#i the player (desperately) want sunny to have nice things

[astranauticus]

brb im gonna go find a place to Scream

[some-kindofgnome]

you turn me on (i’m a radio)

bokuto comes over one night midweek while you’ve got the apartment to yourself. after a mishap with his favourite volleyball shorts, you take advantage of the privacy.

c: koutarou bokuto x reader

wc: 5.4k

tags: smut (18+ please!), college au, aged-up characters, oral sex (both receiving), praise kink, begging, soft and sloppy sex feat. bo the horny simp giving u the creampie of ur life, body worship if u squint

notes: bo has a fat ass and I have a praise kink. that is all. oh, wait, i should also mention that this is mostly unedited. so if u see typos feel free to point em out! thx 💕

the song this bit is named after is so sweet and sunny & makes me think of bo all the time, so give it a listen if you’d care to! ☀️

ALSO forgot to mention that this was inspired by a tiktok i saw like a million years ago where this girl was helping her boyfriend get out of his too-small rugby shorts. it has been lost to the ether but you better BELIEVE if i ever find it again i’ll be linking it here

EDIT: @karikarasuno​ the absolute ANGEL has scoured the internet and found the tiktok in question.  p l e a s e go and watch it, u will not regret 😌

(MASTERLIST)

“’Kay, okay, I’m going!”

Bokuto tears himself from the tender press of your mouth in one fell swoop. As he whirls away with a tempted giggle, he combs his fingers through his mussed-and-sweaty hair. Practice was only two hours tonight, but he still doesn’t want to leave your side even long enough to shower.

You’ve only been dating for a few months, still lingering in that phase of every new relationship that feels too good to last. Your emotional involvement in one another deepens by the day, but you never fight. And you have a shamefully difficult time keeping yourself away from him. On a weeknight like this with no big assignments to speak of, you should be catching up on your readings, your chores, or even your sleep. But when you passed Bo in the quad earlier, pausing in your walk to class for a hi and a kiss, you’d invited him over before you could even stop yourself.

He’s nice to be around. Pleasant, unhindering. Even if you wanted to finish some readings or do some laundry while he’s over, he’s happy to be idle in your company. He is infuriatingly patient and understanding sometimes, compared to the slew of demanding, needy boyfriends that came before him.  

You watch him retreat into the safety of your bedroom, grinning like a fool. He’s fresh out of practice and practically dripping in sweat, dried from the walk you shared from the athletic center. Your evening class that night wrapped up around the same time as his practice, and when you passed the gym doors on your way home, he was already loitering on the steps with his teammates. Instead of pretending he didn’t see you or offering you a casual, passing nod like you expected, he practically bounded down the wide concrete steps and introduced you gleefully to the pack of volleyball players behind him who already knew you well.

There was no way you were letting him go all the way home to shower first. Not when he’s never minded smelling like your orange-and-sandalwood shower gel in the first place.

Once he’s disappeared, you give a yawn and a deep stretch and haul ass off the couch, padding into the kitchen to tidy up the snacks you shared on the way in the door.

You’ve barely got the first plates in the sink before a muffled babe? from the bedroom gives you pause.

“Bo?” You call back, setting your handful down and trying to keep your brow from furrowing too deeply. “You okay?”

“Can you… um…” His response starts off strong, louder than before, but it dwindles into a dull, unintelligible mutter that sounds uncertain enough to send you away from the kitchen.

You gently shoulder the bedroom door open, frowning at his broad shape, silhouetted in the shadowy bathroom doorway from the light behind him. “What’s the matter?”

Feeling along the wall for the light switch, you illuminate the pot lights over your bed.

Bokuto’s cheeks are gently flushed as he waddles toward you with his thumbs dug into the waistband of his volleyball shorts. The fabric is tough and certainly seems clingy, but there’s a strain in his neck and shoulders that takes you a minute to pin down.

“I can’t…” he starts to say, trailing off, then pulls his hands out of his shorts and drops them to his side with a heavy, defeated sigh.

“They’re stuck.”

You force the corners of your mouth downward, tightening the line of your mouth to keep the mirth locked firmly in your throat.

“I can see that.”

He’s been hitting the gym hard lately, shoving down the calories to try and bulk up a little for the upcoming tournament season. And while you know he’s been putting on some weight, since he tells you just about everything, it never occurred to you that he might be bulking up quick enough to outgrow his favourite shorts.

Bo lets out a quiet little whine, digging a thumb into the waistband one more time and prompting you to step forward.

“How stuck are you?” You reach for him. He turns sideways, twisting his chin over one shoulder to try and assess the situation from every plausible angle.

Oh. You slap a hand to your mouth.

The waistband is rolled down around his hips and already strained to its absolute limit, stuck on the sharp swell of his butt and already compressing the flesh in a way that looks genuinely painful. He’s wearing a pair of tight white compression shorts underneath the uniform shorts in question, but they’re not doing much to aid the situation, either.

You’re eager to get him out of those shorts for several reasons now.

“Alright.” You try to keep your voice low, stepping up to his front and gently laying your hands on the stiff cotton roll at his hips. “Let me just-“

“I don’t know what happened,” he whines, slotting his hands on top of yours and squirming in between them. “They were hard to get on, but-“

“Don’t worry,” you interrupted softly. “We’ll get them off you one way or another.”

The fearful reflection of your sharpest kitchen scissors in his eyes suggests that he believes you.

Your first two attempts are about as successful as Bokuto’s solo endeavours. First, you wedge your hands into the fabric at his sides while he pushes from the front and back, but you give a hard shove while he lets up on the tension and his elbow very nearly connects with your nose, so you try a different approach.

Coming round to his backside, you dig your hands into the space between his uniform shorts and the tight spandex that holds what’s left of his modesty.

“Okay,” you pant, already a little breathless after dodging Bokuto’s flying elbows. “What if I-“

“Hang on,” he prompts, but it’s too late. You wind up and jump as hard as you can, using the downward force generated to try and shove the confining waistband down over his hips. It slides down another couple of inches, and inspiration flares in your chest as Bokuto turns over one shoulder, sweating.

“It’s working!” Your voice comes shrill with excitement, and before he can stop you you’re jumping again, shoving even harder this time. You meet resistance this time, and before you can clue in to what’s pushing back Bokuto howls in pain and doubles over, clasping his palms between his thighs.

“Oh, fuck, baby, I’m sorry.” You drop to one knee beside him as he descends into pained laughter.

“’S alright,” he promises, “I didn’t want kids that bad, anyway.”

You can’t help the snort that bubbles forward from your chest. Bo straightens slowly as his pain fades, but you stay on your knees, determined to get him undressed without resorting to textile violence.

Determination settles heavy and proud across your shoulders. You look up through your brows at him and when your eyes meet, his cheeks pink softly.

“We got this.”

Bokuto’s throat bobs. He nods shallowly and pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

You slip your hands into his shorts again, rolling them slowly down his thighs. Bokuto averts his eyes, letting out another audible gulp. Just when you’re starting to get somewhere, his hips twitch and he shifts his weight restlessly from one leg to the other.

“Stand still,” you scold, giving his hip a little slap. His breath hitches, hands flinching forward as he dips his torso backward.

“Um,” he pants. When you look up at him again, his neck and ears are bright red and he’s got his eyes trained firmly on the Star Wars poster hanging above your desk.

You level your gaze and realize two things.

1) Bokuto’s not wearing anything under his white compression shorts.

2) Apparently, your little scare wasn’t nearly as painful for him as he let on.

“Babe,” you tease. “I’m flattered, really.”

“C’mon!” He protests, scraping his fingers through the wild strands of his sweat-clumped hair. “What’d you think was gonna happen if you got down there all…”

“All what?” You lean forward without thinking, nuzzling the spandex that sits in the groove between his hip and his thigh. He groans deeply, letting his head fall back. His cock, thickening at the base, is still restrained tightly by the waistband of his shorts. You can practically see it throb into its confines, and his groan pinches tight with discomfort.

“Baby, please.” He’s wound his hands tightly in the front of his t-shirt by now, rucking it up over his belly for some way to dispel the tension. “Get ‘em off. Please.”

“You’re not exactly making it easier.”

A desperate whine from over your head suggests that maybe the time for jokes is passing. You abandon all coyness and tuck your hand under the weight of his balls, gently tugging down on the waistband and freeing all of him from its confining pressure. Bokuto gasps and lets his hips swing forward, but his dick swells quickly to fill its new, spandex restraint and you figure you’d better work quickly.

“God, this is really turning you on, isn’t it?” You can’t help the eagerness in your tone as you attack the swell of his hips one last time. With all his sensitive parts in the clear you don’t have to hold back, wedging and wrenching until the widest part of his pelvis is free and the shorts drop to the floor with a soft little triumphant rustle.

Bokuto groans like he’d just been strapped to a time bomb, stepping out of the fabric and kicking it towards the door. He drops the hem of his shirt and reaches for you, but you’re already leaning in to nose against the crook of his thigh some more, peeling down the stretchy, forgiving top of his compression shorts.

“Wh- babe.” He flushes. “I haven’t showered-“

“Don’t care,” you hum, entranced by the hypnotic length of his shaft, white spandex stretched sheer and dabbed with wet at the tip. “Want to taste you.”

“Are you s- oh, you’re sure.” His hands surge forward, this time soothing lovingly over the crown of your head as you tug the stretchy fabric down to his knees. His cock bobs eagerly against one thigh, unaffected by its confining endeavour, and you lean in and seal your mouth against the seam of his groin, where his shaft meets his body.

He is bulky and broad, thick cords of muscle and fat spanning his thighs and torso. His thighs and pelvis are dusted all over with wiry silver hair, and you bury your nose into the trimmed patch of it over his cock, licking eagerly at his soft skin.

Above you, Bokuto shudders hard enough to buckle his knees while you trace your hand up the stiff length of him. You’re trying your best to hide just how deeply you want to breathe him in, the addicting musk of his sweat filling your brain and sending deep throbs of arousal straight to your pussy.

“So hard,” you groan into his hip, “just from letting me get on my knees for you?”  

He draws a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing at the back of your head as his eyelashes flutter. His face is beet red from nose to hairline now.

“W-well, what else was I s’posed to- with you lookin’…” He is borderline incoherent, and you haven’t even put your mouth on him yet.

Adorable.

“You smell so good,” you murmur without thinking, flicking your eyes to his quickly when you realize what you’ve said. But it only serves to push his own arousal further, cock throbbing palpably between your fingers as he curses quietly through his teeth.

“Please,” he groans, letting his head roll back. “Don’t tease.”

You can’t deny a request as pleasantly worded as that.

After planting one more teasing kiss along the plane of his shaft, you draw back to his tip and give your tongue an enthusiastic flick, dipping it into his weeping slit. He yelps, and you swallow him down before he can ride out the shock, making him shiver. You can feel the tremor racking all the way down the column of his spine, his toes curling on the floor by your knees.

When you start to bob your head, his jaw goes completely slack. You’re learning to love the way he doesn’t hold back with you, a point made obvious by the expressions crossing his face as you settle into a steady rhythm. You can’t fit his entire length- impressive, not that he knows it- into your throat, but when you grip the base of his shaft with one hand and the spit from your throat drips eagerly between your fingers, he practically goes cross-eyed.

You fight the urge to smile around him, leaning into the way he fusses and grips at your skull.

“Nggh, babe, not gonna last long… when… suckin’ like that.” He’s grabbing your head with both hands, rocking his hips tightly forward in time with your gaudy slurping. You’re drooling all over your hand, spit dripping obscenely down your chin and onto the hardwood, but his whimpers are growing to obscene levels, punctuated by deep, chesty growls and quiet, slurred praise.

There’s no way you’re going to back off now.

You’ve been with Bo long enough to know his tells, so when his thighs start twitching and his voice pitches from his chest into his throat, you re-double your efforts, intensifying his pleasure until he’s howling and panting like a beast, rocking tightly into your mouth with his abs drawn tight as a bow.

“Ohhh, babe, lemme cum on your tits,” he pleads, slurring every syllable together as he looks down at you with unimaginable bliss mounting in his gaze. “Please, please, please, your tits, lemme cum on ‘em.”

With a smirk touching one corner of your mouth, you drop your free hand between his thighs. Until now it had been braced delicately on his hip, gently mitigating the wild bucks and twitches of his body giving into ecstasy. But you’d picked up one little trick that never failed to boost him over the edge- and send him falling that much further as a result.

As you draw your mouth back from his twitching cock, you close your free hand around the heavy sack of his balls- drawn up tight to his thighs in preparation for his orgasm- and give the supple skin a gentle little tug while you arch your back and jerk him off against the swell of your chest.

Bo’s voice shoots up a twelve-tone as his hands slide from your hair to your cheeks. His fingers tremble as he cups your face, throwing his head back with a wild yowl and wildly humping your fist. The first long spurt of his cum hits you square in the throat, dripping down between your collarbones and soaking the neckline of your tank top as he rides out the powerful waves of his climax. By the time it’s over, his thighs are shaking hard, tough lines of muscle standing out against the silver hair while his cock dribbles ripe streams right down your shirt.

He deflates with a heavy, heady sigh, falling to one knee in front of you and keeping your face gathered between his palms.

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he moans, leaning in to capture your mouth and dip his tongue sloppily against yours. As soon as he’s found your lips he skates his hands down your shoulders to your breasts, lovingly cupping and thumbing the tightening buds of your nipples where thick shots of his cum are soaking into the white cotton. You can’t help the shaky little sigh that catches at the back of your throat, or the aching way you lean into his touch.

“G’nna-“ he cuts himself off, dipping his face into your throat. He licks into the tender column of your windpipe, bringing one big palm to the back of your neck to hold your head steady while he tucks his chin in and tastes the wet stripes of his cum that paint your décolletage. You’re not exactly sure what to expect, but the long, wet groan he lets into your chest is a pleasant surprise. He slides his hands from your neck to your shoulders to your sides and up the plane of your back, drawing you closer while he laps the mess from your collarbones and neckline.

“C’mon,” he mumbles into the swell of your left breast. “Gotta taste all of you.”

He slips his arms underneath you, lifting you with little more than a quiet grunt of effort as he gets to his feet. He holds you lovingly against his chest, striding slowly across the room and depositing you onto the bed with a smooth little bounce.

You hardly have the space to catch your breath before he braces a knee on the mattress beside you and leans down for another taste of your lips, kissing you slow and loving and skating a palm down your front. He slips his fingers into the waistband of your leggings, slipping his fingertips across your clit and making you yelp. Chuckling into your mouth, he dips his fingers lower and gasps.

“God,” he sighs. “Shoulda known you were holding out on me.” He sinks his middle finger into your clingy depths while he catches your mouth under his one more time. You’ve been unable to form coherent thoughts, let alone words, pinned sensuously under his touch, but as he curls his fingers against the restrictive insides of your leggings, you whine deep and slow into his mouth, arching your back to push your hips into his touch.

He doesn’t linger, drawing his hand from you and curling it in the waistband of your leggings instead. You’re slipping your fingers under the hem of your soiled tank top, pulling it up to expose the bare swell of your breasts.

“Let me?” He poses it like a question, pulling your leggings and underwear down and fluttering a kiss to the newly exposed skin below your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, already planting your feet in the fluffy sheets to lift your hips and help him undress you.

He pulls your leggings and underwear down over your hips in one smooth motion, pulling just a little harder than necessary to make you gasp and giggle. Your ass lands on the mattress all at once, punctuated by another handful of mirth that you can’t keep contained.

Bo’s grinning down at you as he balls up your clothes and tosses them toward the hamper like a mid-court basket shot. He doesn’t wait to find out if they made it, though, settling himself between your knees and gathering your hips into his arms.

“So soft,” he purrs, kissing the velvet skin of your tummy.

“Bo,” you whine. It’s your turn in the hot seat, and now the idea of teasing isn’t half as appealing as it was when you were on your knees.

“What? You don’t want me to take my time with you?”

You groan, letting your head flop back against the pillows as your eyes slip shut. Now that he’s got you bare, with his breath puffing hot and wanting over your tender skin, it’s hard to focus on anything but what you want.

“Don’t be mean,” you whine, but the hot press of his tongue on your inner thigh shuts you up fast. He moans low and rumbly against the damp of your skin, sinking his teeth gently into the fat of your thigh and giving a noisy suck.

“You’re so ready for it,” he muses, eyes darting sideways to admire your weeping slit. The buzz of his voice shoots right down the column of your spine, vibrating pleasantly at the base of your tailbone and sending goosebumps racing up your torso.

“Man,” Bo sighs, planting one hand on each thigh and pushing them apart. “You must really like suckin’ me off, huh?”

“I swear,” you grit. “I’m never touching your dick again if you don’t-“

He doesn’t waste another minute, leaning down and sealing his mouth greedily over your slit. The payoff is there for both of you, if the sound he makes when he dips his tongue between your folds is anything to go by.

The relief comes on swift wings as soon as he lets his tongue wander, stoking the fire that had been burning dangerously low and hot in your gut. Your thighs twitch in toward his ears while he tastes your messy slit, but his palms are as strong as shackles, keeping you open and vulnerable for him.

Bo prods his tongue forward, pressing inward as far as he can with a tiny little strained groan of effort. You cry out and clamp down around his tongue like a vice, a reaction he feels so vividly it makes him whip back from your body with a laugh.

“Don’t stopppp,” you plead, but his face is already disappearing between your thighs again, and you wrap your fingers in the hem of your tank top while he re-focuses his efforts on your swollen clit. He’s pressing his hips forward in a slow tempo that matches the patterns he tongues between your thighs, softly humping the mattress in time with your pleasure.

You’re sensitive and ready for him, stomach tightening smoothly when he settles into a rhythm. His technique is sloppy but he makes up for it in eagerness, pausing only to take deep breaths through his nose. He smiles into your skin and you can feel the way his mouth twitches against you, making you arch your back and slide one hand between your legs to rake through the silvery strands of his mussed hair. He grunts hard against your clit and you jump, giving him the chance to slip his hands under your thighs and hook them over his shoulders.

When he swallows you down this time, there’s something in the changed angle that drives pleasure straight down your back, letting it reverberate all the way into your toes. You flinch hard between his hands, and as he settles back into his messy, enthusiastic rhythm, you feel the telltale twinges of your building climax.

“Bo-“ you choke on his name.

He flicks his gaze to yours and his eyes flash, bright and golden. He knows your tells, too, and he sinks his fingers into the fat of your thighs, re-doubling his efforts and sucking a languid rhythm into your needy clit.

“Fuck,” you sputter. “Fuck, f-fuck, I-ah-“

Your mouth drops open, but the scream dies in your throat as white-hot pleasure bursts through your veins. Bokuto is heartbreakingly persistent, keeping up his ministrations while you claw at his hair and clamp your thighs down around his temples and ride the waves of your orgasm as gracefully as possible. By the time the sharp, burning pleasure’s raked its way through you, all your limbs have gone tense, and when it’s over you collapse, sweat-soaked, to the sheets beneath you.

Bo’s trembling between your legs, and when he surfaces his cheeks and ears are maroon. His cock is still twitching against his belly, bobbing as he gets onto his knees and still weeping long streams of spend.

“Oh.” The word flies from your throat before you can trap it, and he rubs your thighs soothingly with both hands as he takes a shaky, cleansing breath.

“You’re so-“ he starts to say, but you reach for him and he’s got no choice but to dip his cheek into your palm, flushing even deeper at the open way you stare.

“C’mere,” you prompt. Bo takes the bait and flops forward, landing stomach-first on the bed beside you and pillowing his head between your slick breasts. The position ought to be comical, but the weight of him is immensely soothing, rising and falling with the even pulse of your laboured breath.

You lie that way for a long while, staring vacantly past your reflection in the dark window beside your bed. The nighttime chill radiates through the glass, cooling your heated flesh. Your body aches with the fresh sensations of climax, but you’re not ready to put your clothes on yet.

“Bo.”

“Hmm?” It never occurred to you that he might be half-asleep until he winds himself upright, blinking weighty silver lashes against his still-blushing cheeks.

Still, you know how to wake him up. The conspiratory grin that touches your mouth is completely involuntary, and it’s enough to have Bokuto cocking a tired brow.

“Can I ride your cock?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything at all. His eyes grow slowly bigger, focus drifting away from your face as his jaw drops. Literally.

“Bo? Baby?”

“Y- b- I… h-“ he sputters, blinking hard and shaking out his sweaty hair. He looks up at you again with an expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Like a kid at the zoo.

“Right now?”

You can’t hold back a snort, shoulders pitching forward. But he’s not kidding.

Neither are you.

You raise your eyebrows. “Is that a yes?”

By the time he rolls over, his cock’s already half-hard again, swelling against the strong cord of his right thigh. He sits up, scooting himself comfortably back against your bed’s stacked pillows. And when he reaches for you, you’re already rooting through the nightstand for supplies.

Bo’s a big dude, in every conceivable way. And while he’s never exactly been shy about that fact, he’s also painfully aware of the fact that with great power comes great responsibility. So when you start to warm a dollop of chilly water-based lube between your fingers, he doesn’t flinch.

“Mmmf.” He pushes his hips into your hands as you wrap them around his shaft, letting him swell into your palms while you slick him up. He’s still tender from before, and when you shift onto your knees your clit’s still tensing with leftover pleasure, but you’re buzzing with want. It hangs thick and heavy in the air between you. You’re unwilling to let it dissipate until you’re both completely satisfied.

By the time you’ve got the lube spread evenly from his base to his tip, Bo’s fully hard for you again, flushed and panting and grabbing at your hips as you scoot forward to straddle him. His impatience should probably bother you, but at this point it’s just endearing.

“Hmm, you’re so close,” you say, leaning forward to brush your lips against his. His mouth drops open as you bring his tip to your ready sex. Your pussy clamps involuntarily around the swell of his weeping head, and you’re panting into each others’ mouths as your hips sink slowly backward. The fill of him presses up into your belly, and you bottom out with a little flinch of discomfort, settling your thighs over his. He’s long enough that it actually hurts to take him in all the way like this, but you’re willing to put up with it for a minute while you get adjusted.

“Look at you.” Bokuto’s eyes rake up and down your trembling form, keeping time with his strong palms that rub soothing circles into the flesh of your hips. You shift a little, making him twitch and grunt. His thighs strain, struggling to keep from bucking upward against your tender cervix.

He lets out a deep, shaky sigh through pursed lips. “You’re so f-fucking perfect, you know that?”

You’re concentrating on tucking your knees underneath you for proper leverage, but he never fails to make you smile.

“I haven’t even started moving yet,” you breathe, bracing one hand on his shoulder. Once you’re stabilized, you lift your hips slowly forward, letting the thickness of him pull slowly from your slick depths. Bokuto’s head falls back against the pillows, beet red with exertion already.

“God,” he groans, bringing one hand around to your ass. “More, baby.”

You swallow hard, grip his hips tightly between your knees, and swirl your hips in a careful, tight little circle. It’s a subtle movement from the outside, but where you’re joined it rubs the thick ridge of his tip along all your tenderest nerve endings, sending powerful surges of pleasure vibrating into your chest.

Bokuto’s feeling it, too, the hard angles of his jaw standing out as he clenches his teeth. His silvery lashes rest heavily over his flushed cheeks, giving you little more than a bare peek of his dark, tawny eyes with the pupils blown wide in ecstasy.

“Just like that,” he prompts when you angle your hips forward, pinning your abused clit against his pubic bone and continuing to grind greedily over his shaft. He interrupts your rhythm with a sharp little pat to your ass, making your hips jump forward and giving him an opening to lower his chin and seal his mouth in the crook of your shoulder.

“Fu-uck,” you whine, looping both arms under his and clutching tightly at his back as your rhythm grows more urgent. You know how to work yourself to the peak easily, using his powerful body and thick cock to your every advantage.

“You’re close already,” he pants in your ear. “Oh, man, I can feel it. Don’t-“ His hips jerk backward, choking him on a surge of pleasure that washes over both of you.

“Don’t hold back for me, baby. I c’n… take it, yeah, that’s it.”

The low rumble of his voice in your ear reverberates all the way down to the pit of your stomach, cocktailing with the pleasure you’re grinding out yourself, and when he grabs your ass with both hands and rocks his tip against the gooey-sweet spot on your upper wall, you’re lost.

“Bo,” you whimper, grabbing tightly at the muscles in his back as your thighs start to shake. “Fuck, oh, fuck, ohfuck-“

The peak crests quietly between you, but quickly bleeds into every limb. You’re powerless to do anything but cling to him and whine in his ear as your hips stutter and twitch and grind over his stirring cock. Just when you think the wave is subsiding, Bokuto glides his hips beneath yours again and draws it out into a tight, near-painful shudder. Your vision whites out, then flashes black as you squeeze your eyes shut and lose yourself to the pleasure.

“Fuck.” Bo’s cursing as you come back to the surface, humping shallowly into your spent body. The lube you used squelches obscenely with the handfuls of slick your climax brought forth, numbing your used insides to his desperate thrusts. “Fuck, you’re so- you’re so- ohgod, inside, I-“

He goes completely incoherent as he finds his own pleasure, shoving his hips tightly against yours. His balls draw tight beneath you, thighs twitching as thick, heady warmth fills your belly. You’re addicted to the fullness he leaves in you without fail, the mess between you when he goes slack and you draw your hips backward to let his falling erection slide out of you.

Your roommate’ll be back from the library at any second. You should be getting up and dressing yourselves, making some attempt at feigning innocence before she comes in. But the bedroom door is closed and it’s far too easy to tumble back into the haphazard embrace from before, cum collecting sticky and hot between your thighs as Bokuto buries his face between your tits.

“D’you think they’ll stretch?” he mumbles into your skin, once your pulse has finally slowed to its regular pace.

“Hmm?” In your pleasure-addled haze, you don’t follow. Bokuto lifts his face from your flesh, resting his chin gently on your sternum.

“My shorts.”

Right.

“Uh-“ You have to purse your lips hard, to keep the dumb smile from showing on them. You take a slow pass of air in through your nose and lift your fingers to comb soothingly through his sweaty hair.

“We’ll make them fit,” you promise. “Somehow.”

Before he buries his face in your chest again, you catch the pure, blissed smile that stretches his cheeks. He slips his eyes shut, nuzzling you tenderly and kissing the swell of one breast.

“Good,” he sighs. And then, bare-assed, sweaty and sticky, he falls asleep.

You spy the shorts, still lying in a crumpled heap by the bathroom door. You make a mental note to check the brand and sizing later, before he leaves.

You’ll make then fit again.

Somehow.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Twenty-Eight

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: the beginning of the end :,) if u made it this far i think ur cool

***

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” Lana asks.

Nesta closes her eyes, letting the picture swirl and take shape in her mind.

This time last year, she would have imagined nothing. Nothing but a desk in a busy law office, and maybe a nice apartment if she was lucky. That would be it. But now she sees…

“Somewhere with good food and good music,” she muses. “Maybe a sea breeze.” The sun-faded buildings of Portofino fade into the foreground of her imagination. “There are lots of people with me,” she hears the sound of children shrieking and Cassian’s rumbling laughter, “but it’s okay, because I love every one of them.” Her eyes open. “Is that a good answer?”

A near invisible smile tugs at the corners of Lana’s lips. “You tell me, Nesta. Do you like what you see?”

“It’s a little too cinematic if you ask me,” Nesta says nonchalantly, picking up her bag from the ground, “but I suppose all dreams are that way.”

“It’s a good dream,” Lana says. “A worthy dream, and one you deserve to chase.”

Nesta shrugs lightly, not too worried about the burden of the future for once. “Maybe I will.”

“In that case, congratulations on completing your final therapy session,” Lana says, setting her notebook aside. “You’ve made some amazing progress this year.”

Nesta gives her therapist her signature what’s-wrong-with-you look. “I’m going on vacation, not firing you for good. I’ll see you again in two months.”

“Two months can be enough to lose all your progress, if you forget everything you went through to get here.”

Nesta isn’t stupid. She knows that she isn’t suddenly desperate to make babies or be maid of honor at her sisters’ weddings or some bullshit. She knows that the image she just dreamed up, with Cassian and kids and her unburdened heart, is likely more than five years away. If it happens at all, it could be ten, even twenty years of hard work away.

She’s not nearly finished growing yet. “I’ll see you in two months, Lana,” she repeats.

Lana smiles at her fully this time. “Enjoy your summer, Nesta.”

***

The air is different in the Smokies.

Nesta rolls the truck windows down so she can inhale it, relish it. Wind whips her hair every which way as they drive down the winding freeway cutting through the lush mountains, and something about the look on her face makes Cassian chuckle and press down on the accelerator.

Nesta watches the red needle on the speedometer cross ninety, then one hundred. She can barely feel the June heat with how fast they’re going.

In the end, it was Feyre and Elain that reached out and invited her to the Tennessee summer home. Cassian had made it obvious that he wouldn’t push her to go if she didn’t want to, and at first she really didn’t want to. But Feyre had looked so hopeful when she asked Nesta to come with them, and even Elain had revealed a glimmer of eagerness that Nesta would say yes.

So against all odds, she agreed to go.

Exchanging one mountain home for another isn’t much of a getaway, but Nesta can’t help but be excited. Even with the unhappy memories of her childhood, she loves these hills more than any other.

The pure exhilaration of being back in Tennessee overcomes her at some point during the drive, knocking her out in the passenger seat where she sits. In her drowsy state, she distantly hears the windows being rolled up, before feeling Cassian’s hand guide her head to rest against the glass. The rest of the drive is warm and sunny, enough to lull her into a deep sleep.

The next thing Nesta’s aware of is the crunch of gravel and the feeling of the truck tires slowing to a stop. Fingers brush against her heated cheek, and then Cassian is murmuring at her to wake up.

Blinking her eyes open, Nesta twists around to see their destination.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still dreaming.

“Welcome to Holly House,” Cassian says with a grin. The house in question is quaint and sprawling at the same time, the way most upper class Southerners like their houses. The whole thing gleams with a fresh coat of white paint under the afternoon sun, complemented by a sky blue wraparound porch. Colonial style windows and proud columns decorating the facade of the building makes it look like the setting of a fairy tale.

Beyond it, Nesta can see cherry blossoms. Pink, fluttering cherry blossoms that fly off their branches and swirl through the air, some of them disappearing into the thick woods behind the house. Woods that Nesta has walked countless times before.

“The rest of the guys won’t get here until tomorrow afternoon,” Cassian is saying to her, “so we have the whole place to our—”

Nesta isn’t listening anymore. She unbuckles her seatbelt and shoves open the truck door, hobbling outside on unsteady feet to make sure she isn’t hallucinating things. But no, this is…

“Cherrywood,” she breathes, eyes wide in disbelief.

Cassian gets out of the truck, coming up beside Nesta to slip his hand into her shorts pocket. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“This is Rhysand’s summer home?” Nesta points at the house. “This place?”

Cassian looks around at the building grounds in confusion. “Has been for the last two decades, yeah.”

It’s been eleven years since she last stepped foot on these grounds.

With wonderment in her voice, she utters to Cassian, “I’ve been here before.”

At his puzzled look, she explains, “I lived just on the other side of those woods.” She points to the trees. “There’s an old cracked road that hasn’t been maintained since it was first paved, and you can follow it straight to the poor side of town. Whenever I wanted to get away, I would come down that road and trek through the woods, and I’d end up here. I stopped coming because…” she trails off.

Because she got caught that one time.

Cassian seems to realize it at the same moment as her. His hand slips out of her pocket. “You…”

Nesta remembers a tall boy with shocked eyes and shaggy hair, and she shakes her head slowly in forceful denial. It can’t be true. It’s too much of a coincidence.

But he points at her, then her feet. “You—with the size six Converse,” he sputters. “It was you.”

Before Nesta can confirm or deny it, he grabs her by the wrist and starts tugging her along, up the porch stairs and inside the house.

Even with Rhysand and Feyre’s renovations, it looks undeniably the same as all those years ago. The living room is to her right and the farmhouse style kitchen and dining area is to the left, though she speeds by it all as Cassian pulls her farther inside the house, to the closet beneath the curving stairs.

He lets go of her hand to search the small closet, muttering, “I know they were here somewhere.” But the closet looks like it was stripped empty for renovations, with only bolts in the walls indicating that shoe racks used to hang there.

Cassian turns and heads for the stairs, and Nesta blindly follows him. She also wants to go upstairs, wants to see if the bay window looking out onto the garden has stayed the same.

Like he read her mind, he leads her straight to the room she used to spend hours reading in. It’s smaller than all the other bedrooms in the house, but it’s always been her favorite because of the view.

As Cassian keeps looking for whatever it is he’s looking for, upturning boxes and checking beneath furniture, Nesta drifts toward the bay window. She looks from the cherry blossom trees outside, to the full-sized bed, to Cassian, and a weight drops even heavier in her gut. She has to reach out and grip the edge of the dresser for support.

Finally, Cassian pops out of the closet victorious. In his hand are a pair of ragged shoes that Nesta hasn’t worn in a long, long time.

He comes over and drops them with a thud at her feet.

“Whose room is this?” she asks with a rough voice, still staring down at the shoes.

“Mine,” he answers simply.

“Oh.” She met him before. She met him before.

When Nesta dares to look up and meet Cassian’s eyes, what she finds there nearly robs her of breath: wonder, astonishment, and unwavering fealty. He breaks into sudden wholehearted laughter, which dazes her even more.

“What’s so funny?” she demands.

Cassian gets out between laughs, “What was it Rhysand said about Feyre? When they found out they were close to crossing paths when they were younger?”

Nesta’s earth-tilting shock slowly slips away, replaced by a stern look. “Don’t say it.”

He pretends to remember. “I think it was fate.” A wicked smirk pulls at his lips at Nesta’s resigned sigh. “But I have another word for it, too.”

“Don’t say that, either.” She pleadingly holds up her hands, only for Cassian to snatch one out of the air and intertwine his fingers with hers.

“Soulmate,” he says quietly, now less amused.

Nesta swallows thickly, not having any words for him. All she knows is that he is never going to let her live this down.

“Imagine if we’d gone to the same high school,” Cassian says to her later that afternoon as they lounge in his old room. “Fuck, I could’ve saved myself so much time with all those random girls.” They’ve been swapping childhood stories for the past hour, as if they might find more instances in their history of a red string tying them together.

Nesta doesn’t need coincidences or fateful run-ins to know that a string has always been wrapped around her ring finger, pulling her to Colorado and to that cabin. But for Cassian’s sake, she’ll gladly amuse him. “I would have been a freshman while you were a senior,” she says matter-of-factly. “It never could have happened.”

He hums in thought, head propped up in his hand, elbow propped up against the bay window seat. “Maybe if you were older. You would have been the smart, quiet girl, and I’d have been the player jock, and as soon as we locked eyes in math class, I’d be head over heels in love with you.”

Nesta cackles from where she sits in the window seat above him. “Now you’re just writing fanfiction.”

Cassian grins up at her but doesn’t send a rebuttal her way. The conversation falls into a lull, until Nesta has to reach out and ask, “What are you thinking?”

His smile turns a little sad. “That I wish we weren’t doing this right before I leave for another country.”

Right. That’s what’s been hanging over them the entire trip to Tennessee: that as soon as they get back to Colorado, Cassian is going to be on a plane to Milan.

Getting Keith O’Connell to quit—how exactly Cassian went about accomplishing it, he still won’t tell Nesta—left Rhysand at square one with his search for a team leader for his overseas venture.

When Cassian brought up the idea of taking the job to Nesta, he sounded like he hoped she would shoot him down, talk him out of it. He both wanted to go and was reluctant to leave, like his very soul was glued to his home and he didn’t want to unstick himself.

So Nesta, being his home, had to do the unsticking for him. She nearly accepted the year-long Milan position herself for Cassian’s sake, and it took weeks of coaxing and convincing to put him at ease about the whole thing.

“But we promised to go together for the first time,” he kept saying.

“We’ll still go together one day, and it’ll still be our first time there with each other,” she reassured him.

Eventually, he relented to her and Rhysand’s pressures with a single condition. “I’ll do six months. Not a year.”

Only Nesta knows deep down how much Cassian needs this opportunity. Though Cassian must know it a little bit too, because he wouldn’t have taken the job if he didn’t.

Nesta might have needed him in order to come out of her shell, but now he needs to get away from her in order to find his own shell. Something he can call his own, unburdened by his loyalties to the people he loves. So he can find who he wants to be for himself, without always being attached to her hip.

Rising to her feet, Nesta raises her arms in the air in a full body stretch. Her back and legs ache with being curled up in that window seat for so long without movement.

Dropping her arms, she holds out a hand to Cassian still sitting on the floor. “Come on,” she urges him. “Let’s go outside. I haven’t seen a Smoky sunset in years.”

“But it’s not evening yet,” he argues while taking her hand.

Outside, they explore the garden that leads into the woods while waiting for the sun to slink down the sky. Cherry blossoms ride the summer breeze wherever it takes them, resulting in Cassian sniffling and scratching at his neck as they walk hand in hand.

“Rhysand wanted to take these trees down and replace them with a flower garden for Elain,” he tells Nesta as they walk. His sinuses sound clogged, but he’s refused to go back inside until he’s explained every inch of the land to Nesta. “I convinced him not to because it would ruin the view from my bedroom window. Didn’t I make the right choice?” He throws a grin in her direction.

Nesta’s swallow is tight at that grin. “The view from your room was always my favorite part about the entire place. So yes, you did good.”

His eyes widen at that tidbit of information, and she can almost see him tucking it away as more Soulmate Evidence.

They stroll through the woods for a while, and Nesta points out the path she would take to get to Cherrywood—she still insists on calling it Cherrywood, even when Cassian argues that the house’s original name has been around since the sixties.

“Show me the rest of the way?” Cassian asks her, face lit up in boyish hope. “Show me where you ran away to that day I found you.”

Nesta almost expects the memory of the rundown apartment complex she grew up in to feel like being shoved into sludge: dirty, cold, and slimy. Instead, she finds she has no problem with looking back at her old home, no matter how many ugly memories she holds from there.

However, the dappled sunlight streaming in through the trees overhead has turned from yellow to dark gold, and she shakes her head in apology to Cassian. “Another day,” she promises him. “It’s almost sunset.”

They walk back to the house, rounding it until they reach the front. At the bottom of the hill that the house is perched on stands a pier that leads all the way out to the lake. Green mountains frame the lake from both sides, creating the perfect cradle for the sun to sink into.

They go all the way out to the edge of the pier, as if they’re trying to get as close to the sunset as physically possible. Dragonflies lazily swoop by as the lake is gradually painted in a hundred different colors.

Once there’s more darkness than light in the sky, Cassian nudges Nesta with one of the arms he has around her. “Look.” He points.

Along the shoreline of the lake, little dots of light have lit up to welcome the evening, their blinking glow so small that Nesta almost doesn’t catch it. Fireflies.

Nesta watches the insects flit in and out of the long grasses of the lake shore, getting tangled in the weeds and wildflowers. In that moment, she remembers something Cassian once confessed to her not long after his birthday.

I want to see more beautiful places with you.

Nesta ticks this beautiful place off the long list in her head—the first place out of many that she plans to see with Cassian.

More beautiful than the scene before her is the man in her arms. The man who was kind enough to understand a woman who barely understood herself, and to be her friend when she had none. The man who is extending his kindness right now by not having made any breaking-and-entering jokes about Nesta so far, though she’s sure he’ll pull them out eventually.

Discovering that she once found Cassian, just to let him slip by running away from him, only to find him again over a decade later—it comforts the tiny part of her that’s loath to say goodbye to him in two weeks.

Like Cassian is thinking the same thing, he murmurs into the dark, “I can’t wait to come back to you.”

Nesta huffs in amusement. “You haven’t even left yet.”

“I know.” After a moment, he adds in a low voice that not even the fireflies can hear, “Thank you for convincing me to go.”

She reaches up to squeeze his bicep. “Always.” And then she adds what she really wants him to hear: “Don’t come back until you find what you’re looking for.”

“I better find it quick then,” he jokes. Still, he nods in promise against the side of her head.

The only sound after that is the chirp of cicadas and the occasional lap of water meeting the pier beams. Nesta and Cassian stay outside in the June heat long after the sky turns ink blue.

***

a/n: next chapter is just some ic bullshit so take all ur bittersweet sentimentality here and go

tagging: @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @arinbelle @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea @teagoddess99 @mystic-bibliophile

[heyitssmiller]

Chop It Like It’s Hot

Chapter 6: I’ve Got a Bad Queso Loving You

Pining. Food that may or may not be a disaster. The end of an era.

Also people actually wanted to be tagged for updates?? That makes my heart so happy <3

Tag List: @heyoitslysso @unknown-and-invisible

Chop It Like It’s Hot Masterlist

@lumosinlove

  It was weird, walking into the studio by himself for the first time. Finn kept expecting Logan to be right by his side like always and it hurt a little every time Finn remembered. He walked into the kitchens where he was greeted by a sunny smile and kind eyes and dimples.

He still missed Logan, but it was hard to mope with Leo Knut around.

“Hey,” Leo greeted, motioning for Finn to join him at the station. “Welcome to the final four.”

“Thanks. It feels weird here.”

Leo hummed. “Quiet, right?”

“Definitely less hectic.” Finn agreed, leaning his hip against the counter. “So what are we cooking today?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me? We’re cooking for someone special to you. I’m assuming that’s Logan, right?” At Finn’s nod a strange, unreadable expression flashed across Leo’s face before he continued. “Okay, so what types of food do you think of when you think of him?”

Finn thought about it, then smiled. “Our first date – after years and years of being friends and crushing on each other but refusing to do anything about it – was at a Mexican restaurant. We were on a roadie and went to go get dinner together and I was so frustrated at this point that I kind of just blurted, ‘Is this a date?’” Finn laughed a little at the memory. “And Lo, he just stared at me with those big green eyes of his for a moment and said, ‘I sure hope so.’ And that was it. No more drama, no more fuss. Just those two sentences – that was all we needed.”

The look from earlier was back on Leo’s face. Finn still didn’t know what it meant.

“I think we can definitely work with that.” He said finally. “How about we elevate a Mexican dish? Something to be meaningful but to also showcase your cooking? I've got a few recipes in mind. What about grilled citrus-marinated chicken?”

Finn wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

“Alright. Pulled pork tamales with corn salsa? Polenta stacks? Chipotle Mahi Mahi burrito bowl?”

“Oh!” Finn said excitedly. “I like that one. Logan calls me Fish sometimes.”

Leo laughed. “Why?”

“Nicknames are kind of a thing in hockey. It’s considered weird if you don’t have one. I’m Harzy, Harz, Fish, and probably a few more that I’m forgetting.”

“And Logan?”

“He’s Tremz or Tremzy, usually.” He looked over at the blond, propping his chin in his hand and smiling. “You want a nickname?”

“Oh, god. With a last name like Knut, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to go off of.” He laughed, turning to head towards the pantry. Finn followed after him like the love-struck puppy he was.

“Nut. Nutty. Peanut. Peanut butter. Nutter Butter. Honey bunches of nut – “

“How have you already come up with so many?” Leo stretched to grab a bowl off the top shelf, his t-shirt shifting up to reveal pale skin Finn desperately wanted to reach out and touch.

“I’m a professional hockey player.”

“Fair enough. Can you head to the spices and grab smoked paprika, chili powder, cumin, salt, pepper and onion powder?”

Finn grabbed the ingredients and met Leo back at the station. “Ready to get started? You’ll get the printed recipe and you can take as many notes as you want now and use them tonight.”

Finn clicked his pen in response, earning another smile. “Let’s do this.”

“So we’re going to combine olive oil, chipotle chiles, garlic, smoked paprika, chili powder, cumin, salt, pepper and onion powder into a bowl and whisk it really good. Then you can add the mahi mahi and toss it in there. Next we’re going to place it in the fridge while we start the rice.” Leo covered the bowl and set it in the fridge before reaching for a pot and turning the stove on.

“Add coconut milk and some coconut water to a pot and bring it to a low boil before adding rice, salt, unsweetened coconut and coconut oil. Stir to combine, then place the lid on the pot and turn the heat down to the lowest setting possible. Following so far?”

Finn nodded, definitely feeling a little overwhelmed.

Leo gave him a reassuring smile. “You got this. Next, let the rice to cook for ten minutes then turn the heat off completely. Let the rice sit on the stove, covered for another 20 minutes, then remove the lid and fluff the rice with a fork. Add the cilantro and lime juice – “

“No cilantro.”

Leo looked up from his pot. “What?”

“No cilantro.” Finn repeated. “Lo doesn’t like cilantro.”

“Got it. No cilantro. I think we’ve got enough seasoning without it.” Leo grabbed another bowl and pushed some ingredients towards him on the counter.

“Now we’re going to make the salsa. Add the diced mango, chopped strawberries, jalapeño, lime juice, pinch of cayenne and a pinch of salt to a bowl. Toss it, cover it, and keep it in the fridge until ready to serve. Now we’re going to cook that fish.” Leo grabbed the fish out of the fridge and sent him a sly look. “Hopefully this doesn’t count as cannibalism.”

Finn laughed loudly. “Oh man, wait until Logan hears that.”

Leo fiddled with the settings on the grill, which made Finn a little nervous. As seen in the build your own burger competition, he wasn’t the best with grills. He’d scared away all the ducks with how loud he screamed when he turned the grill on too high and flames erupted from it.

“You’re going to want a medium heat to cook this fish. Once the grill is nice and hot, add the mahi mahi, skin side facing up. Cook these for about 4-5 minutes and then flip them and cook until they’re crisp and mostly cooked through. This is super important: remove the skin.  We’re going to be cutting this fish into chunks and having pieces of fish skin in there would be really gross.

“Last thing is to plate these. All you’re going to do is divide the rice among your tortilla bowls and add the lettuce, black beans, and corn. Divide up the fish and then top each bowl with salsa, queso, and a dollop of sour cream. And you’re done!” Leo looked over at Finn, who was still writing notes. “Not so bad, right?”

Finn gave him a blank stare, then ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Go over it again one more time?”

“Sure.” Leo pushed one of the plates over to Finn. “Want to try some first?”

“Fuck yes.”

***

Logan stood in the studio hallway yet again, waiting with the rest of the families the final four contestants were cooking for tonight. It was going to be weird, being on the opposite side of the judging table. But at least he wasn’t cooking.

They finally got the cue to enter the kitchen and his eyes immediately found Finn, who was grinning madly and running right at him – whether he was allowed to or not. Logan laughed as Finn collided with him, hugging him close. “You just saw me this morning.”

“Yeah, but I missed you.”

Logan melted a little at that and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Did you have a good day?”

Finn whined, shooting a longing look over at Leo. “Lo, you would not believe – “

“Please head back to your stations, recruits!” Dorcas called.

“Gotta go.” Finn sighed, taking a step back. Logan gave his hand a squeeze.

“You’ve got this.”

“Recruits, tonight you’ll be creating dishes for your loved ones. And your team leaders, of course. You can use any notes you’ve taken. You have an hour to complete this task and your time starts… now!”

Logan took his seat at the judges table (weird) and watched as Finn dashed off to the pantry. He made small talk with the other family members as time began to tick down much slower than he remembered from his time on the show. He turned his head when Leo sat down next to him and smiled almost nervously.

“I hope you’re not too mad at me for last week.”

“Nah,” Logan said with a shrug, doing everything he could think of to slow his heartrate down. “I deserved it. I served you guys raw pizza dough.”

“Only because I suggested you start over.”

Logan laughed incredulously. “Because my pizza wasn’t a pizza! Seriously, don’t worry about it.” He looked over at Finn, who was shying away from the grill as he threw the fish on it. “I’m glad he made it instead of me. He’s been so excited to be on this show.”

“He’s really improved a lot. You both did.”

“I’m still not sure I trust either of us in the kitchen.”

“Baby steps.” Leo said with a smile. “You’re more capable than you think.”

He glanced at the clock and let his voice carry to the contestants. “One minute left, recruits!”

Finn glanced up from his plating, cursed, and started working faster.

“Five, four, three, two, one, time’s up! Stop what you’re doing and step away from your plates!”

“I can see why you like this so much.” Logan said, eyes still on Finn as he looked down at his plates critically. “You get to sit here, no stress, and eat people’s food. This is the dream.”

“Not on this show. You should’ve tried some of the earlier dishes this season. I got food poisoning twice.”

“You did what?”

“It might’ve been three times if I’d eaten that chicken you tried to serve in the first challenge.” Leo teased.

“Why isn’t giving a chef food poisoning an immediate elimination?”

“Because then we’d have very few recruits left, and that would be a very short season.”

Finn set down his plates, smiling nervously. Logan looked down and smiled softly. “Mexican food.”

“No cilantro, just how you like it.”

God, Logan didn’t deserve him.

“Let’s see how this tastes.” Leo said, looking down at his plate. “The presentation is really nice.”

They both took bites of their food. The fish was dry, but Logan thought the rest of it was really good.

“It’s under-seasoned a little bit,” Leo commented. “And the fish is a little dry, but your salsa is perfect and the ratios of everything else in the bowl is very nice.”

Logan grinned up at Finn. “I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to you bringing this recipe home.”

“We need move on to the next contestant. Nice job, Finn.”

Finn beamed and grabbed his plates back.

***

“And the chef who will be leaving us tonight is…” Logan held Finn’s hand and waited for Leo to finish.

“Finn. I’m sorry, your time as a recruit is over. Please turn in your apron.”

Finn sighed, squeezed Logan’s hand, and stepped forward.

“It was really close, but in the end the under-seasoned and overcooked fish did you in.” Leo said, looking apologetic. “I’ve really enjoyed having you on the show. You’ve been a joy to teach.”

“Thanks for having me.” Finn said, trying to be cheerful as he handed over his apron. “I had a blast.”

After the cameras stopped rolling, Logan and Finn made sure to find Leo before they left. He was scrubbing down the grill and looked up when he noticed them. “So this is goodbye, huh?”

“Looks like it.” Logan replied, unabashedly staring and trying to memorize everything he could. Was it weird to miss someone when you hadn’t even said goodbye yet? When they were standing right in front of you? 

Finn piped up, “If you’re ever in Gryffindor, look us up. We’d love to see you.”

“Same for when you come to New York for games.” Leo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Here,” Finn grabbed his phone out of his pocket. “What’s your number? We can send you our team schedule when we get it.”

Finn, you’re a genius.

“That would be great! I, uh, I really liked having y’all on the show. It’d be nice to see each other again.” His cheeks were red again, and Logan had to bite back a whine. He wanted to kiss those red spots so badly.

But this definitely wasn’t the time. There were people everywhere, two of them were probably leaving in the morning, and they didn’t know when they’d see him again. Or if he even liked them back.

Fuck.

Both Logan and Finn had forgotten just how awful the guessing game really was.

[terresdebrume]

The Witcher - Favorite Reads Masterpost

So, the previous one was getting really super long and Tumblr refused to save the latest update three times, which I’m taking to mean I’ve reached some kind of length limit. In view of that, and with a poke to @nyliekeo​ who asked to be tagged, here’s the second volume of my Witcher fic-reading adventures!

(Pretty much all Geraskier, because I’m only a multishipper in the sense that I have many ships across many fandoms.)

Volume 1

Last updated: April 10th, 2020.

Non geraskier fic

Her Current Is Pulling You Closer - TheMarvellousMadMadamMim

Specs: 1 900 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Eist/Calanthe - Swimming, shameless flirting

Summary: After nearly three years of marriage, Eist Tuirseach realizes there are still things to learn about his wife.

Becoming Water - Orockthro

Specs: 3 456 words - Mature - Trans woman!Geralt, curses, happy ending

Summary:  When Geralt was a child his mother kissed his forehead, wove flowers in his hair, and let him dance around the campsite they shared with the other druids. He loved dancing, the way his body moved and flowed; he was like water.

And then she left him in the road, spilled water on his feet, and a faint trail of dust where she and the cart were no longer. And a man came and took Geralt and made him into something new.

“Were you short? Waifish? Did those witcher mutagens turn you into, you know, the hulking sexy man that you are? At least they gave you such male perfection, what with the stubble and the jaw and the--”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

(Or, Geralt is cursed with a female body during their travels. Only it's not so much a curse as a gift she didn't know she so desperately desired until now.)

of cockroaches and men - Potrix

Specs: 1 442 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Yennefer & Jaskier, Getting to know each other, BAMF Jaskier

Summary: As if being stuck waiting for her supplier in this sorry excuse for a town full of narrow-minded, superstitious simpletons isn't already frustrating enough, the first familiar face Yennefer spots when she walks into the grubby tavern is that of her least favourite bard.

Or, alternatively; sometimes you misjudge people, but there's nothing some badassery and booze won't fix.

all cooped up - alittlebitmaybe

Specs: 4 205 words - Mature - Polyamory, Pandemic 2020, Non-explicit sex, instigator Yen

Summary: Geralt's old university roommate, Jaskier, needs a place to ride out the pandemic. Geralt and Yennefer conveniently have a couch and Geralt, inconveniently, has a crush.

Cover it over and write it out - TheArcheologist

Specs: 3 214 words - Mature - Dyslexia, implied child abuse, Dandelion is a noble

Summary: There is something Geralt has noticed, after traveling so long with Jaskier. It is nothing major, nothing world ending or even warranting bringing up, but it is there, nonetheless, a funny little habit he can’t unsee.

“You’re better at this stuff than me, Geralt, you read it.”

Geraskier fics

pride - Besully (Briar_Elwood)

Specs: 737 words - Teen & Up - Trans Jaskier

Summary: Geraskier Week Dealer's Choice

He only manages to get the shirt untucked from the bard’s trousers when Jaskier’s smile disappears, and he scrambles backwards, holding the edges of his shirt down.

Do It Again - thisgirlsays22

Specs: 6 771 words - Explicit - Time Loop

Summary: By the twentieth time Geralt has gone through the loop, he decides to just throw himself off the cliff’s edge after Borch.

He wakes up to his twenty-first attempt.

“Fuck.”

Interlude; The End of All Things - TabbyCat33098

Specs: 3 496 words - General Audiences - Growing Old Together

Summary: Geralt realizes Jaskier is growing old and tries his best to return the rest of Jaskier's life to him. If only Jaskier would cooperate and take it.

//

How much longer will Jaskier be content with weathering the elements and contending with the uncertainty of mercenary work? How long until Jaskier realizes that in devoting himself to crafting a legacy for Geralt, he has forgotten to create a legacy of his own?

After all, he does not have a wife or children, for their nomadic lifestyle is conducive to neither. He has no home to return to between stints with Geralt, whether a sprawling mansion vaunting his wealth or a comfortable cottage replete with souvenirs from his varied exploits. How many experiences has Jaskier sacrificed because some contract or irate nobleman drew them elsewhere? How many untouched fields of snow has Jaskier never seen; how many harvests at Novigrad has he yearned to celebrate from halfway across the Continent—

“You’re staring,” Jaskier points out.

“You wanted to go to the Kovirian coast,” Geralt responds. 

a tapestry of scars - splendidlyimperfect

Specs: 7 688 words - Mature - Modern AU, Birpolar disorder, self harm, references to previous suicide attempt and car accident.

Summary: Jaskier comes into Geralt's life on a sunny afternoon in May - wide smiles and baby blue eyes; breathtaking stories and half-written song lyrics. He's mesmerizing and full of life, and Geralt can't look away. But sunshine doesn't last forever, and when Jaskier disappears, Geralt learns that beautiful things have dark and broken pieces, and even damaged people can help fix them.

Summer Mornings - The UnamazingTrashKing

Specs: 3 241 words - Mature - Fluff

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are sort of a couple. They definitely wake up together and talk about spending the rest of their lives together.

An Incomplete Happiness - BlossomsintheMist

Specs: 22 497 words - Mature - Serious injuries, injuries recovery, unresolved sexual tension, unresolved romantic tension

Summary: Jaskier is traveling with Geralt when a hunt goes badly wrong and Geralt ends up injured.  Geralt soon realizes that the bard can take care of Geralt better than he'd realized, in his own way.

Hide Behind The Mound of Dead Bards - Bones (Doctorbones)

Specs: 17 296 words - Explicit - Temporary character death, Graphic depiction of violence

Summary: Jaskier is really bad at two things: shutting up and staying dead. Luckily, he can do both at the same time...for a while.

faith in transience - unconscious

Specs: 12 532 words - Explicit - Monster of the week, Service top Jaskier, attempted mind control.

Summary:  “I learn stuff about you to enrich my songs, thanks very much.”  Geralt starts.

“Like what?”

Jaskier strums a chord. “Plenty of things. You always ask the contractor if they want the head or not instead of just showing up with it, because you don’t want to shock people. You eat normal amounts of food when eating in public, instead of your usual awe-inducing giant amount. You sleep more when you’re hurt, but that’s the only way I’d ever know. You’re a bit weird about your potions and you count them a lot.” He glances up and grins. “Shall I continue?”

A handful of contracts go sideways. Recovering is easier with Jaskier there.

when midnight breaks their sleep - SummerFrost

Specs: 16 736 words - Mature - Modern setting, polyamory, polyamory negociation

Summary:   The first Snapchat that anyone ever sends Geralt is a picture of his own irritated face.

shrike_princess: can u believe this dumbass finally got a snapchat bc a cute boy asked him nicely

"It wasn't even that nicely," Geralt says flatly.

AKA: The one where Geralt is a bartender and Jaskier sings karaoke.

he, who i love - kinneyb

Specs: 1 279 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Established relationship

Summary: Jaskier looked forward to these nights the most; he was playing in a rundown tavern in a small town near the coast, coins gathered at his feet, knowing that at any moment Geralt would come bursting through the door.

He spun on his heels, strumming his lute with nimble fingers, the mark of a practiced player.

Jaskier had thought he’d reached his peak when he was younger. He had been proven wrong, of course, practice truly did make perfect. He was getting more attention than ever, and only half of it probably had to do with his new songs, all depicting the Witcher’s love story with a bard of the human variety.

He never directly mentioned himself, but the people had made the connection fairly easily, anyway.

Near the Coast - IantoPace

Specs: 2 164 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Dresses

Summary: Geralt finds out some of the feminine things Jaskier likes. This is inspired by the images of Joey Batey & Madeleine Hyland in the woods wearing each other's clothes.

Shoot First, Ask Questions Later - Ladivviniatravestia

Specs: 3 427 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Defining the relationship

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier fuck, then try to define their relationship.  Too bad Geralt has no idea what he really wants and Jaskier has been hiding something.

parry, riposte - plutoandpersephone

Specs: 5 230 words - Explicit - Established relationship, competence kink, power dynamics

Summary: "How about it?"

Geralt looks at Jaskier like he’s just started to speak in some long lost, foreign tongue.

"You want to take me on in the sword ring?"

-

Jaskier challenges Geralt to a bout in the fencing ring. They both get more than they bargained for.

The Coast - NinjaSniperKitty

Specs: 1 856 words - General Audiences - Established relationship, overly protective boyfriend!Geralt

Summary: Geralt takes Jaskier up on his offer to get away and go to the coast for a while. While Geralt sees danger hiding everywhere along the coast, Jaskier hasn't been to the sea in years and only sees a good time!

Sweet, Silky, Soft, and Shiny - Girl_in_Red_Crossing

Specs: 3 251 words - Mature - Inappropriate use of candy

Summary: Just a couple of bros, sucking on sweet things... sharing silky things... lying in soft beds together... (kissing)...

The Witcher Wolf 2: Geralt’s POV - im_fairly_witty.

Specs: 15 338 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Animal transformation

Summary: It's been two weeks since Geralt drove Jaskier away from him on that mountain top and Geralt's been doing his best not to think about it by accepting every contract he comes across. But when a job goes badly he find himself cursed into the form of an injured wolf and is then saved by none other than Jaskier himself, who has no idea that the animal he's taken under his wing is his own witcher. Geralt must now try to alert Jaskier to his real situation and adjust to his new life traveling with the bard, learning several hard but very much needed lessons along the way.

Shadowplay - sospes

Specs: 26 539 words - Mature - BAMF!Jaskier, Espionnage

Summary: Geralt returns to Oxenfurt on a bright May morning to find flowers laid outside Jaskier's rooms and a fresh grave in the cemetery.

Except, as Geralt is about to learn, in Jaskier's world things are never quite what they seem.

An Old Man’s Tale - NotebooksandLaptops

Specs: 1 448 words - General Audiences - External POV, Old age

Summary: At the edge of the village, in a house surrounded by wild-flowers and weeds - re-built from its former crumbling foundations – there lived the Old Man. He’d earnt the rights for the capital O, capital M off of the rest of the villagers barely a week after he’d moved into their humble world. For he had not grown up here, like everyone else did. Yet he settled and settled as if he had always been there. He wandered the cliffsides, the beaches, the streets. He strung shells together and gifted them to the ladies of the village with a wink that betrayed the charming young man he once must have been. He bought the little ceramic pots Alicja sold on the market, and he filled them with weeds as if the weeds were flowers worth showcasing. And – most importantly – he sang.

-///-

Or, Jaskier settles in a costal village towards the end of his life.

For The Joy Of It - vvitchering (Witchering)

Specs: 848 words - Teen & Up Audiences - self esteem issues, body image

Summary: After spending years on The Path together, Jaskier and Geralt finally settle down. Jaskier notices one day that his new sedentary lifestyle has changed him in ways he fears Geralt won't accept.

The Silence Between Heartbeats - anarchycox

Specs: 7 969 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Jskier knows Geralt better than anyone

Summary: Geralt faced off with a sorceress, only instead of her magic killing him, it stole his voice. But this should be an easy fix, he knew many women who could heal this. But that would mean anyone noticing something wrong. He knew he was quiet, but seriously, did no one wonder why he wasn't saying a single thing? Months he traveled silent, no one noticing and it was driving him mad.

Until he runs into Jaskier, who notices immediately that something is wrong.Because of course it is Jaskier.

Who else in the end would it be, who properly saw the White Wolf?

tailored - jeannie_tangerine

Specs: 4 874 words - Explicit - Geralt has a kink and Jaskier is absolutely into it.

Summary: in which Jaskier finds out that Geralt has a kink and is more than glad to indulge it.

oh darling please be mine - kickassfu

Specs: 749 words - General Audiences - Introspective, fluff

Summary: Geralt’s head turns to him just as he’s jumping into his arms. Obviously, he catches Jaskier, in his very strong, very big arms. Still probably processing what’s happening, Geralt’s body is tense, unmoving. Jaskier doesn’t care.

New Monsters Stories - Kathkin

Specs: 20 209 words - Explicit - Urban fantasy, mutual pining

Summary:  “So do you have a name?”

“Yeah.” The man who had saved his life less than an hour ago – the white-haired, absurdly buff, weirdly sexy man Jaskier might have called taciturn if he was feeling charitable and surly if he was feeling less so – dug into his second burger.

Jaskier waited. “Are… you going to tell me what it is?”

The man paused mid-bite, and looked at him reproachfully as if to say how dare you. How dare you interrupt me. Can’t you see I’m enjoying my cheeseburger. Can’t you see this cheeseburger is the most important thing in my life right at the moment. He swallowed, and said, “Geralt.”

It turns out almost getting eaten by a werewolf can make your whole life go careening off in a new, terrifying, wondrous, artistically flourishing direction. Who knew?

Professor Pankratz - martistarfighter

Specs: 1 147 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Established relationship

Sumary:  “Come teach my class with me tomorrow.” He whispers in the witcher’s ear. He’s sporting a neatly trimmed beard these days, and it tickles Geralt’s neck in the most tempting way.

Geralt chuckles dryly, but the lack of an immediate quip tells him that Jaskier is serious. It’s a little scary how often they can read their minds by now.

“Don’t think so. You’re the teacher, Jask. I’ve got nothing to tell them.”

“But you’re the reason I’m still alive and teaching in the first place. Besides, you can just sit there, look pretty and answer some questions. My students have heard a lot about you, they’ll adore you.”

As someone pointed out, there's too much 'witcher watching out for his idiot' and not enough 'the witcher is a himbo who loves his college educated bard husband, who is qualified to teach' content out there. So I'm fixing it with a self-indulgent ficlet!

and i plan to be forgotten when i’m gone (yes, i’ll be leaving in the fall) - Stockholm_Syndrome

Specs: 18 083 words - Mature - Discussion of assisted suicide, discussion of suicide, depression, curse, no MCD

Summary: “That was more emotional than I expected.” He finally said “I didn’t think I’d have time to share this with you, and I.” Jaskier interrupted himself, as if unsure if he should continue. “I suppose I didn’t think it would upset you so.”

“Jaskier” Geralt growled, not able to express how ludicrous that idea was.

“Yes, I suppose I was wrong there.” Jaskier replied with a helpless shrug.

---- Or, Jaskier is cursed to turn into a monster. He doesn't think this is important information to mention.

Chopsticks - thisgirlsays22

Specs: 12 175 words - Explicit - Piano teacher!Jaskier, friends to lovers, modern setting

Summary: “Yennefer sent me a check for eight lessons for you,” Jaskier said the following weekend, wearing a beige button-down with--

“Does your shirt have owls on it?” Geralt asked, caught somewhere between amusement and horror.

Jaskier looked down and tugged on the front of his shirt as if he had to remind himself what was on it. He beamed at Geralt. “Yeah! Do you like it?”

“Not particularly.”

The smile swiftly disappeared.

“It’s not terrible,” he amended, stepping back to let Jaskier inside the apartment. Then Jaskier’s initial words sank in. “Wait. Yen did what?”

Hanging up on Yennefer was always a mistake.

what’s in a (pet) name? - janie_tangerine

Specs: 1 415 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Fluff, pet names

Summary:  "So," he clears his throat one evening, having just rinsed Geralt's now clean, soft white hair, and damn how he wishes the man would just take care of it somewhat decently, "I was wondering."

"What?" Geralt says after he doesn't go on for a bit. It didn't sound particularly annoyed. Right on.

"This is a very broad question, but I was just curious, no need to answer if you don't want to -" Jaskier starts, having learned that giving the man a way out is always a good bet.

"Just get on with it, won't you?"

Jaskier clears his throat, leans down, puts his elbows on the rim of the tub. "How do you feel about pet names?"

Or: in which Jaskier has a question for Geralt. It doesn't get answered the way he had assumed.

As Long As You Were Mine For A Little While - whisperedstories

Specs: 12 815 words - Explicit - Friends with benefits, mutual pining

Summary: It starts with Jaskier offering a helping hand when Geralt needs to let off some steam. The thing is, Jaskier likes taking care of Geralt—however he can—and Geralt lets him, so he just keeps doing it.

And as long as they never talk about how he's in love with Geralt, they're both happy with the arrangement, right? Right.

Of Debt and Debtors - sp_oops

Specs: 5 136 words - Explicit - Semi-public sex

Summary: Two bros, chillin' in a ta-vern, five feet apart ‘cause they—fuck, they really missed each other, not that Geralt will ever admit it—and anyway, in a minute here, they're gonna have to get closer than they ever thought possible. (Or, sometime after Episode 6, they meet again, Jaskier’s in trouble again, and Geralt saves them. Again.)

This One I Shall Choose - DorkMagician

Specs: 3 751 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Quiet pining, the exact moment Geralt falls in love

Summary: Geralt falls in the river fishing for a djinn and winds up soaked. Jaskier sees the opportunity to do as his mother told him a long time ago and takes the first step when he offers Geralt his handkerchief.

Skin Deep - Sospes

Specs: 8 935 words- Teen & Up Audiences - Fluff, getting together, non consensual tattooing, implied/referenced rape, implied/referenced childhood abuse

Summary: “What’s that?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier blinks. “It’s a tattoo,” he says. “Have you never seen a tattoo before, Geralt?”

Geralt fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I know it’s a tattoo,” he says. “What’s it a tattoo of?”

They say there are 5 ways to show your love (and I don’t know any of them) - Mayathelittlebee

Specs: 5 989 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Fluff, humor

Summary: May be if Geralt stopped being so dramatic for a moment he'd finally realize that loving Jaskier is not as hard as he thinks.

I don’t mind if I’m with you - janie_tangerine

Specs: 11 152 words - Explicit - In which Jaskier has to quelle his murder instincts concerning how much Geralt’s life sucks

Summary: or: five times plus one in which Jaskier finds out that Geralt is missing on good life experiences and promptly sees to fix it.

Fill Me Up - Mysticmajestic

Specs: 402 words - Teen & Up Audiences - Romance

Summary: Geralt only knows how to give, and give, until he's empty. What is he to do with Jaskier, who only wants to give back to him?

Little Things - QueenForADay

Specs: 3 315 words - General Audiences - Domestic fluff, Ciri ships it

Summary: In the first few months of knowing the Witcher, he experienced first-hand how shut-off Geralt could be with the world around him and those within it.

At some point, and he can’t pinpoint where, that shroud started to slip away. He saw how much Geralt could, and does, actually care. It’s as fierce as the way he fights.

They spend a great deal of time watching each other; when they finally fell into a bed together, they spent most of their nights learning what the other liked, mapping the plains of skin and muscle underneath the other.

But it’s the other things, the little things, that Jaskier thinks about the most.

O, Empathy - almostnectarine

Specs: 32 624 words - Mature - Body swap, friends to lovers, questfic

Summary: “How did you manage,” asked Geralt, with infinite patience and only a desire to know the facts, and not at all a little meanhearted glee, “to insult a sorcerer while his tongue was down your throat?”

“Don’t make me recount the entire sordid affair, Geralt,” said Jaskier, with a surprising note of desperation breaking through his gruff monotone. “I’m already having a rather shit day and all I’ve done so far is wake up.”

“In my body,” said Geralt.

“Yes,” said Jaskier, with the insolent cadence that was unmistakably Jaskier’s, but in Geralt’s voice, emerging from Geralt’s face and frame.

“And I’ve got yours,” said Geralt, from Jaskier’s.

and for that love to be with men - sebviathan

Specs: 6 734 words -Mature - Emotional constipation, self discovery, self acceptance, geralt is a whole ass gay man who doesn’t know what being gay is

Summary: Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it—living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor I would keep falling.

The enormity of Geralt's desire disgusts him.

at last, at last, at last, oh I thought you’d never ask - elegantwings

Specs: 15 040 words - Explicit - Arranged marriage, slow burn, trans!Jaskier, in this house we love Yennefer of Vengerberg

Summary: Geralt is given firm instructions from Vesemir: He is to get married to a Redanian noblewoman in the hopes of improving relations between witchers and the rest of the world. Once the ceremony is over, he plans to drop his new spouse off at their new home and carry on with his life as he always has. Little does he know, his future wife is not a woman, and not so easily left behind. He's not really sure he'd like to get rid of Jaskier, either. Over the next several years, they learn to navigate their new relationship, first while Jaskier completes his degree, and then when Jaskier insists on accompanying him on the road. And no matter what anyone else has to say about it, Geralt is absolutely not in love with his husband.

it’s what my heart just yearns to say - chasing_the_sterek

Specs: 1 071 words - Teen & Up - Slice of life, Jaskier: what if I found a way to make Geralt admit when he needs things

Summary: "If you could have one blessing," Jaskier says, eyes lit green by the fire between them, "What would it be?"

Geralt looks at him. The whetstone is smooth and friction-warm in his palm, edges rounded from use. It's been with him for a long time: almost four years.

Jaskier has been with him for even longer, but he's never done this. Geralt squints at him, but only thing different to this morning is the yellow firelight changing the colour his eyes appear.

"What," he says.

not a goodbye, a thank you - Potrix

Specs: 2 915 words - Mature - Graphic depiction of illness, near death experience, talk about death, found family

Summary: Somewhere further in the courtyard, Lambert yells out a colourful curse while Ciri cackles maniacally. Eskel is taunting the former through his laughter, and Vesemir’s voice joins in with barked commands and corrections once the clang of steel against steel continues. Somewhere above them, on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, Geralt can hear the scratch of quill against parchment as Yennefer works on her correspondence, interrupted every now and again by the tapping of nails against an inkpot.

He realises what’s wrong an instant before everyone else grows suddenly, eerily still; Jaskier is quiet.

After Summers of Fasting (I Feel Hunger At Last) - Artemis_Unbound

Specs: 3 793 words - Teen & Up Audiences - A six pack you can see is not a good thing, Jaskier tricks Geralt into Not Being Starving anymore, Love confessions

Summary: Defined six-pack abs are a sign that someone has been starving and dehydrating themselves, not a sign of incredible strength. It's just not healthy.

Jaskier sees Geralt shirtless for the first time, sees all that defined musculature, and is Horrified. He's slept with enough warriors and soldiers to know what that means. And he decides, this stops now.

Tunes Without Words - foxy_mulder

Specs: 22 021 words - Mature - Self-esteem issues, past abuse, miscommunications, misunderstandings

Summary: The plan is this:

He will note all the things that annoy Geralt, and he will stop doing them, and then Geralt will want him around. It will work.

It has to work, because Jaskier cannot be left behind.

The Path Not Taken - sospes

Specs: 40 149 words - Mature - Extraordinarily bad misunderstanding, Idiots in love, Explicit sexual content

Summary: Jaskier comes across an injured witcher in a backwoods town, months after the events of the dragon hunt. It all just sort of escalates from there.

.

[texastheband]

Texas V Wu-Tang Clan

Interview by Steven Daly Photography by Peter Robathan Taken from The Face - December 1997

It’s the pop story of ’97, the most unlikely end to a weird year: TEXAS collaborating with the WU-TANG CLAN. First, a Scottish rock band on the verge of slip-sliding away into a tasteful obscurity was reborn via a slew of hit singles and a glut of stylish imagery. Now, in New York, their Brit-cool meets hip hop in a mutually beneficial deal. For everyone concerned, it’s all they need to get on…

Sharleen Spiteri took the call in her front hall. "Yo, Peach," growled a strange voice over transatlantic wires. The gentleman caller was none other than Ol’ Dirty Bastard, court jester of New York hip hop dynasty the Wu-Tang Clan. Apparently Mr Bastard fancied working with Spiteri and her band, Texas. It all started in August, with one of Texas’ managers discussing Land Rovers with someone called Power in New York, who turned out to be the manager of the Clan. A video of Texas’ "Say What You Want" was dispatched, and prodigiously gifted Wu-Tang chieftain RZA signed on to do a re-recording of the single for a prospective single project. Original rapper OI’ Dirty Bastard was replaced by Method Man, the next Clan member with a solo album scheduled.

The hook-up with the Wu-Tang Clan is the perfect climax to a year that’s seen Texas rise from a tumbleweed-strewn grave to grab the pole position in British Pop. A year in which Glasgow’s Sharleen Spiteri has stared out, defiantly remade and remodelled, from every magazine cover and TV show. From a media point-of-view, Texas’ – Spiteri’s – reconfiguring of music and fashion has been the year’s dream ticket. Ever since Bryan Ferry took the innovative step of getting Anthony Proce in to design Roxy Music’s wardrobe in the early seventies, successive phases of pop’s history have thrown up performers who use the fashion photographers, stylists and designers du jour to present The Package. It is these performers who most often capture the youthful mood of their time: that’s why you can see the vulgar glamour of the Seventies in the cut of Ferry’s sleazy lounge-lizard jib; the naive aspiration of the early Eighties in the box-suited and pixie-booted "style" of Spandau Ballet; and the onset of the late-Eighties mixing and matching of different cultures in Neneh Cherry’s Buffalo Stance. When we look back at 1997 we will see in Texas’ sound and vision a new mix, all to do with living the high life but keeping it real. Catwalk and street, the designer and the understated, Prada and Nike; the slick and the cred. Ten years’ gone Scottish guitar outfit and this season’s bright young labels (in both senses). The setting too, has helped. Fashion, again, is big cultural business. Clever pop stars (Goldie! Liam!) want to be seen by the runway and hanging out at fashion parties; young designers yearn to be visible on the stage or the podium (viz. Antonio Berardi’s autumn London show at Brixton Academy). Factor in a paucity of self-motivating, button-pressing, songwriting, photogenic women in British music, and you have a ready-made media phenomenon.

Sharleen Spiteri is holding court at a New York restaurant with a gang of Calvin Klein employees who’ve just accompanied her to the VH-1 Fashion Awards. The annual ceremony is a mutually convenient arrangement, a TV cluster-fuck where the music and fashion industries exchange credibility and cachet. Texas are contemplating just such an exchange themselves, having recently been given the OK by CK. (Tommy Hilfiger has also made overtures.) Spiteri is to have an audience with Klein himself; she’s already been bribed with a trunkful of CK merch, including the streaked black dress – "inspired by [the artist] Brice Marden" – she’s wearing tonight.

Someone suggests that Texas would be perfect for Fashionably Loud, an MTV special where models strut on stage as the hot bands of the moment rock out. "Forget it," quips Spiteri. "there’s only room for one star up where we play." If Spiteri were to join Kate Moss and Christy Turlington on the Calvin Klein payroll it would not, as she sees it, detract from Texas’ music. "Fashion and music have always been connected, and now more than ever," says the singer. "You couldn’t have one without the other. If there’s shit music at a runway show it just doesn’t work."

Meanwhile, there’s the songs. With "White On Blonde", Texas’ fourth album, the music takes care of itself. Radio-friendly unit-shifters abound, helped on their way by producers Mike hedges (manic Street Preachers) and Manchester’s Grand Central. The singles have been, in sequence, nu-soul fresh ("Say What You Want"), springy pop ("Halo"), Motown-sunny ("Black Eyed Boy") and winter warming ("Put Your Arms Around Me"). The B-side remixers have covered all bases in these dance-savvy late Nineties, ranging from of-the-moment talents like the Ballistic Brothers and Trailerman to old stand-bys like Andy Weatherall and 808 State. Texas, patently, lost their dancefloor cherry by cherry-picking the brightest and the best.

Of course, while the singles have all enjoyed heavy airplay and gone top ten, and while "White on Blonde" has sold two million copies (more than its two predecessors put together), the remixes haven’t necessarily helped those sales. As the go-faster stripes of credibility on the solid saloon car, though, they’ve still been essential to The Package; all part of the thoroughly modern mix.

So now, the Wu-Tang Clan. To many, though, this latest development could smack of opportunism. One group are renegade roughnecks who mythologise themselves in epic hip hop anthems; the others are fastidiously tasteful Scots with an eye for perfectly modern consensus-pop. The Wu-Tang Clan are certainly among the aesthetically correct names that Texas always drop in interviews, but can there possibly be a legitimate connection between the two? "A lot of the Wu-Tang backing tracks have the feel of soundtracks, and we’ve always gone for a cinematic sound," says Johnny McElhone, Spiteri’s genial songwriting partner and bass player. "And I’ve always liked Al Green, and they use a lot of Willie Mitchell, Al Green, that whole Hi Records sound, and make it modern. And Marvin Gaye: Method Man, in that duet with Mary J. Blige, used ‘You’re All I Need To Get By."

Having dominated the charts in Europe this year, Texas are now, logically, turning their attention to America: the country that has always inspired them, whether it’s the dusty, pseudo-roots sound of their first three albums, or the iconic-soul and post-soul sounds of Memphis and Staten Island that they give props to now; the place where success has always eluded them. Yet given the commercial momentum of "White on Blonde", their approach to the Wu-Tang Clan is surely not driven by desperation. They are, then, viewing the collaboration with a combination of fan-like wonder and disbelief.

"Method Man is just a wicked, wicked rapper," enthuses Spiteri. "I can’t wait to hear the combination of my vocals and his – I‘m really excited about it. I have a kind of sweet, virginal thing going on, and he’s got this dirty sex vibe. It could be the perfect marriage."

It’s a Saturday night in Manhattan, and ten storeys above Times Square, Sharleen Spiteri sits on the floor of a recording studio, tinkering with her latest high-tech gadget, a Philips computer about the size of a TV remote. Across the street, three ten-foot high electronic ticker-tapes provide testimony to Monday’s stockmarket crash. No matter how much Spiteri plays with her new toy, there’s still that nagging worry: what if the Wu-Tang Clan won’t show? They’re supposed to be on a tour bus returning from a gig in Washington, DC today, but these, after all, are the original masters of disaster. The crew whose normal modus operandi seems to be chaos. The band that recently quit a national tour because only five of the nine members could be relied upon to turn up.

The studio has been booked since six, so Spiteri and McElhone breathe signs of relief when RZA and his posse finally roll in around ten. Among the dozen-strong throng, they’re surprised to see Wu-Tang member Reakwon, a stout fellow with a Mercedes cap and a Fort Knox of gold dental work. Several cigars are hollowed out, their contents replaced with weed; bottles of Cristal champagne and Hennessy are passed around as the air grows thick with smoke.

Half an hour later, method Man makes his entrance. Stooped over, he looks deceptively short – maybe only six-four in his Hilfiger fleece hoodie. "I’m John-John," he tells Sharleen, referring to his alias, Johnny Blaze. Pulling out the big blunt from behind his ear, Method Man considers the job at hand. "She got a nice voice," drawls the laconic giant. "This band not exactly my type of listening material, but they going in the right direction, if you ask me, by fucking with us. I’m waiting for RZA to put down a beat, hear how the vocals sound melded with the track before I come with ideas. I’m one of those guys."

As his friends get on with the serious business of partying, RZA goes to work, feeding a succession of sample-laden discs into a sampler. He has a diffident, genius-at-work charisma about him as he sits with his back to the room, keyboard at side. With a flick of his prodigiously ringed hand he reaches out and conjures up a brutal bassline. The speakers pulse violently. RZA takes a sip of Hennessy. "Record this, right here!" he tells the bewildered-looking engineer.

RZA has decided to dispense with the original master tapes, shipped over from Britain. He wants a completely new version, recorded rough-and-ready without the standard safety net of a time-code. This convention-trashing, wildstyle approach to recording elicits some consternation from the studio’s engineer, a central-casting white guy who warns RZA: "You won’t be able to synch to this, you know." RZA waves him away and turns to Johnny McElhone. "This riff is in E," McElhone tells RZA. "Maybe we should try it in the original key, D." "What are you saying? I understand no keys," says RZA. "You want me to sing the whole song straight through?" asks Spiteri, trying to divine RZA’s intentions. He orders the lights turned down, and offers Sharleen some herbal inspiration. She politely declines and walks to the vocal booth. "What’s her name? Sheree?" asks RZA as Spiteri warms up. The engineer wants to know if he should maybe start recording. "Always record everything!" exclaims RZA. "Ready, get set, go! Play and record, play and record!" Spiteri rattles of a perfect new version of ‘Say What You Want’, grooving along by herself and passionately acting out every word, even the ones borrowed from Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing". Now it’s time for Method Man, who at this point is so herbally inspired that he can hardly open his eyes. He jumps up and lopes around the main room, running off his newly written rhymes and clutching a bottle of Crystal. Method walks up to the mic and opens his mouth, and that treacly baritone sets a typically morbid scene: "Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest…" The Texas duo just look at each other, shaking their heads in awe.

The hours and the rhymes pass. Around 6am, things are starting to get a little weird. As Method Man snoozes on the sofa, RZA bounces off the walls, dancing like a dervish. "These are the new rhythms," he yells. "These are the new dances from Africa. I learned them when I was there last week!" McElhone and Spiteri crack up. The engineer probably wishes he were in Africa right now; he further draws RZA’s ire by making a mistake as he runs off some rough cassettes. As everyone says goodbye, RZA decides that he’s taking the studio’s sampler – he already has two of the $3,500 items, but at this point it’s all about the wind-up. The engineer, though, having last seen the end of his tether a good few hours ago, has had enough. By the commencement of office hours that morning, the rest of the session will have been cancelled and the band and Clan banned from this studio.

After a few frantic phone calls later that morning, a studio is found that is prepared to let the Wu-Tang Clan through the door. With one precondition: only two of them are allowed in the studio. Now it’s midnight, and four-fifths of Texas watch a trio of RZA-hired session men go through their paces. They shift effortlessly through a handful of soul and funk styles, and the Scots mutter approval. These are the kind of players that are so good they can get away with wearing questionable knitwear.

Soon, another couple of Wus pop in. Then another couple. In the control room RZA orders up a bottle of Hennessy and talks about hearing "Say What You Want" for the first time. "I didn’t fully understand the sound of it," admits the soft-spoken maestro. "It was obviously a popular song, a radio song, and my sound is the total opposite. But I thought that the artist had something, so I thought: "Let’s take her and rock her to my beat."

"Sweet soul, that’s what her stuff sounded like to me. Smooth. It reminded me of the Seventies: in those days, they did songs that would fit anywhere. If you went to a club getting high it would fit; if you was cleaning up your house it would fit. That’s when you’ve got a real great song right there." Whether or not "Say What You Want" is a great song, it’s not quite coming together tonight. Despite the best offers of the studio management, a full complement of Wu posse members ended up in the house. As the night drags on the trio of musicians don’t get with the track, and by eight the following morning there is little in the way of usable material. But everyone stays upbeat. Texas will work on the track in Glasgow, and send it back to RZA to finish, along with a new song based around one of his samples. After vowing to stay in touch, everyone stumbles out into the Manhattan morning light together, the Scots with an American name, and the Clan without a tartan.

From a distance the collaboration will continue. But it’s only a different kind of distance. Culturally, creatively, the gap between the Wu-Tang Clan and the old twang clan is considerable. Yet so it goes, this cross-cultural exchange programme. Whether it’s The Stones copping blues movies, Bowie digging the Philadelphia Sound, Lisa Stansfield getting soulful with Barry White, Sting getting doleful with Puff Daddy… Whether it’s Todd Terry reviving Everything But The Girl or Armand Van Helden making Sneaker Pimps the unwitting jumpstarters of speed garage, naked opportunism and risk-taking innovation have always been confused. Now, with genres blurred and tricknology proceeding apace, anything is possible and everything is permitted. Perhaps it is this, the sheer unlikeliness, that makes the Texas-Wu experiment the most illuminating collaboration of the year. Whether it works or not.

"If you play her stuff in a club, everybody be dancing, but it’s a clear room and you can see everybody’s face," RZA reflects on the departing Sharleen Spiteri. "But if you play mine, the room is smoky." And perhaps it is here, among the clouds and the clarity, between the smoke and the mirrors, where a new sound and vision lies.

Text originally posted on texasindemand.com

[catharrington]

It’s Highnon, not high when she writes to you (ironically). The prompt was doctor-patient porn, but not like a porn video being made within the fic story, but just straight up porn. Doctor A must give a full... physical... examination of Patient B, both inner and outer for a full health check up. Mmm what kind of instruments would Doctor have? Hey! That one’s not medical grade appropriate that one looks like was specially made for a particular use! Oh Doctor, do make me feel... better 🍆🍑💦👅

Highnon you are a dirty dirty dog. That’s why I like you ;) idk why I’m always thinking about hockey player Steve. I think I’m projecting Keanu Reeves on him a little bit lol. But w/e~ enjoy!

Fooled around and fell in love.

Steve skated towards the exit gate with a hiss of pain, clutching his side where one of his teammates sticks had broken over it. He didn’t want to listen to his coach and get it checked out. He actually insisted on continuing practice. That was until a friendly pat on the back had his breath shortening in his chest, his ribs seizing up, and his legs giving out. So it became less of a suggestion, and more of an order.

Stepping off the ice and across to the locker room, Steve changed out of his not thick enough padding and jersey for his street clothes. A skimpy pair of shorts almost pastel in their spearmint green color, and a cut off tshirt that once read a band name and is now too faded from sweat and washing detergent to decipher. Skating got him cold, but hockey practice always left Steve over heated so he didn’t like to wear much after.

Now, however, as he lifts his duffel bag and skates tied together with their laces over his shoulder, and carries his stick in his hand like a wizard on an adventure, his shorts feel a little silly.

He’s got to make the trek across his university campus to the infirmary. Any other day, Steve would dump his stuff in his car and maybe drive his car. But it’s sunny outside so he walked to the closed off air conditioned auditorium. Of course.

The sun comes down on his back as he thinks about the physical therapist he’s walking towards. Hargrove, Doctor Hargrove, if one can even be a doctor of giving massages. He’s just transferred down from being a football teams specialist in California and he shows it. Young and talented. All sun kissed skin and rippling surfer muscles. The type of guy to pull his long blond hair back into a pony tail and roller blade down a boardwalk with cut off jeans on— and only cut of jeans on.

Steve shivers with the image.

But it’s real life that has those shivers crawling as goosebumps up the patch of hair on Steve’s chest and to his neck. It’s the real life Doctor Hargrove that wears sun faded button up shirts left unbuttoned just a smudge unprofessionally. And the real life pair of gold wire frame glasses he keeps on the tip of his button nose. Looks over them with a smile when he’s listening to Steve’s story of his visit. Doesn’t judge, just smiles perfect teeth. Makes Steve feel warm all over no matter how much pain he’s in.

And damn, that’s not great. Having a school boy crush on a Doctor he’s only meet three times. That’s not going to keep his scholarship he so desperately needs.

So Steve tries harder, pushing himself to skate faster and shoot straighter and shove bastards up against the glass. Prove he’s good as hell at hockey. But that leads to more accidents. More injuries. And now he’s here, in front of the quaint little therapy office, for a forth time this season.

“Harrington,” the receptionist calls as soon as he comes through the door.

Steve smiles sheepishly back at her, dumping his equipment off on a coffee table littered with magazines before he goes up to her window. “How’s it going?” he tries to lean casually but ends up wincing in pain.

She’s not impressed, sympathetic, but not impressed. She doesn’t look down as she picks up her phone and presses two buttons before saying his name out loud again. It’s only a short call, just to get Doctor Hargrove out, just to hear those unprofessional boots hitting the linoleum floor.

“Stevie,” Doctor Hargrove opens the door with a salty breeze of ocean air. Catches Steve right on his jaw with how he’s got his hair pulled back in a loose pony tail. His wire frames folded to the pocket of his shirt making it weigh down teasingly showing off more tanned skin. Steve licks his lips and tries to focus on the doctor’s words as he starts speaking.

“Your coach called me and let me know what happened. A whole stick cracked over your back. I gotta say— that’s pretty hardcore to take and keep trying to play... for a pretty boy like you.” He ends the last with a wink.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here? The best care for the school’s best team players?” Steve tries to casually complement him. Remind him it’s professional.

“The best care, and the best hands... all for you, Stevie,” Doctor Hargrove smirks.

He gets his words thrown right back to him with a flirty force strong as California sun burns. Makes Steve blush up his legs and under his shorts to the softest part of inside his thighs. Steve can only giggle, running a hand over the sweaty back of his neck while keeping his head down.

“Lets get started, I’ve got you all set up,” he steps aside to hold the door open. Steve doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to let himself get too close. But at the same time he craves it, yerns for it, would beg for it, if it would make a difference.

So he leaves his huge bag of equipment in the safety of the waiting room and scoots past his physical therapist close enough to make his mouth water.

“Last door,” the Doctor whispers directions into the narrow hallway. Steve goes quickly to the open doorway. Settles inside in a not settled way, clutching his arms across his stomach as he watches Doctor Hargrove ready about.

One hand motions Steve over while the other slides across a massage table’s plush leather. A long dark cream colored thing he’s familiar with. Each massage is simple, lets Steve keep a pair of shorts on the whole time, stands him up nicely with a hand to his lower back, and leaves him feeling all together lighter and heavier at the same time.

“Shirt off, lay down, call me Billy,” he starts listing off more orders. They sound so good.

Steve follows easily. Yanking his shirt off, rustling his shoulder length brown hair, and going to the table to lay down right at his doctor’s beck and call. “Billy,” he tests the name on his mouth lastly. He knew Hargrove’s name was William— but Billy tasted so much better.

“Stevie,” Billy says as he hovers his hands over his naked back, “this whole side of your ribs are going to bruise.” He makes a tisk sound with his mouth like he’s scolding him. Makes Steve’s breath hitch.

“I’m going to feel around, make sure nothing is broken or misplaced. Let me know if you feel any shifting or pain.” Then fingers are on Steve’s side, playing with his skin to shift it around and feel the ladder of his bones. Wide fingers that are well used with calloused tips, but somehow soft and warm. Sand underfoot on a beach you know is made of tiny glass shards but you cannot help but to burry your hands up to your wrists in its warmth.

Steve shivers again, doesn’t moan. “Just super sore,” he replies. And yes, there isn’t any sharp pain or poke, just his skin clouding over in purple as his muscles throw a fit from being abused.

“Then that’s good,” Billy hums. His hands leave only for a moment. Steve doesn’t have to look. He can hear a clicking top of a bottle and the tell tale sounds of wet hands rubbing against each other. Warming up. Steve puts his face as flush into the fluffy white pillow of the table as possible to hide his dusty rose cheeks.

“I believe a deep massage right now will do you well. Loosen up the tension and bring healing blood circulating back to the bruise. Get it nice and worked out, hum? That sound good, Stevie?” Billy prattles on but hasn’t touched him yet.

Steve doesn’t reply, he’s thinking about why and when Billy considered it okay to call him Stevie. A part of him realizes he’s been doing it since their first meeting.

Before his mind wanders too far, there’s two warm hands palming his shoulder blades. Wet and sopping in oil that slides across his skin easily. Melts his stiff back good enough to make his eyes flutter closed. Steve wills his arms to come from his sides up to wrap around his head, uses them like a makeshift pillow when he has a perfectly fine one, really uses his flushed skin to bite down on.

“This is a brand new oil I had delivered here from California,” Billy makes small talk as if his hands weren’t working circles into the top of Steve’s tense muscled back hard and deep enough to make him see stars. “It’s organic and world peace, all that stuff. Made with real hemp oil local to there. Really supposed to do the trick.”

“Hemp oil?” Steve purrs out. Doesn’t really registers he’s done it until his mouth is already open and dragging the L noise through the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut. Presses his forehead into his pillow.

Billy only laughs over him. His hands working down and down, working right where Steve’s spine dips. Rubbing long lines in and out the dip with his two thick thumbs every inch and sends an electric shockwave of pleasure. Does it unhindered and unbothered and so professionally it’s making Steve’s toes curl in his Nikes.

“Yeah hemp,” Billy keeps talking. “They are really looking into it back home. All the uses. Oil, of course, but then there’s the seeds they can use to make flower, and the plant itself can make fibers for rope or clothes. Imagine that, hum? A shirt made from hemp?”

Billy’s hands are down at Steve’s Venus dimples. Right above the waist band of his pastel mint shorts. The oil is soaking into his skin making him feel drunk. The pressure of the fingers are turning his body numb in the best, the very best, of highs.

Steve isn’t paying attention anymore, he’s got his eyes closed and his tussled hair falling over his face. Only hums back for a second as a reply. Doesn’t care the hum comes out much too deep and long. And then comments without filtering. “I imagine some hemp rolled into a joint would be pretty good right about now.”

That earns him a laugh. And Billy’s pressing his thumbs directly into his Venus dimples as he lets the laughter roll through his fingers.

Steve wasn’t ready, can’t stop the moan that comes out of his mouth. He tries to catch it with a hand slapped to lips but it’s too late. Billy’s fingers are gone. There’s a list of apologies already forming on Steve’s tongue, but then those fingers are back. Not back on his skin, but pushing lightly against the waist band of his shorts.

One hand teasing right where they sit over a hip, the other hand pressing into the bruise on his side. But not his hand, something else. Something long and thin and curved off at the tip.

“Billy?” Steve shivers again. Wishes he had all those fingers back.

“I’d like to try something else new, if you’d permit me?” Billy asks. The object tracing around his ribs. Putting more pointed pressure down on them then fingers could. Making Steve’s breath fully catch with how his body can only mold around the solid object.

“This is a massage stick. It’s wooden, hand carved out of real cherry oak. It’s supposed to calm and relax and also reach where I couldn’t with my fingers.” The round tip traces one rib all the way from Steve’s stomach to his spine. Leaves a trail of oil as it goes. Billy must have gotten it dripping wet with the stuff.

Steve moves his hand off his lips, groans as soon as he does, but recovers with a soft nod. “Oh— Okay,” he permits Billy to continue. Steve moves his hand up to get a fist in his hair in an attempt to shut himself up.

“Good, boy,” Billy growls out over him, his tone changed. Warm sand sweltering under the hot sun. Steve’s skin blistering where his fingers are still playing with his waist band.

“Let me take these down, just a little, don’t want to get oil all over your shorts?” and his voice is gravel rough and sickly sweet all at the same time. And better, he’s bent over whispering right into the back of Steve’s neck. His breath his fire scorching over the long hairs that curl over the nape of Steve’s neck. Making them blow in his wind and also get wet and tacky all at the same time.

Steve yanks the fist of his own hair he has hard, trying to swim back to the surface. It doesn’t work. Instead he only drags out another moan, sluty, needy, and at the end of it begs, “yes, oh, yes,” in a chant.

Billy listens, sliding his shorts down just so they clear the curve of Steve’s ass. The waist band hooking under his curvy shapely cheeks to make them plump up even more. One hand splays over his ass. Palms him easy and whole like a fucking basket ball. Billy’s hand still wet and soft with the oil gives his cheek a testing squeeze that makes Steve whimper and buck into the massage table.

It’s embarrassing, but Steve can’t think. Can only smell Billy’s cologne, his own cock hard and dripping pre cum in his shorts, and good weed.

The massage stick moves from his ribs to the small of his back. Testing their muscles like before, making them give in easy ways fingers couldn’t. Billy rubs before he starts dragging the stick up the dip of Steve’s spine. He’s pushing hard but not painful, not enough to bother the curve of each disk in his spine but enough to pressure each muscle to a romantic numb feeling.

Billy takes the stick up and down twice, letting Steve’s posture completely change under the treatment, arching up into the touch, before he drags it down farther. Over the knot of his spine at the very bottom. Then the slickness of the oil drips down the crack of his ass. Steve’s eyes snap open, screwed shut focusing on his haggard breathing, now he has to stop himself from thinking he’s dreaming.

Doctor Hargrove, Doctor dream boat, shirt left unbuttoned because he’s an asshole who loves to put on a show. Knows exactly how beautiful the rippling waves in his blue eyes are. Knows he promises with each muscle and motion to the domination he could have over those waves if he only had a board.

It’s almost a dream. He’s got those hands on Steve’s body, asking Steve for permission and taking the reigns at the same time. Steve’s good at skating and chasing a puck. He was raised under thick trees in a dark forest and cold winters practicing on his skates with the headlights of his car the only light. He’s not used to the glare of the sun, not used to how his leaves unfurl under the attention. He’s embarrassed, but god he can’t help it.

Billy keeps moving the massage stick down, over the curve of his ass and gets the oil spread all over his hole. Gets the side of the stick rubbing on him long, hard, dominating every inch of him.

“Holy shit,” Steve finally lets out in a breathy coil. His arms fold under the pillow to press it hard to his face. While his thighs press together in a full body shiver, his hips arching up off the table for more friction.

The pillow is stifling his whimpers and moans, Billy seems to notice. He gets the hand not occupied with the massage stick to trail up Steve’s back. Dragging his thick, heavy fingers up to run through the length of Steve’s brown hair at the back of his head.

Billy gets his fingers buried in their damp length and pulls Steve’s head out of the pillow.

“Holy fuck, Billy,” Steve lets out unhindered. His neck pulling taught as he chants out, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” then drops into wordless moans.

“Yeah, I knew you’d love this, pretty boy,” Billy murmurs right into his ear.

His hand is still moving, up and down, before the rounded tip catches lightly on the rim of his hole. Steve whimpers desperately, arching up so the well oiled tip pushes easily right in. Billy keeps his wrist straight as the wood inches inside, positively growls as Steve fucks himself on it. Pulling his hair tighter, yanking his head back makes his back arch even more, Steve moans out as his knees push his ass up higher. He’s letting Billy play him like an instrument.

And honestly, Steve doesn’t care he’s letting Billy play him like an instrument. The only thing he’s thinking about is the thick fingers gripping his hair and the hard shaft of wood working inside him.

It’s been a while for Steve, trying to maintain a good grade point average and be the best at a difficult sport, he hasn’t been fucked in a while. His rim opens slowly, dragging slightly painfully as the massage stick goes deep. But the oil is slick and the wood is smooth. He whimpers out a soft gasping noise as he feels Billy’s knuckles brush against his ass cheek.

Billy keeps his fist around the base of the massage stick, twists it so his hand is flush with Steve’s skin, sinking the wood as far inside as he’ll let it go. He manages to keep an air of professionalism, much to Steve’s disappointment, as he rolls his wrist to push in and out. Dragging until the rounded off head is almost out then pushing right back in knuckle deep.

Steve’s straining, pulled taut between Billy’s fist and his own eagerness to get filled with whatever he can reach. His back straining beautifully in a way that hurts his muscles as much as massages them. If he could stay like this, head yanked back and practically sitting up on his knees to get his ass out, for hours he would. But his cock is still trapped in his skimpy little shorts. His cock is dripping wet pre cum that’s leaving a wet spot almost up to his navel. There’s a smell of it in the scented air. And with each thrust of Billy, those languid and deep thrusts of the massage stick inside his ass, the tip of Steve’s cock presses into the leather of the table.

“Bill— Billy,” Steve struggles to get out, struggles to keep his balance with how he’s wiggling and whimpering around. “Please, I want to cum,” he begs.

Then generously, with his own low groan breathed right into Steve’s ear, Billy picks up the pace. Starts thrusting the massage stick short but fast, tilting the head downward to spear into Steve just correct and earn him a sob.

“Yes, fuck yes, Billy,” Steve’s thighs are shaking, his arms that are trying to hold himself up to Billy’s mercy are quivering. His muscles crafted so skillfully for his sport melting sticky, hot under the California sun. Sugar water dripping down Billy’s arms in the middle of the afternoon while he gives his popsicle one lazy lick root to tip.

Inside his shorts, Steve comes a jagged thrusting mess of white. Pumps himself to the same neck breaking thrusts Billy keeps pushing against his prostate with. It’s embarrassing, to cum first and untouched. But the leather is enough to rut against and milk himself with. Dry humping the bed like he’s a teenager again with his magazine of David Hasselhoff lounged out across the hood of his car.

Billy lets his head drop back to the pillow. A kind allowance, let’s Steve’s cries get muffled into the cotton pillow. The massage stick comes out slowly, careful of his sore rim. Steve isn’t thinking about much other than how fucking good he feels until he feels velvet softness press on his ass.

He pushes himself up on one elbow and strains over his shoulder, hurts like hell. But he gets to see Billy, Doctor Hargrove, taking his own cheery red cock out the front of his unzipped jeans and pumping himself mean over Steve’s ass. His lips are glossy and swollen, parted in a groan, and his chest left open by his shirt is flushed with sweat. His doctors coat is open and disheveled, one side fallen off his shoulder. The side he ain’t using to jack himself off on his patient’s ass.

Light blue eyes swirled with sea foam green look upwards at Steve. Catches his own big brown eyes like a cat catching a bird out the sky. With a smile.

He cums like that, making eye contact, smiling with his mouth open and his white teeth sparkling. His tongue rolling out one side just to lick over his fat bottom lip in a tease. His cum shoots fat across Steve’s exposed ass, making it just as glossy as Billy’s lips.

With one hand he pumps himself dry, Steve watching as he shakes with the effort, then uses the other to tuck himself back into his jeans and zip up. Billy has a smile on his face that’s faded slightly from his leering, made softer. He takes both hands and palms them against Steve’s ass. Kneading the muscles of his cheeks just as skillfully as he worked the oil into them.

“Stevie,” he leans back over. Steve drops himself from his elbow as Billy comes in close. Sinking back down to the pillow to lay across it, desperately falling away from those lips. “Feel better after that treatment?” And Billy knows what he’s doing. He leans as far forward as he can, getting his mouth ghosting across Steve’s jaw. Laying open mouthed kisses long his sharp bone as he waits for a reply.

Steve works on one with his spent throat. Struggling slightly to make any noise other than a mewl. Finally he rasps, “feels much better, Doctor.”

Billy giggles at that, right in his ear again. His breath tickling Steve’s hair. “You’re such a good boy for me, Stevie. Let me fix you up perfectly. Let me ruin that pretty ass just right?”

“Billy,” and it’s more of a plea than a name. More of begging than a declaration of anything.

Steve full body shudders on the table as if he’s cuming again when Billy blows a soft breath of air past his ear to lay more kisses. His thick wet tongue curls around Steve’s ear lobe and licks, one long swipe around to the tip, his glossy lips catching all the messy strands of Steve’s hair going everywhere. His tongue moves past. Then he presses one last kiss to the side of his forehead before moving away.

There’s a second’s tick as Steve realizes he’s supposed to move and get up and the knowledge that he simply doesn’t want to. Suddenly he does, pushing himself up and onto shaky legs. Feeling like a doe on thin wavering legs stepping out to the slippery sands of a beach for the first time. He pushes off the table wearily. Reaching for his shirt he discarded on a nearby chair. And oh, thankfully finding a dispenser of paper towels he grabs a fist of to clean his shorts off.

Billy’s still close. A lingering presence right behind Steve as he works around the Doctor’s office. Watching him from those blue eyes predator hungry. Steve wants to rolls his eyes, the man seems starved, but Steve also wants to try for a swim. See where else they can take that old massage table to.

Instead they stay quiet, stay smiling. The cramped examination room very warm now. Steve pulls on his shirt and starts working on wiping the inside of his shorts clean. He feels Billy come up along side him before he can hear him. Even smells his cologne again. The lingering hemp oil on his hands that now reach up to trail along the sensitive skin between Steve’s elbow and his shoulder.

“Want to schedule a follow up? Let’s say?,” and Billy trails off. Steve turns over his shoulder to look at him. His dark eyebrows high on his pretty face and his eyelashes long.

Steve swallows, “Saturday? At 8?” He blurts.

There’s a moment of hesitation on Billy’s face, his thick brows knitting together on his forehead for a second before that wild wolf grin he was wearing as they walked into the back room earlier. “You asking me on a date, Stevie?”

Throwing the towels into the waste basket to clear up his hands, Steve spins in Billy’s arms. He looks up, meets bright blue eyes, wants to watch as his hands trail over the shirt still spread wide on his chest but doesn’t want to look away. Steve nervously plays with the golden wire framed glasses still tucked into Billy’s pocket.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “My apartment. Got a nice one just a few blocks from campus. Tiny. But decent kitchen. I make a great red sauce pasta, at least that’s what my nana says.”

Billy nods along. Smile turns a little more kitten than wolf as Steve mentions his old nana. “Pasta, your apartment, Saturday at 8? Sounds like a fairy tale date, pretty boy. I won’t miss it for the world.”

Steve shrugs. Feels powerful with his fingers the ones all over Billy’s body. With his appointments and plans the ones taking up Billy’s schedule for once. He feels like sunshine. So he takes his hands and cups them over Billy’s cheeks, slids his own calloused fingers over the subtle beard there, leans in for a soft press of their lips.

Billy is smiling into the kiss. Steve smiles back just as wide. Their teeth knock together once. Steve’s nose gets squished as they move around.

He parts for a second just long enough to whisper, “bring that hemp oil with you, yeah?” before Steve’s got those dreamy lips back on his.

[celosiaa]

steady, love (chapter 4)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed ™ with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-6 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

WARNING: brief depiction of panic

Jon pulls the car in park as they return to the cottage, and once again, Martin bolts—slamming the door behind him with enough force to make Jon jump.  Left alone now, Jon sighs deeply and rests his forehead on the steering wheel.

Foolish. Foolish foolish foolish.

You knew better.

You knew.

He slams his hand on the steering wheel thrice before picking up his head.  Martin occupies his peripheral vision, still standing but doubled over, hands on his knees.

Jon does not want to get out of the car.

(two hours previous)

Driving through the countryside awakened emotions in Jon that he thought were long since dead.  The greenery of it all, the rolling hills, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage—something about it made him feel…

Serene.

…I could actually see how Martin might want to write a poem about this.

Turning his head toward the passenger seat, he finds Martin gazing out the window, eyes crinkling at the corners to give away his hint of a smile.

Warm.

Jon turns on the CD player, and Martin’s “lo-fi charm” begins to play softly from the speakers.  Martin turns his head, eyebrows raised in surprise, before his face melts into a smile.

“You packed these?” he whispers, voice still ragged.

“I thought it might—just—you seemed out of it.  When we left, I mean.  I thought they might help…ground you.”

Jon can feel Martin’s eyes still on him, although his own gaze is focused on the road.  Peripherally, he sees Martin reach toward his burned left hand where it rests on the steering wheel, and takes it carefully.  He then begins a gentle massage, fingers working over where some soreness remains from his encounter this morning, then over the length of each finger, before kissing the back of Jon’s palm.

Jon is a puddle.

Martin looks extremely pleased with himself, and doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

As they enter the village, Jon can sense a shift in Martin’s mood.  Though he still has not let go of Jon’s hand, he sits up straighter now, eyes glued to the people walking along the narrow streets.   It’s not crowded by any means—especially compared to the streets of London—but Jon must admit, it is rather a shock to recognize that they are not fully isolated, not even here.

Looking up, Jon sees dark clouds rolling in from the east.

It will rain soon, the Eye tells him unhelpfully.

They drive around at a leisurely pace until Jon finally finds the shop.  It’s a tiny, cramped little thing, and the parking lot is filled with shoppers hastily unloading their groceries as the sky begins to weep.  Jon puts the car in park and turns to Martin, who is still staring out the window with an unhealthy flush.

“Twenty minutes maximum,” Jon says softly.  “Just twenty.  Will you be alright?”

His gaze remaining fixed, Martin nods determinedly before taking a grounding breath.  At last, he turns to Jon, eyes still glassy, but—

Warm.  So warm.

He leans forward, hesitating for just a moment before pecking Jon’s cheek.

Jon smiles then, placing his hands gently on Martin’s face, brushing his fringe back as he does.  They look deeply into each other’s’ eyes for a moment, unhurried, before Jon plants a kiss on Martin’s lips.  To his dismay, Martin jumps bodily, pushing Jon’s chest back in alarm.

Oh Christ what have I done?

Jon immediately leans away from Martin, eyes wide in horror.

“Oh god—I-I’m so sorry Martin, I should have asked—”

Martin hold his hands up, shaking his head.

“You’ll catch ill,” he whispers, eyes full of concern.

Jon freezes, momentarily blinded by relief, before exhaling a brief laugh.  Taking Martin’s hand in his, he says,

“If I do, then that’s alright.”

He kisses the back of Martin’s too-warm palm.

“You’ll just take care of me, then.”

Martin’s flush deepens, and a sunny smile creeps onto his face.  Placing a hand behind his head, Jon pulls Martin’s head forward and plants a soft kiss on his forehead before getting out of the car, leaving a blushing mess of a man in his wake.

Martin hides his face in his hands, more grey tendrils spilling out of him.  He giggles, of all things, which turns quickly into a punishing coughing fit.  But he hardly minds, giddy grin remaining fixed on his face.

I must look really daft.

Attempting to force his face into some semblance of normality, he turns to look out the window again, spending several minutes watching the shoppers with their trolleys and their bags and their children.  It strikes him, suddenly, that their greatest worry at this moment was the rain.  The rain.

Must be nice.

…

…are you really jealous of people just minding their own business?  Jesus, Martin.

With a sigh, Martin tips his head back against the seat, and notices absently that the rain is becoming steadier on the windshield.  It’s relaxing, gentle, calm.

Martin closes his eyes and drifts away.

He awakens with a start, some uncertain amount of time later.  The rain is pouring down in sheets now, thudding against the windshield so hard it echoes through his skull.  Trying desperately to see through the endless grey, he sees nothing, no one, not even a stranger.  Just him and the car and the grey.

Please just leave me be, please

His breath begins to come in ever-shortening gasps, and he leans forward onto his hands, head pounding.

I can’t see I can’t see I can’t see I can’t—

Jon glares at his watch impatiently, the bright green of his eyes reflecting back at him sharply.

Of course.  Of course it would be pouring the rain, and it’s been well over twenty minutes.

Of course.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, adjusting the heavy bags in his arms once again.  Next to him stands a young mother with one child seated in the overflowing trolley, another swaddled in a carrier slung over both her shoulders.

The Eye pulls at him, begging him to See what horrors the child in the trolley dreams of each night;  what hurt he has suffered, even as such a young thing.  Some sick part of Jon—or is it really Jon?—is desperately enticed by the meal before him—his mouth floods with saliva, he’ll do anything just to be satiated—

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head.

You can’t have it.

It is not for us.

He attempts to direct his focus on the groceries in his arms, distracting himself by planning for their meal.  Some kind of soup is most definitely in order, he’ll make that first.  Unsure of what ought to be part of his vague notion of “soup,” he had purchased an array of vegetables and beans that he thought looked appetizing, and threw in some vegetable stock for good measure.  Thankfully, he had remembered a conversation he’d overheard years ago in which Martin had argued with Tim over the values of vegetarianism.

Jon smirks.

Always going on about “good cows.”

With any luck, after the meal, he could coax Martin into taking the mountain of medicines he’d purchased.  Something for the fever, at the very least.  Maybe then he’d be able to get some dreamless, healing sleep.

Feeling a bit steadier now, Jon looks back up, in the hopes that the rain has let up.  It hasn’t, of course, so he tries his best to see Martin through the curtain of rain.

Over thirty minutes now.

Jon Knows this without checking his watch.

Something is scratching it’s way out of his skull, and Jon can no longer hold it back.

T͉̟͇ͤͭ́̓h̥̟͚ͫͤ͊ͬḙ̲̞͑ͣ̍́ ̞̼͓̯͋͒̔r̖̮̙͑̓ͯͬa͙̹̭̘̳̺͐i͎ͤ̋̍̑̂̾n̞͕͕̞̅͆͛ ̪̥̥̻̇͒ͫî͎̰̖ͤ͒ͩs͚̱ͥ͗͊̈̓ ̤̪͋̽̇͂ͣw̙̙̟̰̃ͬ̈́r̺̤̙ͦ̈̂̆ȏ̳̗͈͛͛ͅn̽͂͗ͨͧ̉͒g̠̅̊͋ͭ̓ͅ,̦͍ͩ͊ͨ̚ͅ ͔̹̼̥̽͗̂J̫̖͙̳͊̇ͭo͎͖͓̥̫̒̎n̲̩͆ͧ̾̅̓.̘̼̲̬ͩ͂ͭ ͖͇̦̺͌ͧ̌ ͍͈̮͑��ͪ͒C̮͖̝͊̄̐̽å̺̹̺ͤͧ̚n͚͉̰̘̫ͩ̃'̫͛̈́̅ͤ͐̚t̪͚̞̫͇̅́ ̥̗̩̙̻̿̌y͓̞̤̻̠ͮ̚ó̩̹̣̅͌͋u͓̤̝̘̹̒̋ ̙͓͙ͮ̾̽͛s͎͍̾̆ͧͦͮe͚͔̫̒ͪ͐̋e͖͕ͨͪ̈ͭ̄?͖͙̲̳̰͂̏

Static explodes through his mind, permeating every thought with anxiety, leaving him breathless.

I̯͕ͩͭͧͪͩt̗̹͉̽͗̄̂'̣̮̤̅ͣ̅͗s̞̣̃ͫ̏͐ͅ ̜͉͈̞̽͊̀w̗̯͔͋̏͆͊r̖̙̈́͐͂ͯ̉o̖͔̟ͩ̍ͨ̒n͕̮̪̐̎̏̑g͖̐̉̏̀͑̅.͇̺͓͒͆̾̏

It is, isn’t it.

D̟̹̫̽̅̓̚o̲̤̟̒ͧͨͅn̯͓͕̤̽̀ͭ'̻̋̍̏̂̔́t͙̬̙̰ͤ̉̎ ̱͙̯̝͑̑̾y̹̱̽͑̎ͅͅo̲̠͍̼̻ͯ̅û̘̖̯̆͐ͅ ̯ͤ͆̂͌̏ͅN̫͚̺̫̞̅ͫĖ̯͚̠͈̤̇Ē̖̪̺͓̈́̚D̠͙̘̏̈́̇͂ ̤͇̭͕̻͋̄ẗ̙́ͮ̋͂̔̚o̤̲̻ͭ̌ͣ͐ ̙̖̬̖̓̄̐s̙̙͓̺͖̣̋e̯̦̱̳̗ͣͮe̮̲͖̪ͧ̇ͧ?̟͇̦͗͗͆͗

D̳̤̪͆̉͋̿o͈̮̥̿̆̐ͮn͓̺̽̄͋ͫ͆'̘̯͎̊́ͮͅt̠̟͉͗̓̀̃ ͉͐͒͗ͦͫ͂y̦̣̞̪̍̍͑o̥̫͍̒́͛̔ȕ̻̜̑ͫ͛̚ ̻̳̰̝̈ͪͨn̠͚̾̏̆͛͂e̒͒͆̋ͥ̐͐ë̤̻͎̘́ͦͤd̥̟̜ͣ̅̾̀ ̪͚̟̦̎̎̇t̯͓̻̱ͭ̾͛ŏ̖̠̫̇̍͋ ͔̑̄̿̋͋ͮp͉̬̲ͩ͛ͨ̂r̙̝̰̦͑̓̒o̫̤̤̜̍ͪ͌t͔̟͚̻̝̽̅e͚̲͙ͫ̑ͭ̂c̫̳̹̿͆̂͂ẗ̳̦̩̦̯́ͦ ̞̱̉ͭͨͦͯh̰̣̺̆ͯͪ̈i̤̘̬ͭͣͭ͛m̗ͫ̈̽̃ͪ́?̳̩͊̋̇ͨͩ

He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want this.  He wants to refuse the Eye its every wish, but he has to Know if Martin is alright, he has to he has to he has to—

He does.

He sees Martin sitting in the car, head in his hands, trying to control his breathing, when suddenly—Martin jolts.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his head—

He looks directly at Jon.

Jon’s head begins to split.

He stumbles, back in the shop now, wincing and trying not to drop his bags.

“Alright there?”  he thinks he hears the woman next to him say.

He doesn’t respond.  He knows he has to make a run for it now.

Martin knows what he’s done.

He dashes through the parking lot, ignoring the rain soaking through his shoes, nearly slipping as he reaches the door.  As he throws it open, he hears a loud BANG as Martin slams his body into the passenger side door, eyes wide and terrified and—

Betrayed.

Jon slows his movements intentionally, setting the bags on the seat behind them before lowering himself to sitting, and closing the door.

“…Martin?”

Martin is still gaping at him with those wide eyes, beginning to hyperventilate.  Jon reaches out a hesitant, shaking hand toward him in a gesture of comfort, but—Martin slaps it away rather forcefully.  Jon inhales sharply at this, a bit shocked at his anger.

“I-I…sorry, I…what can I do?  How can I help?”

Gaze never leaving him, Martin shakes his head rapidly before doubling over into painful, gasping coughs that must be tearing his throat to shreds.  Tears gather in Jon’s eyes as he watches, utterly at a loss for what to do, Knowing how much joy the Eye is taking in this moment, drinking in all of their pooled sorrow.

Martin recovers some ability to breathe at last, but his eyes have not softened.

“Just—drive,” he chokes out between gasping breaths.

Jon complies without another word.

(present)

He has to get out eventually.

Might as well be now.

Glancing to his left again, Jon sees Martin standing up fully now, pacing back and forth in front of the cottage, and he makes his decision.  He lifts the groceries from where they had been knocked on their sides due to his speeding, and closes the car door softly—enough to alert Martin to his presence without startling him.

Again.

At the sound, Martin stops pacing, standing with his back to Jon, overlooking their neighbor’s field filled with cattle.  The gravel crunches under Jon’s feet as he approaches, careful to stop before getting too close.  They stand in silence for nearly a minute, and Jon takes some comfort in the fact that Martin has not sent him away.

At last, he turns, teary eyes boring into Jon’s.

“That? Cannot happen again,” he rasps, with as much force behind it as his voice will allow.

Jon nearly drops the grocery bags in astonishment, relieved that Martin seems to want to talk this out.

“Y-yes of—of course, Martin, I-I’m so sorry, I just—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Jon,” he hisses.

Jon snaps his mouth shut immediately.

Martin sighs, running a hand through his hair before replying with a slightly-softened tone.

“I just…don’t.  You can’t do that.  Not to me.  Understand?”

“Yes.  Yes, I..I’m sorry.”

“Good.  Let’s go then.”

Martin marches quickly toward the cottage, leaving Jon staring after him.  Jon knows that this is far from over, but makes a decision to be grateful for small progress.  Hitching the bags up on his hips, he follows Martin inside.

[mentalmimosa]

a beauty of a beast

This isn’t his Bond.

The man he’s watching from the safety of the low sleeping loft, from behind a veritable forest of potted plants--through his slotted fingers, if he’s honest--this isn’t the man that he knows.

Which is a damned good thing, it is, because this Bond is making love to a girl. Not a girl, a woman, their backdoor informant into the Russians’ latest nonsense, the bullshit that’s threatening half the globe from right here in sunny Rome, that’s dragged Q from his happy home at HQ. To “help Bond,” they told him. Well, that was rubbish. The old man doesn’t like it when you hold the lift door for him; there was no way in hell he’d asked for help.

And he hadn’t. Oh, very much not. A fact he’d made abundantly clear.

They’d had a row about it while walking around in the park, the only place Bond deemed safe enough to talk. Walls have ears, and all that. Being pissed off wasn’t worth getting caught. So he’d dragged Q by the ear to a big piazza or something and harangued him in a whispered shout for nigh on a hour, all the while with an affable look on his face. It would have impressed Q, truly, if he hadn’t been getting fussed at. Bond lobbing a few in the lab was one thing, as was a snort or a huff on the comm, but the whole getting upbraided in public business was, well, far beyond.

“Stop glaring at me,” Bond had said, showing teeth, as they rounded yet another damnable fountain. “We’re tourists, eh? Try to look like you’re having a good time.”

Q had glowered at him again. “No.”

“Oh, for god’s sake!”

“Better his than mine,” Q had said, “because I’m here under duress and committed on principle to not having a bloody good time.”

Bond had come to a stop and turned on him, blue eyes like knives. “I’m glad we’re agreed on that at least.”

“How much longer is this going to take? You’ve been here almost a month already. Surely that’s long enough to have--”

“Tell you what, Quartermaster.” Bond’s voice had dropped to a hiss. “You mind your own business and I’ll see to mine. If we do that, believe me, we’ll be on our way out inside of a week.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

There’d be a laugh. And not a pleasant one. “Please do,” Bond snarled. “Please bloody well do.”

Things had, in fact, progressed nicely since Q’s arrival. Another couple of days, Bond was pinning it now, and he’d have the informant fully turned and Putin’s latest plans for fucking with the Western Alliance well in hand.

Or so he’d said a half an hour ago when there was a sudden knock on the door. Bond reached for his pistol and Q for his nerve: it was nearly midnight, you see, and there was no good reason that anyone would show up at the flat of Dr. Nicholas O’Hara, full-time botanist and part-time arms dealer, at such an hour--none that Q could think of, anyway. None at all.

Bond possessed similar opinions, it seemed, because he’d made catfoot for the door, gun in hand and called “Yes?” in O’Hara’s soft brogue.

“Nicholas, it’s me.” Petra. Bond’s inside girl. Er, woman. “I need--I’m sorry to bother, but I need to talk with you.”

“It’s very late, darlin’. I’ll call on you in the morning, eh?”

And then had come a sob, the snuffle of unmistakable tears. “Nicolas,” Petra said again. “Please.”

Bond had raised his shoulder at Q and pointed and so here he found himself, lying on his belly amongst potted lilies of the fields. Oh, how they wove, how they spun, while on the couch below, Bond’s cock is driving Petra out of her mind. At least, it sounds that way to Q.

It had been bad enough when she’d kissed him, leaned into him and parted her lips and taken what she’d come for: the firm press of Nicholas’s mouth, the feeling of his hands on her breasts.

“Amante,” she’d said when Bond had dared to lift his head from the pale peach knots of her nipples. “I need you.”

“But you have me, don’t you?” Bond had tipped his face up and found hers. Their lips met again, fiercely collided. “I’m right here with you, mmm?”

Petra had whimpered then. So it had sounded to Q. Though he’d never heard one quite so loud.

“I don’t know if I can do what you ask of me,” she’d said. “Talking to you is one thing, but taking, stealing from these people.” She trembled. “I don’t think this is within my command.”

Q had felt ice water in his blood, a sick turn of his gut. Oh hell, she couldn’t back out now, could she? he thought fretfully. They were so close. Not now!

But Bond’s face had remained placid, if tinged with lines of concern. Not for their mission or for the fate of the world; no, in that moment, as Q had watched 007 hold that girl, if he’d not know better, he would’ve believed Bond’s concern was only for her.

“Oh, my dear.” Bond had nuzzled Petra’s cheek and squeezed gently at her breasts. “You can do anything I ask. I know you can.”

“Can I?” She’d shivered again. “I--Nick, I don’t--”

“Shhhhh.” Another kiss, this one harder, brighter; Petra’s fingers had gone tight in his hair. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t to, hmmm? But let’s forget about all that now.” He’d grinned then, tucked it against the bow of her neck. “Shall I show you how good you can be for me?”

A ridiculous statement, Q thinks now, roses brushing his cheeks. A line and a half. He wonders vaguely if Bond's been reading Fifty Shades of Gray. Whatever the hell it was, though, it had worked.

Worked in so far as it had gotten her thighs spread and her knickers off and Bond’s fingers on her clit, playing it like a viola or something, all long strokes with the occasional dip. She’d come like that, one leg thrown over Bond’s, her head back, her long dark hair everywhere--but what had struck Q most about it all had been Bond. There was no question that the man was playing a role--Queen, country, and duty, all that--and yet, as Petra reached for him, as Bond bent smirking to kiss her, not a damn thing had looked fake at all.

And nor does it now, as Bond fucks into her, her hands curled into the back of the couch, her knees on the threadbare cushions, his hand molded to the curves of her hips. He looks like he’s enjoying it, the bastard. Because of course he is.

This isn’t the Bond that Q knows, the one who slinks around HQ like he owns the place, the one who comes back bruised and aching, the one who stops shaving straight away as soon as he’s back from a mission, who grows a beard every time he sends a foreign government into a tizzy and M makes a show of sidelining him, of sticking the old man on the beach.

But the man with his trousers down and his shirt open looks anything but old. Being clean-shaven helps, as does a month of Italian sun, but it’s more than that, Q thinks: it’s the gorgeous tightness of his muscles, the way they shift when he moves. It’s the sounds he’s making as she does, groans that bleed prettily into her sighs. It’s the look on his face, in his eyes, like there’s no room left for anything except pleasure: no pain, no mission, no duty, only this. Only bliss.

They should be up where Q is, surrounded by all the damn plants, having sex in Bond’s bed like civilized people instead of making do of the couch. But Q is here so they can’t and Q is here so this shouldn’t be happening and Q is here staring at something he shouldn’t be seeing but here it is, eh? Here it is.

Bond hasn’t forgotten that he’s here, has he? Q wonders. Maybe he has. Given the reception that he’s getting from his singular focus--and what a focus it is, gods; just watching him unfurl the thing had made Q’s whole body feel flustered--he has, surely. How else could he be doing--that?

It appeases Q, this belief in Bond’s amnesia. It makes him feel far less ill-at-ease at the tightness in his trousers and the unmistakable if wholly embarrassing blurt of wet in his shorts. Bond isn’t aware of his presence. Bond in this moment isn’t really Bond. This, all this playing out below him, is a performance for Petra, and if by circumstance and spectacularly bad timing Q happens to be in attendance and impressed by the players, well, that’s his business, isn’t it?

And it’s not as though such thoughts are entirely new to him, either. Bond, for all that he is a prick, is also very smart. And very, very attractive in his own way. And Q, when it comes to such sorts of men, is self-admittedly weak. He’s let his mind wander in Bond’s direction before and happily reaped the results and not felt too guilty afterward. It’s not as if he has feelings for the bastard, not exactly, but there’s no law that says he can’t appreciate. No reason to feel bad about it at all. Even now, when faced with the real thing.

At least, there isn’t until Petra groans, her fingers tucked between her legs, and groans again and, from all signs of it, apparently, comes like a wildfire, one that cries out Bond’s very fake name and then and then Q can see something in Bond give way, like a cake collapsing at the center; can see his grip tighten and his hips shift and a greedy, desperate fucking get underway.

Q’s heart stops in his throat.

By god, if Bond was good-looking before, the old man playing young, now as he chases down pleasure, he’s heartstopping. Breathtaking. A proper beauty of a beast.

And then he looks up, does Bond. Tilts his head up towards where Q is hiding and grins.

“Like that?” he says to the wilting Petra, to the bloom that is Q. “Is this how you want me, love? Just this?”

“Yes,” Q whispers to the nearest lilly, to the light in Bond’s eyes. “It is. Damn you.”

*****

Later, when the girl is gone and Q trusts himself enough to stand, they don’t talk about it. Bond heads towards the shower half naked and whistling. Q strongly considers dumping wine over his head so it’ll soak straight into his brain. Hell, he thinks, reeling into a chair, crashing. What the fuck.

It’s nearly two now and outside, Rome is dreaming. Q’s not sure that he isn’t, too.

When Bond emerges, he trails a cloud of pine behind him, along with a palpable sense of abashed.

“Q,” he says. “That was, at best, terribly rude. At worst, well. I’d understand if you wanted my head. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That what?” Q says, rather loudly. He isn’t sure quite why. “Saved the mission, you mean? Guaranteed the loyalty of your hard won--no pun intended--informant? Sounds to me like you did your job.”

“Be that as it may, tonight’s not what you signed up for, is it? I went too far.”

Q’s face is flushed. He can feel it. And there’s an inconvenient flush elsewhere, too. God, why the hell couldn’t Bond have put on a shirt? “Yes, well. Never mind about it now. What’s done is done, and all that. I’ll smell like potting soil for a week, but surely there are remedies for that.”

Something flickers over Bond’s face and he steps closer, grabs. “Damn it, Q! Will you accept my goddamn apology or not?”

“Not if it’s delivered in an ungenerous spirit like that. I’m pretty sure shouting I’m sorry at someone negates the purpose of the statement, don’t you?” That he gets the words out is impressive. That he’s shaking in Bond’s grip is not. Especially when their eyes meet, when Bond’s gaze sinks its claws in, those blue eyes like gorgeous dead weights; for a half second, Q’s sure he’s about to sink through the floor.

“Are you saying that I shouldn’t be sorry? Is that what this is all about?” The fingers on Q’s arm shift up and flex. “And here I was thinking I’d offended you, dear. But that’s not it at all, is it? Oh, no. Far from it.”

There is a moment before and after: before he reaches out to touch the old man’s skin and after; before Bond shivers-- Bond , Her Majesty’s favorite fist--and after he sighs and pulls Q close, closer, wraps one broad arm the turn of Q’s back.

“You didn’t look like yourself,” Q says. The words come out like a whisper. “And then you looked up at me, and you did.”

When their mouths meet, it’s slowly, like two petals blooming, two flowers brushing, two trees whose branches touch in the wind.

“I don’t have a repeat performance in me tonight,” Bond murmurs. “I wish to God that I did. But I can take you upstairs and give you all that I can, hmmm? Will that be enough?”

Q grins against Bond’s lips, feeling mad. Feeling indescribably, stupidly glad. “Yes,” he says, nudging Bond back towards the couch. “But let’s do it here, hmm?”

“Yes,” Bond says as they stagger, careen towards something beautiful, something big. “Right here. Let’s.”

[knifeshoeoreofight]

part 1  part 2

Sid feels a vague sense of melancholy the whole week following the potluck dinner. He tries not to get like this— his life is a gift. He has wonderful friends and family, he’s able to make a living in a way that truly makes him happy. He has his animals, and his health. He really can’t ask for more. And he usually doesn't.

But the conversation he’d had with Evgeni over a pile of dirty dishes won’t leave him, and unease hangs about him like a miasma.  

He has a good life, he tells himself again.

The week has its bright spots. The mama cat and her kittens receive a clean bill of health from Dr. Brassard, and Flower calls him to ask if they can take one for the girls when they’re old enough. That only leaves one kitten to find a home for, and Sid isn’t opposed to keeping both it and its mother if need be.

He’s started calling her Caroline, after one of his favorite female hockey players. It quickly gets shortened to Caro. She makes chirpy “mrrrrrp!” noises at him whenever she sees him, and isn’t phased in the slightest by Ref’s clumsy and bewildered attempts to make friends. As the kittens grow, she takes occasional breaks from them and has decided that when not curled around her babies, her favorite location is draped around Sid’s shoulders.

She’s a comfort, and so are the rest of his misfit menagerie. Puck, the black Percheron, is the best listener. Sid talks to him, and Puck just regards him with one kind, warm brown eye, and then leans his massive head into Sid’s chest so Sid will scratch him in the place he likes best, right under the thoatlatch. Stanley, the gray, is usually more interested in hay than in Sid’s problems.

“So, I should just get over myself probably, huh?” Sid ask him, pulling loose a piece of alfalfa that’s been dangling out of the corner of Stanley’s mouth for the last ten minutes. Stanley sneezes, misting horse snot all over Sid’s clean shirt, then nuzzles him, leaving behind a smear of spit and partially chewed hay, just to complete the effect.

“Thanks,” Sid tells him dryly.

***

He’s in the grocery store Thursday evening when he hears a piping “Sid!” followed by a small body hurtling into his legs. It’s Sofia, a tired-looking Evgeni pushing a cart in her wake.

Evgeni smiles wide when he sees Sid, though, and leans with his forearms on the cart handle to talk to Sid.

“How is kitten?” he asks. “Getting bigger?”

“They’re growing like weeds,” Sid replies. “Clean bill of health from the vet, too. He says they’ll be ready to go to new homes when they’re about eight weeks old.”

An inadvisable idea strikes him. He really shouldn’t, but he’s weak.

“But you could always come visit them before then.” In for a penny, he thinks. “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

Evgeni blinks. “Not...really do anything. I’m have job interview in morning and Sofia have AM kindergarten but nothing after that. Are you sure—”

“Come for lunch, then,” Sid continues, before he can stop himself. “If you want. Sofia can see Maple and Biscuit again too, if she wants.”

“Maple? Biscuit?” Sofia shrieks, because she certainly has picked up those English words.

Evgeni smiles and shakes his head. “Okay, sure. We can come. One pm, is that good?”

“Perfect!” Sid enthuses, and mentally berates himself for using an adorable child’s love of ponies as a lure to spend more time with her and her attractive father. Her attractive, straight father, who’d had a wife before she’d left him, for god’s sakes.

I’m being neighborly, Sid tells himself. It’s called making friends.

Evgeni's eyes are kind of, gentle, as he regards Sid. “You like have people over. I’m remember.”

Oh great, now he just comes off as some kind of desperate recluse. Sid looks down at the box of Raisin Bran in his cart and feels his cheeks flush with shame.

“Happy to come over,” Evgeni says, and his voice sounds a little odd. “Will look forward to, so much.” The tone is achingly sincere, and it’s enough to make Sid able to look up again.

Evgeni is doing that thing again where he’s staring at Sid like he’s just realized something, and Sid dearly wishes he knew what it was.

***

Friday is clear and sunny, the afternoon filled with the beautiful, hazy autumn light that Sid loves best.

He hears gravel crunch in the driveway and Ref start barking his head off, warning him that Evgeni and Sofia are here. He has Caro draped around his shoulders instead of an embarrassing novelty apron this time.

“Hey! How was the interview?” Sid asks, smiling up at Evgeni.  

Again, with the staring. Sid is going to get a complex at this rate. Is there something on his face? He wipes at his mouth just in case.

“Was pretty good. Maybe, you know?” Evgeni shrugs

“What was the job?” Sid asks, as he ushers them inside. Evgeni remembers where to hang up the coats and to take his shoes off in the hall, and it makes Sid feel warm to see it.

“You know university next town over? Russian studies program have opening. Difficult job to get but would be perfect.”

“Wow,” Sid says, impressed. “That’s amazing. Is that what you did before? Teach?”

“I did,” Evgeni says. “But in city. Only adjunct jobs. Had to take two, three at a time to make enough money. Still not enough. Part of why Irina leave, I think.” His shoulders hunch, like he’s ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” Sid says softly. “I know you must have been trying so hard.”

Evgeni looks at him, pain pooling in his eyes and hardening the lines of his face. Sid wants to reach out. Hold him.

“I did,” Evgeni says, and it’s like he’s realizing it for the first time. “I did...”

Sid can’t help it. He reaches out and grips Evgeni’s shoulder. “Of course you did.” Evgeni takes a deep, shuddering breath and sways into the touch.

“Papa?” comes an uncertain little voice from the kitchen doorway. Sofia is looking at them, one hand clutching Ref’s fur.

Evgeni smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He says something gentle to her, and they all go in.

***

They eat in the kitchen instead of the dining room like at the potluck. Sid loves this part of the house the best. There’s a deep bay window and a nook just big enough for a comfortable little table. Through the window he can see a lot of his property as it slopes down to the road; the orchard on one side and pumpkins and pasture on the other.

“Good view,” Evgeni comments, as Sid brings over the soup he’d made and the bread he’d been warming in the oven. The tightness is starting to fade from around his mouth and his eyes.

“The best,” Sid says, and can’t help but smile. He can see Jake in the field, helping a family choose a pumpkin, while the goats stick their heads through the fence and try to beg treats from everyone in sight.

They eat, and Evgeni elaborates on the interview, getting animated and worked up as he talks about the quality of the program and what he’d do if he gets the job. It’s good to see, especially after the moment in the hallway.

Sid, through Evgeni, asks Sofia about her day at kindergarten. Today was apparently themed around the letter B and the color blue.

After they eat, they check on the kittens, and their growth, wiggliness, and squeak volume are assessed. Sofia doesn't know yet that she’s getting one, and her father wants it to be a surprise.

Evgeni apparently can’t help himself from pointing to the littlest one, a boy according to Dr. Brassard, and asking Sofia for name ideas, though. Sid smiles as Sofia frowns intently. She’s taking her job very seriously.

Evgeni laughs at the Russian word she eventually comes up with. “Don’t know how to translate. Is like, little snow? Snowflake. Very cute, fluffy name, usually for girl cat or girl dog.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind,” Sid says, and nods at Sofia. “Good job.”

Sofia beams. “Good job,” she echoes. She’s definitely picked that phrase up at school.

***

Later, Sofia of course needs to see Biscuit and Maple. Sid secures Maple’s lead rope safely to the fence with a quick-release knot and turns Sofia loose with a bucket of grooming tools. She chatters happily to the pony in Russian, with a few English words scattered through.

“Good, Sid?” she calls hopefully to where he and Evgeni are leaning together on the fence, showing him the crooked braid she’s just made in Maple’s mane.

“Very good!” he tells her, and gives her a thumbs up. She beams at him and goes back to work.

“Why you do for her?” Evgeni asks quietly. “You nice guy, but this is a lot. You have whole farm to run, you’re busy. Why?”

Sid takes a moment to think about how to say it best. “I grew up in a fairly big town, actually. We didn’t have the money or the room for any animals. The best part of my summers was when we got to come out here and visit my Aunt Esther. Great aunt, actually. I loved it here so, so much. She and my great uncle were older, and they weren’t able to do much with the property, but they had chickens and a dog and an old horse in the back pasture. Uncle Jack had used to show draft horses, back in the day. Skip was the last horse he had left. I used to coax Skip over to the fence so I could climb up swing over to sit on him while he grazed.” Sid laughs. “Not the safest, but he was a sweet old guy. Took care of me. Let me hang all over him.”

He pauses. The next part of the story isn’t as idyllic.

“Uncle Jack got cancer and passed when I was nineteen. I was taking some time off after high school and was just working a shit job at a corner store, wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life. Aunt Esther couldn’t handle the place alone, was heartbroken about needing to sell it. I couldn’t stand the idea, or seeing her so sad and scared about moving away from her home. So I quit my job, told my family I was leaving, and showed up on her doorstep.”

He laughs a little. “The first years were...really hard. I was a kid who knew nothing about farming, trying to do a man’s job. But Aunt Esther taught me a lot, and she got to spend the last years of her life at home. She died when I was twenty-five. Left me everything.”

“Sid,” Evgeni says, but doesn’t continue.

“So all this to say, that I get it. Being a kid, feeling like this place is kind of magic. Wanting to visit and see all the animals. Being obsessed with the horses.  It’s...kind of why I’ve been shifting the focus of the farm’s income to visitor based stuff. The pumpkins, the apple cider. U-pick fruits and vegetables in the summer, apples in the fall.”

He ducks his head, embarrassed at the look and the smile Evgeni is giving him. “It’s just, more people can experience it too, then?”

“Sid,” is all Evgeni says again, and he shakes his head.

“That’s me,” Sid replies, like a dork, because he doesn’t know what else to do or say.

“It is,” Evgeni says. He says something else in Russian, low and fervent.  

When Sid looks up, Evgeni kisses him.

[whoacanada]

‘Hot Jock Contest’

2k of date night auctions, shenanigans, and awkward first meetings. A Zimbits AU where Jack never overdosed and Bitty’s gay self is comfortable with being auctioned off for charity.

Rating: Teen, no explicit anything (not this time, lol)

(100% based off an ad I saw in passing for the Chicago Gay Hockey Association’s ‘Hot Jock Contest’.)

Jack rereads the email and fights a tightness in his throat at the image attached.

“Gay men’s hockey club is holding some kind of striptease disguised as a fundraiser. It’s the perfect place for you to spread your bisexual wings. You’ll get to see cocks in jocks, Jack. The kind you can actually look at, and, hopefully, touch.”

“Parse, I don’t know if that’s the kind of image I’m supposed to be cultivating, you know?”

Jack is eight months out of the closet and still horribly, desperately single; a fact made even less palatable by his ex trying to get him laid from a thousand miles away.

“Okay, that excuse worked until you got so backed up it started affecting your game. Look, at some point you have to make yourself happy, right? Coming out is supposed to be liberating and you’ve been wallowing in your freedom because people knowing you like dick doesn’t change the fact you’re still real fucking awkward, bud.”

“Thank you for the pep talk, Kent.”

“No, I mean,” Kent huffs like he’s the one suffering through this conversation. “Go out, have fun, get laid. And take Tater, he’s a good wingman.”

Ultimately, Jack folds like a cheap suit and finds himself in clothing that is far too tight, sipping on a craft beer that is too sweet, in a loud club full of beautiful people doing questionable things.

Jack doesn’t belong here.

“I still don’t think this is --”

“Zimmboni, relax! We find you cute boy tonight, no problem at all. How about that one? Nice legs? Nice face? Look good in your bed, ah?”

“Easy,” Jack throws his teammate a warning look at tries to focus on the parade of scantily clad hockey players looping the stage. “It’s not a meat market.”

Tater snorts. “Is always meat market. Just usually you are meat on ice.”

A beefy defenseman in a blue jock and matching harness stops in Jack’s line of sight and cocks a hip to display his bare backside and the tattoo of puck on his left ass cheek. Tater whistles and earns himself a wink.

“You’re not gay,” Jack chides.

“No, but I appreciate good physique.”

The lighting changes up and so does the music before a voice comes over the speakers announcing ‘special guests in the club tonight’ and Jack barely has time to duck his head before he’s hearing Tater’s name alongside his own.

“Crisse,” Jack curses while Tater stands to accept the resulting applause.

“AM HERE TO FIND ZIMMBONI CUTE BOYFRIEND,” Tater yells gesturing at a red-faced Jack. “HE LIKES BLONDES WITH SOFT HANDS.”

The crowd goes wild, practically drowning out the music.

“Well,” Jack peeks through his fingers and sees the glitter covered announcer staring him down, mic pressed close to his Providence Blue lips. “Lucky you, we have one of those up for auction tonight.”

Blue Harness comes to a stop on the other side of the stage with the other men up for auction and Jack tries not the stare, looking for the aforementioned blonde.

“Did you see him already?” Jack askes Tater, kicking himself for falling prey to his own curiosity.

“No,” Tater whispers loudly, “but always save best for last. You have to bid, or I bid for you.”

The lights go pink and Jack leans back in his chair, forcing himself to enjoy whatever is about to happen.

“Ladies, Gentleman, everything and everyone betwixt and between,” the MC teases. “Our last lot of the evening is a feisty peach from the sunny south who can out-skate, out-bake, and out-class just about any man on the ice.”

Tater wolf-whistles while Jack stares, lost in anticipation -- too preoccupied to comment on the fact ‘betwixt’ and ‘between’ are the same thing -- as the curtain slides back to reveal a short, adorable blonde with big brown eyes and very little covering his nearly perfect body. The man sees Jack, flashes a bright, teasing smile, and Jack’s breath leaves him.

“Our very own NCAA Champion, Eric ‘Bitty’ Bittle. Bidding starts at $500.”

Jack can’t make his voice work and someone else gets the first bid -- in fact, the auction is all the way up to $2000 by the time Jack can choke out “$1500,” but Jack’s voice is drowned out by Tater’s yell of “$3000!”, and Jack nearly gives himself whiplash turning to his teammate.

“What are you doing?”

“Bad taste for you to buy your own boyfriend, so I will buy for you. You will pay me back later -- I can be best man at your wedding.”

Someone else ups it another two hundred and there’s a slight commotion on stage. Bittle, ‘Bitty’ Jack silently corrects, has taken the mic and is assessing the crowd with an amused expression amid catcalls and whistles.

“Y’all, I’m very flattered, but you know you’re just buying a date, right? And you should also know I don’t put out on the first date.”

Some of the cheers slide to boos as Bitty hands back the mic before kissing two fingers and pressing them against his bare ass, skin practically glowing against the stark-white jock and thigh-high socks. Jack’s so light headed he’s going to pass out. He’s already dead.

Tater looks like he’s about to bid again when someone sticks a phone in Jack’s face and all hell breaks loose because Tater tries to grab the thing and by the time the dust has settled Jack is being ushered to the door and the auction is the least of their worries.

“All this press and you didn’t even get laid?”

“I knew it was a fucking mistake,” Jack grunts, trying to focus on his quads and fighting the heat in his cheeks as the boys keep chirping. He’s embarrassed for more than a few reasons. The pictures that popped up online, the call to his publicist, the fact he really wanted to win that date and couldn’t handle the attention long enough to pull it together.

It’s a lot of regrets to bring to a late-season home game.

Jack’s still going through his warm-up stretches when he starts hearing a tapping behind him -- he doesn’t look, he’s too experienced for that -- but eventually, the tapping becomes small voices saying, “Excuse me? Mister Zimmermann?”

Crisse. They’re being polite. He swipes a puck near his skate and stands, ready to plaster on a smile for whatever parent is pimping out their child for a game puck when he sees a familiar tuft of blonde hair through the glass.

Oh.

Bittle waves shyly from behind a whole slew of small children in Falcs gear, face pink with the chill in the arena. He’s bundled up tight, a blue and yellow scarf around his neck, looking embarrassed but determined. He’s as handsome fully clothed as he was barely dressed the night before.

Bitty calls out something over the kids' chatter, and Jack can barely make it out.

“I can’t hear you,” Jack tries, and Bitty shakes his head apologetically.

He swipes a few more pucks from the ice and shoves them through the camera hole before motioning for Bitty to follow him toward the penalty box, which is more of a task than expected as the seats are half full and cordoned off. Jack moves ahead and raps on the door of the penalty box until the attendant, Marcus, finally lets him in.

“Jack, what’s going on --”

“You see that guy?” Jack points to Bittle, who is trying to negotiate his way past an usher one section over. “Blonde guy they aren’t letting into 109, can you go get him?”

“You know I can’t leave, kid.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jack pulls off his gloves and sidles past Marcus to pull open the side door and step out into the stands, much to the shock of the dozen or so fans sitting in the first few rows.

“Zimmermann! What the hell are you doing?”

Jack sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly until the usher turns to see what’s going on, and Jack recognizes the staffer almost immediately. Unfortunately, he also attracts the attention of every fan the surrounding three sections.

“Hey, Christine! He’s with me! Let him through!”

She waves apologetically and Bittle, bright red with embarrassment, slides past the other attendees to reach Jack, who is back hiding behind the door as fans pile up behind the glass hoping for a photo. Eventually, Bitty makes it to the penalty box and Jack cracks open the door to let him in, but not before tossing a few bait pucks to the fans in the way.

“I don’t think any of those are going to kids,” Bitty chides with his delightful accent, collecting himself and making Jack’s heart melt even as fans keep slapping the glass hoping for more swag.

“eBay,” Jack mumbles, looking down because Bittle is a solid foot shorter than him in skates. Jack could lift him easily. “Probably. Hi.”

“Hi,” Bittle returns, the red in his cheeks still bright. “Hey, I thought you were going to win the auction.”

“What?”

Marcus coughs and says, “I don’t think you’re allowed to do this.”

There’s a pounding behind Jack and he catches Poots and Snowy making kissy faces at them. He can’t flip them off with kids around but they know he wants to, the look on his face is enough. Thankfully, Bittle laughs and blows a kiss back for good measure.

“I like him!” Poots yells, skating off. “I’m gonna tell Tater!”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bittle continues. “I thought you were going to win. Then you were just gone. Hurt my ego a bit.”

“Bad timing,” Jack apologizes. “I get skittish around cameras.”

“Mmm,” Bitty hums and turns around to look at the dozen people recording them on their phones. “And this is much more private?”

“Well, you picked the venue,” Jack fights a smile and summons his courage, leaning down to whisper in Bitty’s perfectly shaped ear, “and, you’re wearing clothes this time.”

Someone slams into the boards hard enough to rock the wall and Jack spins, dropping a protective arm around Bittle. It’s Tater, grinning like a damn loon.

“LITTLE B! YOU FIND ZIMMBONI!”

“I did! Thank you again for the tickets, Alexei,” Bitty shouts back, leaning into Jack’s side. “I’m very grateful.”

Tater opens the box door and leans in, “Zimmboni, see, I am best wingman, Kenny tell you this. Also, coach pretty mad, you should come do job, now. Paid to skate, not kiss cute boy. Do that after game.”

Bitty giggles and Jack looks up to see there are only seven minutes left on the clock. “Crisse, I need to go,” he curses, looking back down at Bitty. “Where are you sitting?”

“Section 113, but how am I supposed to --”

“Go back and find Christine, the usher you were talking to, tell her Jack wants you to go to Bob’s Box, she’ll take care of you. I’ll find you after the game.”

“Okay, ‘Bob’s Box’, I can do that,” Bitty seems only slightly overwhelmed by the orders but nods dutifully, stepping aside for Jack to pull open the side door. “Wait, who’s ‘Bob’?”

Marcus snorts and Jack fights a laugh because, of course, this hockey playing angel wouldn’t know. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he sure as hell is now.

“You’ll find out,” Jack teases, leaning down once more to whisper, “and maybe tonight you’ll get a chance to see me wearing nothing but a jock strap. If you want.”

He drops a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek, heedless of the cameras, and hopes to god he hasn’t ruined everything. 

Evidently, he hasn’t because when he rears back, Bittle is staring at him with wide eyes and a bright smile, almost dazed.

“Oh, honey, I want that very much,” he sighs, reluctantly slipping through the fans and out into the stands, heading toward Christine. “See you soon!”

He’s beautiful. Jack might have a date. Hell, Jack might even have a boyfriend.

“Zimmermann! Close the damn door!”

First, however, Jack might have a League Fine.

[skyfallofcybertron-blog]

Transformers Skyfall: Chapter 1. Pictures of Home

There was many things I missed about home. I missed the spires, the skyline at night, the air at dawn. However, much of that has changed now. Most of the skyline was gone. The wind was a bit more ruthless and the dust of war was still setting.

Though, it was still unmistakably Cybertron and things were starting to get back on track. The refugees where flooding home; eager to rebuild. Both the 'Bots and the 'Cons (or at least who where left) finally put up their differences and dissolved either into the new government or back into the populist. The distant colonies were returning; Caminus, Velocitron, Eukaris, Devisiun. Aliens from all corners of the universe, but so unmistakably Cybertronian, file though space bridges to reclaim that long lost piece of their heritage.

Not that I could blame them. Who won't want to go home and try to forget everything?

Then there was me; Skyfall of Cybertron. Femme from make (which is apparently important now). Deployer. Singer subsets. I could easily fit inside anyone’s trunk, but the Singer in me allowed for faster downloads. Somebot once called me a MP4 player with a spark. To be frank, he wasn’t that far off from the truth. I’m pocket sized for your convenience.

In a former life, I was an air lieutenant and communications officer for the Decepticons. I never left my homeworld. I was stationed on a battleship that orbited around the planet. I quarderated battle plans mostly. Also did information tracking and recon. There’s more classified ‘Con information locked up in my mind then I’m sure if any of my higher-ups gave it a haft a process wouldn’t like to have walking around freely.

However, with me being a Minicon, I’m sure that they didn’t think about me much anyways. Deployers where a disposable caste at the beginning of the war. Now that it’s over, I’m still not sure if anything changed on that front. I’m alright with that though. Being small kept me alive throughout all of it.

I had landed a pretty reasonable job after the War, all things considered. I was integrated into Cybertron's new government; processing refugees. It was data work mostly. File sifting, communications with starships and colonies, making sure the bots that came home had a place to go after landing. It was similar to my position with the Decepticons, minus the shooting and the bombing raids. I know mechs that would kill for something this low key. This nonthreatening. It was safe for the most part. Most of the mechs working with me just wanted to make things right. I think we all do.

However, on my trips home, I always felt unwanted optics on me. My 'Con emblems where still flashed on my wings. Didn't help much that a Minicon like me even sided with the Decepticons in the first place. Bots accused me to being nothing more than a loyal pet to my carrier. That being ‘forced’ a Decepticon was worse than willing choosing them. If that made sense. It didn’t, but the last few thousand years of strife didn’t make any sense to begin with either.

Let's just say my flight's have been stopped on more than one occasion.

I had my reasons for joining the War.

"I'm thinking of changing my colours." I said, glancing out the window of the office I was in.

The orange reflection of my psychologist looked back at me. The mech was taking notes on a data pad. A small digit tapped nervously against the glass as I looked out at the sunny day before us. It was a beautiful afternoon. The solar winds were nice and warm. It did my wings some good to jet through the sky on my way over to my appointment. So, I couldn’t figure out why I was unsettled.

"Something less threatening. For work, I mean. I was thinking about it while I was filing today, like, how would you feel if a 'Con greeted you at immigration?"

I wasn't looking for an answer. I just wanted it out in the open air.

Rung nodded in thought, "Well, I can understand why you are thinking about this, Skyfall. It is a bit of a shock for those coming in. However, now that the War is over, the armies colors don't mean anything."

"I know, but it doesn't stop people."

"Did something happen at spaceport to make you think this?"

"No."

"On the way over?"

"Not this cycle. Thank Primus. I don't think Night Glide could take it anymore if something did."

My optics wavered and I turned my attention back down to the street. I watched mechs and femmes go about their business; driving through the city's streets or flying between the skyscrapers. I ignored the fact that Rung shifted in his seat. I could practically hear his optic ridges arch.

"Skyfall, did something happen?"

I shook my helm in response. I finally turned to skinny grounder. Rung’s brows where perfectly perched on top of his optic rims in upset little arches.  I forced a smile out onto my faceplates. He looked completely hopeless and for a moment, it made me forget that he was the doctor and I was the patient. With the social workings of our planet in shambles, those you are good terms are your friends first. Everything else kind of fell into place after.

“We’re ok, Rung.” I reassured him, “Thank you for your concern. Night Glide is just still…”

I tried to find the words.

“Readjusting.” Rung answered for me. I nodded once again.

Readjusting. That was one way of describing it. Night Glide, my current carrier, was born out of this war. Most pure Seekers where. When Vos fell, that’s when the true nature of the Seekers came out. Proud, noble, loyal. Ruthless, venditive, calculative. Now that there was no more war to fight. Nothing left of the Seekers’ brilliant home city to return too. Night Glide, one of most promising Decepticon air strikers, had no battle to win. Nothing to prove. Anger that he couldn’t let go of.

And I could feel that hate and disgust within him every time I reconnected into his circuits.

Rung merely raised an optic ridge. I must had been wearing my thoughts on my faceplates. Or maybe my wings dropped slightly perhaps. Rung was quite good as picking up on even the smallest change to anything. The mech simply hummed and took a note on his pad.

"We can talk about it next time then." He spoke. Then he offered a small smile, "Let's get back on topic then. What do you think would be a more calming colorization for yourself?"

~*~

Work at the checkpoint was grueling. I hated those days.

Most of the time, I was walking behind the scenes; staring at data, answering emails, making calls. Those days where the good days. I didn't have to deal with anyone, but myself. I would get a list of things I had to do at the beginning of the cycle and I could work at my own pace. Administration stuff. Stuff that other bots would deem boring.

However, I was actually trained for that. Before the War, I had gone to school for information studies. The skill had kept me alive throughout most of the War. The Decepticons lacked proper administrative infrastructure. So, I was deemed an asset and kept in the relative protection of a starship. However, as the War dragged on and the 'Con got more desperate, my alt. mode as air drone became a more important tool.

Anyhow, checkpoint days were the worst. I had a quota to fill. There would be a line of mechs I had to go through. I would have to check everything from ID to alt. modes to something as pointless as having the right color seals on their paperwork. If everything checked out, they could get in. If not, they would have to suffer going through the whole system all over again. Needless to say, some bots where agitated. And I got the brunt of most of it.

"What do you mean I can't get in!?" A large grounder barked at me, "I did everything you told me to do!"

"Sir," I said meekly, "You're missing a piece-"

"I've been trying to get into the city for an entire orbital cycle now and you're telling me that I can't get in!?"

"Yes, sir. That's exactly it." I motioned down to the datapass he handed me in an attempt to explain what was missing, but the brute of a mech cut me off.

"I didn't ask for your sarcasm, you stupid Decepticon glitch!"

I was taken aback by the statement. My wings subconsciously drooped so the emblems where hidden below the desk. He leaned over me as he closed the gap between us. Almost instantly, I felt tiny under this mech's optics. I shrunk into my chair and stammered, "S-Sir, I-I- You j-just need-"

The mech growled as he slammed his servos on top of my desk.

"What do I need!? Enlighten me!"

I hiccuped and stared up at him, unable to get the words out of my mouth.

Again, he slammed down on the desk, "TELL ME, YOU PURPLE WRETCH!"

There was a ping on my comm. I shuttered as my manager's voice came through my audials.

"Skyfall, what's going on? I can hear you guys from here."

"I-I need s-securi-tty at my b-booth-"

"I'M NOT LEAVING!"

"Sky, I'm dispatching someone. Close your booth."

No sooner than I was given the order; I slammed on the button on my control board. With a clang, the gate's cage rolled closed and locked out the mech. The grounder roared at me and banged on the cage as I disappeared under my desk. I wheezed for my intakes as I shook. I could hear the commotion of the bots waiting in line. The security argue and drag the mech away. Lubricate welled in my optics. Everyone was so loud. And angry. At me. The Decepticon. I shuttered my optics tightly and held my helm; trying to remember how to do my intakes.

"Skyfall."

I kept ventilating rapidly. I was trying to remember my calming technique, but my possessors where so fuzzy that I could hardly make out the world around me.

"Skyfall, hey."

I screamed when I felt something on my shoulder plating. Scrambling back, I stared at a pale red frame. The mech threw his servos in the air as he recoiled to give me space.

The red mech spoke again, "Skyfall, focus. Do you know who I am?"

It took me a moment to remember who this mech was. He was the station's medic. "A-Airvac?"

He nodded a little, "Where are you, Skyfall?"

"A-Ah..." I thought hard as the small copter began to look me over, "M-Metroplex XAX s-spaceport...?"

Behind him where two other mechs. One of the security guards and my manager. All three simply watched me. Me, Skyfall, the tiny seeker hiding under a desk at the city checkpoint.

"Skyfall," Airvac continued, "we called Night Glide. He's coming to pick you up."

Pick me up? As in go home?

I felt tears well up in my optics once more; embarrassed of the situation that I was in.

I felt like an idiot. I was an idiot. The biggest idiot on Cybertron.

I hiccuped but was unable to kept a straight face. I cried quietly, so no one outside of my booth could hear me.

~*~

I was let go for the rest of the day. Night Glide had a protective hold on me the whole flight home. In retrospect, I could have flown back to the apartment on my own turbines, but after making such a scene; all I wanted to do was disappear into my carrier’s compartment and never show myself to Cybertron again. Night Glide didn’t seem to argue against it either.

I must have powered down for a bit because I was forcefully ejected from Night Glide’s container. Primal instinct took over; I transformed from drone to bot and was instantly caught in the slender Seeker’s coils. Nestled softly in his arms.

Long talons gently soothed my plates. I couldn’t help, but to find myself relax in my carrier’s hold. My helm quietly clanked against his chestplate; slowly raising and falling with every intake. We were like that for sometime. I slowly started to realized that Night Glide silence was only to mask the boiling engeron that was running through his tubing. The trembling in his wings gave him away.

“Who…” Night Glide hissed through tight jaws, “Who must I kill for this…?” My processor started running, “Glide, it was an accident. A filing error. Something like that. The office can fix it-”

“That.” He said sharply, “Is not what I am upset about.”

“Oh…” I found myself biting my glossa. “It...wasn’t his fault either. He’s just as tired and homesick as we all are.”

Night Glide simply huffed. Tiny digits found their way to the Seeker’s chestplating. I returned the quiet petting. I hoped it helped him too.

“It’s ok.” I added. I smiled, trying to see if I could coax him to smile with me. “Slug threw his aft to the curb anyways. He’s probably at the bottom of the queue now. I’m probably not going to see that mech ever again.”

Finally, I felt Night Glide’s stiff posture evaporate into the air of the room. The Seeker chuckled; shifting to relax further into the beat up old couch we owned. His tolans cupped me close to his chest. An ever protective grasp.

“Must be embarrassing to be thrown out of a spaceport by a Dinobot, of all things. I wished I could have seen it for myself. I’m sure it was quite amusing for that sludge-drinker.”

I felt myself smirk, “Was that referring to Slug or the mech?”

“Either or really. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Be nice.” I puffed up my plating. I tapped my carrier’s plating in protest. “Slug is my friend.”

“Of course, of course. I know, sweetspark. I’m sorry.”

I crossed my arms. The Seeker gave me the sweetest smile he could muster. The face of weaponised beauty. Night Glide, pits, all Seekers had this knack of sweeping anybot off their feet. A true hidden talent that they all seemed to be sparked with. Damn those Vosian cheekridges.

I hid my faceplates against Night Glide’s chest. I might have had been his Deployer for eons, but he got me with that smile every single time. Sweet Solus Prime.

He chuckled. Then pecked my cheek.

“I love you too…” Night Glide purred in content.

[lucienladamned]

Memories

This is a short story I wrote for my character, Alois. In this writing he looks upon his keepsakes and reminisces about the good... and the bad of his past

~♡~

 It was the first Middas of the new year. Alois had his head buried in his hands, blinking back tears. If only he hadn't forced Qadir to leave early… Maybe he would still be alive then…

A knock came upon the door and a second later quickly opened. “Listener,” cooed the jester, “Must you really sit in here all day? Let's kill someone!” He hopped inside the door and gingerly closed it behind him, approaching the desk of the Sanctuaries leader. “You're looking a bit down, Listener,” he soon observed, “Shall I tell a joke?”

Alois raised his head and shook it. “No, Cicero, please just grab me something to eat. I must keep waiting for the night mother to speak to me once more.” The old elf’s eyebrows scrunched together tightly, his eyes goaded Cicero into leaving him be.

 “Ah, maybe some other time then, Listener! I do know you used to love slaughtering those milk maidens,” Cicero said as he left the Listener to his own thoughts by quickly leaving the room.

Alois pushed his chair out and stood up, then brushing off his robes from the charcoal shavings. Making his way towards his personal chest, he looked around his living quarters. How had it even come to this? Living alone, bitter, and in the freezing stones of Dawnstar… He knelt down in front of his chest and carefully opened it, looking down at the assortment of random objects and nic-naks inside.

Reaching down he brought out a beaded necklace. Big, blue and black beads hanging on a fraying string… some of their colors were even fading. Damn, he could remember when he got this like yesterday.

         ~◇~

“Papa, papa,” mused the young dark elf, “You're back!” He ran up and jumped up into his father's arms along with his two brothers as his mother watched. “What did you bring us? Did you bring us some sweet rolls?” The young boy, around ten to be exact, seemed to be brimming with joy at the sight of his father.

The old man smiled back down at his boys. “No,” he said, “but I have got you boys some taffy.” He reached into his knapsack and brought out a long candy and handed it to the boys. “Now you three share now. Go and play, Papa is tired.”

 The three brothers ran off to go play. “Wait, Alois? Come outside after dinner. It's important,” the old man croaked, taking off his hat and scratching his balding head.

“Yes, Papa,” replied the oldest, his back turned to him and fixated on the candy. He was paying no attention to his pops… which wasn't out of the ordinary for the three boys.

After dinner the old man went out and sat down on the porch steps, drinking out of his mead bottle little by little. He was looking out on the setting Ashland sun, silently sending a prayer to Azura… Then his oldest child bounded outside.

“Papa, what going on?” The child say down next down to his father, his feet swinging back and forth slightly. “Is everything alright?”

 His father sighed and wrenched his eyes away from the sun. “Yes, Alois. Everything is okay,” he said softly, looking over at his son. His eyes were tired and worn out, almost like old leather. “I just wanted to talk to you.” Pulling a long, beaded necklace out of his pocket, he held it up to the purple sun. “You see here, boy? This is precious. Was your grandfather's, and his father's before him,” he started, the worn out necklace twisting and dancing in front of the pair. “It ain't worth much, Alois, but it's precious. And it's yours, sunny boy. I hope you understand.”

Everything had gone through one ear and out the other. He had just nodded along through the whole thing. He wasn't much more than an oblivious child after all. “Yes, Papa. I understand,” he said bluntly as the beads were handed to him and lay in his hands. “I'll take good care of it.” The young boy didn't know it now, but this necklace will come to mean the world to him in a few years.

                                ~◇~

 Alois shook his head to shoo the memory away. No. It was too hard to think about it… about his family. He sighed and carefully placed the necklace back into its place, searching for something new to bring out. He pulled out his… lute.

           ~◇~

The young adult of an elf was standing on the street corner in Vivec City, playing desperately on his lute and sang a traditional Dunmer tune. The man just barely had enough to eat… nothing to rest his head in an tonight, however. Damn it… These damned entitled Dunmer … He just wanted to rest well for one night, for Boethiah’s sake! He shook his head and finished his last chord before sinking against the wall and resting his life in his lap, defeated.

From a block away, a young red guard caravan leader heard the beautiful playing of a lute. “Say, who do you reckon is playing that,” he said, amazed.

“Don't pay any attention to it. It's just that poor sod, Alois. Doesn't know when to stop his damned playing. Quite an annoyance if you ask me.”

Qadir had heard enough and was already walking away to find this ‘Alois.’ Sounded like a damned good player to him. He had just turned the corner when the Dunmer had sunken down. Pushing his dreads behind his ear and quickly putting them up, he made a quick game plan.

Qadir took a deep breath and approached the down right poor elf with his chest puffed out. “Ah, was that you playing,” he tried to say as smooth as possible. It worked for most of the persons he was up against anyways. That's why he was a merchant after all! Yet, his words came out a little lighter than usual. “I thought it was absolutely beautiful. I'm Qadir. Pronounced KUH-deer. Nice to meet you. Want to go for drinks tonight? All on me.” He flashed the elf a wide grin and held out his hand.

 This was just for a night, right? Turns out that Qadir stayed much longer than anticipated…

    ~◇~

The old man snapped back to reality and wiped his eyes. Damn that red guard… making him fall in love like that. He shook his head and placed the instrument back down, instead pulling out a small wedding band.

          ~◇~

“Come on! Come with me,” the dark elf urged, tightly grasping the other mans hands in his. “Leave the market place, we can start our own stand, Qadir!”

 It was pouring rain out in the dark of the Morrowind city. They were both just 40 years old at the time of course. Both confused. Both soaking wet from the horrid weather.

 “Come with me! We'll start our own farm! We'll be happy,” he urged, slipping his hands out of the others. “Q-Qadir look, please,” he begged, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a plain, gold band. “Qadir I love you.”

 Qadir stood there in complete shock. Leave the city? Start their own farm? It was absurd. Impossible even. “W-Wait, Alois think about this! A farm, a farm?” His eyes laid down upon the band in the others hand and opened his mouth to speak once more before closing it. Had he really saved up… for a farm? For him? “L...Let us do this. We'll Leave tomorrow afternoon.”

 Alois nearly cried out in relief as he slid the ring onto his man’s ring finger. “We'll elope, my darling! Mara will love us either way!”

           ~◇~

The old man wiped the tears streaming down his face. Was that really the last time he was… happy? God he missed it, he missed Qadir so fucking much. He yelled out in frustration and threw the ring to the bottom of his chest. He was fucking angry. Angry at the tribunal! Angry at those fucking bandits! Angry… angry with himself. He took a shaky breath before bringing out one last thing… Qadir’s head garb.

            ~◇~

“I'll see you soon, honey,” cooed Qadir, leaning down and kissing his husband on their doorstep. “I'll be safe. I promise,” was his last words to Alois before waving and departing for the road with their weekly goods.

Alois had anxiously waited for his husbands return, constantly staying out to tend their farm much too late into the night and nearly never sleeping. It had been about a week… Qadir should be coming home soon! By the eight! He couldn't wait…

 There was a quiet knock on the door. Alois quickly sprung from his chair to answer it. “Qadir, baby you're finally home-!” But it wasn't his love.

“I, er, I've got something to deliver. A notice of… death. Of your housemate Qadir.” The courier handed the elf the thick envelope. “Oh, and sorry for your loss.”

 Alois was left in shock as he just nodded, closing the door in front of him. Dead? He couldn't be. He was completely fazed as he sat down and tore open the letter.

 It truly was a death certificate… and a small note of condolences.. and somehow, the only thing that was left on Qadir was his headscarf… and it was in the envelope with it.

He threw the papers at his feet and clutched the scarf in his hands, staring down at it in complete shock. He was alone… again. He broke out into tears and sobbed into the scarf. Damn the eight! Damn their fucking plans!

  ~◇~

Alois hadn't realised he was sobbing into his sleeve in reality, crumpled in a pitiful position, the last thing of his husbands clutched in his hands. By Sithis he missed him so much.

“Listener? Perhaps now you need a jest? Or a story?”

[nish-s-random-writing]

Can you do a usuk with smart-America for me? 😊 Please and thank you!

(a/n:) Of course! ^_^ Sorry for the long wait, my internet was kind of a bust. Didn’t let me post for a few days. Hope you like it!_____________________________________

USUK!

Arthur Kirkland, high school senior, president of Heta-HighStudent Council, working on one of his final projects of the final semester,was in one hell of a predicament.

Normally, Arthur thought, that this situation was onereserved for college students, and yet he was in it nonetheless.

It was approximately 6 pm now, and he could see the sunnearly completely below the horizon outside the ceiling-high windows of thelibrary building. In front of him, on the table, lay the scattered scraps of wireand metal that was supposed to be thefinished project for his robotics class, all pristine and ready to be submittedtomorrow.

But it was all a half-constructed, confused pile of mess—muchlike Arthur’s brain.

“Ah, I’ll help youfinish it next week on Thrusday, Arthur-san, if that will be okay,” Kiku,his Japanese tech-savvy friend had said. One of his only friends, really. “I will help you with your computation sheetand we can do the rest then, okay?” And he was reliable, too. Up until hecalled four hours earlier notifying Arthur that the Science Club had an urgentmeeting that afternoon, and he then had to quickly meet-up with his familyimmediately after.  

So Arthur had internally screamed, panicked, and made hisway to the library with his hunk of metal in an attempt to finish the thing.

Now, Arthur liked to consider himself something close to aprodigy, with his straight As and perfect attendance and project submissionrecord. Anything involving math and science, which weren’t really his strongpoints, he could easily have tutored to him by Kiku who granted him a better,if not more advanced understanding than his teachers.

But Kiku wasn’t here, and everything was miserable, andArthur would definitely get an F tomorrow morning.

And the freaking robot was only half of the grade. Theworksheet with all the computations was very, horribly important. And no, noamount of books or google articles had helped Arthur get the grasp of how thedamned wires and metal bits worked with all the numbers and symbols andletters. Just, no.

So there Arthur was, a breath away from breaking into a sob,clutching a screwdriver in one hand and staring down with a look of absolutefrustration, when a nudge on his shoulder made him jump almost a foot into theair. “W-what?”

“Hey! It’s you!” 

Arthur turned, still shaking, to see theface of a boy smiling impossibly wide.

Blond hair, sky-blue eyes, rectangular glasses and an auraof stupendous positivity. In that one second Arthur was knocked back three weeksinto the past, when he was passing down an empty school hallway during football game-night.

There he was, avoiding the game and the crowds already inthe field, making his way home, when he spotted a suspiciously lonely football(ahem, American football) helmet paintedred and green left strewn on the floor haphazardly.

He found a name written on the inside with marker on maskingtape. Well, it was twenty minutes until the game started, and Arthur consideredhis options. He could leave it be for it probably didn’t matter anyway, or hecould rush to the football players’ locker room and hand the helmet over to—hesquinted—an Alfred F. Jones.

He went for the latter, seeing no harm in doing someone afavor.

He rushed down the dimly lit empty halls and made his way downbelow, knocking on the locker room and opening it when no one answered.

Thankfully, he wasn’t greeted with the sight oftwenty-something half-naked men chanting their game-chant like a sport-crazedcult. Instead there were several uniformed players, all in their red/greenfootball gear, standing about as one of them frantically threw open a lockerand started going through everything inside.

When he finally looked up and spotted Arthur holding out thehelmet, his eyes went unbelievably wide.

Yes, that was Alfred F. Jones.

“My lucky helmet! Oh sweet lord, I could never play withoutit. Thank you!” He cried and rushed over to Arthur, thanking him profusely andshaking his arm so bad he was sure it had been dislocated.

He had an aura of the typical dumb jock—incapable of properEnglish and anything remotely academic. He spoke like it too, all careless andrushed; must have been the reason for leaving his helmet carelessly strewn onthe floor in the first place.

After the encounter, Arthur sniffed and gave his polite“Your welcome, but be more careful next time.” Then quickly left. He was notsomeone Arthur wanted to be closely acquainted with, and so he went withoutanother word.

But here was this jock again, staring him down with afriendly smile.

“You’re Arthur Kirkland right? Hey, I don’t mean to be rudebut uh, you’re a senior too, aren’t you? Didn’t Mr. Bobbinsky have thatrobotics project due tomorrow?”

“I, uh…” Arthur mumbled. Yes, it was in fact, due tomorrow,and he was dying inside. “Y-yes.”

“Then what’s it doing still looking like a pile of scrap?”Alfred snickered good-naturedly.

Arthur went red up to his ear-tips. “Well, I’ll have youknow that this thing isn’t as easy as it should be, you know! Whoever decidedon adding such a useless subject like roboticsto the curriculum anyway? And what makes you think you’ve the right to insultme like that? What do you know aboutany of this, huh?”

Alfred laughed, loud and carefree, fitting his bouncypersonality. “Well, I happen to know a bit,” he said and casually took a seatright next to Arthur, as though they’ve been friends for ten years strong. “Iactually passed mine a week early.” He said matter-of-factly.

Arthur stared, dumbfounded. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Alfred smiled.

Damnit. He wasn’t lying.

Arthur deflated, burying his face into his forearms on thetable. “I’m going to fail.” He stated. Alfred laughed from somewhere above him.

“Hey, listen, you saved my guts back at the game. Iliterally cannot play without myhelmet. It’s my lucky helmet, you know? I’ll lose without it! And well, we won,so you basically did the whole school a favor. So, Arthur Kirkland, tell youwhat,”

Arthur tilted his head to look up at Alfred from the crookof his elbow. “What?” He asked, tired and desperate. Alfred was grinning athim. It was somehow comforting.

“I’ll help you finish this project, and get you an A atthat!”

_________________

Of course Arthur took it. He was absolutely helpless, andhere was an angel sent down to save him from the depths of hell.

Alfred didn’t seem like an angel at first. Arthur doubtedhim. He picked up Arthur’s work sheet and stared at it with blatant confusion,and muttered, “What the fuck isthis?”

All of Arthur’s computations had absolutely nothing to helpwith the project. So, Alfred began the lesson from scratch.

He showed him the components, disassembled a few of thewires, and told Arthur which goes where and how the numbers show how to workthem. The more he explained, the more Arthur understood. He went through pointersfast, but not brisk and unintelligible like Mr. Bobbinsky. He spoke simpler andhis words were easier to comprehend.

Soon, Arthur was wielding the screwdriver with moreconfidence, putting pieces in their places and glancing at his worksheet with renewedunderstanding.

And Alfred was kind, too. He wasn’t impatient and he nevergod ticked off. Whenever Arthur half-screamed in mild frustration, Alfredchuckled and told him what he did wrong and what he should do. Really, Arthurwas quite touched.

Alfred was extremely nice. He was tender, made jokes thatactually managed to make Arthur chuckle, and he didn’t really look all that badeither.

Three hours later, with only college-kids high on caffeinelittering the other tables, Arthur put his screwdriver down with shaking redhands. It was done. The pieces were put together and the thing was working perfectly.Flawlessly. Marvelously.

“Alfred, I… well, thank you. To be honest, I um, would neverhave gotten this done without you.” Arthur said. He looked up to find Alfredgiving him that sweet smile again. Christ, how was a guy like that still allsunny and positive after 3 hours of intense labor?

“Ha ha! It’s alright, Artie.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. Oh, fuck.

“I, um, well,” He coughed. “Well, I did give your helmetback but you spent three hours working on a project that isn’t even yours.I—um, apologies, Alfred, for making you waste your time on me.”

“Woah, hey now, it’s alright. Worth it to spend 3 hours witha cutie like you.” Alfred winked.

What now.

“Hey,” the jock said again. “If you ever need to be tutoredwith like, math or science or something, I can help you out!” He took a pieceof scrap paper and jotted something down. Arthur realized with a start that itwas his number.

“Oh, um, thank you.” Arthur was blushing. Wildly.

Alfred laughed. “Hey, no problem!” And then he winked. “I’llsee you ‘till then. Gotta go now, though!”

He stood up and made to leave when Arthur called after him.

“Hey, Alfred!”

“Yes?”

“Uh, how about tomorrow, at that Starbucks around thecorner?”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling. “What? Fortutoring?”

“Um, not exactly.”

Alfred’s smile widened. “Great! See you at 5, then,Arthur!~”

[electroma89]

binch, quiero todas esas preguntas del ask owo

Me mataste con lo del binch xD

You woke up naked next to the last person you texted, what would you say?

“hey sexy gurl”

What’s going on between you and the last person you kissed?

a 5 years relationship

If your boyfriend or girlfriend was into drugs, would you care?

of course, he’s against drugs, so something very serious is going on if he starts doing drugs

Is your last name longer than six letters?

G-O-N-Z-Á-L-E-Z (8 letters)

Was your last kiss drunk or sober?

sober

Have you ever wanted to have someone but you messed it up?

a long time ago, yes

What does your last received text say?

“puta oh” (something like “oh fuck”)

How many times have you kissed the last person you kissed?

i haven’t been counting, but in 5 years it must be a lot

Where was your last kiss at?

the street

When is the last time you saw your sister?

i don’t have siblings

What do you drink in the morning?

a glass of water first thing in the morning, then chocolate milk or tea with milk at breakfast

Where did you sleep last night?

in the pines, in the pines… ok no, in my bed

Do you think relationships are hard?

like relationships in general? no

If you could go back and change something in the past 5 months, would you?

yeah, but nothing major, there hasn’t been much exciment this year (which is ok considering 2017 and 2016 were fucking hell, but I’m starting to get bored)

You’re locked in a room with the last person you kissed, any problems?

not at all, do not disturb

Would you rather it be sunny or rainy?

cloudy but not rainy, sunny but not too sunny

Do you know anyone with the same middle name as you?

no D:

Are you wearing jeans,sweatpants,or pajama pants?

sweatpants

Do you think you will be in a relationship 3 years from now?

that’s the plan, i don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow, but my intentions are going on with this relationship

Does anyone like you?

i mean i hope so, or this past 5 years would have been really akward

Have you ever kissed someone with a name that starts with an S?

almost

Is the last person you kissed gay?

well he isn’t straight that’s for sure

Is there a person you CANNOT stand?

absolutely, i think everyone know someone like that

Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?

no, i don’t like them

In the past week have you cried?

no, but i’ve been pretty stressed about life and existencial crisis

What breed was the last dog you saw?

a mix between poodle and maltese (my baby grandpa)

Do you dry off in the shower or out of the shower?

out, of course, what kind of question is this

Have you ever kissed a football player?

no, not my type

Do you think you’re old?

in days like this, when everything fucking hurts, yeah, but most days i think i’m young, running out of time but still young

Do you like text messaging?

yup, better than phone calls *cringes*

What type of day are you having?

lame lazy day, that kind of day when you go “meh”

Have you ever thought about getting your nose pierced?

yup, pretty seriously

Do you prefer warm or cold weather?

after 5 months of cold weather i’m kinda desperate for some warm (not hot tho)

Is there a person of the opposite sex who means a lot to you?

“opposite sex” huehuheuhue (intersex laugh in the distance), there’s a lot of people who mean the world to me

Would you prefer a relationship or a fling?

relationship

Are you a simple or complicated person?

i think we’re all pretty complicated

What song are you listening to?

none, i’m watching a movie, the last song i listened was “stargazer” by rainbow

When you say you’re sorry do you mean it?

yes, if i don’t mean it i don’t say it

Is there a girl that knows everything or almost everything about you?

i think you fit this description, fam

What made you start liking the person you like now?

i could be myself around him, relaxed and authentical

When did you last receive a text message?

like 10 min ago? 15?

What is wrong with you right now?

oh BOY, i don’t wanna go into details here, but there’re quite a few things that could be better right now

How well do you know the last female you texted?

mmm not that much, i watched her videos and we talk a bit through DM, she seems nice

Does anyone disgust you?

pfff, racists, bigots, xenophobes, aphoraphobes (is that a word in english? it means you hate poor people), that kind of “people”

Would you date someone right now if they asked?

if my bf ask me, then yes

Are you in a good mood right now?

very neutral i must say

Who was the last person you talked to in person?

besides my family? i think it was my bf

What color shirt are you wearing?

white shirt under a black and white pullover

Has someone recently told you something you didn’t want to hear?

yeah, everyday pretty much

Anyone you’re giving up on?

kinda

Do you hate the person you fell hardest for?

nah

Have you ever thought about giving up on someone but couldn’t?

i always can, it’s hard and it sucks but if it’s necessary i do it

Do you like rain?

if i’m indoors then yes

Do you care if your boyfriend/girlfriend drinks?

no, i also drink

Have you ever liked somebody and never told them?

a few times

Do you like to cuddle?

depends on my mood, but mostly yes

Are you shy?

at first

Do you get along with girls?

yes

Have you dated the person you texted last?

we still are

What do you carry with you at all times?

my phone, my glasses (on my face)

If you were paid 1 million dollars to spend the night in a supposed haunted house, would you?

bring it on

Do you think you can last in a relationship for five months?

i’ve been 5 years doing this, fam

Think back to October, were you in a relationship?

for the last time, YES

The person you like kisses you on the forehead, do you find this cute?

forehead and cheeks and i love it

Did anything “cute” happen in the last week?

idk how to answer this, i went to a kawaii fair and i was overwhelmed, i bought a skull cup and it’s cute af

How old are the last three people you kissed?

they’re all my age, older by a few months

Would you rather pay to get your nails done or do them yourself?

pay, but my mom do my nails and i do her skincare routine

Which do you like better- Zebra print or leopard print?

do i have to choose? zebra print is more bearable then

Do you have any stickers on your car?

no

Would you rather listen to Luke Bryan or Lil Wayne?

idk who luke byran is, so i pick lil wayne

Blackberry, Android, or iPhone?

android, my apps are always compatible with my phone, and they have good cameras too you cowards

When’s the last time you had pizza from Pizza Hut?

oh jesus, a long time ago, now i only eat homemade pizza

Do you like diet soda?

i don’t like soda, period (i only drink soda when i eat fast food, but i always drink like half of a cup, or i ask if they have juice)

What color are the walls in your room?

a hideous light blue i hate with a passion (i’m changing it next month thank god)

Are you 16 or older?

god this ask list are so mean, i’m 28 ok? TWENTY EIGHT *sobs*

Do you watch Pretty Little Liars?

no, but my cousin does, says is pretty good

Do you have a job?

i do a few things here and there, but i need something stable like RIGHT NOW, economy is fucked up as shit in my country tho, so things are like a bit HUGELY hard

What are your initials?

F C G J

Did you ever have braces?

i have braces RIGHT NOW

Are you from the south?

yes, i’m from the south… SOUTH AMERICA BITCHES!

What does your last status on facebook say?

i don’t use facebook lol

Do you still talk to the first person you ever kissed?

no, i really hope he’s doing ok

Are you closer to your mom or your dad?

mom

Have you ever done cheerleading or gymnastics?

gymnastics when a was a little kid

What’s the last movie you saw in theaters?

jesus, was it the fifth wave? i don’t remember, oh but i’m gonna see bohemian rhapsody in november and I CAN’T WAIT FAM

Do you smoke?

no, and i’ve never tried

Would you rather wear heels or flip flops?

flip flops of course, i don’t like pain

Is your phone touch screen?

yes

Do you normally wear your hair straight or curly?

straight

Have you ever snuck out of your house?

no

Would you rather swim in a river, lake, or pool?

i prefer the sea, but lakes and pools are cool too

Have you ever made out in a car?

yes

…Had sex in a car?

no

Are you single or in a relationship?

JESUS ISN’T IT CLEAR? I’M SINGLE!… i mean IN A RELATIONSHIP!

What were you doing last night at midnight?

falling asleep

When’s the last time you saw fireworks?

new year’s eve

Do you like the camera on your phone?

fuck yes, i love the pics i take

Have you ever had a friend with benefits?

yeah, when i was a teen

Have you ever passed out from drinking?

just once, is not nice, so i avoid reaching that point

Are you friends with people on facebook that you actually hate?

i said i don’t use facebook, but no, i wouldn’t be, that’s ridiculous

Have you ever had a pregnancy scare?

no

Name your favorite Kesha song:

i don’t know any, i think i’ve heard “praying”?

Do you have any tan lines right now?

with this weather? lmao, my skin hasn’t seen sunlight in like 5 months

Would you ever wear cowboy boots with shorts?

i wouldn’t wear cowboy boots, period

This was super fun, fam. Ahora te toca.

[alex-writes-things]

Outside The Record Shop

Mr Bill’s Records is practically my second home by this point. Never mind sunny villas in southern France, I’m perfectly at peace amongst second-hand Beatles LPs and beaten record sleeves. Hours slip by easily as I shift disc after disc, sighing as I uncover a special edition something-or-other or a miraculously unscratched The Chi-Lites vinyl.

The shop owner himself never says anything, but I’m always greeted with a wink, or a dramatic gesture in the direction of his newest additions. Today’s find is a James Taylor album I haven't heard before, the colour worn away at the edges, writing a little smudged on the front. As I take it up to the counter, I breathe in the scent of the shop, musty and fresh all in one, relishing the weight of a new disc in my hand. Bill- I’ve always assumed that’s his name, since his neatly ironed shirts bear no badge, and we haven’t exchanged enough words for me to find out- taps the price into the till and I exchange the record for a handful of coins. We share a grin before I brace myself to step back into the rain.

Someone is standing in the doorway as I leave, cradling a paper bag to their chest and staring wistfully at the rain.

“Oh- sorry, I’ll get out of your way,” they say quickly. Their voice is a lot louder than I’d expect from someone dressed in an oversized sweater and lugging a Pride & Prejudice themed tote bag.

They don’t make any move towards the shop door, and I don’t step into the rain, because, well, I’d rather admire this shockingly pretty person than end up drenched to the bone. “Um, are you going in there?” I ask, tentative. Their eyes widen.

“Should I?”

“I’m sorry… what?”

They laugh, the sound entirely different to the way they talk. They shift on their feet and I finally locate an enamel badge on their tote bag, the words they/them engraved into tainted silver. I also happen to notice that they’re wearing Doc Martens, and the first thought this inspires is, oh, so they’re gay.

Like me, obviously.

“Well, do you recommend the shop? I was just sheltering from the rain, but…”

“Do you have a, uh, record player?”

“No,” they say, smiling down at me.

I frown and try not to focus on the dimples on their cheeks or the soft curve of their nose. “Then I probably wouldn’t recommend it. But I, um. I love the place.”

“Okay.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” They giggle, pressing a fist to their mouth to hold back the sound; something makes me lift my hand and pull theirs away from their face. Their smile could easily be the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. “Damn,” I say, because there’s nothing else I can think to do.

“My name’s Jude,” they tell me.

“Mine’s Robyn.”

“Nice.”

“Nice.”

They give me a strange look. My stomach flutters. “What is it with you and repeating things?”

Jude’s hair is dark and curly, sort of wild at the edges. Their skin is dark too, but less so, the kind of warm colour that makes their smile seem all the easier. They’re wearing that lovely, oversized sweater, thin-framed glasses slipping off their nose slightly, and look like the sort of person who’d always carry cash and tangled headphones. I’m so lost looking at them, taking in their soft edges and tight skinny jeans cuffed once at the bottom, just the way I do mine. “I don’t know,” I say. I’m gradually becoming more aware of how close I am to the most adorable person I’ve probably ever seen. “Must be a bad habit.”

Jude adjusts the strap of their tote bag on their shoulder and their jumper slips slightly, revealing their collarbone. I almost pass out. “Hm, wouldn’t call it bad.”

Are they really smirking at me right now? Yep, definitely going to faint. It’s very difficult not to picture myself taking them out for coffee, kissing in the rain, sharing a chocolate croissant under a streetlamp at midnight. Very difficult.

“Well, it’s stopped raining,” Jude says, very matter-of-fact. The chance for a cinematic kiss moment is slipping away.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask desperately, trying to save time. A voice in my head is telling me to ask them out, but I don’t want to ruin our moment. “Sorry, nosy.”

“Oh, this?” they seem to have forgotten about the paper bag, and give it a quizzical look. “Postcards.”

“You don’t live here,” I say. I try to ignore the sinking in my chest.

“No, no, I do!”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Maybe this sounds stupid, but I collect postcards from every place I live in. Still haven’t found a home, but I’ve got over a hundred postcards to show for my efforts.”

“That's not stupid at all. But. What do you mean, you can’t find a home?”

“Nowhere feels like somewhere I want to spend my life in.”

I can feel an idea coming on. “Say you were to have a guide, someone to, uh, show you all the secret places in the city, all the best restaurants, the nicest record store…”

They start to smile.

“That’s that one, by the way,” I say, pointing a thumb at the door.

A grin stretches across their face, boyish and beautiful. My heart is racing.

I eye up their Pride & Prejudice bag, their curly hair, their enamel pin, their scuffed Docs, their knitted jumper, skinny jeans, curves and lines and lips and eyes. If I concentrate I can see them dancing beneath the pergola at Alderforth house, wiping tomato sauce from their chin at my favourite Pizza place in the neighbourhood, holding my cat up to their face to give him a kiss. And it's all perfect. “And if that someone could take you out for coffee..?”

“Well, that would be wonderful.”