settle in, slowly accustoming himself to having Ellie out of his sight often and a normal couch in a house without shattered windows, he’d slowly accepted more public interactions. He’d grudgingly shoulder into town meetings, quiet until Tommy or someone else would put a question to him like he had a fucking clue.

Joel went on patrol, helping some of the greener residents learn to keep themselves safe. Unfortunately, it meant more people caught sight of him. Joel was used to prowling through quarantine zones swollen with cowering masses plainly terrified of him, which left him minimally prepared for reactions he thought he’d stopped evoking long ago.

The people whose breath hitch when they first notice him, the longing stares when he’d finally break and smile or laugh—they’d gotten embarrassing enough for him to avoid certain places.

Whenever Joel seems like he’s about to not comply with her wishes, Maria frequently threatens to tell the women who ask her in lewd tones if Tommy has a brother the truth—he does, and how about I introduce you?

The truth was he didn’t feel capable of starting anything with someone who’d ask where he’d been. Joel didn’t want to remember, even if he’d finally pinned the picture of himself with Sarah at a soccer game up next to the blooming collection of pictures in his living room with Ellie, Polaroids in Jackson blooming over nearby wall space every few weeks. People who wanted honesty to go with their peaceful existence reminded him too much of Tommy’s near-fatal optimism, and he felt like it would be too dishonest to start anything with anyone who still lost sleep over distasteful things done to survive. Delightful first-date baggage, in his estimation.

At the Tipsy Bison, he edges in by the drinking patrol nearest the door, welcomed gruffly and responding the same. It was nice to be recognized without raw fear or calculation as he entered, and Joel warms enough to drop his coat over the back of his chair, his rust-colored flannel’s buttons parting over the shirt beneath it as he moves, listening to Eugene tell some inflated war story with an almost-cold beer.

“Alright, fuck this. Knuckle up, asshole, I’m not doing this on patrol tomorrow,” Joel’s ears perk up at the sound of your chair clattering backwards as you stand. Joel recognizes you from the newer batch of arrivals, clearly deemed capable enough to join an early patrol just days after your arrival.

“Jesus, settle the fuck down,” one of the younger patrolmen grouses, standing up. Alex. Oh, the dumb kid.

“Nope. Now or never,” you insist.

“Listen, I’m not hitting you,” he sounds unapologetic but tries to portray himself as the reasonable party. He’s wiry, and Joel’s seen him fend for himself, but his posture doesn’t belie cool confidence.

“You clearly have some doubts, so let’s get into it,” you urge, agitated beyond belief. He’d been needling you about perceived skill, something about not growing up having to field dress animals, and you’d fucking had it. He was going to make a point on patrol and get someone hurt, and you were not carrying bodies back into Jackson because of some ego or misplaced crush.

He taps your shoulder mockingly with a closed fist, a gentle little motion, trying to smile playfully.

You hook him across the jaw, staggering him before taking a knee to his stomach as he tries to right himself.

“More, or you’re finished?” you ask.

Joel fully sits up in his chair. He hasn’t seen anything like this in Jackson. Glancing over both shoulders for his brother, Maria, and finding a clear coast he watches the outcome with interest, sipping his beer with an upturned mouth.

You’re cute, or appealing, or some reflexive word Joel hadn’t used in years, pushing hair out of your eyes as you regain your center.

Alex tries to sweep your legs out, successfully swiping one and getting a knee to the diaphragm for it as you land.

“Okay, fuck, I’m done,” he grunts and you rise easily, offering him a hand.

“Good,” you mumble, letting go the second he’s righted. You look around a little chastened by all the eyes on you, deciding to forego another round.

“I’m going to bed before we do this again,” you nod at Alex, and the rest of the patrol group you recognize in turn.

Joel eyes you as you depart, beer polished off and goodbyes waved, coat gripped in his fist to be flung on once outside. He knows your name, had seen you near the stables and conversing with the patrols. Hearing you speak, despite the context, maybe because of it, let him confirm something he’d been suspecting when he caught glimpses of you before. Never having had the right circumstances or raw spare time to devote all his energy to taking someone to bed, he steels himself to confirm it.

He trots after you, tugging his jacket back on and finding his way to the four-story hotel the town had spent arduous time clearing, stripping of spores, and making hospitable enough for people new to Jackson. Joel ended up leading a lot of the effort himself, vaguely proud to be doing something other than dismantling things, stretching old skills. Your little corner balcony faces off of one side, a nice view of the town unfolding as people begin to switch lights on for a sooner-than-yesterday sundown. You’re appreciative of a strange little luxury—not sure when the last time you stood with your back to a door without anticipating some infected would burst through.

You lean your elbows on the railing, a flask of whisky tipping in your fingers as you watch Jackson light up, a lone figure’s long strides coming into view down the broad street. The night is cool against your skin, but the little shiver the breeze causes feels affirming.

You’d always loved the fall, and Jackson’s soft sounds of life feel unreal enough that you could never sit here just sobering up before bed. It would leave you too wired, buzzing with the anxiety of certain impermanence. Reconciling this liminal zone with the gnashing horror just beyond it wasn’t something you’d take on without help. If Jackson was only a passing reprieve, you had to make yourself calm enough to enjoy it.

Joel halts below where you’re standing, hands on his hips pulling his jacket open as he looks up at you.

You’re instantly sheepish—you’d guessed in whatever patrol hierarchy there was, he was rather important. And you’d just visibly beaten someone down.

“Alex okay?” you call.

“He’ll be peachy. Not here for that,” Joel retorts, low drawl pleasant.

“Well,” you shrug, gesturing to the two mismatched chairs on the balcony with your flask. “Allow me to be a gracious host.”

He smiles and looks down for a moment. Even a couple of stories above him, you can see his height, start to assess his proportions because you’re too tipsy to be a human fucking being about your first interactions in a good place. You quickly add up a sum: his legs are long, shoulders broad, hair long enough to tug on. His frame suggests complete capability and you have a dire need to test it.

Aw, fuck.

“Y’know, I’ve got real glasses for drinking that,” Joel insinuates before he can tell himself to shut the fuck up, or to stop harassing newcomers, or any other sensible thought.

“Fair enough,” you call, closing your flask and holding a finger up to signal that he should wait.

When you arrive downstairs, boots poorly laced and denim jacket barely enough for the chill, Joel’s leaning on the veranda of the whole structure. You suppose its fair to gawk in appreciation so you do, assuring yourself you could have chosen not to.

“Look, I’m not going to ask what this is, and you won’t ask why I’m saying yes, okay?” you say softly when you’re a couple of feet from him.

Joel raises his eyebrows, feeling untethered. Some corner of him expected to humiliate himself to death so he could go home and fall asleep barely after dark, anything to shut himself up until he was occupied again. His heart speeds a little at your reply, hand on the back of his neck as he pushes back onto both feet.

“I’m close,” Joel offers, hand down towards the street, fists quickly in his own pockets. You pull your bottom lip inward, looking at his profile, wanting to hear it again, lower, helpless.

You pass the walk in tense but not unpleasant silence, glancing at each other until you reach his porch and he edges in to unlock his door.

Turning on lights as you toe off your boots and follow him inside, you watch how he moves, past the need for any type of persuasion. He returns from the kitchen with two matching, unchipped short glasses and a cylindrical glass of amber liquid.

“Trade?” Joel asks setting the bottle down and closing an open window. Your mouth quirks.

“That’s a nice custom. It a Jackson thing?” you ask, tipping your flask into his glass as he returns and pours from the bottle for you.

He laughs, sharp hazel eyes jumping up to you and back down, hand running over his beard.

“Not sure. What else would you do?”

You drop onto one of the two couches, arranged in the way that says people actually spend time here together. Joel gets onto his knees to build a fire, definitely a necessity, though kind of needlessly sweet for the occasion.

“This?” you tease, gesturing between the two of you. Joel joins you on the same couch, heat radiating into the space around you, well before the spark in the fireplace could catch enough to reach you.

You take stock of each other in comfortable silence, and a slow grin moves from one side of your face to the other. You finish your drink with a tinge of shyness, setting it down as he does the same.

You have no warning before his mouth is on yours, hands on either side of your face. It’s achingly good to be kissed with complete attention, luxury of time changing the entire tenor of kissing another person. You’re grounded to who’s holding you, mouth accepting him as Joel leads, guiding your jaw where he wants it with the flat of his palm. Joel moves slowly, plenty of time for you to reciprocate his motions though you begin to shift closer, scant sense of rhythm keeping you from straddling his hips.

The taste of him and your anticipatory haze keeps you fixed on the kiss, his hands sliding lower and beginning to move you towards his lap.

You try not to break the kiss with a smile, but it happens anyway and he looks up curiously. You sit back on your heels and tear through the buttons of your jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch and stroking fingernails through his beard before beginning the kiss again. Joel tugs you closer by the hip, urging you into his lap. He scans your face intensely, pulling you fully against him and letting his hands run the expanse of your back.

You can feel how rough his hands are through your shirt, so your fingers fly to his to work the buttons of his flannel.

“Christ,” you roll your eyes, exposing a second shirt underneath. He chuckles warmly in his chest, your foreheads bowed together a moment.

“C’mon,” Joel mutters, broad hands under each of your thighs as he rises with you wrapped around him. A segment somewhere in your brain shimmers, clicking with the novel experience, a knockout strike in the lane of neurons igniting to remember their roles.

“Where’s c’mon?” you ask incoherently between kisses, moving your mouth to his neck so he can answer. You think regretfully that it’s probably substantially warmer down here, fire catching nicely.

“Upstair—” Joel cuts off, your teeth nipping his pulse point.

You feel his heart jump against your mouth and your chest at once. You kiss him slowly as he takes you upstairs, stopping halfway up. He pushes you against the banister and deepens the kiss, hard length made clear. Shifting you closer to his waist once you resume, Joel’s hands creep a little higher, fingertips edging up as they dig in.

As you reach his bedroom, you have one hand hooked in the bottom seam of his shirt, ready to pull it off as he tries to set you down. Joel grunts when you tangle his broad shoulders in it, getting free and discarding it agilely. He bears down on you under dark lashes, chest rising and falling noticeably. The chill upstairs dissolves quickly as you twine together, hands running over his chest. It’s impressively broad and defined, thickening line of hair leading into his jeans.

You strip out of your two shirt layers with a casual roll of your upper body. Joel’s rapt eyes dragging over every rib leave you feeling exposed until his hands cover your breasts, mouth on your neck. You try to tug the rest of him towards the bed by the belt loops, but get frustrated and try to unclasp his belt instead.

Joel stoops to claw quickly at his boots, both thrown one handed before coming to rest against the wall. He hasn’t taken his eyes from you as you rise to slip your jeans down, one hand already curled back around your waist. He spreads his other hand across your abdomen, callused fingertips making you shudder appreciatively. Shoving you back, Joel gets to his knees with one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, grasped in his palm, kissing down your thigh. His free hand still moves over the rest of you.

Your mind is blankly focused on the rasp of his beard inside your legs. If you were honest, head wasn’t a frequent priority after the outbreak, sex usually a time-sensitive stress fix—for everyone. Add to that the average skill of the college peers you’d fucked before and, well, you’d only ever mildly enjoyed it.

Joel sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and you arc off the bed. He moves without an ounce of uncertainty, shifting and roughly positioning you for the best angle as he goes. Being pursued like this, by a person who squarely checks boxes you didn’t know were empty left you wet enough to take him the moment you’d been out of your pants. His tongue pushes inside of you, followed quickly by one finger and then another, static but wonderful. You writhe on the bed at the feeling, low hum of a chuckle skittering across your sensitive skin.

One hand in the sheets, your other makes it into his hair. You grind against him without being able to help it, riding the stretch of his fingers as his tongue laves forceful circles around your clit.

“Fuck,” you try to grit out, embarrassed by the disassembled breathiness of your voice. It’s more a sigh as he curls his fingers within you, hazel flicking up to watch your reaction. You paw at his shoulders blindly, wanting him closer, wanting to fuck him, trying to pull back from him to tell him. He’s deadset in his focus, teeth softly grazing you in reply to your attempt.

“Can you just—” Joel grumbles, rising,“—be good for one goddamned second—” he yanks you towards him by your ankle.

“This where you want me to tell you to make me?” you tease, sitting up in his lap and wrenching him closer with your legs.

He huffs a small laugh, making to kiss you, but you hold him back.

“I want you to make me, okay?” You say seriously, grasping the hair at his nape to emphasize it.

Joel leans forward, biting your lip with care.

“Alright,” he confirms, hands around your jaw. You taste yourself on him, and a near-growl ripples through him, evident through his chest pressed against yours.

You duck away from his kiss, not caring to get his jeans off before getting a hand around his cock, your mouth enclosing the tip before you can register how much there is to take.

“Christ,” he breathes, eyes shut, face turned towards the ceiling. As your hand becomes slick enough to work over his shaft, his hands stabilize in your hair, bunching. You feel him flex in your mouth as he parts his lips and tugs on your hair, hauling you up level with his face.

“You don’t get to end it now,” Joel smiles, mouth almost against yours. You smile at the rough motion, hot interest skipping down your spine. His opposite hand is running over your chin while he composes himself, far closer than he’d wanted to be at this point.

You bite his fingers, pulling two deftly in to suck and keeping his gaze. His pupils darken and you feel a surge of pride at the same time as you feel him shove you back onto the bed, tearing his jeans off and finally joining you. Joel covers you, kissing you roughly and pulling your thighs around his hips, on his knees. He sheathes inside you without resistance, groaning and bowing his head at first. Even ready, he stretches you noticeably and you gasp at his first experimental thrusts, dragging your hips up to his each time.

You rise up to meet him, nails dug into his shoulders for traction, meeting his thrusts.

Joel hisses more in chastisement than discomfort at it, smacking your ass curiously.

“You know I’m not delicate,” you say close to his ear, snapping the lobe between your teeth unnecessarily hard.

“Shit, ow—” he grumbles, smacking you harder. You moan at the feeling, spread over his lap and trawling nails down his back. You tug where you’ve latched on, moving lower and biting his neck. He does it again, rolling his hips as you clench down on him. You scrape your teeth over his shoulder. Joel hits you again, force of it stinging how you’d hoped.

You provoke him to continue, pulling his hair, hard, and biting the skin over his collarbone.

Joel fists your hair and tugs back hard, exposing your throat to him even as you keep riding him, spanking you with almost musical timing. You almost draw blood scratching your nails out of his hair to the nape of his neck, grinning from your forced angle as he pants under you.

Joel leans forward and nips carefully over your larynx, clamping down hard on tendons just next to it. It’s a brash spot to suck a bruise into, and even the less visible parts of your body would surely be screaming on patrol in the morning.

You cry out, nerves and instinctive reaction to teeth near your neck making your heart and your cunt clench.

Joel flips you without effort, pressing a palm against your lower back to shove you into the mattress. You feel him strike your ass, once, twice, three times, and then his fingers are at your entrance, coaxing your hips to tilt up. He brushes his knuckles against you, leaning over to breathe into your ear.

“Here?”

“What did I just say?” You retort, appreciative of his caution but entirely sold on the possibility that walking will hurt tomorrow.

Joel doesn’t reply but you can see him roll his eyes from the corner of yours as he swats your cunt, hard, sensation shattering across your skin. You moan and he takes the initiative to do it again. Your shoulder blades pinch together around his hand, veering up with it. You turn your face entirely into the bed, muffling moans and faux-objections as he works, tenderness rising to the surface of your skin.

You feel Joel’s hands harshly grasp handfuls of your ass the second before he thrusts into you again, the force pinning you to the bed. He fucks you hard for long minutes, sweat building between you enough to make his hands slip. Joel’s forearm slides around your front and pulls you back against his chest.

You immediately claw at his arm, grateful to anchor yourself to him directly, pushing your hips down against his as he falls back to a gentler pace. His mouth reaches your shoulder and your hand flies to his hair again, straining to kiss him. Maybe it was weird to seek him like that—could still be a fantastic, unattached fuck—but Joel kisses you with this unerring focus that already makes you hope it will happen again.

“Takin’ me perfectly,” he drawls, some enunciation falling away with his blood coursing like this. You want to keep hearing him, so you nod and resume kissing him.

“More delicate than you thought? Need a break?” Joel taunts, and your eyes narrow as he speaks low and close, still thrusting shallowly.

“You want it hard again?” Joel teases, fingers skimming your stomach to roll your clit between them his thumb and index. It pinches and you suck in a breath, your hips floundering against his patient rhythm.

Your eyes spark and you decide to push.

“Yes, daddy,” you mock, almost sneering at him.

A dim recollection of a girl he’d briefly seen after Sarah’s mom left dusts itself off, and he reconnects dots that drifted apart from disuse after the outbreak. Joel raises his eyebrows at you and tips his head as if to say, “Well, alright then.”

You’re on your hands and knees before you can react, his hand spanning across your collarbones, bracing you against his repeated impact. Joel’s breathing becomes ragged each time he slides home, folding over you again to spill an endless wave of questions into your ear. His fingers are smoother across your clit now, drawing soaked concentric circles as you hitch.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel punctuates with a snap of his hips.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” Again.

“Come around my cock like a good girl?” Again, rough.

You moan, dropping to your elbows as he pounds into you, orgasm building inside of you spilling over to his fingers’ stimulation, a low groan meeting yours. You’re past words and shivering on the edge of climax when he taps your jaw.

“Focus up, c’mon,” he rumbles in your ear, demanding your attention. The pressure of his length against the tension inside of you has your vision blurring at the edges.

“Tell me,” Joel demands, pulling out halfway.

“Yes! Please, please,” you hear yourself sound panicky at the threat of losing his touch.

“Not what I asked you, baby,” he goads, nipping softly across your shoulders. His hand hasn’t stilled, and you know your eyes are rolling with the distracting pleasure of it.

“Yes, yes I will, please—”

“Tell me what,” he slips in an inch, voice shaky with thin control, fingers flexing where they meet your skin.

“Come for you, please don’t stop,” you plead, trying to shove your hips back to to meet his.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel murmurs and you break, quivering against his fingers and fussing with effort and relief. Your cheeks and mouth bloom red as your eyes droop with the onslaught of endorphins, still cresting as you feel Joel’s hips snap in quick succession, burying himself deep and making the best, most broken noise you could have hoped for. Even deep in your own fog, you reach for him, finding his mouth as it seeks yours again, aftershocks rolling through him.

Joel rolls onto his back, tugging you along one side. You don’t much enjoy being pinned if you weren’t also being penetrated, so the intimacy of lying there like lovers with someone you’d barely glimpsed, much less talked to, was unsettling.

Joel laughs like it’s easy for him, face lighting up with the motion, hand stroking your hair behind your ear.

“What?” You ask, propping yourself up on an elbow.

“Just surprised you said yes,” he clarifies. “I’m don’t—this isn’t a usual Wednesday for me,” he clears his throat.

You analyze his expression for a second, looking for the deceit and just finding something genuine and suspiciously shy for having nearly spanked you to orgasm minutes ago.

“You don’t accost every vulnerable newcomer and ply them with good whisky?” You prod, draping yourself over his chest, an easy negotiation of legs happening without either of you needing to acknowledge it.

“Bourbon, and, just the ones who start fistfights, really,” he teases, hands drifting over you, hungry warmth reaching his eyes as the afterglow begins to recede.

“Come downstairs?” Joel asks, like you weren’t tangled up in his bedsheets, surrounded and willingly captive to whatever he wanted.

“That was the original plan,” you protest, peering around for his shirt and slipping into it.

He smirks and kisses the tip of your nose, pausing and tipping your chin up to kiss you properly.

God damn it, you think. Oh, god damn it.

[aurorawest]

⭐️⭐️Hi! Can you give a commentary for anything at all you'd like to talk about? 😊

Thanks! I’ll talk about far away from here and closer to somewhere else. I wrote this fic for Froststrange Week 2021. This fic is about Loki and Strange running into each other in Hong Kong. I did a lot of Google Streetview-ing of Hong Kong, and just a lot of random googling to get some sense of what the place looks like. I’ve never been, clearly. And now I want to go! It looks really cool. I decided to set it on Lamma Island, which is right offshore and has regular ferries. There are two towns on the island and a hiking trail that goes between them.

I went through a couple different iterations of what I wanted the plot of this to be. I knew Loki and Stephen would get drunk and play truth or dare, because those were the prompts, but one of my ideas was that they actually went to a restaurant and ate dinner together. Then I was just going to have them go to a bar. In the end, I settled on them basically having a picnic and drinking the booze Loki had earlier bought to share with Thor.

Throughout this fic, Loki is real thirsty for Strange. There is a lot of innuendo (if you thought to yourself, ‘did she mean to word it that way...?’ the answer is almost certainly YES). As he gets drunker (on baijiu, which I also researched, and have never had), he keeps having these really vivid fantasies. This is kind of the first time, chronologically in my verse, that Loki really confronts that he has feelings for Stephen. He starts out the fic sort of reveling in his sexual attraction, but by the end it’s freaking him out, because he’s kind of realizing that it’s more than that.

This is the section where they play truth or dare to the end. Loki chooses dare. Stephen thinks really hard about it.

He breathed out slowly. “Are you thinking of something?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I don’t—” He swayed. “—don’t want it to be boring. Like, I could ask you to sing. I’ve never heard you sing.”

“You don’t want to,” Loki said. “‘S’not good. 

My head canon is that Loki has a truly terrible singing voice. He also hates singing.

Also!” Coup de grace—Strange couldn’t dare him to sing after this. “I am far too…too…too plastered to remember the words to any of the songs you like.”

Womp womp. Shouldn’t have admitted to that, Loki. I just wrote a bit in an upcoming fic where Loki actually thinks about the lyrics to a song Strange played a lot and about how they apply to his situation (that fic takes place shortly before this one).

“You know them?” Strange asked. There was surprise in his tone.

Stephen is a way better actor than Loki gives him credit for. Loki thinks that Strange doesn’t give away what he’s feeling. And while that’s true...it’s kind of more than that. This thrills Stephen. Absolutely thrills him. It’s a sign that Loki knows his favorite songs. It’s a sign that Loki is interested in music.

“Maybe,” Loki said, only realizing at the last second that he shouldn’t have admitted this. “Or maybe I’m lying,” he added. “That’s why I didn’t choose truth, you know. Because I’m a liar.”

I both love and hate writing drunk people. This line makes me laugh because Loki sounds like an idiot.

“Uh huh.” Strange’s hands were resting on top of his thighs, twitching now and then. “Okay. How about this. I dare you…to tell me the truth about something.”

At first, Loki laughed. But Strange just watched him, looking smug, and Loki’s smile faded. “That doesn’t really seem in the spirit of the game, Steph—St—Strange,” Loki slurred.

This was one of the first exchanges I thought of once I had the plot of the fic nailed down. Strange basically cheats, Loki lets him...and also nearly calls him Stephen.

With a sloppy looking shrug, Strange said, “That’s the dare.”

Loki stared at him in consternation. Then his eyes flicked down to Stephen’s mouth, set into a crooked smirk, and he couldn’t help thinking, The truth is that I want to kiss you right now, but even as drunk as he was, he wasn’t drunk enough to say that. Was it even true? Or was it just…alcohol? Probably just alcohol. He was sure, quite sure, that if he were sober, he wouldn’t want to kiss Stephen Strange. So what if his lips looked full and soft; so what if Loki had always had a weakness for the feel of a well-groomed beard against his face? Just alcohol. And heatstroke, probably.

Does Loki even believe himself here? That’s kind of the question throughout the entire slow burn. Does Loki actually, really believe the bullshit he keeps telling himself, that he’s not in love with Strange? The fun thing with Loki is that he’s perfectly capable of lying to himself. In fact, he often elevates his lies over the actual truth, because he would prefer the lie to be true. So even when he knows it’s a lie, he almost gets into this state where he thinks if he just repeats it enough, he can will it to be the truth. This is actually something that Loki thinks about Thor sometimes - that Thor can just mold reality to his will if he wants something enough. Loki sees himself as telling stories, and he desperately wants the stories he tells about himself to be true. The fairy tale that he isn’t in love with Stephen, though, that’s a losing battle.

His mind turned to the ‘dare.’ There were many things that Strange didn’t know the truth about, some innocuous, some much less so. Some, they had talked about haltingly, but never in great detail. 

This was me hedging—when I wrote this last November/December, I knew that I was going to have Loki and Strange talk about their respective tortures at the hands of the Black Order in an upcoming fic (I’d already written some of that dialogue, in fact).

He could say, I know what Ebony Maw did to you because it was done to me too; 

Somehow, despite shipping Loki and Strange for over a year and adoring both of them, it didn’t really occur to me that they have this in common until like, six months ago.

he could say I understand what it’s like to think you’re someone and find out the opposite. He could tell him about sneaking Jotuns into Asgard, about the fact that he had delighted in being wicked during the Battle of New York because it was exactly what everyone had always expected of him and he was giving them the performance of his life. He could tell him how he’d hated Thor so much, but loved him with an equal fierceness.

But Loki thought Strange might know that last one already.

Strange doesn’t know about sneaking Jotuns into Asgard, but he actually knows both of the other two things Loki lists here.

Taking a deep breath, Loki said, “I think you have a nice singing voice.”

Strange actually looked stunned. That was worth something. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at Loki, a comically befuddled expression on his face. Finally, he asked, “You do?”

Loki compliments Strange very rarely. This is one of the most uncomplicatedly nice things he’s ever said to him.

Loki rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his pants. “Yes.” Flicking his eyes to meet Strange’s, he said, “Nicer than mine. But actually just…nice.”

It would have been so much easier for him to stick with the comparative here. This is character growth, that he admits that Stephen has a good voice, full stop.

There was another long pause. Then, Strange said, “Thanks.”

With a shrug, Loki looked out over the sea. “You dared me to tell the truth about something.” Clearing his throat, he said, “Well then? What about you? Truth or dare?”

Strange rubbed at his beard and Loki wondered what internal debate he was having. What the pros and cons of each choice were. Because Loki knew Strange. 

You can really see the absurdity of Loki’s repeated assertion that Strange and he aren’t friends right here. Loki is absolutely right - he does know Strange; he knows him so well that he can guess what he’s thinking, even though Strange tries pretty hard to hide what he’s thinking from Loki.

He knew that was the reason for the hesitation. Strange was trying to guess how far Loki might needle him.

Another few seconds of silence passed, and then, Strange said slowly, “Truth.”

Oh.

Oh. No jk. Believe it or not, the Oh. Oh. trope doesn’t appear in this series, because Loki never really has that moment of realization about his feelings.

Loki had assumed he would choose dare. Dare was easy. Loki would have dared him to do something stupid, like create a barbershop quartet composed of himself and invite the Avengers and their new young acolytes to a special performance.

I really struggled to come up with a stupid thing that Loki might dare Strange to do, for some reason.

But truth? Oh, he wanted to ask, is that something you want to talk about? The truth? 

This was one of the prompts for the event.

Which he supposed would have been a question that Strange could have told the truth in response to, and Loki could call it done, but…even that felt like opening a box he didn’t want to open.

Questions flickered through his mind. Impossible questions. Does the way you look at me sometimes mean anything? Do you even like men? 

Loki still thinks Strange is straight at this point.

Do you find me attractive? Do you want to kiss me? Do you know what a spectacularly bad idea that is? Do you understand why I can’t?

Loki doesn’t even quite know why he can’t. This moment is almost like...please tell me why I can’t, because I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t quite come up with a good enough reason.

He was so drunk. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he clearly couldn’t drink this much, ugh, no, not around Strange, not when it was so hot and it had been so long since he’d had—since he’d been with—since he’d had any kind of romantic partner except his own hand.

The last time Loki had fully consensual sex (where he reached climax) is at least decades in the past. Possibly longer. In The Real Asgardians of the Galaxy, Kalmsh goes down on him, but Loki stops him.

That thought made him giggle a little. He had made supremely poor choices today. He was just sensible enough not to make another one.

Strange was staring at him. There was an odd look on his face. Loki couldn’t identify it.

But if he had to, he’d call it…expectant. No.

Hopeful.

Loki knows and tells himself he doesn’t.

Loki’s fingers curled into fists and he asked, “How did you and Wong meet?”

@mareebird suggested this for the question.

The change on Strange’s face was subtle. Nearly imperceptible. Loki was surprised he was able to detect it, considering the state he was in. The hope, if that was even what it had been, dropped away, replaced by…resignation. “I wanted to borrow a book from the library,” Strange said. He smiled, though it seemed joyless. “In Kamar-Taj. He took it too seriously.”

I wanted this moment to be absolutely devastating. To be honest, I don’t think I really pulled it off. C’est la vie. I plan on rewriting this and adding it to my series, so maybe I can fix it then.

“As always,” Loki said. His voice felt like it was coming out far too heartily. As though some line had been crossed and they both needed to retreat, but Loki was acutely aware, horrifically aware, that he had done something wrong, or if not wrong, then something that had wounded Strange in some way, and that was…idiotic. It was stupid. Nonsensical. There was nothing Loki could do to emotionally wound Strange. The man had proved that time and time again. He didn’t take Loki seriously. If you didn’t take someone seriously, they couldn’t hurt your feelings.

It really, really bothers Loki that Strange doesn’t take him seriously. He’s wrong about that, of course, but it’s something that’s driven him absolutely insane from the moment they met. At first it’s more of a like, dick measuring contest, lol. But it becomes much more than that, and the anger turns to this kind of...desperate hurt. Loki wants Strange to take him seriously. His unhappiness over the perceived slight appears many times.

Which was why Strange had never hurt Loki’s feelings, incidentally, because Loki didn’t take him at all seriously, 

Uh huh yeah sure.

this human sorcerer with his lovely eyes, blue or green depending on the light, and his soft-looking lips and neat goatee.

Riiiiiiight.

The two of them lapsed into silence. The drunken buzz had gone out of Loki’s veins entirely. Alcohol—it was fun until it wasn’t. Now he just felt foggy and slow. The world was spinning unpleasantly. How the hel was he going to fly back to New Asgard like this? He couldn’t. Sourness sloshed in his stomach. He’d probably be lucky not to be sick.

Now, this, I felt I described pretty well. It’s such a distinct feeling when you’re drunk and having fun and suddenly you cross some line that you didn’t know was there...and you’re not having fun anymore. And there’s no way to get back.

Loki’s legs felt stiff and he extended them. That other buzz had gone from Loki’s veins, too. It had been stupid. Stupid fantasies. [...]

His mouth was starting to feel dry. The sourness in his stomach was gaining more bite. The humidity in the air wasn’t helping, either. Loki felt like he couldn’t get a breath. He wasn’t quite nauseated, but the possibility didn’t seem far off. If he could breathe some cool, crisp air, he was sure he’d feel better. Everything would probably be better if he could just do that.

Me, writing this: Think back to all the times you’ve felt like shit walking around Disney World!

Strange shifted. Their shoulders had been touching, Loki realized. And now they weren’t.

“I s’posp…s’posp…” Loki grit his teeth. “I…suppose you need to get back to Yew Nork. New York.”

Realistically there would be a lot more slurring in both of their speech, but who wants to read that, honestly. I use that sort of thing sparingly.

There was a silence, so Loki turned his head to look at Strange. He was staring out over the sea, his gaze faraway, like he wasn’t here at all. Not thinking about Loki at all, let alone what had just happened. 

IDIOT. Obviously, Loki is exactly wrong here. Stephen is absolutely thinking about Loki and absolutely thinking about what just happened. His heart is breaking.

Whatever had just happened. Stupid thought. Nothing had happened.

Since nothing had happened, the barren hollowness inside him was just an illusion. And Loki knew about illusions. He was good at them. So that made sense.

I wrote Loki’s internal monologue in a simpler, almost more childlike way here to try to capture his inebriation. And also his sadness. He’s sort of like a kicked puppy here.

“Guess so,” Strange finally said. Without looking at Loki, he laboriously climbed to his feet, swaying alarmingly. Norns. What if he stumbled right off the cliff into the sea below? Flashes of that played out in front of Loki’s eyes, intrusive and horrible, and something that felt awfully like panic clutched at his chest. The idea of Stephen dying suddenly seemed so terrible, so very terrible.

Foreshadowing. Stephen will die in about fifty-five years. Loki will be devastated and never get over it.

Loki got to his feet too, ready to grab Strange if he wobbled too close to the edge of the cliff. But Strange seemed steady enough on his feet, now that he was standing. Silently, Strange unhooked his sling ring from his belt, shakily slipping it onto his fingers, as Loki vanished the empty food containers into his pocket dimension. They were a problem for a future version of him.

Just like Future Emily often has to cover for freaking Present Emily. She’s the worst.

The empty bottle, though—he bent over to pick that up, sliding his fingers over it. He was seized by a sudden, violent urge to fling it into the sea. Except you couldn’t fling a bottle into the sea on Earth without putting a message into it. That was a cliché here. A message in a bottle. A message you couldn’t send any other way because you were stranded. A message that had no hope of actually reaching its intended recipient. What kind of message would he send?

I hate you. I hate this.

Even if it was the opposite.

They’re caught in this limbo where neither one of them has the guts to tell the other how he feels. They quite literally have to resort to games, but even then, they both chicken out. Loki can’t even imagine being able to be honest with Strange about this. He can’t even be honest with himself.

Loki closed his eyes, then vanished the bottle into his pocket dimension, as well. Where had he actually landed his ship? Would he be able to find the way back? Everything seemed murky in his mind. And—this thought hadn’t occurred to him until now—was the ferry even running anymore?

This is your author realizing at the same time that Loki took a freaking ferry to get here.

Perhaps he’d have to spend the night here, leaning against the rocks until he nodded off into fitful, drunken sleep.

As though Strange was reading his mind, he said, “Let me bring you back to your ship before I go back to the Sanctum.”

“Oh.” Right. Stupid. Strange could bring him anywhere, instantly. “I…” It felt as though his head was full of wool. “Yes, that would be…thank you. Don’t think—don’t think the ferries are running anymore.”

Strange finally looked at him. “You think I’d let you walk back to your ship like this? Even if they were?”

His ship is the same one from The Real Asgardians of the Galaxy, The Bifrost, but I don’t name it in oneshots because I don’t like to assume that people have read that fic.

“Like what?” Loki asked. Drunk off his arse, clearly. Why was he even asking? Just to hear Strange say it? Even an Asgardian could be taken advantage of in a compromised state.

Loki has been sexually assaulted many, many times. He’s not really too concerned about it here on Earth, but it’s certainly something that would occur to him. His most recent experience is with the Grandmaster.

But Strange didn’t answer this question. Instead, he asked, “Where is it?”

There had been ships. Big boxes. Loki knew the kind of place. He knew the word. “Um, docks,” he said. “Container ships.” He closed his eyes. “It was Container Terminal 8.” Complete sentences—look at that.

Yes, this involved more Google Streetviewing.

“Okay,” Strange said. He extended his arm and circled the other. The portal started to bloom in front of them, swelling a little before it shrank back down. Orange sparks sputtered weakly. Loki stared blearily. There was a joke here, but the idea of making it seemed devastating in a way that he couldn’t articulate.

I checked with @mareebird before I made this erectile dysfunction joke because quite honestly she’s the queen of sexual innuendo, and I needed to see if it passed muster.

But Strange tried again, and this time it worked. [...] Uninvited, Strange followed him on board, where he stood as Loki drifted to the bridge. Loki mostly just wanted to lie down. He didn’t know why Strange hadn’t left yet.

Clearing his throat, Strange asked, “You’re not going to fly home right now, are you?”

Part of him wanted to say yes, just to see the look of horror on Strange’s face. Would Strange go into Good Guy mode and tell him he couldn’t? There were signs on some of the roads in Norway admonishing people not to drive their cars while intoxicated. Imagine what they’d think about flying a spaceship when he could barely walk in a straight line! 

A stylistic note - I almost never use exclamation points in prose like this.

The thought amused him and he started to giggle.

The feeling faded quickly and he swayed on his feet, then took several unsteady steps to his berth. As he flopped down on it, he said, “I’ll stay here. I’ll sleep it off. That’s what you want me to say, right? You want me to be good. Good Loki, he’s so well-behaved, doesn’t put a toe out of line. Can’t really, can I? I’m a guest here on Earth. We’re all guests.”

This is also me vagueing, because I knew future plot points but didn’t have them totally nailed down. Now that I’ve almost finished with the fic that will directly precede this in the timeline, this was actually pretty spot on. It completely calls back to that, which I didn’t really do on purpose. Gonna pat myself on the back for that.

He stared up at the underside of the other berth. A hard, swollen feeling rose into his chest, a feeling of wanting. Just…wanting. He didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was that as good as things were now, as much as Thor and he had repaired things, there was something gaping inside him. It would be easy to say it was New Asgard, stupid tiny ugly reeking fishing village New Asgard, but it would be a lie.

Then again, he liked lies. Well, he didn’t like them. They were just easier. Lies were so much easier. The truth was hard.

Lies are easier, which was why he just repeatedly lied to himself in the paragraph above. Doesn’t know what he wants? Right.

He turned away from the raw ache and rested a wrist on his forehead. “Well?”

There was a metallic scrape as Stephen’s feet shifted on the deck. “I don’t want you to crash into the ocean and never be seen again.”

Loki snorted. Suddenly, he felt as though he was going to cry. “I’m sure you’ll see me again, Stephen.”

Every time Loki thinks of Strange as Stephen or calls him Stephen, it’s very intentional.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Strange take a step closer. He looked unsteady, too, swaying, his gaze unfocused, his hands shaking. Mentally, he dared Strange to come closer. Truth or dare.

Why the hel had Strange chosen truth?

The truth was too much. The truth was difficult. The truth was impossible. It was vulnerability and pain and handing your heart and soul over to another person. The truth was something Loki had no interest in. Certainly not whatever truth Strange would tell.

Deep down, Loki knows how Strange feels about him.

Slowly, Strange nodded. He was starting to look a little wan, as though he wasn’t feeling well. Wouldn’t be much of a shock. Loki didn’t feel well and presumably he could hold his liquor better, even with the heat. “Hope so,” Strange mumbled.

Head canon: Stephen actually doesn’t hold his liquor well at all. He never has. Because he sometimes takes painkillers from his hands, he’s even worse at it (I have to thank @nonexistenz for that one). Presumably he hasn’t taken a painkiller in several days in this fic, since he’s still conscious after drinking half a bottle baijiu.

The two of them looked at each other. Loki’s vision kept fuzzing around the edges, but he concentrated on Strange, Strange in his t-shirt and his jeans, looking so human.

In earlier fics, Loki admires how Strange looks in his Master of the Mystic Arts get-up. That shifts over the course of the future fics and Loki begins to find Stephen’s everyday clothes much more endearing and attractive.

Terribly human. Stay, whispered a traitorous voice in his mind. It was a voice that would have him move over on the berth and hold out an arm. An invitation. An acknowledgement.

This is the closest Loki has ever come to an admission of his feelings.

Impossible. Loki closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side, facing the bulkhead. “Good-bye,” he said, knowing he sounded pitiful. He had officially reached the stage where he wondered why he’d ever touched any alcohol ever in his entire life.

It’s a cliché but it will never not be funny.

“Thanks for dinner,” Strange said.

“Welcome.”

“Thanks for…” But Strange trailed off.

Strange probably doesn’t even quite know what he’s going to say here. He’s just stalling, hoping Loki is going to make the move that he (Stephen) is too afraid to.

“Strange.” Loki’s head was starting to hurt. “Good-bye.”

There was silence, then the sound of a portal, which spit, hissed, and closed.

The truth. The truth could go to hel.

Loki hoped he didn’t remember any of this in the morning.

He does remember a lot of it, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t, or chalk it up to drunkenness.

Thank you for asking!! Hopefully you liked what I chose 😊 

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

[bibliocratic]

s1 martin and tim go drinking, mlm/mlm solidarity

(some cws on this one, check the tags)

“Looks like it's up to us to paint the town then, Martin!”

“Huh?” Martin glances up, not really in the mood for Tim's hi-jinks. He doesn't want to admit he's been frowning over this statement follow-up for about forty minutes, because Jon sent it back, covered in corrections, again, and it's getting on late on a Friday evening and Martin's brain's decided to clock out from the working week.  If Tim's been talking, Martin's not heard a word.

Tim playfully throws a rubber-band ball over to him. Martin fumbles but manages to catch it.

“Sasha's got 'plans'” Tim makes finger quotes, and gives Martin a wink like he's in on a joke. “And it's not like Jon's going to come out with us. So it's you and me buddy! Two stunning single bachelors, us against the world!”

Tim grins at the idea, and Martin automatically smiles back, warmed by Tim wanting to spend actual time with him.

“O-ok!” he says, bolstered by Tim's enthusiasm. “That's... yeah, great, cool! Where are we going?”

He hasn't been out in ages. He's struggling to remember when he last did.

“Was thinking some food first,” Tim replies, catching with ease when Martin lobs the ball back. He throws it from hand to hand thoughtfully. His eyes light up as he snags on a thought. “Let's make a night of it! Head into Soho, what d'you reckon. Bit of a walk, but it'll be a nice night for it. I'll take you to G-A-Y, see if we can't set you up with some strapping lad who finds Star Wars t-shirts sexy.”

Martin's hands suddenly twitch like a grave spasm.

“I – ah, I'm s-sorry. I – er. What?”

Tim leans back on his chair, disregarding both gravity and Martin's panicked expression that's slammed the brakes down on his previous bubbling excitement.

“I know, can get packed on a Friday. If it's too busy, we'll try for the Admiral Duncan or somewhere else. The bartender at Ku Bar is really fit, might even be your type, so we could head over there...”

“I – ” There's a lot of words in Martin's throat, and he's not sure how to work with the stiff material they're formed of, making them into something sensible. “I... I've... I mean...”

It's not that he's ashamed. It's not the word he'd use anyway, even if there's defensiveness in his posture, insecurity in his constant omission, and he's strung up in a reaction that scratches up him like fight or flight. He's wondering, despairingly, does everyone know?

Tim must notice something wrong, because he's knocking the legs of his chair back onto the ground. Frowning and leaning forward, putting the ball down on his desk.

“We don't have to,” he says, holding up his hands as though backtracking. “If you've got some secret fella on the go, hey, you're allowed to keep the mystery man a secret. Just thought it might be a good night out, that's all.”

“I don't... I don't have a secret....” Martin can't even say the word, splutters and swallows it bitterly. “How did you...?” he stops again, miserable and irate at his own inability, embarrassed that he's nearly thirty and this is so hard, worrying about what gave him away. He'd been so careful.

“Ah,” Tim's face clears from the clouds of his confusion, and it's abruptly replaced by the weather front of something heavy, a sad kind of comprehension. He adjusts his cap a bit further back from his face. “Let me guess, and tell me if I'm barking up the wrong tree here. You've not been to G-A-Y before.”

Martin gives a little stiff shake of his head.

“You've – and again, I might be wrong – but you've never actually been to a gay bar before.”

Another shake of the head.

“But you like blokes, right?”

Martin's throat is dry. He feels overwhelmingly looked at, and he wants to shrink away, he wants Tim to just shut up, and leave it, and forget they even started this whole thing.

It takes a lot for him to nod.

Tim's expression blooms into a kind-hearted sympathy.

“I'm not going to tell anyone, Martin,” he says, and the air in the room is a little less tight at that earnest promise. “If that's what you're.... No one here would bat an eyelid, but I, I won't say anything that you don't want me to, ok?”

“I don't...” Martin says falteringly, and he fidgets with the stapler on his desk, prods at a biro. “I don't tell people.”

There's a lot in that. Tim knows not to push.

“We don't have to go,” Tim finally replies quietly. “Not if you don't want to. If it's too much...”

“No!” Martin surprises himself with the force of his response, and colours violently, feeling his entire face heat up. “I mean – I – I'd like to. If you – if you still want.”

Tim grins, and his cocksure manner is on display like a theatre curtain lifted. He stands up, doing a stupid little bow like he's trying to make Martin laugh.

“t'would be my honour to lead you astray, Master Blackwood,” he puts on the snobbiest toff voice, and Martin can't help but unwind a little at how daft he sounds, how at ease he looks. It could be, he thinks to himself, maybe it could be this easy.

They get pub-grub in a Wetherspoons near Camden Lock, and they talk about things that aren't work. Films and sport and TV, and it's deliberately breezy and Martin's so appreciative. After a couple of pints, Tim starts teasingly pointing out people around them like he's some sort of cold war spy, asking Martin under his voice to give them a score out of ten – hey, he defends himself when Martin gets flustered and half-heartedly objects, as your wingman I need to know what I'm working with. And there's a giddy delirium to how suddenly all very simple it is to talk about things like this with someone, the cider lubricating his thoughts, his easily tied-up tongue, and soon they're a few pints down, and Martin's snorting a laugh and arguing with Tim about his taste in men, because apparently their opinions and interests vary wildly. The debate only ends when Tim points his fork at him, mock haughtily, replying that at least he's got the common sense to not fancy the boss, and that sends Martin choking on his drink for a good minute, eyes streaming and face burning.

Finally, Tim stands up and claps his hands together as though it's a moment of great grandeur.

“And now!” he declares. “It's time we got this young cub a boyfriend!”

“Would you – Tim! Would you, shush! I'm only a year younger than you, you absolute pillock.”

“No one cares! Best thing about London, Martin, everyone's too wrapped up in their own bollocks to care about ours. Now, are we going or what?”

It's... it's a really good night. They get in easily, and Tim apparently knows the bouncers at the door because he picks up some banter with them easily. Martin looks around at the lights and the people while Tim buys the first round. It's not as scary as he'd imagined. It's, well, it's a normal night club, and it's not late enough to be packed, so people are milling around in groups, drinking, half-dancing to Lady Gaga. The floor is sticky with spilled drink and the music is a little too loud for conversation to be heard, but Martin finds his feet tapping along to the music regardless, and when Tim hands him his plastic glass and holds his own drink up for a cheers, Martin's smile is wide and genuine, the knotted sensation in his chest gone slack.

He'd entertained the worry that Tim might ditch him as soon as he got a hint of attention. Tim certainly gets appraising looks and a few flirty glances which he coquettishly returns, but he sticks to Martin's side, pulling him onto the dance floor and woot-ing with delight when a song comes on that he likes.

They buy more drinks. Martin's round, then Tim's round, and then it's someone's round but Tim's had the grand idea of shots. It must be after midnight, and the music has dissolved into thumping chart-toppers, and Martin is buzzing. Dancing in his own artless way to the music, his shoes stained with some drink he spilt earlier, sing-shouting to the words he knows in the songs. He's danced with people, people who were interested, interested in him, and he hasn't felt the urge to step back, to make sure no-one is watching, to make sure no one gets the wrong idea.

Tim's nudged him forward with a go on Casanova, strut your stuff towards a short blond man, dancing flat-footed and throwing himself into the music, who has been giving Martin impressed, slightly wowed side-eyes all evening, who beams when Martin joins his dance space and draws him into a complicated dance move which Martin stumbles over but tries his best. The man is trying to shout something complimentary in his ear but the music is too loud to hear.

They're both sweaty but the other man is giving him such a look, and Martin feels like an uncorked bottle of champagne, and he finds himself shyly smiling back as the song merges into something louder and more energetic.

He doesn't notice his mobile vibrating. Can't hear it over the music. He pulls his phone out of his pocket almost absent-mindedly, intent on checking the time, figuring he'll have to get the night bus back if they stay here much later, and he blinks as the blurry words and shapes realise themselves into multiple missed calls.

He is suddenly, shockingly sober.

He pushes his way through the dancing throngs, throwing out apologies like scattering seeds, and he clatters back down the stairs, bumping to a few people queueing for the toilers, and then he shoulders his way inexpertly through the downstairs bar and its clusters of people, and then he's out the front door. His breathing is too fast. He's returning the call with a panic, clearing his throat, hoping desperately he doesn't sound too drunk, that he's not slurring his words, because what if something's happened, something bad, and what's his excuse, really. He should have been there, he's just been out, getting pissed, and what's she going to say when she realises....

“Martin?” comes a hollered shout, and Tim's tumbling out of the doors, holding both their jackets and an expression of such concern. “Martin, what...?”

Martin desperately shushes him with an expression.

“Hey,” he croaks down the phone line. “I got your....No, m-my phone was.... No, n-no honestly, it wasn't, I wasn't ignoring....... I-I know, I know, I'm............ yeah........... yeah, I know, but................. Just some people from work, I just lost track of time, I'll.............. I know...... I'll get a taxi, I can be there in...... Ok. I-I know. Sorry, I'll...... Ok. Ok. Bye, mum.”

He ends the call. Rubs at his face. He feels wound up in his chest again.

“I have to go,” he says, and he refuses to meet Tim's eyes. He has the strong suspicion his own eyes are shinier than he wants them to be. “She's not well. She had an episode earlier, and I.... I just need to go. Make sure she's ok.”

“She doesn't know, does she?” Tim's voice is rough from singing, from drinking, but his expression is hard and dark.

“It doesn't matter,” Martin replies shortly.

“Of course it matters!” Tim says, almost with disbelief. “Martin, I know it's your.....  but this isn't, this isn't ok. You can't let people tell you what to do with your life!”

“What are you doing then?” Martin snaps back. Because Christ, he's tired and the night's drawn on too late, and his skin feels sticky, and his mum, she sounded bad, sick under the snapping annoyance at the bother he's caused her yet again. He wasn't there, wasn't there to check up on her, and she'll know he's been drinking and he doesn't need this, not now. He can't do this now.

“That's unfair,” Tim replies curtly. There's something like anger on his face before it dissipates into something Martin can't read. “Martin, you can't keep... one of these days you're going to have to be honest with yourself.”

“You say that like it's easy!” Martin responds, almost enraged, his voice cracking. “I can't be – I can't be like you! I can't – it's all so easy for you, a-and I just... I can't. I'm, I'm sorry. I can't.”

Martin breathes out a tear-stifled breath. He thinks there's a taxi rank a few streets away that he saw on the way over. The lights and loud music are pulsing away, and it's distant, like a bubble he's had to walk away from.

“Thank you for... for trying,” he says hoarsely. “I did.... I had a really nice night, you know.”

Tim pauses and then nods wretchedly, a weight to his shoulders. He walks up to Martin, a little wobbly from the shots, the skin of his exposed arms beginning to get chilly, signposting his intentions so Martin has the chance to move away.

Martin doesn't. Tim's arms come crushing around him, and he slumps into it, full of emotions he doesn't have the ability to name, he doesn't have the bravery to face up to yet.

“We'll do this again sometime, yeah?” Tim mumbles encouragingly into his sweaty hair.

“I'd like that,” Martin replies faintly, before he pulls away, taking his jacket back. Gives Tim a worn-down little wave before he turns away.

The music takes a long time to fade from his ears.

[shipmistress9]

Spin The Bottle

(Once more for real)

Hiccstrid - Modern AU - T-rated

Summary: Hiccup and Astrid agree: Their relationship is too fresh to expose it to their overly nosy friends. But when a game of drunk Spin the Bottle presents them with a dare including ice cubes... They  might be too distracted to care.

Notes: What can I say? This is just another piece of mindless fluff for my OTP. And I had a lot of fun looking up various dares for this short! 😁

. o O o .

With one fluid motion, Hiccup manoeuvred his car into a free but terrifyingly narrow parking space. 

Show-off, Astrid thought to herself, even as she was smiling fondly. Luckily, it was too dark for him to see; in practical tasks like this, her boyfriend was more than confident enough already.

Boyfriend… That word still sounded so strange, at least in regards to Hiccup. Even in her own head. 

"So… what's the plan?"

"What plan?" Her hand was already on the handle to open the door, but at the tense tone of his voice, she paused.

Hiccup motioned toward the house in front of them, the Thorston’s home. Through the windows, they could see that most if not all of their friends were already there, getting ready for the twins' monthly meet-up. The times where they’d spent every day together as they’d done in high school or college might be over, but that didn't mean they couldn't stay in touch anymore. Or have ridiculous and silly sleepover parties.

"I mean, what are we, officially?" Hiccup elaborated. "What do we tell them, how do we behave?"

"Oh, that…" 

Astrid bit her lip, pondering. After all, it had been only two weeks since her and Hiccup’s years-long friendship had turned into something more. She honestly couldn't be happier about the days filled with joy, about the nights of the previous weekend she’d spent in his arms, or about how his hand in hers felt so incredibly right and the way his easy smile made something in her chest flutter every single time again. And yet...

“I think… I’d rather not tell them,” she eventually replied in a low whisper. 

Hiccup audibly exhaled. “All right.” He paused, and Astrid could almost hear the gears in his head turning. “But, uh… Do we really care if they know about us?” 

She took a moment to think, shrugging a little insecurely. “I mean… we don’t, I guess,” she said, feeling the heat of a blush on her cheeks. Reflexively, she pushed a strand of hair out of her face to hide it, even though it was too dark for Hiccup to notice anyway. How could she explain how she felt and at the same time reassure him that she wasn’t embarrassed to be with him? “It’s… all so new, you know? For now, I just want to share it with you. Does that make sense?”

Slowly, Hiccup nodded, the outline of his unruly hair moving in the dim light. “I… guess it does.” 

He reached for the handle of his door to get out of the car, but Astrid took his hand and pulled him back. She didn’t want him to feel rejected, because that really wasn’t why she wanted to keep their secret a little longer. Awkwardly leaning over to the driver seat, she pressed her lips to his in a sultry kiss. Hiccup grunted in surprise, but only one heartbeat later, his arms wound around her, taking her into one of his embraces she loved so much. Smiling against his lips, Astrid deepened the kiss, opened her mouth to let his tongue slide against her own before she pulled back again. 

“We will tell them, tomorrow morning at the lastest, okay? I just want the time to be right. If we tell them right away, they wouldn’t stop teasing and questioning us all evening.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he hummed. “And it’s okay with me, to wait, I mean. You’re right, of course, you are. One of the infamous Thorston parties with drinks and fun and bantering certainly isn’t the best time. Can you imagine the endless ribbing? Although, I bet Snot’s face would be to die for. He’s been bragging about getting you to date him one day since forever.”

Astrid snorted. “As if I’d ever.” She placed another quick peck onto Hiccup’s lips. “I think I choose much better.”

His face lit up, visible even in the dim light. “Alright. Let’s get in there before they start worrying where we are.”

At the door, they were greeted by an already tipsy Ruff – although, with the twins, that wasn't always easy to tell.

"Heeeyyy," she drawled, and pushed glasses filled with colourful cocktails into their hands. "There you are! We thought you two had gotten lost somewhere. Or were making out on Hiccup's backseat." Both Hiccup and Astrid stiffened, but Ruff apparently hadn’t been serious, giggling as if she’d made a great joke. "Come in, come in. We've just been waiting for you before we get started.” Ruff disappeared inside, and Hiccup and Astrid shared a bemused smile before they followed her. 

Just good we live so close together, Astrid thought as they took off their coats and shoes and placed their over-night bags by the stairs. That way, nobody wondered why they arrived together; they'd picked each other up ever since Hiccup had gotten his first motorbike so many years ago. 

Ruff had been right, everyone else was already there. Snot, Fishlegs, Eret and Dagur, and even Cami had made it in time for once. They were greeted with the usual excitement of not having seen each other in a while, and the first hour or so was spent on eating delivered pizza, drinking cocktails and beer, and filling each other in on their lives. Eret and Dagur had finally started looking into apartments to move in together, Cami had met a girl at a club a few days back and planned to meet her again next week – a good sign after her bad break up three months ago from her noticeably absent ex – and Snot, Fishlegs, and the twins had successfully survived another week of their outdoor experience weeks at the college. When it was Hiccup’s turn, he animatedly talked about the new puppy his parents had gotten a couple of weeks back, even had pictures ready, and Astrid was proud to announce that she’d finally gotten herself a motorcycle.

“Hah!” Dagur exclaimed, clapping once, loudly. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the adrenaline forever. See? We finally rubbed off on her.” He nudged his boyfriend with his elbow. 

Eret, however, merely snorted. “You know, Dag… I think it was more Hiccup’s success than ours. With them being friends since forever and all?” 

“Yeah,” Astrid quickly jumped in. “Hiccup wouldn’t stop talking about how great motorbikes are, so I got one just to shut up his annoying babbling.”

Eret smirked. “Totally makes sense…”

She wasn’t sure whether she liked the expression on Eret’s face as he looked her and Hiccup over. But he directly changed the topic by downing the rest of his beer and offering to get new drinks, so she didn’t bother wondering further. She did exchange a quick glance with Hiccup, though, just to feel a little more at ease. Was Eret suspecting something?

It felt strange to Astrid to keep this secret, to not tell her friends what was on the forefront of her mind at any given moment. How happy she was that she and Hiccup had made up their mind after so long, how she’d rather move over to the couch or one of the big bean bags where she could cuddle up to him, how she constantly wanted to peck his cheek or his lips, just on a whim. 

But at the same time, she really didn’t want to elaborate, not just yet. If they told this news now, the questions would never end. And because she knew her friends and their state of drunkenness, the questions wouldn’t be modest or sensible in any way. And their relationship was just too new, to her and in general, to burden it with this condensed kind of curiosity. 

After every piece of pizza was eaten and everyone was at least a little bit tipsy, Ruff and Tuff insisted, as always, on playing a game to pass some time. However, their choice didn’t just let Astrid raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Spin the bottle?” Snot asked, incredulously. “Are you serious? What are we, twelve?”

Dagur, totally the grown-up man he was – not – snickered. "If you were twelve, Ret and I would be eighteen already and way too cool to play with toddlers like you." 

"Yes, yes, grandpa," Tuff waved Dagur off. "Come, sit down over there and I'll bring you your rheumatic blanket in a minute."

Everyone chuckled at Dagur's grumpy face, until Fishlegs was the first one to sober up again. "Seriously though," he mumbled. "We're not playing the 'seven minutes in Valhalla' version, right?"

To Astrid's relief, Ruff shook her head. "Naw, we're not really twelve, remember? Also, I think there's barely a combination left that we didn’t already have." She looked around, thinking. "Yeah, I at least have been to Valhalla with all of you. No, I've been thinking of something else. I prepared these–" she held up a stack of paper cards, "–with entertaining dares. We pull a card and then spin the bottle to see who's the lucky winner who gets to perform. And I'm telling you, some of these dares…" She trailed off, snickering.

Snorting, Astrid shook her head. At least, there was nothing that would be too embarrassing to perform before her friends. They all know each other for too long to be fazed. 

As long as I don't have to kiss Snot or something, she thought, shuddering. It was bad enough that he sat down to her left when they all made themselves comfortable on the cushions lying in a large circle on the ground. Hiccup had a point, after all. Snot still hadn’t stopped trying to hit on her, even though she’d made it clear, more than once, that she wasn’t interested. 

She’d managed to have Hiccup sitting at her right, and even though she really wanted to reach over and take his hand or snuggle into his arm, she tried to be content with at least having him close. She just hoped Ruff’s game would provide enough of a distraction to not go crazy with longing. 

As it turned out, the game was more than sufficiently distracting. In fact, it was absolutely hilarious and great fun. It started out with something relatively harmless. Not that “Let everyone look through your phone for a minute” couldn’t be embarrassing, but since the bottle had picked Fishlegs as the victim, it wasn’t all that exciting, either. 

“Seriously? All you have on your phone are pictures of your dog?” 

Snot actually seemed surprised by that fact, which Astrid found almost as amusing as the cute picture of Meatlug sleeping in a highly uncomfortable-looking position. 

“Now, I’m mad we didn’t get the chance to look at your phone, Snot,” Cami shot back, smirking. “Although, I bet it’s just full of gross porn.”

“Oh, shut up, Cami,” Snot grumbled. “As if yours would look any different.”

Laughing, Cami stuck her tongue out at Snot, and Astrid couldn’t suppress a grin. If Snot was trying to embarrass Cami then he’d have to do a lot better. 

The next dare was honest to the Gods hilarious, making Astrid wonder whether the twins had looked them up somewhere or had come up with them themselves. Generally, she thought they must have looked them up, but ‘having to bend at the waist so that the person was looking through their legs and then run backwards until they were able to tag someone with their butt’ was such a Thorston thing to think of! And, fitting enough, Tuff ended up as the one to do it, stumbling around with everyone laughing as they tried to escape. Being pretty far from sober made it even funnier; Tuff stumbled and landed on his butt at least three times and not colliding with the others was practically impossible as everyone tried to get away from Tuff. And if Astrid enjoyed running into Hiccup and staying in his embrace after they kept each other from falling for a little longer than was necessary? Well, in the general chaos, nobody noticed. 

Astrid had to admit that this game idea was definitely one of the best the twins ever had, it was such fun! They got to watch Ruff weeping and wailing her way through five minutes of her begging the person next to her, Dagur, not to leave her for the person on her other side, Cami. The combination alone was hilarious, and Ruff’s acting skills were excellent. By the end, they were all crying with laughter. 

They got to watch Cami perform a pole dance without a pole, which she managed surprisingly well, and then Dagur doing a belly dance ‘as if his life depended on it’. As expected, he went all out, earning himself cheering and applause from everyone, and Astrid wouldn’t have been surprised if a similar performance might get repeated in Eret’s and Dagur’s bedroom on another day. 

Hiccup got off easily, having to speak in an accent for the following five rounds. Not a difficult challenge, given how well he was able to imitate his father and uncle, but still always entertaining. Almost as entertaining as Eret serenading him – specifically the person to his right. Just like with Dagur, subtlety wasn’t in Eret’s nature, so he went all out, using his best singing voice, falling to his knees, and arms gesturing wildly. It was a fantastic spectacle to watch. 

Astrid herself was more than content with her first dare, doing as many push-ups as she could – and then one more. 43 wasn’t exactly a record number for her, but still good enough to show off a little. Fishlegs and Snot were visibly impressed, the twins miming to be bored to death, and Eret and Dagur who were gym-buffs just like her cheered her on right through to the end. The best reaction was certainly Hiccup’s though, his eyes dazed as she stood up again. Other men she’d dated had been intimidated by her strength, but with Hiccup, it was the opposite. He loved how strong she was, had even admitted that it turned him on, and seeing how it affected him now made her blush more than anything else. Gods, he was just perfect, accepting and even loving her just the way she was.

Snot had less luck with his first dare, relatively speaking. To Astrid, it would have been nothing, but ‘posting an embarrassing picture to your social media account’ was clearly something Snot loathed. She half expected him to take the post down again as soon as he could, but the twins would make sure that it never truly vanished.

They played several rounds with more dares to follow, like opening a bag of chips with nothing but your mouth – Tuff excelled! – and picking someone from the group to give you a spanking. Poor Fishlegs was probably one of the few, if not the only one, who had not wanted that dare, but Astrid assumed that Cami went gentle on her childhood friend. Snot did a surprisingly decent job at doing a magic trick, and Eret had to run around the house three times with a handful of ice cubes shoved down his underwear. A rather unpleasant experience, if his high-pitched yelps and unashamed curses were anything to go by.

“Oh, oh, oh, finally!” Ruff sing-songed when she picked another of her cards, a far-too-innocent grin on her face. “I’ve been waiting for this one! Okay, listen up. Snot, put that glass down, I need you all to be sober enough to get this joke.” 

As if Snot drinking one more mouthful would change anything, Astrid thought giddily, clearly not unaffected by the alcohol herself. At least the twins had accepted not to mix too much alcohol into their drinks during these parties, or else nobody would be conscious anymore by now. 

“Okay, ready?” Ruff looked around until she had everyone’s attention. “So, here’s what the next vict– erm, participant has to do. Hiccup in between every word for the next five rounds.” She looked around, grinning victoriously. 

There was a moment or three of silence before snickering could be heard from all over the room. Oh, how they were all acting like the grown-ups they were supposed to be – not! 

Hiccup groaned loudly, his head falling back against the wall behind him with an audible thump! “Seriously? We’re down to nickname jokes again?”

“We never left that level, H,” Tuff replied with clear satisfaction in his voice.

“Oh, come on,” Ruff giggled. “You’ve got to admit, it’s awesome! I just had to include this one when I found it!”

“So, do I get this right?” Dagur threw in, a mischievous grin on his face. “I have to do Hiccup between every word I say? This will be a looong game!” He gestured at the bottle between them. “But okay, I can do that! Spin that thing. I’m so ready for this dare!”

Caught somewhere between exasperation and fits of laughing, Hiccup groaned, “Oh, Gods…”

Astrid bit her lip at that sound. She had to keep herself from blurting out an overly-excited ‘Me too!’. Tipsy as she was, she couldn’t help her thoughts regularly wandering to her right, to Hiccup and to all the things she wanted to do with him to draw more of those groans out of him. But even just putting her hand in his for the tiniest of skin-to-skin contact would draw more attention than they’d agreed upon. So instead, she looked at Dagur, eyebrows raised and with the appropriate amount of amusement on her face. 

“You know, Dag,” Eret deadpanned. “Given how much you talk, you’d both die of exhaustion.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of jealousy in his words, just dry amusement and a certain glint in his eyes. Given the boys’ open and relaxed attitude toward their relationship, Eret probably wouldn’t mind watching such a spectacle. “But if you want, I volunteer in case you want to practise first. Though maybe not today.” 

Dagur pouted. “Spoilsports...” He took the bottle and gave it a good spin, then actually groaned in disappointment when the top didn’t point at him… but at Snot instead.

All eyes were on him, expectantly waiting for his reaction, but Snot just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, – hic! – I – hic! – won’t – hic! – do – hic! – my – hic! – cousin!”

Everyone burst out laughing and the game continued, with a noticeably quiet Snot for a few minutes. 

Another highlight of the evening was certainly Tuff acting like a chicken for a solid ten minutes, and Ruff got off easily by letting her brother shave her legs; everyone knew it wasn’t the first time he did that. 

“Okay, the next one can go two ways,” Ruff announced, frowning at the card in her hand. “‘Transfer an ice cube from the mouth of one of the persons next to you to your own.’ Now, the obvious way is a kiss, but we’ve done that so often, it’s getting boring. So I want to suggest a funnier way. One has to spit the ice cube out in a high arc and the other has to catch it with their mouth. Which method you use is up to you.” 

“Ew, isn’t that a bit gross?” Fishlegs complained. 

Cami snorted. “Not grosser than other things we’ve done. Remember that one time we tried to make the most horrid concoctions to drink we could imagine? Now, that was gross!”

“Uh, don’t remind me.” He shuddered at the memory, and Astrid really couldn’t blame him.

Snot leaned over to her. “I’d still choose the kiss,” he whispered, winking at her.

It made her roll her eyes, made her want to shove it in his face that the only one of those present – no, the only one in general! – she wanted to kiss was Hiccup. Hiccup had been right, seeing Snot’s reaction would be hilarious. 

“Okay, on we go,” Ruff announced, spinning the bottle with a flourish. “Here’s hoping to see some ice cubes fly around the room now.”

Only halfway interested in flying ice cubes, Astrid reached for her cocktail standing on a low sideboard behind her. Her head was buzzing pleasantly, and she really rather wanted to keep it that way. She only started to pay attention to the game again when Snot next to her leaned forward.

“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s it, slow down, little bottle. I’m right here. Yeah, that’s right, and now stop. No, don’t go further, I’m here, no, wait…” 

Astrid stiffened, her eyes on the slowly spinning bottle now, too. Please, don’t pick Snot!, she thought desperately. He would pick her as a partner, that much was clear, and she really did not want that! He could be a great friend, but she wished he'd get rid of his fixation about them dating one day.

"Ahh, so close…" Snot whined as the bottle spun past him and got to a halt just a few moments later. 

He slumped back into his bean bag, and Astrid relaxed as well, sighing in relief. Danger averted, for now at least. Her good mood didn't last long, though; only until she noticed that everyone's eyes were lingering on her.

"Well?" Ruff asked, grinning. "Who and how is it going to be?"

Of course!

Astrid groaned inwardly. The bottle spinning past Snot meant that it had landed on her. Somehow, her alcohol-addled brain hadn't made that connection right away. 

Grimacing, she accepted the small cooling tank with the ice cube. And now? One of the persons next to her meant either Snot or Hiccup. Well, at least that was a choice easily made. She turned to her right.

"Eh, what? Oh, come on, babe. You can't be serious! Him? Really?"

But Astrid studiously ignoring Snot's complaints behind her as she turned to Hiccup as her partner. Snot had never mattered, now even less than ever before. But what was she supposed to do now?

It should be an easy question, she mused. She wasn't in the mood – or sensible state of balance – for silly acrobatics like catching a flying cube with her mouth. And she really wanted to kiss Hiccup! The question was just… would she be able to hold back and be content with an awkward dare-kiss between friends?

When her eyes found his, she found the same question written there, his cheeks endearingly flushed. The others would assume he was embarrassed, having known about his crush on her for ages when he'd only confessed it to her a couple of weeks ago. But that was good, wasn't it? When they wouldn't expect anything? 

She took one smaller ice cube from the tank, her mind whirling. All evening, it had felt weird not to acknowledge their relationship to the people that mattered most to them. But now? Now, it wasn't just about not telling them. It was about actively lying to fool them. And for what? To keep their feelings a secret? As if they were something embarrassing, something dirty or forbidden, something to be ashamed of?

That didn't feel right!

Slowly, her eyes wandered from the cube in her hand to Hiccup's again, and she didn't even need to say or do anything. Hiccup had come to the same conclusion as she had; she could see it in his eyes, clear as crystal.

Without ever looking away from him, she crawled to where Hiccup was sitting and straddled his lap, ignoring the sounds of surprise from their friends. His hands landed on her hips to steady her, the gesture natural and sure. Nothing like it had been in the beginning when he'd been shy and careful. It had been sweet then, but she preferred him like this; bolt, confident, not afraid of her reaction.

She held her gaze locked to his intense eyes, even as she lifted her hand and he obediently opened his mouth to let her place the ice cube on his tongue. However, all obedience was gone a second later and got replaced by mischief when he closed his mouth again and tilted his head in a clear 'come and get it!' motion.

Smirking, she took the challenge. She was dimly aware of the others gaping, but the moment her lips touched his, she couldn’t care less about them. In an instant, they were lost in their own little bubble, just she and Hiccup giving in to the demanding longing that had built itself up all night.

It started as a relatively chaste kiss, just her lips brushing over his. Astrid hummed at the contact, having missed it dearly over the past few hours. Her hands rose to cradle his jaw and his neck, just feeling the heat of his skin and the pleasant scratch of his stubbles, while his were still on her hips, reflexively pulling her closer. His warmth seeped into her even through their clothes, his chest against her own, his legs beneath her. It felt wonderful, and she wouldn’t have minded staying like this forever.

However, she did remember Hiccup’s challenge, the ice in his mouth. Her tongue poked out, gliding over his lips before pushing to demand access. With a rumbling moan from deep within his chest, Hiccup complied. The cold of the ice made her shiver, but not in a bad way. His hands glided up her back, one hauling her closer as the other wandered on to caress her side, her breast. The memory of their watching friends flickered up in Astrid's mind, but only for a heartbeat before it was gone again, pushed aside by her desire to be close to him.

Their kiss became deeper as she tried to somehow get a hold onto the ice. Hiccup was good at pushing it around, always out of reach, and it left their tongues whirling around inside his mouth. Without her help, her body followed, shifting in Hiccup's lap and grinding down, seeking, wanting more. 

She couldn't say for how long they made out like this. Endlessly. Not long enough. By the time Astrid pulled back, the ice cube she held victoriously between her teeth was barely more than a tiny shard, only moments away from melting completely. 

"Ha! I won!" she stated, grinning. 

Chuckling, Hiccup shook his head. "You know, Milady,  it was never about winning, right? Besides, I don't feel like I've lost, either." 

He leaned in for another kiss, just a quick peck on her lips but it was enough to make her hum pleasantly. 

"Mmmh, very true…"

"Okay, did I miss a memo? What just happened?" 

Tuff's disbelieving exclamation made the bubble abound them burst. Sheepishly, Astrid turned in Hiccup's lap to look at their friends. Their faces showed expressions of surprise and shock in varying degrees, a little smugness mixed into it in Cami's and Eret's case. 

"Uh, well… the thing is–" 

Hiccup began, and Astrid went on. 

"–We might have something else to tell you."

 . o O o .

Kudos, comments, and reactions always welcome! :)

And for those wondering: No, I haven't forgotten For The Love Of A Princess! The next chapter is written and in its final editing stage. :)

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[homogrimoire]

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

Fair Game Week 2020: Day 2 - Date / Domestic

Read it on AO3 here.

Against his better judgement, he told Ruby, who then got Yang, Weiss, and Blake involved, that he was going on a date with Clover. He ended up spending the latter half of a day with them at what seemed like a million different shops. It was torture, but had to admit it was nice to spend some time with them outside of a life or death situation. He could once again see that his nieces had more … unique tastes. Ruby kept recommending outfits that were pretty cool, but were also too much for a date. Yang had her father’s fashion sense, of course, but unlike her father, she could pull it off. This meant that her choices weren’t particularly good for a date either. Qrow considers it a miracle Tai ever got any dates. Weiss and Blake fared much better in helping Qrow. Blake recommended more sensible outfits that he found more agreeable. Weiss’ recommendations were a bit more eccentric than Blake’s, but were still appropriate for a date.  Sure, it was all a lot of fuss for what wasn’t even their first date, but Qrow did have fun, and the girls did get some new clothes too.

Qrow ended up getting a new pair of black slacks, a simple red and black leather vest, and a dark gray long sleeved shirt to wear under. While it wasn’t their first date, it was their first one to an actual restaurant and not the cafeteria or one of their rooms. Having the girls approve of the new outfit helped him feel more confident about what was probably their first real date. When Weiss asked what restaurant they were going to, he told her it was some place called “The City of Commerce”, which, according to Clover, was “nothing too fancy.” However, seeing her jaw drop when he told her made him concerned.

“Uhh, Weiss?” Ruby asked, trying to break her out of her stupor. She did shae herself out of it after a moment.

“Nothing fancy!? What does he do, eat with the gods everyday?! Forgive me,” she said, regaining her composure, “it’s just that it’s literally the most difficult restaurant to get into in Atlas. My father was on the waitlist for a year before he could make a reservation. My father. Head of the Schnee Dust Company. A year! We’ve only been here a few months!” Her expression shifted from crazed to that of someone who realized something. “Oh my gods were sending you dressed like that.”

“Come on Weiss, his outfit isn’t that bad.” said Yang. “Vests and slacks are fancy clothes, right?”

“No, Yang, you don’t get it. My coat was made from the fur of an extinct animal. My dress had cost more than what your dad will probably make in his lifetime, and that was just me. They almost didn’t let Winter in because they said her earrings didn’t match her outfit. They were purple diamonds from our mother that were cut to look like the Schnee logo and had a solid gold outline. They cost more than everything we have on us.” They all could only stare at Weiss in disbelief, and then at Qrow with concern. By that time, they were already back at the academy and all the shops were bound to be closed, and Qrow certainly didn’t have the time to get a fitted suit made. He considered asking James, but the man was built like a truck, so anything he had would be too big. He couldn’t call Clover because the man had a sleep schedule that he rigidly followed, and Qrow couldn’t bring himself to wake him up. Even worse, their reservation was in the morning, just as the place opened.

“I think it’ll be fine. If Clover had any concerns, he probably would have told you, right?” Blake said, breaking the dreadful silence, only to be met with more silence. “... Right?”

“I mean, she has a point. It’s Clover we’re talking about, the leader of the Ace Ops, General Ironwood’s right hand man, the man who will be hurt very badly if he breaks our uncle’s heart! He’s not gonna mess this up.” There were murmurs of agreement by the girls. Yang laid a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “You’ll be fine Uncle Qrow.”

“Yeah, I guess I will Firecracker.” He gave her a little smile, which she returned in full.

“That’s what I like to hear!”

“I’d like to hear the sound of my head hitting a pillow if you ask me.” They laughed at his little joke.

“Alright, alright, we’ll get going. Good night Uncle Qrow.” said Yang.

“Good night Uncle Qrow!” said the rest of them as they went their way. Hearing Weiss and Blake call him that still seemed so surreal. Even Nora, Ren, and Jaune had started calling him that a while back too. At first, he would tell them to knock it off, and that he could hardly qualify as their uncle. Despite this, they persisted and he eventually gave up on getting them to stop, even though he still felt that it made no sense for them to be calling him such. Only recently did he see why they did think of him as their Uncle Qrow, and that was thanks to Clover. Clover helped him see that he did do a lot of good for those kids, and that they cared for him. Not to mention that Ren and Nora were orphans most of their life, so Qrow was probably one of the few adults to really care for them. The only adult, as far as he knew, that really cared for Weiss was Winter, but she could only be with Weiss for so long because of her job. He had a good feeling that Blake was gonna be his future niece-in-law, so he would probably have to get used to it eventually. As for Jaune, he couldn’t really think of any reason he could call him Uncle Qrow, save for the fact that was common among all the kids: they all cared for Qrow, just as he cared for them. At least now, he could accept that he wasn’t so undeserving of such love.

As Qrow laid down in bed, hair still somewhat moist from a shower, he hoped that the morning would turn out alright. Despite his talk with the kids earlier, there was still a nagging feeling of dread. It was fortunate that he was slowly but surely learning to ignore that irrational voice. Qrow knew that he was loved, and was deserving of love. He knew that Clover wouldn’t get something like this wrong either. Soon, he fell asleep, hopeful that tomorrow would be alright.

-

Qrow awoke early in the morning to get ready. It had been some time since he had been on a real date, and even longer he had been on one sober. It was exciting, but still very terrifying to him. He just didn’t want to mess things up, which he had felt he was prone to do because of his semblance. While Qrow had been making progress in controlling his semblance, which he was training with Clover to do, his control was not yet where he would like it to be. But, any sort of control was better than none, so Qrow wasn’t going to complain. If anything, he felt a bit proud of that growth, and that was in part because Clover was genuinely proud of him too. Qrow remembers the first time he showed some control over his semblance, and Clover congratulated him with his bright smile and a pat on the back. It was at that moment that Qrow realized that he was in love with the man. Coincidentally, Clover confessed to him a few days after and they had been dating since.

Before leaving his room, Qrow looked at himself in the mirror. His clothes that needed to be ironed were freshly ironed, free of any wrinkles, and fit his body rather well. His hair was gelled and styled nicely. Ever since Clover expressed how much he liked his gray hairs, Qrow had felt more confident about it. He could understand where Clover was coming from, since he found Clover’s gray hairs to be pretty hot too. He had also applied some eyeliner that Blake recommended. He mentally noted that he should stock up on some of that brand. Over all, Qrow was very pleased with how he looked. If there was anything he was ever confident about, it was his looks and fashion sense, and felt that the outfit really made him look good, especially since it displayed all his best assets well. As a last minute addition, he tied a green handkerchief around his neck. He checked himself out in the mirror one last time and left his room feeling very good and satisfied, and made his way down to the front of the academy where Clover had texted him a taxi would be waiting.

Qrow was the first to arrive and waited just inside of the Academy for Clover. It was too cold to be waiting outside, especially in the morning. Qrow was too eager to be doing much else, so he stared at the elevator, waiting for his date to pop out, which happened soon after he sat down. With a ding, the elevator doors opened and revealed Clover. He was wearing light grey pants that were tucked into black boots, and a green sweater vest that was textured with an interweaving pattern. The sweater vest, which had his signature pin tacked on, was a surprise, but the real kicker was that Clover only wore a white collared tank top underneath, with the collar flipped up and open, rather than folded flat and closed. And of course, this left his arms showing, with his red handkerchief showing on one arm.

Qrow wasn’t sure what he expected Clover to wear, but it wasn’t an outfit like that. The pants and boots were normal enough, but the top was just questionable. Normally, he would have been heavily judging the outfit, but Clover somehow made it work. Qrow had almost felt ashamed for finding it hot. If Summer were here, she would have had to hold back a laugh because the outfit was ridiculous and Qrow was ridiculous for finding the simple outfit hot.

“Hey there hot stuff.” said Clover as he exited the elevator. All Qrow could do was stare at Clover, his mind dissonant because he couldn’t decide if he liked the outfit or not. But, the more he looked, the more he liked it, though that just could have been because Clover was wearing the outfit. Oh the things people do for love. “Based on your reaction, I guess I’m hot stuff too.” Clover gave Qrow a kiss on the cheek, which managed to bring Qrow back to reality.

“Sorry, I just realized that it's my first time seeing you in a normal outfit. It looks pretty good on you. Besides, its definitely a lot better than the outfit of some snobby Atlesian.”

“Ha! At least someone can appreciate my fashion sense.” Clover told him half jokingly, with his arm around Qrow’s as they walked to the taxi. “Seriously, you have no idea how often I get told I have a terrible sense of fashion.” As they got to the taxi, Clover opened the door for Qrow with an “After you.” and bow. Clover could see a light blush rising in his love’s face.

“You know just how to make a guy feel special, don't you?”

“Only for the best.” Of course, Clover winked. As he was getting in, he noticed that Qrow’s lap looked very enticing. He could see himself  sitting in Qrow’s lap, one leg over the other and his arms wrapped around Qrow who would be adorably flustered. But, decided that a car probably wasn’t the best place to do that.

“Clover? Can I talk to you, from one ten to another?” Qrow asked once they settled down.

“You’re an eleven, but yes, you can.” Qrow wondered how Clover could possibly be so smooth.

“Okay, we're both hot, and I’m at least conventionally fashionable, right?”

“Right.” Clover responded.

“So, I’m curious, why that outfit?”

“Hmm… If I’m being honest, its the most formal clothing I have, besides my uniform. A sweater vest is the most formal I can get while still not wearing sleeves. Ugh.”

“What do you have against sleeves, lucky charm?” Qrow made sure to put emphasis on his sleeves. Seeing Clover laugh at the display made him laugh as well.

“If you must know my dark history with sleeves, its that I find them too constricting.”

“Damn, I wonder why.” He noticed that Qrow was looking at his arms.

“Don't patronize them Qrow. They've got a sleeve count higher than your grimm count. Before the end of my first week in the academy, none of my shirts had sleeves.” Clover gave a jokingly wistful look, as if he mourned the sleeves. Qrow hates Atlas, and couldn’t have been paid to attend its academy, but if he were forced to, he imagines it would have at least been somewhat tolerable if he were with Clover.

“And here I thought my fashion mishap during my first week at Beacon was bad.” Qrow silently cursed the can of worms he had opened, and by the look on Clover’s face, his expression had shown his regret. For a moment, they were silent.

“... So, you gonna tell me what it was?” Clover asked. Qrow kept his head facing forward, cause he knew that if he turned to face Clover, he could not resist giving in. However, Clover was too strong, and Qrow gave in, looked at his cute face, and sighed.

“Alright, alright, you win. My sister tricked me into thinking that skirts were a part of the uniform for everyone, so I was stuck with only skirts to wear for my first week.” Qrow expects to hear a laugh, but doesn’t.

“That must have been quite the sight. Makes me wish I went to Beacon instead.” And of course, Qrow noticed Clover eyeing his legs, though Qrow certainly didn't mind. Before they could continue their conversation, the vehicle came to a stop and their driver alerted them that they reached their destination. Qrow quickly got out as Clover got out his wallet to give the driver a tip. He appeared on the other side of the car and opened the door for Clover.

“You know just how to make a guy feel special, don't you?”

“Only for the best.” said Qrow with a wink of his own. It warmed his heart to make Clover blush and laugh a little. Arm in arm, they walked towards the entrance of the restaurant. Once inside, Qrow remembered all the stuff Weiss had told him, and he was filled with dread. Clover immediately picked up on this and asked what was wrong.

“Weiss told me about this place, and it sounded harsh.” Qrow could feel himself beginning to sweat.

“Oh, about the dress code and wait list and all that? Yeah, I don't have to worry about that. I saved the owner’s children from a grimm some time ago. They let me make a reservation the day before and bypass the dress code. I also get fifty percent off the food. Lucky me huh? Oh, and don’t worry about being in all … that.” he said, motioning to all the snobbish Atlesians. “I got us a private booth.”

“Ooo, lucky us.” They both laughed.

“Reservation for Ebi, Clover.” he told the receptionist.

“Ah, yes. You again.” His words held the slightest bit of disgust. “Please take a seat, we will call you shortly.” Clover, ignoring the receptionist's distaste, noticed that there was only one seat available, and immediately hatched a clever play.

“You can take the chair Qrow.”

“What about you?” Qrow asked, unaware of the other man’s plan.

“I’ll be fine. If I’m lucky, a seat will open up soon for me.” Qrow only gave a chuckle as he took the seat. A moment after he sat, Clover said “Found one.” and proceeded to sit right in Qrow’s lap. Just as planned, Qrow short-circuited into a blushing mess. He was quick to recover his mind, but there was nothing he could do about the blush. “Oh! I’m sorry. Is this seat taken?” He asked as he patted one of Qrow’s thighs as if it were an empty seat.

“I was saving it for my boyfriend, but I guess you’ll do.” Qrow replied, trying to hide his embarrassment but unable to.

“You have a boyfriend? He must be a very lucky guy to have a man like you.”

“You could say that.”

“Your table is ready, sirs.” the receptionist made no effort to hide how done he was. They both got up.

“Looks like my date isn’t here yet. Wanna join me instead baby?” And in an act of revenge, he winked. Now it was Clover’s turn to try to hide a blush. Qrow was out for blood, and his weapon was pet names. Regardless, Clover tried to still act cool as they followed their waiter to their table.

“How could I say no no a face like that. I feel bad for the unlucky guy that didn’t show up.” He managed to get Qrow to laugh again. He wouldn’t trade the little moments like those for the world. As they walked and talked, they noticed people turning their heads to stare at the two men who stood out so much.  Soon, they were at the back of the dimly lit restaurant where there was a booth that had a thick purple silk curtain for privacy. Inside was a decently sized round table with a lit candle in the center that gave off an almost divine scent. The curved seating allowed them to sit next to each other. The waiter left them with their menus and gave them a device to notify the waiter when they were ready.

“So, Clover, you’ve been here before. What’s good?”

“Literally everything Qrow. This place is six out of five stars. They even serve just about anything, as long its classy or exotic. That’s why this place is called The City of Commerce. They have all kinds of foods from all over Remnant, though the embargo has made things a bit tougher to get, this place manages somehow. I think they stockpile stuff, or grow it all themselves somewhere around here.”

“Or maybe they smuggle it.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“What do you usually get?”

“Fish, though I try to try a different kind each time.”

“Hmm, I think I’ll try the … I can't even pronounce this, but It looks good.”

“Oh gods I’m not even going to try either. It does look good though.” They both continued to search and read through their menu, showing each other some mouth-watering food that looked like it was made by the gods. Eventually, Qrow reached the desserts, and was left in awe of a certain dish.

“By the brothers...”

“What is it?” Clover questioned, intrigued by what could prompt such a response.

“Is it bad if I have dessert for breakfast?” Qrow asked, still staring at the menu in awe.

“I’m not gonna judge you. I would come alone to the most expensive restaurant in the world just to have some fish. Besides, it’s our day off. We should have some fun.” Qrow still hadn’t looked up from the menu. “You know what?” Clover shut his menu. “I’ll have what you're having.” Clover activated the device and gave the waiter, who appeared almost instantly, their order “What is it anyways?” Qrow flipped his menu, which the waiter let them keep in case they wanted anything more, over to show him. It looked kind of like a fancy layered dark chocolate cake and nothing more.  

“It’s made from a rare plant that’s only in season for a few months every few years. It’s not like anything you’ve ever tasted before. I think you’ll like it.”

“Color me intrigued. It certainly looks good.” Cloer hoped that he would like it. It was rare to see Qrow so excited over something, so he didn’t want to disappoint him

“Oh, you're gonna love it. If there’s anything good that came out of that tribe, it’s that dessert.”

“And you.” Clover reminded him. If someone had told Clover that he was going to fall in love with the greatest huntsman alive and go on an actual date with him, he would tell that person that he wasn’t that lucky. Yet, here he was, and Clover couldn’t be more grateful to be loved by the great Qrow Branwen.

“Alright, and me.” Qrow had to admit that Clover’s constant insisting that he was a great man was working on him. He did feel really good. After chatting, laughing, sipping on their drinks, and eating the complementary biscuits, their order finally arrived.

“It looks even better in person.”

“It’ll taste even better than it looks. Take a bite! I wanna see your face when you try it!” Qrow was visibly excited to share one of the few good parts of his past with Clover.

“Don’t worry, I am.” Clover got his fork and took a piece of the moist slice. Immediately, his eyes widened. He swallowed the piece and told Qrow “Oh my gods this is so good.” He immediately took another bite, savoring the flavor and texture this time. He looked at Qrow as he took his first bite of the slice of cake. “Is it as good as you remember?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, definitely. Maybe even better.”

“Lucky you, huh?” Qrow replied with a small laugh. They continued to enjoy being in each other’s presence as they ate. However, Clover noticed a wistful look on Qrow’s face. “What’s wrong Qrow?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. This old bird is just being sentimental.” Qrow said as he looked down at the cake slice.

“Want to talk about it?” Clover asked as he took another bite.

“I was just thinking about when I was in the tribe. Looking back, it was pretty bad, but it wasn’t all bad, you know. I guess I just miss the small things like this, back when me and Raven were younger and close. But, that’s all in the past. I’ve got better things now, like the kids, you, … this cake.”

“Aww, Qrow.” Clover knew that he shouldn't be surprised that Qrow thought so well of him, all things considered, but he was still caught off guard. Sure, he had received tons of compliments before, but they were superficial more often than not. However, this complement was very genuine, and from the man he could say with confidence that he loved.

“Don’t be going soft on me now Lucky Charm.”

“I think I can afford to be a little soft when I’m on a date with my boyfriend.”

“Hmph, if you say so.” Qrow replied, his own expression also soft.

“But, speaking of cake, how about we see if we can get a full cake to take back with us. We can share it with the kids, and make some new memories.”

“That … sounds nice. I’d like that.” Qrow noticed that Clover was lovingly gazing at him, obviously enamored. Qrow knew that he wasn’t a lucky man, but if the universe had ever given him any compensation for his bad luck, he knew that it was Clover. “Hey, Clover?”

“Yes?” he responded. His head on one of his hands as he still stared lovingly at his boyfriend.

“I just want to say thanks. For all these past months. You’ve helped me out a lot, and stuff. So, uh, thanks. Again.” Before Clover could respond, Qrow moved in for a kiss on the lips. It was not a short kiss, nor a long one, but it was still intimate nonetheless. “Love you.” Qrow could see that Clover was somewhat surprised. “I’m not the best with words, so-” He was cut off by Clover gently pulling him in closer for a slower, longer, and passionate kiss.

“I love you too Qrow.”

[randomoranges]

Anniversaire [40]

i remembered i forgot to do this one that i’ve had in mind since - eum, a year ago? anyways good thing i never write anything in order lol

end may/early june 2020

 It’s a few days before Étienne’s heading home and they’re making the most of the last of their time together. Therefore, Edward is sitting outside on the back porch with Étienne. The back porch seems to have become Étienne’s go to place when he’s not sprawled on the living room couch and Edward feels as though he’s never spent so much time in his life simply sitting out in his backyard. It’s not terrible, just different.

 “I don’t know if you remember,” Étienne starts and spares him a glance, “But this year – well, this summer marks a – milestone of sorts for us. Sort of.” He shrugs, looks away and Edward notices the colour that marks his cheeks. It’s not from the sun and Edward needs a moment for his brain to kick back into gear.

 He’d never ever ever expected ever Étienne to ever even remember ever.

 Ever.

 He blinks and looks at him with surprise, completely astounded. Part of him wants to pull him in close and kiss him silly; another more sensible and logical part of him says that maybe he should check to make sure they’re both talking about the same thing.

 “It’s – well, it’s forty years since we –”

 Edward cuts him off, afraid of what Étienne is about to say – of how he’ll react to whatever extremely ridiculous thing his boyfriend is about to say.

 “Became special friends?” Edward offers instead and holds himself from wiggling his eyebrows in any suggestive way whatsoever. It’s best to make light of it and joke. He’s not sure he can handle Étienne say something meaningful and deep.

 Étienne shoves at his shoulder and laughs. “Yeah – special friends, fuck buddies, since we – well, I guess started spending more time together and seeing each other more.” He shrugs again, shy smile splayed on his face. Edward thinks it’s a beautiful smile. Likes the softness of it. Loves to press his lips to it. He indulges and leans over to kiss his boyfriend and Étienne sighs into it, forgetting for a moment the conversation they’d been having. When they pull away, Étienne reaches for his pack of smokes as a diversion. He offers him one mostly out of habit, and also because he knows Edward still goes for a smoke every so often despite what he claims to others. Edward’s dropped the pretenses with Étienne, tired of the patronising looks he was getting. He does however decline the cigarette, but steals the second drag from it instead.

 “I had remembered,” Edward finally offers softly. Étienne busies himself with the cigarette and hands the rest of it to Edward before he lights another one for himself. They smoke quietly, lost in their own thoughts of what had been forty years ago. A lot had changed – they had, in many ways – hopefully for the better. Some of it has remained the same.

 “I mean – we didn’t see each other for nearly half of it – but – yeah, forty years...” Étienne trails off, still trying to find ways to make this seem less important than how he truly feels about it, as if ashamed – or maybe even afraid that he feels more about it than Edward does.

 “My feelings for you never changed – I never stopped loving you.” Edward counters and only nearly stumbles the last few words of his sentence. He blames it on the cigarette in his hands and nothing else.

 “I – yeah, me neither.” Étienne finally adds. Edward nods and they leave it at that for a moment, quietly smoking and observing the slowly growing plants and the leaves that are starting to come in with their full greens.

 “In that case then, it is an – anniversary of sorts.” Edward stubs out his cigarette and plays with what’s left of it, rolling it between his fingers, lost in memories of younger versions of themselves, still both as stupid around the edges and stumbling their way through their relationship. If he knew then what he knows now... He sighs – no sense if crying over spilt milk and such.

 “You know, I had a – plan. For this. I – if you came over – I had a plan.”

 Edward is surprised and he’s starting to tell himself that he shouldn’t. Étienne, for all that he says he doesn’t do romance, seems to be really good at it, in his own way. In his gestures and attentions – in the quiet spaces that exist between all the things he says and doesn’t. It’s a good thing Edward has been in his orbit for so long, for he’s gotten exceptionally good at deciphering Étienne. (It also helps that they’ve spoken about this to some depths and that other things have been admitted to.) Still, something warm and pleasant makes itself comfortable inside of Edward at the thought of Étienne planning something special.

 “Did you now?”

 Étienne nods and flicks his lighter, “I was going to take you to some nice terasse and then go down to the Old Port and catch the fireworks. Highlight the occasion and such. Treat you to a nice dinner.” He sighs to himself and scrubs a hand over his face and then through his hair – it’s getting a little long; Edward silently loves the way it looks. Loves the way the curls are a little looser yet still just as pretty.”Guess that’s all shot now.” The sobering comment brings Edward back to the present moment and he reaches out for one of Étienne’s hands. He laces their fingers together and thrills when Étienne sits closer to lean his head on Edward’s shoulder. At least, even with everything – from the heavy misunderstandings and breaks, they get to have this again.

 “Y’now, for a guy who claims to be allergic to romance...” Edward teases and nudges at Étienne’s shoulder playfully.

 He does it to get a rise out of his boyfriend and it works. Étienne’s cheeks are even redder now and he shoves back at Edward, “Shut up...”

 Edward manhandles him and pulls him closer until he can kiss the top of Étienne’s curls and hold him to his chest. Étienne wiggles about in his arms until he can lay proper claim to Edward’s lips and kiss him. Edward goes pliant and soft and cups Étienne’s face with his hands. He’s warm and ever so lovely and Edward knows he can get lost in these moments – could never get enough of them even if they were to make up for all the lost time and missed opportunities.

 “Don’t worry; you’re secret is safe with me. No one will ever know you have a heart.” He murmurs against kiss-swollen lips, moments and days and weeks and months later.

 He means it as a joke, but of course, Étienne has to go ahead and deliver the killing blow. “S’yours anyways. Always has been.”

 This time, Edward’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of red. Luckily, Étienne doesn’t comment and instead settles in his embrace for a moment. It’s nice and quiet and for a while they simply sit together. Edward has always liked this part of their friendship and relationship – the quiet moments when they never needed to do or say anything, content sharing the same space. There’s more of that now and Edward has to admit that he likes it a lot.

 “We could still highlight the occasion,” He says after a while. Étienne gives him a curious look and Edward pecks his nose before disentangling himself from him. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

 Étienne watches his retreating figure and Edward heads back inside. He returns moments later, as promised, with a small bottle of champagne and two flutes. “It’s not whatever fancy terasse you wanted to take me to, but I think the company is just fine regardless.” He pops the cork and pours out two glasses before handing one to Étienne.

 Étienne cant’ really believe this is happening, but he’s endeared and touched by this sudden spontaneous little celebration. It’s not much – not what he wanted to do, but Edward does have a point – at least they get to highlight the occasion together. “To us,” He offers as a toast, bringing his glass to cling with Edward’s.

 “Here’s to forty more?”

 Étienne chuckles softly, “May they be without interruption this time.” He adds. He can do forty more years – hell, he can do a lifetime more, but forty seems like a good benchmark to aim for. Forty more years of teasing and loving Edward. It sounds like the simplest task he’s ever been handed. He looks at his boyfriend and smiles softly and openly and it only grows bigger when Edward smiles back at him.

 “I’ll drink to that.”

 FIN

[basicallyimqueer]

party poison

summary: Dan wants to get properly drunk on New Years to celebrate the end of a decade, things don't go exactly to plan because he's kinda dumb

words: 2532

Read On AO3!

It’s been a long time since Dan has been properly drunk. 

Eyes glazed, speech-slurred drunk. Falling over furniture drunk, hanging onto Phil like a lifeline. It reminds him of a younger self, one huddled in the woods with a group of teenagers that he wanted so badly to impress; downing liquids that burned his throat and caused full-body shivers to shake his spine.

That type of drinking is such a juvenile thing now, in his mind, though at the time it seemed so grown-up. The summers that he spent playing spin-the-bottle with his emo friends were a nice break from the taunts and bullying that accompanied him like leeches within the school halls. Those words couldn’t touch him, though, when he sat by a bonfire and his numb tongue got to taste the vodka on each of his friend’s lips. 

There was no judgement in that group, not even when his mouth lingered on the other boys’ for longer than the girls. The lack of judgement may have been due to everyone being absolutely pissed, but it still counted. 

Then there were the university months, before his inevitable dropping out. Being in the law program and not being equipped with better coping mechanisms for it, he let himself go to way too many house parties with people he barely knew. The difference with those gatherings was that he had Phil, who was a voice of reason even if only via text. The most trouble he ever got into then was the occasional party being shut down by the hall staff or having to pay way too much for a cab to get back to his room. He doesn’t have much to regret from those times, besides being grossly hungover on exam mornings. 

Looking back from the present day, he thinks he hasn’t been fully drunk since their TATINOF party. It was the last occasion where he really let himself loose, sending out a nonsensical tweet with shaky fingers and even pulling Phil out onto the dance floor without checking for vlog cameras. The consequences of that night, as small as they were, put him off it for a while. That, paired with their stupidly busy schedule in the following years, made for quite the sober Dan. Phil hasn’t been drunk since then either, but Dan thinks that might have something to do with him being a nice, sensible man in his thirties. He usually respects and even envies the soft kind of reservation Phil holds about these things, but tonight it’s not going to do. 

It’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s going to be entering a whole fucking new decade with the man he loves. If that isn’t cause for celebration, Dan doesn’t know what is. It isn’t totally his fault that he got an early start on the night and now he’s seeing double at only 10 p.m. – the bottle of red wine he had been nursing while watching Youtube had emptied out with no warning. When the last few drops hit his tongue he was mildly confused, and when he stood up to put it away, his feet seemed to belong to another body. 

Phil wasn’t ready to start drinking until later, when tipsy, wine-fueled Dan thought it was a good idea to sneak a shot of their salted caramel flavored vodka. Even with the added sweetness it still made him let out a strangled cough as the nail polish remover aftertaste hit the back of his throat. That’s how Phil found him, standing in the kitchen with his face screwed up in disgust. 

“Getting started already?” Phil asks, grinning as if he’s in on some secret.

Dan tries not to let it show on his face that he just tossed an empty, kind of expensive wine bottle in the trash – however, he’s unsure what his face is showing. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. 

“Guess so. Join me?” 

His hands shake a bit as he pours another shot and hands it over, and Phil only looks marginally suspicious as he accepts. He doesn’t take it immediately but leans against the counter and holds the glass delicately between his fingers. 

“You look traumatized, is it that bad?” 

“Yeah, you suck at picking flavors. And alcohol in general.” 

Dan leans forward to poke him in the chest, miscalculating a bit and getting him sharply in the collarbone. He blinks slowly as he rocks back onto his heels, an apologetic look on his face. 

“Ow. I’ll be the judge of that. Your taste buds aren’t right.” 

“Okay, cheese-boy,” Dan snorts. 

He watches as Phil tilts his head back, barely hesitating as he takes the shot. The long expanse of his throat is weirdly appealing, Adam’s apple moving ever so slightly as he swallows it down. Even when he finishes it and his face scrunches up in the same way Dan’s had, he’s still weirdly pretty. His face is clean-shaven from his recent Christmas painting video and his blue eyes are bright, the way they always are after a nice trip to the Isle to see his family. Dan wants to kiss him very badly. 

“Don’t gloat about it, but you’re so correct. My love for sugar has failed me this time.” 

They end up pulling out a couple of Coke bottles to chase away the taste, and Dan makes it to his second shot of the night before he’s caught out. Half of it splashes down onto his Star Wars pajamas and when he disregards that to drink the other half, the glass rim hits his teeth in a way that makes his shoulders hunch up in a harsh cringe. The next thing he registers is a wad of paper towels being dragged across his leg and Phil’s other hand dragging through the hair on the back of his head. 

“Don’t gotta clean me,” he mumbles, letting his head fall onto Phil’s shoulder – he feels like he’s in the middle of the ocean, being rocked by insistent waves. 

“How much have you had?” 

“I’m okay, really. Doing good good great.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Phil laughs. 

Secretly, Dan thinks it’s his fault for not knowing – if he hadn’t spent all day in the office working on that comic thing, they could have shared that wine bottle and it would have been a romantic start to the New Years festivities. Instead, Phil is entirely too sober, and the floor is swaying even though they are grounded firmly on their barstools. 

“Worry about you, you need to catch up. I’ll wait.” 

“I have all night to catch up, it’s hardly half ten. Let’s go to the lounge, yeah?” 

“Or the bedroom,” Dan winks, but Phil only stands up and hoists him up from under his armpits. 

His legs are jelly, but eventually he maneuvers them to the sofa and collapses onto it. Phil disappears again into the kitchen, and he’s comforted by the sounds of him puttering around in there. 

“Take another shot at least! One shot is basically nothing!” He yells, probably a touch too loud. 

There’s the sound of clinking glass and he knows that Phil listened, which is nice. That reassurance doesn’t last forever because then there’s nothing – no Phil returning and little to no noise happening all throughout the flat. Dan sinks down into the sofa cushion and pulls a pillow to his chest; the decision to wait out the nothingness fails him as his eyelids start to weigh themselves down. Sleep has almost taken him by the time his shoulders are being shaken, jostling him back into reality. 

“Drink,” Phil says from somewhere above him. 

Dan reaches out, half-expecting his grabby hands to be met with the small glass from before, but it turns out to be a cold, larger one. He opens his eyes to see the water splashing around inside. 

“Not thirsty.” 

“You have to have water, Dan. I found the wine bottle in the trash. You’re sneaky, and you’re way drunker than I thought. Now take a sip.” 

Phil’s voice isn’t harsh, but there’s no wiggle room to argue with him. If he wasn’t incapable of feeling anything other than weird and sloshy, Dan would probably find it kind of hot. He opens his mouth when Phil guides the glass to his lips and drinks it down, not caring when some of it misses and dribbles down the side of his neck and onto the sofa. They can deal with that later. After what feels like a lifetime, Phil takes the cup away and sits next to him on the sofa. Dan immediately rests most of his weight on him, running his hands over Phil’s chest in little circles. “

I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to have all the wine, wanted to share. You were busy, though.” 

“I told you I’d stop working before eleven. I just have a lot of deadlines looming in the distance.” 

“Please don’t be mad at me.” 

Phil laughs a bit at that, grabbing at Dan’s chin so he can kiss him from a better angle. The stupid salted caramel nightmare flavor is vividly present, lingering on his lips after Phil pulls away. 

“I’m not mad. I just need you to sober up a tiny bit before midnight.” 

“I’m plenty sober, bub.” 

“You sure are.” 

“Why should I be sober by midnight anyways? Don’t need to think to kiss your dumb face.” 

Phil huffs in amusement, then reaches for the bottle on the coffee table and pours another shot. It’s only half full, but Dan can’t tease him for it when he’s stuck trying to figure out when it was brought in here from the kitchen in the first place. Maybe he would like to be a little more aware of his surroundings for the start of a new decade. 

“You’ll feel better in the morning, for one. Secondly, drunk kissing is only good if both of us are unaware of how bad it is. We need to be on the same level so that I don’t have to deal with your sloppy mouth, mister.” 

“Whatever, drunk-Dan is sexy. Now excuse me so I can go piss for three minutes straight. I had a whole bottle of wine.” 

“Very sexy,” Phil quips. 

Despite his obvious slight annoyance, he hops off the sofa and helps Dan stand up by holding onto his arms and stopping the gentle sway that came from being vertical. They hobble off to the bathroom and bicker the whole way – midnight feels lightyears from now.

Midnight comes sooner than either of them could have kept up with. In a non-shocking turn of events, Dan had peer-pressured Phil into getting past buzzed and into flat-out drunk territory. It was a victory for no one, though, because that meant Phil spent about half an hour lying on the lounge floor with his eyes closed, trying desperately not to be sick. Dan couldn’t help him much, in his state, so he just played one of his Spotify playlists on the speakers and hoped that the chill vibes would drown out the whining. 

Phil tried to distract himself from the nausea with a game of I Spy, but from his place on the floor he could only see the white ceiling. Dan guessed it correctly every time, each round sounding more dead inside. 

Some more time passed with reluctant snacking on microwave popcorn and leftover Domino’s straight from the refrigerator that kind of helped them sober up some. Dan was sitting at the dining table with his head resting against the cold surface when he heard a sharp gasp from the lounge. 

“Whaaat?”

“It’s 11:58, Dan!” 

“Ugh,” is all Dan could muster, turning his head to the side so that his cheek would get some of the coolness instead. 

He squints his eyes, watching Phil climb off the floor and stumble way faster than he should be moving into the dining room. His cheeks are flushed, and his stupidly pretty eyes are suddenly all wide and excited. It’s hard not to let that excitement hit him as well, but his head is just so fucking heavy right now and Dan never wants to move. He decides to gather up as much strength as humanly possible though, because Phil is now bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently, lower lip jutting out. 

“11:59! Come on, we gotta do the thing!” 

“Alright, fuck, I’m up,” Dan grunts, holding onto the back of his chair once he’s at eye level with Phil. 

They huddle closer together and suddenly Dan is hit with just how much this moment means to him. His heart is working overtime, hammering away in his chest with what feels like a weird mixture of nerves and genuine happiness. He smiles at Phil in a way that hurts his cheeks, watching him intensely as Phil stares down the phone screen to check the time. 

“We’re supposed to kiss while it’s changing, not after the moment has passed, you weirdo,” he laughs, bringing his hands up to circle around Phil’s shoulders. 

Phil shoves the phone into his pocket and lets out a nervous giggle. 

“Sorry. I love you,” he says, and then he’s finally kissing Dan in the way he’s been thinking about all day. 

It’s uncoordinated and messy, but it feels so right with cheesy smiles pressed together and roaming hands sliding beneath shirts. If Dan had more brainpower to think about everything they’ve been through and experienced in 2019, he’d probably be having a little bit of a cry right about now. He’d probably do something sappy like kiss Phil through his tears and get choked up while telling him about he proud he is of them. As it is, though, he just squeezes Phil a little bit and buries his head in his shoulder. 

Phil’s arms come down to wrap around his waist and they stay like that for a moment, swaying back and forth. The music is still playing from the lounge and even though it’s some obscure indie artist that Dan doesn’t even like that much, it feels fitting and floaty and far away.

He lifts his head and kisses Phil on the cheek. 

“I love you so much. We’re going to have so many decades together if humanity gets its shit together and stops global warming.” 

Phil laughs and reluctantly pulls his hands away from Dan’s hips. 

“Even if they don’t, we can go to the moon. I’ll be right back.” 

Dan hadn’t missed the way his face had gone a bit pale since the end of the kiss, or the miniscule twinge of fear in his boyfriend’s face that grows more impending by the second. 

“You need to be sick?” 

“Very much.” 

“Right, run to the bathroom. Go!” 

Dan shrieks a laugh when Phil doesn’t budge fast enough and pulls him by the arm to rush to the toilet. They almost trip a thousand times on the short run, but they make it on time. It may not be the ideal, romantic New Years Eve that Dan had envisioned, but they have plenty of years to work on their planning skills. This one is just fine for now.

[isitgintimeyet]

Letting Go

AO3

Previous

So, the halfway point... any sign of a thaw?

A tiny smattering of NSFW... only a hint

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta and to @faeriesfanficblog for the advice on Stirling Castle

Thanks to @happytoobservenolongerdistant

Chapter 8: Day Tripper

She was a day tripper One way ticket, yeah It took me so long to find out And I found out Lennon/ McCartney

Claire and the other occupants of the flats fell into a routine fairly easily. Sunday mornings became their time for going out for brunch to the nearby coffee shop. Sometimes, due to work or previous assignations, one of them wouldn’t make it. Sometimes, if he was in Glasgow for the weekend, Jamie would join them.

She had grown used to Jamie being around, becoming practiced in making polite conversation, even managing to ignore his smiles as Anna looked up at him, or lightly touched his arm.

Claire, Anna, Mary and John had sauntered to the coffee shop and were now seated at their favourite table, in the window, the best position for people watching. There was a feeling of spring in the air, the palpable restlessness that seems to come with the longer, brighter days and milder temperatures.

“You know what we should do?” Anna clapped her hands together excitedly, thrilled at her own idea.

“What?”

In the short time she had lived in the flat, Claire had got used to Anna’s ‘exciting’ ideas. These ranged from ordering several rounds of sambuca shots (easily achievable and considered a good idea at the time, not so good the next morning) to bungee jumping (agreed, following the sambuca shots, as a good idea but seriously reconsidered once sober).

“Let’s have a day trip somewhere… all of us. Next Sunday, instead of just coming here. We could have a picnic, or a pub lunch.”

“Nice idea,” John immediately agreed. “Yes. Let’s do it. Where should we go?”

Mary thought for a minute. “We’ve never been to Stirling Castle or the Wallace Monument. How about one of those?”

John laughed. “You two have been up here for how long? Seven years now, and you’ve never been there. They’re an hour’s drive away. Claire, please tell me you’ve been.”

*******

Nine years ago

“How many more steps?”

“No’ too many. It’ll be worth it at the top. Wait till ye see the views. Ye ken all about William Wallace, do ye?”

“I may be a Sassenach to you, but I’ve lived in Scotland since I was a child. Of course I know about him.”

“And yet ye’ve never been here before.Yer uncle an historian, too!”

“Well, to Lamb, if it happened less than a thousand years ago, it’s not really history, more like current affairs.”

“See, Sassenach… look at the views, pretty amazing, aren’t they?”

“Breathtaking.”

“And, over there, that’s where the Scots thrashed the English. Jes’ think, yer ancestors and mine coulda been there, on opposite sides, fightin’ against each other.”

“I don’t want to think about that… being on opposite sides.”

“Nae, me neither, Sassenach… together forever, that’ll be us.”

*******

“Claire, are you with us?” John playfully prodded Claire’s shoulder. “You were lost in a little world of your own for a minute.”

“Sorry, John. Yes, I’ve been to both. Wouldn’t mind another visit to Stirling Castle, though not the Wallace monument.”

Anna made the final decision. “Right, that’s it. I say we head out to Stirling Castle next Sunday. Claire, do you want to ask Joe?”

“I would, but I know he’s on call next weekend.”

“Or, how about Frank?” John asked coyly.

Claire felt herself blush a little. “No, we’re not really at that stage.”

“And what stage would that be, Miss Beauchamp?” John rested his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands and stared exaggeratedly at Claire. “Hmm? Do tell.”

“Look, we’ve been out for coffee or a meal a few times. That’s it. We’re not at the ‘meeting each other's friends’ stage. And definitely not with you lot, it’d be like the Spanish Inquisition. No way.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” John joked as Claire deliberately turned away from him. “Well, I’ll ask Jamie. If he can’t come we’ll all fit in my car, otherwise he’ll have to drive as well.”

“Ooh, I love it when a plan comes together. Right, next Sunday… no working… no hangovers… no excuses.” Anna clapped her hands once more, sealing the deal.

********

The feeling of springtime continued through the week. This was, Claire decided, in some ways just like her budding romance with Frank -- the promise of a new start, a new life. And if, in this new life, there were certain things missing… the butterflies in her stomach as he approached, the breathless anticipation as his lips drew near, the almost unbearable desire to possess and be possessed… well, everything in life was a compromise. She knew that.

At 10 am sharp on Sunday morning, everyone gathered in the foyer, ready for their excursion.

“Jamie’s just parking up now.” John explained. “He’s got a new car and he’s desperate to show it off, I think.”

Right on cue, Jamie appeared at the front door.

“I’ve bought a new car,” he announced as they stepped out onto the pavement.

Jamie led the way around the corner to a midnight blue Audi sports car. “Picked it up three days ago.”

He stood proudly beside it and rubbed an imaginary speck of dirt off the driver’s door with the cuff of his sweatshirt. “But it means I can only take one passeng-- ”

“I’ll go with you.” Anna interrupted and darted around to the passenger door.

John laughed as he unlocked his Mini. “So that decision’s been made then.”

Claire clambered into the back seat of the Mini, before Mary and John climbed into the front.

“Looks like we got us a convoy,” John joked in a very fake American accent. “Or maybe not,” he added as Jamie and Anna sped away.

Jamie and Anna were already out of the car and waiting by the time the Mini pulled in to the car park near the castle. Claire eased herself from the back seat, and leaning against the car, did a few leg stretches while Anna, Mary and John tried to plan the itinerary.

Jamie wandered over to where Claire stood.

“No’ much room fer yer legs in the back of this wee car.” He spoke quietly, the comment clearly directed at Claire.

She looked up at him, trying not to show her amazement. This was the first time he had started a conversation with her since they had met again all those weeks ago.

“No, I know. They look good, but not designed for leg room in the back.”

“Aye, I ken. I havena been able tae get in the back of a car like this since I was twelve.” He smiled then a faint blush spread across his cheeks. “Tae sit fer journeys, anyway.”

*********

Nine years ago

“So, why have we driven out here, James Fraser? Is there something you want to show me?”

“Weel, I was goin’ to spread a blanket over there on that patch of grass and lie ye down and slowly unbutton yer shirt and take down yer jeans. Then I was planning to look at ye, jes’ in yer bra and knickers, run ma hands down yer body and listen for yer wee moans. I was goin’ to take off ma clothes too and lie next tae ye before pulling off those silly wee knickers, which might have got ripped in the process, and then guiding ma cock intae ye, hard and fast… but the rain means we canna do that now... Sassenach, are ye alright? Ye’ve gone all red and I can see ye sweating…”

“James Fraser, you arse. Take off your trousers now and get in the back. I don’t care how cramped it is… it’ll be worth it.”

“God, Sassenach… to have those thighs around me… and those breasts in ma face… it’s always worth it… I love ye Claire.”

“I love you too.”

*********

“No, these aren’t the most practical cars for transporting more than two people.” Claire agreed. “But then neither is a sports car. Yours looks really nice, by the way. Not that I know anything about cars.”

“No,” Jamie said softly. “Ye never did.”

Anna came rushing over, closely followed by Mary and John.

“So,” Mary began. “We’ve planned our day. We’re going to the Great Hall, then the Chapel, then the Palace and the Prince’s Tower. Sounds good?”

Together they started to walk up the esplanade towards the castle entrance, John and Jamie leading the way, followed by Claire and Mary, with Anna bringing up the rear.

“Don’t forget the café. We have to do the café, and the gift shop,” Anna called out.

“Aye. I guess we’re all in desperate need of some leather bookmarks and a Mary, Queen of Scots trinket box,” Jamie said dryly, under his breath to John.

They paused at the entrance to the castle, waiting for Anna who had fallen some way behind. Eventually, she caught up with them.

“It’s the cobbles. My heels keep getting stuck,” she complained. “And the slope. It’s playing havoc with my footwear.”

Everyone looked down at the cute little kitten-heeled ankle boots she was wearing.

“Really?” John sighed. “Is that really appropriate footwear for clambering about an ancient castle? Look at Claire. She’s wearing trainers -- now that’s sensible.”

Everyone switched their focus to Claire’s feet. She shuffled uncomfortably.

“But I have to wear these boots, they’re faux snake skin. It’s part of my ensemble.” Anna pouted and looked coyly at Jamie. “I’ll just need somebody to hold on to.”

“Aye, I dare say we can help ye out.” Jamie smiled. “Now, we dinna need tae bother with a guide, or those headsets. I did a project on this castle at school. Anything ye need tae know, I’m yer man.”

The group having paid, Anna now led the way through the entrance, heading straight for the café. “I’m desperate for some caffeine. Shall we do that first?”

All in agreement, they made their way towards the café. Jamie hung back to walk with Claire. Surprised, she cast around her mind for a suitable topic for polite conversation, one that wouldn’t lead back to memories of years before.

Jamie saved her the trouble. “So, are ye gettin’ something tae eat too?”

“Perhaps. I’ll see what they have. Maybe if they have a chocolate…”

“... Brownie.” He finished her sentence for her.

“Er, yes, my favourite.”

“Aye, I ken.”

He strode off ahead. Claire stared after him, automatically admiring the fit of the black jeans he was wearing. Much better than those cargo pants he used to wear. Stop it, stop it now, she told herself, don’t think like that. Think of Frank, think of what a cute couple Jamie and Anna would make, think of anything, just not that…

And then Jamie turned round and looked at Claire for a brief moment before rushing to catch up with Anna. His eyes blinked. Was that due to the sun suddenly emerging from behind a cloud, or was it his attempt at a wink? Don’t think about that… think about Frank… think about Frank...

*********

Jamie wasn’t sure what had changed in his mind this weekend. Certainly when he first saw Claire again after eight years, the feelings of anger and resentment that had been suppressed all that time rose to the surface. He wasn’t proud of his behaviour towards her. He had just wanted those emotions, and Claire, to disappear, and to pretend that they had never existed.

That hadn’t happened. Nobody was going anywhere. And the feelings of anger had not disappeared, but merely been redirected… towards himself. He had let her go. She had given him an opportunity to compromise, eight years ago, and he had rejected it. And now he was home and Claire… Claire was with somebody else.

He had asked John about Claire’s new relationship and John had told him all he needed, and more than he wanted, to know. Frank was an historian, recently moved to work at the university. He potentially had a book deal -- explaining history for the masses -- with John’s publishers and who knew where that could lead? History programmes on television with charismatic presenters were very popular. The future looked bright for Frank. John considered him to be a good catch for Claire.

None of this was meant to hurt Jamie, of course. Following their conversation at the party, John just wanted him to know that Claire had moved on, he didn’t have to worry about her any more. Jamie was free to move on as he chose.

*******

True to his word, Jamie proved to be a very entertaining tour guide. Most of thirteen year old Jamie’s school project emerged from the recesses of his mind, with only the odd surreptitious glance at the guide book he had purchased.

His small group of English tourists followed him from room to room, listening to the tales of long dead kings and queens, coronations and executions, sieges and surrenders.

He was a natural raconteur -- drawing Anna, Mary, John and indeed Claire herself into these stories of heroes and foes. He had matured from the ‘young buckie’ she had known and loved eight years before into this man she would love to know better. Unfortunately, she realised, that wasn’t going to happen.

Claire watched as he let Anna take his arm, pointing out little holes or uneven floors where she might lose her footing. His protectiveness was endearing… always had been.

Together they wandered around the castle, following the itinerary agreed earlier. Last stop before the gift shop was the Prince’s Tower, traditionally the nursery of the Scottish monarchs. After admiring the graffiti etched on a window pane by a royal prince over four hundred years ago, a collective decision was taken that tired feet and aching backs could no longer be ignored and a return to the cars, ‘via the gift shop’, was in order.

Anna let go of Jamie’s arm and rushed to the stone spiral staircase, quickly starting her descent, keen to enjoy a shopping opportunity. The rest trailed at a more sedate pace.

“Anna, be careful,” Jamie called out. “Some of these stairs are a wee bit uneven. Hold up, I’ll give ye a hand.”

She carried on down, ignoring his offer of help. “I’m fine, Jamie. I’m nearly at the bottom now. You know what we should do? We should all...”

She turned back to look at them.

Claire was never sure if Anna had missed her footing on a step, or if her heel had got caught in a crevice in the stones. All she could remember was Anna’s cry of surprise, the sickening thud as her body and head hit the stone floor and then a moment of silence.

Note: I’ve never visited Stirling Castle, but those areas named are within the castle. I have no idea whether there is a spiral staircase leading from the Prince’s Tower, and if there is, I’m sure it is maintained in a better condition than in this story.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

When a God Finds a Girl (Part 3)

Thor is still grinning when he strolls into the tower. He’s pretty sure that kiss was meant for his cheek, but some small part of him wants to believe you were too tired and missed his lips. The god feels like he’s floating. Even exhausted, you were beautiful, and he can still feel the press on your lips on his jawline.

Thor sat alone, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer, still over the moon when Sam strolled in, texting. He glanced up and saw Thor gazing dreamily into the middle distance and snorted, “Hey, Thunder Dork, got your wedding all planned yet?” he teased. Thor felt his cheeks color slightly, “No, not yet... I don’t know what her favorite color is.” Sam laughed, “You did see Y/N, though?” There was a hint of concern in his voice that made Thor take notice, “Yes, I escorted her home not 2 hours ago.” Same gave him a look, and Thor continued quickly, “She looked exhausted, and I feared for her safety walking home alone after working so long.” Sam relaxed and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “As long as she’s safe.” he said nodding. 

Sam took a seat opposite Thor with his own beer and sighed. “Y/N is so much like Clay that sometimes I just want to shake her until her teeth rattle,” he said, pain in his voice. “She just hurls herself headlong into things, and when it all falls apart, she just keeps working like if she works hard enough. If she Saves enough people. Everything will mean something.” Thor nodded thoughtfully, “She told me she just did a 20-hour shift, she looked like she was probably going to fall asleep on her feet.” Sam chuckled bitterly, “That’s Clay all over,” he said, “I can guarantee you she worked a full day before she did that shift too.” Sam missed you. He missed who he thought you would grow up to be before your life fell apart. He hated that you were so much like Clay. That you wanted so badly to change the world you were working yourself to death.

Thor watched the other man and shook his head, “Perhaps you should speak with her?” he offered. Sam sighed, “She won’t see me right now,” he said, “I know she won’t. Clay... Well. He’s been gone 7 years tomorrow. I know what she’s doing. She’s going to work until it’s over. Until she can lose track of how many days it’s been again.” Sam swallowed hard, one of his biggest fears was getting the call that you were dead. You were his last link to Clay and to the moments in his life when he felt the most complete. Sam doesn’t speak for a long time, and Thor lets him have quiet. Sometimes words are unnecessary. And Thor is having thoughts of his own. He keeps seeing the tremble in your hands and your tired smile. You looked like you needed a good meal and a long sleep and Thor wonders what you like to eat, half making plans to tempt you out to get dinner with him. Sam finishes his beer and stands slowly. Thor looks up at him, “Alright?” he asks. Sam nods, “It’s not really like I can stop her from doing it,” he sighs. “Maybe you’d have better luck getting her to slow down.”

The Asgardian can only shrug, “Perhaps,” he said, “Lady Y/N did kiss me on the jaw today... I am not sure if she was trying to get my cheek or my lips, but it was nice all the same.” Sam smiled a little, “Yeah, she’s just that way. Lots of casual affection.” He remembered the way you’d lean on his shoulder when you were tired and having you on one side sound asleep and drooling on him and Clay on the other snoring with a pang. “It just means you’re comfortable to her,” he said, “It might not mean that she has feelings that way.” Thor laughed, “She was so tired when she did it that I do not even think she realized what she did.” Sam smiled a little. Thor continued, “I did not take it as a sign that she felt I was a suitable romantic partner.” Sam drifted out of the kitchen to see if Steve or Bucky wanted to train. He desperately needed to just move. Thor finished his sandwich and looked out the window, thinking of you. The strength you must have to be so relentless even when your heart was grieving. The optimism you still had to have to hurl yourself into such thankless work day after day. It made him both happy and sad. Delighted to know that you saw a way forward so clearly and sorry that you felt you only had meaning through the work you could do. 

Steve and Bucky go with Sam to the Cemetary to visit with Clay. Neither of them knew Clay, but they knew Sam and the pain of that loss well. When they arrive, you’ve already been. There are sunflowers laid of his headstone. Sam lays his own sunflowers down and says nothing. All he manages to say is, “I’m trying.” before he can’t trust his voice to say more. Steve and Bucky are silently supportive, letting Sam have the time he needs.

It isn’t until Thor meets Sam for a run in front of the Hospital where your office is that Thor realizes just how dangerous your job can actually be. He watches You talking to Sam while another Woman, taller than you and more athletically built stands nearby. There’s a flurry of movement, and the sound of a train as you and the other woman take off running, full tilt towards a man who is running to try and reach the train tracks. You tackle him to the ground after you sweep his feet out from under him and Cover his head with your hand to keep gravel out of his eyes as the train roars past. Orderlies and nurses rush up after the train is gone and escort the man who's now calling you a whore, a cunt, and any other name he can think of back inside. You walk back to where Sam and now Thor is standing, dirt covers one side of your body from laying in the gravel and your hands, knees, and one elbow is bleeding. Blood is also running from your nose, and one eye is already bruised. “Nice work, Hana,” you say to the woman, wiping the blood away from your nose with your shirt. “Thanks, Doc.,” she said, limping up the steps to go back to work. Sam hands you a handkerchief and shakes his head, “I didn’t even see it happening,” he said. You shrug, “Just another day in paradise, I guess.”  

Thor has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for you. You’re clearly shaken and upset. Overtired and spread too thin. He doesn’t even know you well, and he can see you starting to fray. “I’ll see you, gentlemen, later,” you say with a trembling smile, “I need to go get cleaned up and get back to work.” You excuse yourself without a backward glance, and Sam lets out the breath he was holding, glancing at Thor. “Boy, pick your jaw up off the floor,” he says, punching his arm. Thor snaps his jaw up and his cheeks color, “She didn’t even flinch.” Sam smiled a little, “Yeah. She’s like that.”

That night Thor finds out that you really did mean you’d see them later when you walk into the bar. Your white dress is cotton, thin for the weather but the red cardigan that just matches the shade of your lips looks warm. Sensible flats cover your feet, and your hair is in soft curls. Thor has never seen you look so feminine and he can’t help but Agree with Bucky’s quiet wolf whistle. The god would love to see that dress on his bedroom floor. Sam sees you before Thor can stand and marches you over to meet people. Rhodes is the closest and Thor would give anything to know what was being said that made you laugh. Rhodes was a polite, professional, and diplomatic. Thor hoped it wasn’t a line. He didn’t think he could watch you flirt with someone else. 

Tony caught sight of Thor mooning and grinned as he swaggered over, “What’s up, Pointbreak?” he asked, “Thunder Mojo not working today?” Bucky snorted, “Thor has a crush on Sam’s old Army buddy’s little sister.” he said, jerking his head to where Rhodey was buying you a round. Tony turned and looked, eyes widening slightly. He caught Rhodey’s eye and raised his eyebrow. The other man nodded, face tight when he looked at Tony but relaxed into a natural smile when he looked at you. “Goddamnit,” Tony muttered, “God damn it all.” The Billionaire took his drink and downed it before taking a deep breath and walking over to you, smiling. Thor can sense something in the energy in the room and Follows Tony, trying to act casual. 

Falcon puts an arm around you, giving Tony a warning look. Tony ignores him and takes your hand, shaking it warmly. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Dr. Y/L/N.” You put on your best professional smile, clearly on your guard. “Mr. Stark, I wasn’t aware that you’re familiar with my work.” Tony laughs, “I’m not. But I was familiar with your Brother’s work. Clay was a good man.” Your smile falters and Tony sobers, “I was sorry to hear he’d left us. He really was an amazing engineer,” he sips his drink and Thor can see you look away trying to rally. Falcon kisses the side of your head gently and Tony continues, “You should know, for what it’s worth, I never had a sibling but if I did, I’d want them to talk about me the way Clay always talked about you. You could do no wrong in his eyes and meeting you, I understand why. You do amazing work.” Tony held out a business card, “You ever need anything, give me a call. Well... that number goes to Pepper but... Just tell her who you are, whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.” You take the card and nod mutely. Your fingers feel numb and you feel like you can’t breathe. Tony claps Rhodes on the Shoulder and leaves the bar, Rhodey following him. Both of them feel guilty. Seeing you, seeing how much you look like Clay has them both twisted into knots. 

Sam pulls you into a hug and catches Thor’s eye, “I think this calls for tequila.” he said making you laugh even as you wipe tears away.  The shots are ordered and Sam, Steve, Bucky, Thor, and even eventually Natasha are all sitting at the bar with you casually roasting each other. Thor sits next to you While Steve and Sam are relaying stories of some impressive things they’ve seen you do, trying to hype you up to Thor. You blush and murmur something about it being nothing and Sam laughs. “Y/N, you literally would have let that patient throw you in front of the train today if you hadn’t managed to get him down on the ground.” You shrug, fiddling with your necklace nervously. Thor looks at your hand, noticing it for the first time, “Lady Y/N,” he asked, “What is on that chain?” You smile a little and look down at it, “A piece of meteorite.” you say looking at it. You know what the god is going to ask before he even opens his mouth, “When I was 10 or so, I was afraid to jump off the rocks into the water when we were swimming. Clay looked at me and said, “You’re a ghost in a meat suit made of star stuff. Go fuck ‘em up” and threw me into the water.” You laugh quietly, “So, on my 11th birthday, he sent me this. I guess to remind me I don’t have anything to be afraid of.” Thor chuckled and took your hand to kiss it, the barest brush of his lips over your knuckles, “I think that your brother was lucky, to have a sister who loves him so much.” Your cheeks color and Thor releases your hand gently. Thor is drunk very drunk but you are not. You drink slowly, participating but still keeping yourself apart, still guarded. 

When you go to use the restroom Natasha follows you. You give her a shy smile as you wash your hands and she leans against the wall trying not to look threatening, “Sam’s told me about your work,” she said smiling a little, “I just wanted to say that I think it’s admirable.” You blush, “I’m just filling a need.” Natasha’s mouth quirks again, “Well, yeah. That’s all any of us do.” You laugh and the spy takes her opportunity, “Look, I know he’s kind of a lunkhead but... Thor has a crush on you. He’s a great guy. Funny. Just... if he actually makes a move take him up on it.” She smiles as you stand there blushing and stammering, “Seriously.” she assures you before slipping out. You take a deep breath and sigh. “You can do this, Y/N” you say to yourself before walking out to rejoin the others.

@fatheadtheroger

[kitten-keith]

Sated

Felt shitty. Have a small fluffy sequel to Touchstarved. They talk about it but nothing more than kissing and cuddling here folks.

---

His brain is a little fuzzy when he wakes up. The fact it’s taking him so long to register his surroundings means he may have over indulged last night...

Which was fine.

Kind of expected, really, given all that had been going on. Keith was allowed to unwind for once, okay?? And maybe for a second time immediately following because everything in him wants to sleep in today. He can’t remember the last time his bed was this comfortable. This warm. This soft. This— The arm around his waist, over the covers but still very much in his personal space, tightens. A face pushes against his neck, a nose brushing behind his ear and a slow breath makes him shiver. His first instinct says to turn and slice the strangers throat. His second is to melt. And it’s the sheer strangeness of the second that causes him to wait for the third. He looks down at the arm and sees a long blue sleeve, a dark skinned hand with long beautiful fingers and perfectly groomed nails. Lance. Lance.

He indulges, because Lance is everything he’s wanted for as long as he can remember and if he’s dreaming he doesn’t want to wake up.. He leans back against the firm warmth of the blue Paladin and stretches his neck, giving himself more opportunity to feel his face in such a sensitive place. His skin is so soft, his lips moving just a little as he seems to grumble something in his sleep. Oh god he’s in heaven. He’s in heaven he’s in heaven he’s in— He’s squirming, a little subconsciously, a lot in excitement, but it’s how he realizes he’s not wearing pants. Or underwear. And actually feels a little... uh...did something dry on his thighs…?

Did they...? Did— The night comes flooding back to him. The ache. The desperation. The whole ass misery that Lance would never want him like that and— And then he was there with his fingers grazing his skin. Keith kissed him. Dragged him into bed, tried to undress him. Oh for the love of fuck he was a mess wasn’t he?! But then... Lance is still here. Lance is still here and holding him and... Lance... wanted him after all... All this time. Keith growled at his own stupidity. The noise seemed to alert Lance who was suddenly pulling away. Keith reacted to that with an immediate and vaguely uncalled for whimper that really was too pathetic a noise to have ever come out of his throat but it gets the job done. Lance’s arm freezes, hovering above Keith’s waist. Keith breaths out awkwardly before shifting under his covers enough to free his arm and reach for Lance’s hand, pulling it close to his face. It’s silent for a second. Two. Then Lance presses his face back into Keith’s neck. “You’re awake...?” Keith nods, his nose against the back of Lance’s palm. Lance wastes no time, “You remember what happened?” Keith’s nod is slower this time. Heat building in his cheeks from his embarrassment. Well he supposed it was one way to tell the love of your life how fucking badly you wanted them... “Should I take the way you’re holding my hand as you saying you don’t want me to leave?” Keith nods again, quicker, before ducking his head as if he could curl around Lance’s hand and never ever give it back to him. Lance seems almost inclined to let him if the little chuckle that escapes him is any indication. “From that little growl I thought you were mad...” Keith shakes his head roughly. Squeezes himself tighter around the small part of Lance he feels allowed to hold right now. There’s a spot or two, like freckles or sunspots following the curve of his thumb. Keith wants to kiss them but he’s still reeling. Lance is in his bed. Lance is in his bed with him breathing into his neck and they kissed and Lance stayed even though Keith almost forced himself on him and and— the embarrassment is killing him. How could he be so reckless. Lance deserved wooing like— like roses and dinners and cuddling for hours. But Keith had actual lube dripping down his thighs and asked Lance to fuck him while he was drunk like seriously, seriously, Kogane? What the fuck was wrong with you— “You’re not still... drunk are you? Or are you hungover? Maybe I should drop by Allura and Coran, get you some tea..?” Keith takes Lance’s hand and splays it out over his face, long fingers landing at his hairline. Lance chuckles again, “Sweetheart—”

“No. I’m not drunk. And I’m not really sure what a hangover is? I feel fine. I just. Kind of hate myself right now. I’m... so sorry, Lance.” He’s sure his blush is spreading to his ears and down his neck but Lance doesn’t seem phased. Keith is. Keith is replaying the word “sweetheart” in his head because it’s making his heart do backflips. He’s dying, and if he can do it wrapped in Lance’s arms he’d be ecstatic. Lance shuffles around behind him for a minute before his other arm is under Keith’s blanket and pushing at his waist against the bed so he can move beneath him, pull him into a hug, Keith guesses. And he’s certainly not going to say no to that so he lifts himself enough for Lance’s arm to pass through, snake completely around his waist, and pull them flush against each other. “Do you realize your whole body gets flushed when you’re embarrassed? It’s really adorable.” Lance presses a small kiss to Keith’s presumably red neck and Keith melts again, squirming against Lance because that tiny act is running right through him, making him want to feel Lance closer than was humanly possible. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were drunk. I understand. I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry for.. well... taking advantage. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I shouldn’t have... uh... k-kissed you back... and... other places... or touched you... I Uhm... man Keith you...you’re really hard to say no to. Like really hard.” Lance shook his head and Keith could feel the soft brush of his lips against his skin. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, I’m sorry—”

“That it happened...?”

Keith felt his eyelashes flutter.

“I— well— I mean... if it hadn’t happened how much longer do you think it would have taken for us to get here...?”

Keith squeezes his hand.

“I don’t like how it happened. And I’m sorry I indulged in ways I shouldn’t have. But... I’m really happy to finally know...”

Keith feels his heart pounding in his chest so loud.

He’s not mad. How could he ever be mad. He woke up next to the man he’s wanted for years. The one he would have given anything just to hold and now—

“Heh.. wish you could have caught me masturbating to you while sober.” He tries it as a joke. Because he doesn’t want to think about his stupid drunk weepy self.

If he’d been sober and Lance had caught him like that. If Keith had tilted his head back with crystal clear eyes and asked Lance to fuck him into the ground this whole conversation would go very differently.

No pity or apologies. Just satisfaction, warmth, relief.

“Y-you Uhm... did that while you were sober..?” Doesn’t sound like Lance is taking it as a joke.

Keith turns his head just enough so he can try and see Lance’s face from the corner of his eyes but to no avail.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time Lance... I thought you understood that?”

“R-right... I just... Uhm... I’m maybe uh... picturing it?? Picturing it... again... you’re really... you... fuck. It’s too early. You’re too hot. You’re breaking my brain, love.”

Love.

“Love me.”

“You don’t have to ask that...”

Love...

“Uh-Uhm...” Keith isn’t sure what words he could string together, what thoughts made sense for right this moment. Somehow he’s gone and fried his own brain just from that one little word.

“O-oh I mean...” and Lance realizes what he’s done.

Now he’s going to take it back. Sensibly, he should take it back—

“No. No, I meant that. Everything is all screwed up but I’m not gonna lie and say that I don’t love you, because I do. Have for ages I think... I can’t... I... all I want is to be with you and I’m really happy I can say that now.”

Keith’s pillow is suddenly damp. If he were standing he’d have crumpled to the ground already. Though he was sure Lance would have caught him, held him, loved...

Keith needed to look at him. Needed it like air in his lungs. To do that he needed to release Lance’s hand.

It’s a bit of a struggle. The sudden cold frustrates him but what he’s going to say he needs to be able to look Lance in the eyes when he says it.

He rolls over, enjoying the fact Lance only loosens his grip enough to let Keith move and immediately settled back into place.

His now free hand wanders into his hair massaging his fingers over his scalp.

He can see the tears Keith had wiped into his pillow and he opens his mouth to say something but Keith can’t hear it.

He’s just too lost in Lance’s face to register anything else.

His eyes are soft and deep, his lashes still a little heavy with sleep. His lips are a bit dry but they curve into such an inviting smile, warm and caring. The freckles over his nose that Keith was starting to think he’d imagined were still there being wonderfully endearing and complimenting the slope of his nose and the edges of his cheeks.

Keith adores every minute detail that makes up Lance McClain and it swells in his heart so strongly he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

And yet when Lance’s brows furrow and concern pushes ever deeper into the lines of his skin Keith panics.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Keith blinks. Realizing there was water making the motion a little more difficult. He is still crying.

Oh god, he is still crying and he is looking at Lance and he hasn’t said anything—

“I love you.”

It’s Lance’s turn to blink. His lips shifting back into that smile as his cheeks tint darker.

“Keith—“

“I love you.” Keith says again, louder. He hadn’t meant for the first one to come out but it’s out so fuck it.

Lance breathes out through his nose and his eyes look a little misty.

Keith doesn’t care, “For the love of fuck, Lance, I love you so much I— I don’t know why I’m crying. I think it’s because I’m happy. My chest feels like it might explode, Lance, I love you.”

“Baby—“

“And you love me too. Shit, this is amazing. This is—- this is the best thing—“

Lance chuckles and the noise makes Keith’s heart pound harder. It’s killing him, he’s dying, he’s dying right here staring at an angel who he is so desperately irrevocably in love with—

“I love you.” Keith says it again because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stop.

But he does, because Lance shuts his eyes and maybe he cries a little but Keith doesn’t have the time to really see because suddenly Lance’s hand in his hair grips tightly and tugs and his lips slam into his and it’s hard but it’s perfect because it’s them. Because the two of them have a tendency to dive head first into things, especially when it involves each other. Because Lance doesn’t just catch him when he falls he encourages him to run. Because kissing him is like burning alive and being splayed open and he can’t fucking understand why he loves that feeling so much.

For Lance he is raw and he won’t change that.

“Love...” he breathes out between kisses, tongue intertwined with Lance’s because he just can’t stop, “You...!”

“Loveyou.”

“Keith.”

“Mm—I—loveyou.”

“...”

“Iloveyou.”

Lance is smiling.

Keith’s chest is burning. He could take a second to breathe but he doesn’t want to. He wants to keep kissing Lance, he needs Lance to know. He doesn’t know if it’s even remotely possible to convey these feelings to him.

The words... don’t seem like they’re enough.

So he’s just going to have to keep trying, won’t he?

[mind-less-evil-blog]

I rarely think about the paths my life could have taken had I acted or reacted differently in some situations.

Probably because I hate this feeling it gives me.

I can’t take my actions back, though sometimes I wish I could.

Other times I think even my poor decisions have shaped me into who I am now, and even though I’m not happy with my situation I am still happy to be me.

I feel that I’ve lived and failed more than anyone gives themselves a chance too. More than any sane person, anyway.

Why don’t the people I’ve held the closest see this trait in me as a positive thing?

Like, I really don’t know if I would had been happy a doctor or a CFO of some company.

I guess I don’t really know if anything I’m doing now will make me happier either.

I know what doesn’t make me happy though and I know I don’t want to do those things.

Sometimes I end up doing them though and I don’t know if it is because I don’t care about myself enough or I don’t value the things I already have.

Maybe I am still searching for something.

A lot of people close to me take my actions personal.

Maybe I’m selfish.

Is life about living for others?

It seems that it is hard to get along by yourself.

I love people though, though I usually put on a public front to hide my demons.

There haven’t been but a few that I’ve actually let in my head.

Mostly because I feel people won’t understand.

They haven’t before.

But, I guess they have before too.

I’m just scared I guess.

Have I fucked my life up?

I’m only 27. So, I’m still young(ish).

I’ve got my health. I have family, though must of them are mad at me. I abused drugs for a long time, half my life actually.

Drugs help you act on very poor logic. Like, how easy it became to lie and steal once I no longer cared about the repercussions of my actions.

I guess I was suicidal for a time.

I remember my dad explaining to me a few years ago,

“Methamphetamine will only lead you two paths”

I stared blankly,

“You will either go to prison, not for your use, but for stealing and deceit to fuel your habit”

I continued to stare blankly as I did not no how to react, I wasn’t ready to stop using yet. He continued,

“Or you will die, not from your use, but for something you did while on your amphetamine buzz”

I do remember this conversation, his words verbatim. I never responded. He shook his head in disappointment and left.

I stood there for a few minutes. My mind didn’t register my thoughts for that time but I know that after my brief pause I went straight back to using.

It helped me forget.

I used this trick a lot. Daily. Hourly.

The last time I did meth was just over a month now. 33 days (yeah I’m counting).

But, I want my family to know that I am sorry.

I have been selfish for a long time.

If it wasn’t meth it was Percocet and if not Percocet, bath salts and if not bath salts, I was binge drinking.

I don’t know why.

I don’t really know how I survived some things.

I do know I don’t want to be selfish any longer.

I love my family.

I miss them too.

I love myself.

I’ve missed myself too.

I’m sorry to anyone that encountered me during this time, for I was unbearable.

I lost touch with a lot of people, some I miss immensely.

I can only hope that people, in time, will forgive me.

To those people, I want you to know; 33 days separate me from meth, CBD oil has been huge in keeping me sober and has helped nearly eliminate my anxiety, I have drank alcohol since stopping meth, I don’t do any other drugs, I’ve broken my hand fighting in jail and busted my lip open and sewn shut with 8 stitches in unrelated events within the last month and I always refuse pain killers.

Most importantly though, I want people to know that my path to this moment had been so unclear. There have been times I didn’t think I would survive and others I didn’t think I deserved to. I learned so much about this plague facing our society from living it, as many others have before me. I don’t know what that means. Writing has been key in organizing my thoughts I have pushed back for years and has allowed me to express my ideas and thoughts I have carried with me through my journey. Even if no one ever reads this I’ll still feel better. I have a lot to get off my chest and my mind still is trying to connect memories, ideas, thoughts, and feelings. Here is where that jumbled mess becomes more sensible (to me at least, ha).

Again, I am sorry to everyone I have hurt, I love my family and friends and I miss them all. I hope to eventually become a part of your life again.

MB

[acompanionsdiary]

Merry Christmess

So, I’ve written my first Good Omens One Shot and thought that you may like it. Just keept in mind that English isn’t my first language and I’m not used to writing in it. Do feel free to critizise and correct me!

-Christmas eve, 0 a.c.- (well, at least something around that date, take or give a couple of years)

Crowley made his way through all the farmer and sheep that were standing in front of a small, racked hut. They were chatting and laughing, most of the sheep had started to search for the best spot of grass and from time to time a dog started barking, soon to be joined by a couple more. It was a mess. Crowley was pretty sure that this wasn't what heaven had intended for the arrival of they're king and savior.

He cursed under his breath when a sheep stept on his foot, brutally squeezing his toes in the process. Stupid angel! Crowley would fall from grace if he wasn't the one responsible for this. Well, he'd actually done that already, but you get the point.

A couple of angels were standing around the manger inside the hut, all of them looking around rather confused and missplaced next to the old oxe and an even more confused and very tired donkey. Next to the baby (He had just fallen asleep, but at the time Crowley had arrived he'd still been fully awake, screaming at the top of his holy lungs, because he got scared by one very nosy sheep) was Aziraphael, looking as miserable as Crowley felt.

Some of the angels flinched when Crowley walked by, but he didn't care, his yellow snake eyes fixed on his old rival. „Angel!“ he greeted him in his best 'This-is-completely-your-fault-don't-even-pretend' – voice. „What is that?“ Aziraphael nervously looked over to his fellow angel-collegues, who followed their heavenly order and had started to ompletely ignore the demon, as they weren't allowed to fight him at this holy day. Not that they would've done so on any other day. Crowley was a particullary minor, unimportant demon and angels, well, most of the time they were rather arrogant.

„Well...“ Aziraphael started, avoiding to look at the demon. „I may have confused one or two things.“ he wispered. „Confused?“ Crowley asked way louder, which made the angel look around panicking. „Shhhh! I told them this was on purpose.“ Crowley was stunned. He expected an apology, not that kind of boldness.

„And what am I suppossed to tell my people? 'I'm sorry, but the guy we'd hoped for all our lifes...well, you know, since forever, who was suppossed to be a king, the most powerful human who has ever lived, was born in a fucking stable, not more than a mere farmers boy.“ „He's a carpenter.“ Aziraphael interfered, falling back to silence immediately when he met Crowleys gaze. „You could tell them the same I did.“ he offered. „That it was a smart move. Everyone would think that Christus is a king or something. In that way we can see who truly believes in him and he can take care off all the poor and miserable people.“ Crowley looked slightly surprised. He raised his eyebrows. „Not bad, angel.“ he admitted. „I still think you did a shit job here, but maybe I did underestimate you.“ Aziraphael smiled. „Thanks, dear!“

In the background the archangel Michael started cursing not very graceful as he stepped in some donkeyshit.

-Christmaseve 1990 a.c.-

The Bently drove through the night, just slightly over the speed limite. It was a quiet night, no need to rush. Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to stay in tact with a very confused Christmas song he'd recorded a couple of years ago at a christmas party in Freddie Mercurys house. The mixtape was constantly trying to transform into Queen, just to realize that it in fact already was Queen. Crowley used to say that this gave the music a very nice, spirituell touch. Aziraphael never heared the difference. But he did notice the little smile that crept on the demons face every time Freddie started singing. He'd always known that his friend had a little crush on the singer.

They'd spent the evening in the Ritz, as always, eating way too much and drinking a bit more, though Crowley insisted on being sober for driving. He was worried about the Bently, especially since this summers events.

„I'm glad the whole 'Apocalypse-thing' didn't happen.“ Crowley uttered. „We would've been fighting each other by now. That would've been a pitty.“ Aziraphael smiled at his best friend. „Yes dear, it really would have been a pitty to ruin that demonic hair of yours.“ Crowley couldn't help but being a little bit surprised by the angel. He whisteled through his teeth. A century ago he hadn't even realized it when Crowley was being sarcastic and now he was making the same sort of jokes the demon used to. „So I do have a bad influence on you.“ „Well, as far as I recall you stole my idea of mixing up the whole 'chosen one – thing'“ Aziraphael answered without missing a beat. For a moment the both of them fell back to silence, remembering the good old times.

„At least I didn't miss the right date.“ Crowley teased, carefully taking the turn. The last time he'd been driving here, he'd nearly crashed into a delivery man, who'd been standing in the middle of street, holding what Crowley guessed was a love letter (As a demon Crowley reacted very sensible to these sort of things. This time his demonic roots came to light with a big sneeze.)

„It wasn't my fault!Gabriel just couldn't decide. He switched dates two times a day, at least.“ The demon took his eyes off the street to look at the angel who was slightly blushing by now. „Just admit that you completely forgot that it takes nine months till birth when it comes to humans, angel! I already knew anyways. What did you even think? That it happens immediately, like when the old man creates something?“ The angel shrugged, turning bright red by now. Back then he actually did believe it. He thought about the day he figured out how it really worked. It wasn't a very pleasent memory, involving a lot of alcohol, a very drunk Crowley and a pregnant pig (Which could  have been a goat thinking about it. Like I said, lots of alcohol). „Don't worry, it's kinda cute.“ the demon hissed, apparently thinking about the same incident. He grinned, but it wasn't much of his usual, devilish smirk. More like – happy.

The reached the crossroad. Crowley stopped the car. „You wanna stay at my place tonight?“ he asked, suddenly not wanting to spend the rest of the night alone. It was christmas after all, the feast of love and everything. „End this how it started, celebrate a new age without doomsday coming up, you know.“ Aziraphael grabbed the demons hand. „I'd love to, dear!“

[stretchjournalemerson]

Pain Management

By Maura Grace Cowan

For decades, I have been told, Mema’s fingers smelled of nicotine, trailing the scent of a pack a day and a love that ate away at my grandfather until it swallowed him whole just five months after I was born. After that, an already vicious candy habit became a lifelong method of staying cigarette-free. She said that it kept her mouth busy and her head on straight.

We were alike in that way– her weakness was See’s Candies butterscotch lollipops, and I favored peppermints to focus. It was not uncommon, during the five years that she lived in our home, to find us next to each other in the living room, teeth clacking on our respective hard candies until I finished my work or she tired of the barrage of bad news.

Her other method of oral fixation was toothpicks, little orange slivers that she dropped as she hobbled from room to room. Truthfully, that was about all she left behind– plastic wrappers and wood chips, breadcrumbs that led me back through the years after she was gone.

I was home for Christmas during my freshman year of college when she passed, as suddenly as one can pass after almost a century of life. It was California dreary out, with a blank sky and a bad attitude. She was three thousand miles away by then, but the West Coast was mourning. That night, I popped a coffee-flavored See’s lollipop in my mouth. It was the last thing I would bite into for days.

My wisdom teeth were never wise enough to grow in the correct direction, and with my already small jaw, their removal was an inevitability. We had made the appointment the previous summer, hoping to control the problem before it started. The timing could not have been predicted. But I would have signed away a world of hurt down the line if I could have absolved myself of surgery on the morning after my grandmother’s death.

My orthodontist was a genial Scottish man in his fifties. I had met him just once before, for our consultation. He charmed me immediately by recognizing my name and its correct pronunciation– “Gaelic, o’course,” he had said cheerfully. Mema would have been smitten. She always loved accents– anything about people, really, cultures and language and history. She told me once that she had lived so many stories that she couldn’t help wanting to hear everyone else’s. This was what I was thinking about when he began to rattle off the medications he would prescribe me for the weeks after the operation.

“Oh, I don’t need the strong stuff,” I interjected. “I’ll be just fine with the Ibuprofen, I’ve got a lot of grit.”

He chuckled, handing me a stack of forms.

“I don’t doubt it, Maura. Let’s just see how you’re feeling afterwards, eh?”

I was the last of my friends from high school to get their wisdom teeth out. I had stayed the night with Amelia right after the surgery, brought ice cream for Tyler every day for a week. I knew that there would be no conversation or ‘seeing how I felt.’

I am not taking those pills.

I have never lived at extremes. Modesty and moderation were ingrained in me before I could pronounce either word, by my mother and Mema and their working-class sensibilities. And if nothing else, I have held myself to those principles. In high school, even on the rare occasions that I allowed myself to go out on weekends, it was a point of pride that I knew my limits. I was never the least sober in the room– often, I was the most by far. I never, ever, lost control.

The assistant was a young, lanky man– almost a boy, really, I noticed as he plunged the IV drip into my arm. I imagined babbling to him when I woke up, making a fool of myself, having to be carried out like I once carried my high school friend when she mixed Vicodin and vodka.

“Don’t give me too much,” I remember pleading. “Look at me. Promise me that I will walk out of here on my own.”

He must have listened, because when I came to, it was with a surprisingly clear head. At least, the part of my head that I could feel was clear. I spent the car ride home in silence, poking at the numbness, pushing down the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

Healing happened, slowly and awkwardly. A prescription of Hydrocodone sat on my dresser unopened; I refused everything but aspirin and a steady supply of vanilla pudding. Instead, I spent my days drifting between sleep and discomfort, but I suffered in silence. The whole house, after all, was suffering too.

Mema was not an affectionate woman– in the years that I knew her, she was not even particularly kind. She was stubborn and abrasive, with a Southern drawl turned scratchy with years of smoking and sighing and complaining.

She was also the strongest woman I have ever known.

After she quit smoking, she kept as far as possible from any sort of vices that would shorten her lifespan, replacing them instead with virtues… temperance, fortitude, and CNN. Even in her last years, when my parents begged her to have a glass of wine each night just to help her get to sleep, she refused. Her pain management was a strict combination of stubbornness and grit, and her health remained remarkable for her age.

But when you are close to one hundred years old, regardless of how healthy you are, on some level, every part of your body is begging you to just stop. To rest. Sometimes, it’s even in your own mind.

Once, I heard her ask my mother, “Why am I still here?”

“You know that we can’t get you back on a plane safely with all this oxygen, Mom.”

“No,” she sighed. “Why am I still here?”

But she accepted it. She held firm, and she stayed. Even when we ran out of money and resources and patience, when we had to fly her those three thousand miles to move back in with my auntie Beth, she stayed until she could not stay one second longer.

When I was seventeen, I once stood staring into her medicine cabinet on the precipice of explosion. I had my father’s gin and my mother’s anger in my stomach, and I knew what matches it would take to light that fuse. But I stayed, strong and composed, just as she did every day. I couldn’t do it for myself. So I did it for her.

I am not taking those pills.

I was, at the outset, correct about my ability to push through the discomfort. My constant fear of losing control had given me an acute awareness of how much I could handle, and I walked that line confidently. I did everything right, took the antibiotics and cleaned the surgical sites with a ritualistic reverence. All of my focus went towards the pain in my mouth. And the other pain, the ache that had settled into the bones of our house and deep into my chest, went untreated.

Until it couldn’t anymore.

I pushed myself too hard, I understand that now. I had convinced myself that I was out of the woods entirely, that I hadn’t felt any real soreness for days, that I was ready to shut the door behind a miserable week. That afternoon, I went hiking with my best friend, and we caught up over coffee and pre-Christmas peppermint bark. She tried to mention Mema, and I pointed out a hawk in the trees ahead.

By the evening, I was curled up in excruciating pain, convinced that the left side of my jaw was cracking and splintering as I laid with a bag of ice that did no real good. Taking Ibuprofen was like trying to stamp out a forest fire.

With gritted teeth and an apology, I cracked open the bottle of Hydrocodone.

That night was one of the worst of my life. I dreamed apocalyptic wastelands, bodies fetid and festering after the pestilence of the pandemic that had already defined that year. I saw my grandmother, sweating in and out of sleep– alive for a moment, but dying again and again. In the confusion and haze, for just a moment, I thought she might have been a god.

My fever dream ended as a weak winter sun began to stream through the window. I was drained, more exhausted than I had been the night before, but the ache had disappeared and my head was clear. I stripped the sheets and washed off the night, plugged in my headphones, hit shuffle perched on her old bare mattress.

And I was catching my breath/

Staring out an open window, catching my death/

And I couldn’t be sure/

I had a feeling so peculiar, that this pain would be for/

Evermore

I didn’t even notice I was crying until the drops hit my legs. I do not think I could have stopped myself if I tried. But I had run out of the desire to control.

Hey December, guess I’m feeling unmoored/

Can’t remember what I used to fight for

Everything, my grandmother and mother have insisted, exists in moderation. But what is moderation when we feel in extremes?

I rewind the tape, but all it does it pause/

On the very moment all was lost/

Sending signals to be double-crossed

We are made for vices, for cigarettes and coffee and chocolate cake. We are made to cling to any semblance of control, and then to watch again and again as it slips away, and then we are made to try again.

When the tears ran out and the last notes played, I pulled myself up and grabbed my keys. On my way out of the door, I caught a glimpse of something on the kitchen counter– a small glass bowl filled with See’s lollies. We had bought a box to send her for Christmas the day before she died.

This is what she left behind. Plastic wrappers, wood chips. A gap in the family and four gaps in my jaws. Ninety-nine years of stories and stubbornness and Southern sensibility. I carry the weight of her within me, her love and her loss. I manage our pain the way that she taught me, with control and composure. But I’m learning my own ways too.

And I couldn’t be sure/

I had a feeling so peculiar, this pain wouldn’t be for/

Evermore

My fist closed around a butterscotch.

[dalyunministry]

Pastor. Johnraj Lamech, India

💎

Greetings in the matchless Name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Topic: What to speak when we suffer as we will have to give account of it on the day of judgement?

Rhema Word: Matthew 12:35-37 “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good things, and an evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth evil things. But I say to you that for every idle word men may speak, they will give account of it in the day of judgment. For by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned.”

Let’s pray. Our Gracious Loving Father, thank you for giving us an opportunity to meditate your Word today. Thank you Holy Spirit for helping us to understand your Words which are living and active. Please help us to live a life as per your Word Lord. We give all the Glory and Honour to you Lord. We pray in the mighty Name of your beloved Son Jesus Christ. Amen.

Apostle James while talking about qualities needed in trials says in James 1:19-20 “My beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God.” If patience is the mark of perfection, patience in words is the crown of a perfect life. Most of our troubles are due to our carelessness in words. Relationships are damaged by hasty and harsh words. Fellowship with God is also disturbed by impatient words. God is angered more by our words than our deeds.

Controlling the tongue when everything is calm and we are composed is easy, and it requires no special effort. But when we are agitated with anger and agonizing in anguish, we speak out what we are not supposed to. God does not ignore what we speak in such moments. Rather He takes a serious view of it. The Book of Job vividly illustrates this point. What God said at the end of the story is a sober truth. He told Eliphaz, ”I am angry with you and with your two friends, for you have not been right in what you said about Me, as My servant was” (Job 42:7).

No one other than Jesus suffered mentally and physically like Job. The Bible admonishes us to follow the “patience of Job” in James 5:10-11 ”My brethren, take the prophets, who spoke in the name of the Lord, as an example of suffering and patience. Indeed, we count them blessed who endure. You have heard of the perseverance of Job and seen the end intended by the Lord—that the Lord is very compassionate and merciful.” What Job spoke when he suffered is worthy of close meditation. Based on his words approved and appreciated by the Almighty, we need to make following confessions as we go through the furnace of suffering and fires of testing.

1] Praise God for everything!

The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Praise the Name of the Lord! (Job 1:21(b)). When the lips of Job gave birth to these words, it was an absolutely real confession, which sprang from a heart of honesty. The losses of Job were by no means ordinary. Death of his cattle, their caretakers and his children, all in quick succession! (Job 1:13-19). To worsen the situation, he became sick with an abominable disease.

In the very next verse of the narrative the Holy Spirit has recorded, “In all of this, Job said nothing wrong!” (Job 2:10(b)). Job’s understanding was that God was supreme and sovereign; Satan was simply His servant! How profound was the theology of this patriarch! It was this knowledge that made Job praise God for everything in every situation.

In Acts 16 the Holy Spirit has recorded another incident wherein how Paul and Silas were praising and praying when they were thrown into prison. Acts 16:19-26 ”When her owners realized that their hope of making money was gone, they seized Paul and Silas and dragged them into the marketplace to face the authorities. They brought them before the magistrates and said, “These men are Jews, and are throwing our city into an uproar by advocating customs unlawful for us Romans to accept or practice.” The crowd joined in the attack against Paul and Silas, and the magistrates ordered them to be stripped and beaten with rods. After they had been severely flogged, they were thrown into prison, and the jailer was commanded to guard them carefully. When he received these orders, he put them in the inner cell and fastened their feet in the stocks. About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them. Suddenly there was such a violent earthquake that the foundations of the prison were shaken. At once all the prison doors flew open, and everyone’s chains came loose.”

We are taught to “be always thankful, no matter what happens, for this is God’s will for us who belong to Christ Jesus” (1 Thes.5:18). We may not “feel” like praising God while we are crushed by pain and problems. It doesn’t matter, praise God anyway. Praise God when you don’t feel like praising Him. Keep on praising Him until you feel like praising Him!

2] Accept whatever God allows!

Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” (Job 2:10).

The Bible records in Ecclesiastes 7:14 ”When times are good, be happy; but when times are bad, consider this: God has made the one as well as the other. Therefore, no one can discover anything about their future.”

In the life of Jonah, the Bible says in Jonah 4:6-11 “Then the Lord God provided a leafy plant and made it grow up over Jonah to give shade for his head to ease his discomfort, and Jonah was very happy about the plant. But at dawn the next day God provided a worm, which chewed the plant so that it withered. When the sun rose, God provided a scorching east wind, and the sun blazed on Jonah’s head so that he grew faint. He wanted to die, and said, “It would be better for me to die than to live.” But God said to Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry about the plant?” “It is,” he said. “And I’m so angry I wish I were dead.” But the Lord said, “You have been concerned about this plant, though you did not tend it or make it grow. It sprang up overnight and died overnight. And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left—and also many animals?”

Let us check ourselves…How many times we behaved like Jonah in our lives? Let us also see the compassionate heart of our loving God towards His concern for the great city of Nineveh. Yes, God is having concern for everyone and permits certain things in our lives to make us understand His heart.

Only when we are thoroughly convinced of the sovereignty of God and that nothing goes beyond His control and happens without His permission, we can sing with apostle Paul that all things work together for good even if it is calamity or danger (Romans 8:28,35). This conviction leads us to unshakable confidence and we are enabled to “be patient in trouble” (Romans 12:12). Folks may guess and say hundred and one things about our suffering. But we can assure ourselves by asking, “Who does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?” (Job 12:9).

Remember, what God says in Isaiah 45:5-7 ”I am the Lord, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me, so that from the rising of the sun to the place of its setting people may know there is none besides me. I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.”

3] Be open to correction!

”Teach me, and I will be silent; and show me how I have erred.” (Job 6:24).

God has no pleasure in our suffering. If we sinful people desire that our children should be happy and healthy, how much more will our heavenly Father desire so for His children! But if suffering is an incomparable means to correct us and teach us His ways, will the Heavenly Father spoil us by sparing that rod?

The testimony of Psalmist David is that of all prophets, patriarchs and people who walked closely with God in their generations. He confessed to God, “The suffering You sent was good for me, for it taught me to pay attention to Your principles…I used to wander off until You disciplined me; but now I closely follow Your word” (Psalm 119:71,67). Our lips may not instantly utter such words when adverse winds blow on us. But if we recollect the outcome of the sufferings of the past, we will stay patient instead of turning bitter. The author of the Epistle to the Hebrews has written for us these timeless words: “No discipline is enjoyable while it is happening – it is painful! But afterward there will be a quiet harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way” (Hebrews 12:11).

Remember, life’s lessons are not learnt overnight. For God, He never changes and he is not in a hurry. Times are in His hands. Patience and perseverance are inevitable. No wonder the saints of old called “suffering” a school!

4] We are unworthy of God’s favour!

”What is man that You magnify him, and that You are concerned about him?” (Job 7:17)

We may be asking lot of questions. Have I not walked in integrity? Why then does God let me suffer like this? Have I not served Him faithfully all these years? Why then did He allow this calamity in my life? Have I not been unselfish and sacrificial in my dealings with people? Why then did He permit this loss in my business? Have I not loved Him so dearly that I never enjoyed any ungodly pastime? Why then does He punish me like this in displeasure? These questions flood our minds and fill our mouths when we suffer.

Though these questions may appear sensible, they are wrong. We need to correct our thinking. We don’t add anything to God by our offerings or service. He is absolutely absolute in Himself and He does not need anything from us. Acts 17:25 says “And He is not served by human hands, as if He needed anything. Rather, He himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else.” Psalmist Asaph also says in Psalm 50:7-13 ”“Listen, my people, and I will speak; I will testify against you, Israel: I am God, your God. I bring no charges against you concerning your sacrifices or concerning your burnt offerings, which are ever before me. I have no need of a bull from your stall or of goats from your pens, for every animal of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills. I know every bird in the mountains, and the insects in the fields are mine. If I were hungry I would not tell you, for the world is mine, and all that is in it. Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?”

Remember, He won’t feel miserable or helpless if we desert Him. We don’t do Him favour by serving Him. Rather, we are fortunate to be called by Him. He doesn’t in the strict sense need us; we need Him. The right confession would be what a man like Paul made in 1 Corinthians 15:9-10 ”For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me.” Further he says in Ephesians 3:7-8 ”I became a servant of this gospel by the gift of God’s grace given me through the working of his power. Although I am less than the least of all the Lord’s people, this grace was given me: to preach to the Gentiles the boundless riches of Christ.”

Job seems to have had a better understanding of God’s grace than we who are living in the dispensation of grace. He said in Job 9:14-15 ”“How then can I dispute with him? How can I find words to argue with him? Though I were innocent, I could not answer him; I could only plead with my Judge for mercy.” Paul says in 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 “But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

5] Trust God in darkness!

Job 9:10-11 “He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted. When he passes me, I cannot see him; when he goes by, I cannot perceive him.”

Remember, it is the “why” and “what” questions which disturb our equilibrium and make us pour out words of impatience while suffering. There will be calm in spite of storm if only we know “who” is in control.

God is light and He is in the light. This is only one side of divine revelation. Solomon the wise had known the other side. He once prayed, “O Lord, You have said that You would live in thick darkness” (1 Kings 8:12). Psalmist says in Psalms 97:1-2 ”The Lord reigns, let the earth be glad; let the distant shores rejoice. Clouds and thick darkness surround him; righteousness and justice are the foundation of his throne.”

Christian life is comparable to a walk from the outer court to the innermost sanctuary through the holy place of the Tabernacle. There is sunlight in the outer court, candlelight in the inner court, but no light in the innermost court. One has to walk there only in faith and not by sight or any other sense (2 Corinthians 5:7). In heavenly Jerusalem also there will be no lamplight or sunlight, but the Lord Himself will be the light (Revelation 22:5). When we walk in faith, quit asking questions, and quiet the turbulent mind, it will be heaven on earth even if the times would be worst ever.

In our humanness we may cry out, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?” But we should quickly commit ourselves to Him, saying, “Father, I entrust My spirit into Your hands!” (Matthew 27:46, Luke 23:46). Isaiah says in Isaiah 50:10 “Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the word of his servant? Let the one who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on their God.”

6] Serve a God worth suffering for!

Job 13:15 “Though God slay me, I will hope in Him”

Bless God when He blesses you; but curse Him when He crushes you!” This was the philosophy of Mrs. Job (Job 2:8-10). Sadly, many believers are ruled by this philosophy. We may not actually “curse” God, but what do we do when we don’t praise Him? If we follow Jesus only “because of” the blessings we receive from Him, our relationship and religion are utilitarian. Following Him “in spite of” buffetings and brickbats is true service and pure worship.

What the three Hebrew young men spoke before King Nebuchadnezzar weakened his strategy. They politely but firmly said, “If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God whom we serve is able to save us. But even if He does not, Your Majesty can be sure that we will never serve your gods or worship the gold statue you have set up!” (Daniel 3:17-18). The early disciples had the same spirit. The Bibles says in Acts 5:40-42 ” And they agreed with him, and when they had called for the apostles and beaten them, they commanded that they should not speak in the name of Jesus, and let them go. So they departed from the presence of the council, rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name. And daily in the temple, and in every house, they did not cease teaching and preaching Jesus as the Christ.”

As we approach the end of end times, our days of adversity seem to outnumber the days of prosperity. That will be no excuse for our murmuring and complaints. Because, in the very first instance we are called not only to believe on Christ but also to suffer for Him (Phil.1:29). The New Living Translation renders it as the “Privilege of suffering!” An active Christian earns the frown of the devil. The devil will attack him in all areas of his life – physical, mental, spiritual, financial and social. If Christ died for us, no suffering of ours will be too much, and no sacrifice too great!

7] Look forward to the future glory!

Job 19:25-27 “I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall stand at last on the earth; and after my skin is destroyed, this I know, that in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!

What lies beyond death and grave is the greatest strengthener of our feeble hands and weak knees. We have every reason to be agitated and lose patience in suffering if there is no life after death. How many long hours we sometimes wait in visa issuing offices to travel overseas! How much we rejoice when the visa is finally stamped on our passports! How much more patient should we be today for the glory land we would enter tomorrow! Yes, that is why Paul says in Romans 8:18 “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”

When we lose patience in any situation, virtues leave us one by one, and vices lift up their ugly heads. We suddenly realize that we have spoken detestable words which are too many to be taken back. If we are quiet and confident, we can declare as Job declared in Job 23:10, “God knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold.”

8] Rewards of Patience and remorse of impatience we learn from The Bible!

Abraham complicated matters and delayed the fulfilment of God’s promises because of his impatience.

Moses’ impatience cost him entry into the Land of Promise.

Jacob’s shortcuts and schemes were ultimately to his disadvantage.

Joseph’s patience for many long years was rewarded with glorious exaltation.

The young widow Ruth won the heart of Boaz because she waited patiently according to her mother-in-law’s instructions.

King Saul lost his crown and anointing because of impatience.

David waited patiently for his time and God made him the most celebrated King of Israel.

Elisha patiently served Prophet Elijah and received the mantle of double anointing.

Nehemiah patiently continued his work in spite of threats and discouragements, and completed the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem for the glory of God and the good of His people.

The patient trust and confidence of Mordecai on the God of Salvation brought joy and honour to the Jews.

Daniel’s patience in prayer brought splendid revelations of the endtime.

Because of impatience Prophet Jonah was out of step with the God of patience.

The patience of Jesus as we observe in the Gospels, is amazing. He was patience personified. No wonder the most beloved disciple called himself as the “companion of the patience of Jesus” (Rev. 1:9).

Remember, there will be no Bible history if God had not been patient. He never gave up on man. The repentances of every sinner celebrates the patience of God in the portals of Heaven.

Remember, no other virtue like patience needs so much patience to cultivate it. When we lose patience, we lose everything. All the good things we have done can be destroyed by one act of impatience.

Shall we declare as Paul says in Romans 5:2(b)-5 ”And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”?

Shall we make following confessions as we go through the furnace of suffering and fires of testing?

Shall we praise God for everything?

Shall we accept whatever God allows in our lives?

Shall we open to corrections by God?

Shall we humble ourselves as we are unworthy of God’s favour?

Shall we trust our God in darkness too?

Shall we serve our God with whole heart though He slays us?

Shall we look forward to the future glory as Job saw in his vision?

Shall we confess as Psalmist that it was good for us to be afflicted so that we might learn God’s decrees?

Shall we glorify our Lord in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope as hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us?

Let us Pray: Heavenly Gracious Father, we thank you for helping us to understand about “What to speak when we suffer as we will have to give account of it in the day of judgement” Lord. Please help us to praise you for ever thing happening in our lives, to accept whatever You allow in our lives, to open ourselves for corrections, to humble ourselves before you Lord, to trust you in our darkest moments as well Lord, to serve you with our whole heart though you slay us Lord and to look forward to the future glory Lord when you come. Please help us to be patient and stand firm as the Lord’s coming is so near and run our race by fixing our eyes on you Lord. We give all praise, glory and honour to your Holy Name Lord. In Jesus name we pray. Amen.

God bless you all..

[divinediva13-blog]

Alcoholism

Tonight I want to talk about the affects of Alcoholism and how this impacts Relationships. Before I met my current partner I was with a Man who abstained from Alcohol - Why? Because his Mother was an Alcoholic and he didn’t like what he saw and grew up with - And didn’t want to take the same path as his Mother. 

Many people who choose not to drink alcohol do so for the same reasons - or have seen the severe affects alcohol can induce on the human psyche. 

Growing up I enjoyed nothing more than having a nice cold bourbon at the pub. My Mother did not drink a lot but would drink on occasions, and I guess through my upbringing I knew that getting ‘blind’ wasn’t necessary and was able to have a few drinks here and there without issue. 

When I broke up with my ex partner I met a Man who ticked all of the boxes I wanted in my ideal man. He was charming, he was sweet, flirtatious, easy going , fun loving and very persistent. He and I were also quite drunk the night we met, celebrating a Public Holiday at one of the local pubs in our city. 

Until this point in my life I alcoholism did not directly impact my life. My ex and I had other issues that split us apart, such his lack of motivation and inability to hold down a decent job. It put pressure on our relationship and as a result we split. 

Meeting my new man, and looking to live a ‘new’ life with a fresh start, I recall our first date and him cooking me a glamorous meal and bought over a bottle of champagne. Although by rule of thumb I would not drink with my meals let alone throughout the week, I let my guard down and chose to enjoy the romantic moment in my fresh start. 

That following weekend he came to my house, and he bought with him 3 beers to sit down and drink to watch the footy. This concept was very new to me as I had been with a non-drinker for most of my adult life up until this point. 

I recall thinking to myself that I needed to lighten up as people have social drinks all of the time, and yes I did enjoy a drink or two at times, maybe I had become uptight given my ex-partners alcoholic mother and the values it imposed on him. 

The following week he came to stay and bought over a carton of beer. I was okay with it - after all he had demonstrated sensible drinking behaviours on the occasions I had spent time with him. 

This is where it all began. 

To get to the crux of the matter that I want to talk about, over a period of 3-6 months I progressively noticed his increased drinking habits. 

He worked a 7am - 4pm job and I worked night shift - from 1pm to 11pm. 

The hours we spent together (as he had moved into my unit) consisted of early mornings and late evenings from 11.30am onward. 

Due to the fact I wasn’t home in the afternoon once he had finished work, I didn’t have a problem with him coming home and having a few beers. Understandably I also recognized that by the time I got home, he was extremely tired as he had been up since 7am that morning. However - I started to notice that it wasn’t just tiredness that was making him fall asleep on the lounge before I got home everynight - he was drinking a lot of alcohol while I wasn’t there. 

During the week when I would arrive home, we would have a small conversation and he would pop himself off to bed, which was cool with me. I recall our first argument. It took me completely by surprise. 

It was his sisters birthday and we had been invited to the pub to have dinner and drinks to celebrate. 

I had an early/late shift that night. The dinner started at 7pm and I finished at 9pm. We spoke on the phone that afternoon and I recall him saying to me that he was happy to skip dinner, wait until I came home and we would go there together to have a few drinks after the dinner. I thought it was sweet. 

I came home that evening pumped to go out and spend some time with him and his family - I found a note on the table - it was quite abusive hence the reason I was taken by surprise. 

It stated something along the lines of his brother had come over, they decided to leave early (which was fine with me) and that he didn’t want any bullshit or for me to have a problem with it. And if I did - I could basically go get fucked. 

Not once that night did I have a conversation with him about him leaving early of me having a problem with it. What I did have a problem with was the note he had left me and the abusive message. 

I recall trying to phone him to find out what was going on. At first I honestly thought it was a joke. He didn’t answer his phone. It created an enormous amount of anxiety for me. I felt helpless, confused and unsure of what I had done to deserve this kind of treatment. 

He pocket dialled me by accident - I could hear music in the background and him talking loudly. I thought he had attempted to call me but soon realised what had happened. 

I tried him multiple times again - and finally he picked up. I asked him what the hell was going on, why he had left the note, and where he was. Little did I know at the time he had been drinking all afternoon - was totally innebriated and out of nowhere a rage kicked in. 

He didn’t tell me where he was, he told me he didn’t want me to ruin his night and that he had every right to be out celebrating his sisters birthday without shit from me. 

I was dumbfounded - I had no understanding of where his train of thought came from, why he thought that and why he was being so aggressive toward me. 

I worked out there were only a few venues in town where he could be. Normally I would have just stopped it right there and hung up but I was so upset I wasn’t sure why this had happened and wanted to confront him. 

I found him at one of the local bars - I recall walking up the stairs and he was surrounded by women. He turned over and saw me and then said in a loud voice ‘oh oh - and there she is right now’. 

He had been talking about me to his sisters friends. And he was blind drunk. 

I was embarrassed and furious - we argued in front of his sister and her friends. I felt terrible about causing a scene but just could not understand why he had treated me this way. 

That was the very first time. It ended in a loud argument outside the front of the venue followed by me actually punching him in the face. He was vicious - I was sober. I don’t condone violence either. I soon learned you don’t fuck with a man who is completely drunk and has a trigger switch. 

The next morning... 

He apologised profusely and so remorsefully. I accepted it. It was our first big fight but I had to voice my opinion and ask all the hard questions of how it all eventuated. His response - “I don’t know - It was stupid - I was drunk - I’m sorry - It will never happen again.”

These words have become all too familiar in our continuing relationship over the last 10 years.

I’m not going to go into every single event that has happened in this particular post. There are too many to name. 

Skipping forward to tonight - So it is his sisters 30th birthday. 

We have many periods of abstinence drinking alcohol during our time together. Over the last month we have been drinking on a Saturday night at home - having a games night with a female friend I reconnected with recently. It has been tame, controlled and the nights have been full of fun and many laughs. 

Again - I begin to think to myself - I can trust You. We have rebuilt our trust and set our boundaries and expectations around alcohol and I’m comfortable with you going out on your own and drinking without me. (which is usually the better outcome)

I dropped him off to the venue this afternoon and asked him to be on his best behavior and reiterated my anxieties about him drinking and for him to take these feelings into consideration. He promised me he would not have a late night and would be home by 6.30pm for dinner and a quiet night. 

We are quite broke this week so I believed sincerely that he would do the right thing, make an appearance and have a few beers and come home. 

Each time he has made these promises they turn awry. It never works out the way it is planned and this is from past experiences. 

But silly me holds hope that THIS time - Things are going to be different. 

THIS TIME he is going to respect our conversation and agreement - this time he KNOWS how these things go down, has learnt his lesson from past experiences and won’t let me down on his promise to me. 

Stupid Me. 

I hated myself this afternoon when I dropped him off. In my mind I did doubt him - then I beat myself up for thinking so negatively and being so untrusting of him. I think to myself ‘You are the one with the problem - Not him’. Have faith in him. 

He let me down. 

I dropped him off at 4.45pm this afternoon - It is now 2am in the morning and I’m sitting here writing this post. He’s still not home, and it’s starting to look like he probably won’t come home. 

My gut instinct told me this afternoon this would happen - And I didn’t listen to it. 

Fool me once - Shame on You - Fool me 20 times Shame on Me. 

I feel like a fool. 

After almost 10 years he still cannot commit to me. I should have known the first time. Quotes like ‘A leopard will never change his spots’ come to mind. 

Do I tolerate it? Do I keep silent? Do I confront him about it. 

His Alcoholism has had him locked in jail, he has ended up in assaults and has recently finished community service for his most recent. 

When he is not drinking, he works hard, strives to be sweet and attentive, is extremely creative and I’m aware he lacks self confidence. 

I don’t know what to do now. I feel lost, abandoned and am losing hope. 

I’m of the belief that not one single person will read my post tonight - Leaving my thought to float about the internet like a lost butterfly. But if you happen to stumble across it, I ask your opinion - What would you do.?: Because I don’t know.... 

Divine Diva