#somewhere on the citrus scale but god knows where it is

[sabraeal]

Documented for Posterity, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

1:20    Method 1: Subject attempts to sleep off effects

In those first few halcyon moments before Yuzuri reaches for the lamp, Suzu has high hopes. It’s not the first time he’s slept off an inappropriately pitched tent; college dormitories and trips to the field don’t leave much in the way of privacy.  He prefers other methods, of course, but as he settles down against a pillow of his jacket and a blanket of Yuzuri’s cloak, he’s got a good good about his chances.

But then her fingers flip the flame down to the faintest flicker, light dancing through the glass with a demure wave, and--

Well, now he’s just locked in a dark room with stiff cock and a girl dressed not only in a clinging chemise-- there’s a flirty ripple of lace sewn to the curve of her decolletage that he’s personally finding very hard not to dwell on-- but also smelling like apples and vanilla. His heart gallops triple time in his chest, not sure if he’s ravenous for pie, biscuits, or her cunt.

It’s a bit much, that’s what he’s trying to say.

“It’s hot in here,” he complains, because anything else will almost certainly end with him doing a walk of shame in his long johns and boots across the university’s main floor. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

“Just try to sleep already,” Yuzuri sighs, impatient, somewhere behind his head. He can’t see her; she’s moved away from the lamp’s hazy glow, and from the sound of it, is back at the table, pen scratching at the rough parchment of the page.

Experiment one, she must be writing, in the looping, fat hand he’s seen in the log book and on placards in the hothouses. Subject trying to sleep away erection of middling size. In this researcher’s experience, it should only take fifteen minutes to reduce to its normal size, though the standard deviation for cocks--

“I can hear you thinking.” Her pen skips to a stop. “Stop it.”

“It’s hard.” He rolls over, half on his stomach before he’s reminded-- ah yes, not a good plan having that touch...anything. Even if it’s just cold storeroom floor. “I’m very smart, you know.”

“I can’t see how.” He can’t see her, but he knows how her mouth is pinched, elongating the elegant oval of her face, and her arched brows drawn down to look like the sternest librarian fantasy. “It’s not like you do it regularly anyway.”

He nearly corrects her-- once a day, whether he needs to or not, just to keep the pipes working and his sheets clean-- but she’s not talking about that.

“Hey.” Suzu’s in no position to put his hands anywhere near his hips, but spiritually, they’re there, arms indignantly akimbo. “I have plenty of ideas--”

“Then have more of them about sleeping,” she informs him, stocking feet scuffling on the floor. “It’s impossible to have results if a test subject refuses to participate in the experiment.”

“Fine.” His arms fold across his chest in a huff. “I will. But you should know--”

“Suzu.” The way her mouth wraps around his name, so soft and resigned, has every bit of him standing at attention in all the best worst ways. Or worst best. He can’t quite decide. “Shut up.”

2:10

Suzu would like the record to show-- if Yuzuri would be kind enough to oblige him, which he knows she won’t be-- he does give it an honest effort.

Five minutes of honest to goodness silence settles him-- at least, enough to realize he’s too scrawny to ever lay on a stone floor in comfort. His shoulder blades jut oddly into the mortared edges, and when he rolls into his side, his ribs grate. It’s cold too; even in his woolens, Suzu feels the frosts of winters past riming his spine. And quite honestly, warm as his coat is, it’s nothing next to a good down pillow. Most bedding doesn’t smell of lab chemicals and yesterday’s lost dumpling. And Yuzuri’s cloak--

Well, it’s soft, warm-- and it smells like her. And, fool that he is, Past-Suzu thinks that’s a plus. Oh, Past-Suzu just catches that hint of dessert on the air and sticks his nose right in, huffing down that sweet scent of apple crisp, letting the soft, flickering of the lamp lull him. He can’t see her, but line of sight has never been necessary, oh no, not when a semi-eidetic memory meets an imagination as overactive as his.

Yuzuri sits up on her chair, one stockinged leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling, foot arched as her toes strain to press against the floor. Her golden hair falls over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, chemise sliding down its pale cusp. It’s chilly in here; she raises a hand to guide it back up. Her fingers hesitate-- maybe it would be better if they shared heat. Suzu, after all, looked so cozy there on the floor. Angelic, even, with the way his hair curled over his jacket.

Slowly, she stands, padding over, dropping to her knees. Her breasts strain against the soft linen of her chemise, nipples aroused by the contact, her hand reaching--

“Nope!” Suzu bolts upright, hunching over his knees. It’s a bit of a feat, now that his tent had expanded into a pavilion. “This is...definitely not working.”

The valve squeaks, the shadows deepening as the lamp brightens. The glare Yuzuri levels at him over the table describes all the way that his fantasies will stay firmly in the realm of imagination, aphrodisiac-induced arousal or not.  “Really?”

“Yes,” he informs her a little more manic than he would like. “It’s giving me far too much time to think.”

Yuzuri hum, flatly. “I can see how that might be dangerous to your health.”

“It’s not funny,” he snips, head snapping over his shoulder. “I’ve had an erection for two whole hours. That’s-- that’s at least a whole hour longer than I’ve ever done before.”

The pen scratches across the page, but he could swear he hears a muttered, hour fifty-five.

He frowns. “What was that?”

Yuzuri doesn’t bother looking up. “What was what?”

“You said something.”

“No.” Her mouth forms the word carefully as she crosses her ankles, legs drawn tight together from knee to thigh. “I didn’t.”

His mouth purses, annoyed. “I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously.”

“I’m handling it with the seriousness it deserves,” she informs him primly, her tone implying another half to the sentence, which is none.

“I’ll have you know it hurts.” At least it does now, now that he’s said it. Stings, quite honestly, like skin pinched in a hinge, too full for too long.

For the first time since this whole debacle started, a real thrill of fear rushes through him. The whole situation is ridiculous and mortifying and carries the vague threat of ending his career if someone with more pearls to clutch than Yuzuri found out he was sporting an erection in an educational institution, but it hasn’t seemed dangerous. But now he nudges his cock, just the barest bit, and tears spring to his eyes. Something might actually be medically wrong. This could have lasting implications.

“Oh, honestly.” Yuzuri squiggles in her seat, thighs rubbing together in a way that brings new meaning to the words painfully hard. “Can’t you just jack yourself off?”

Suzu, age twenty-five, of sound body and mind, nearly has a cardiac event.

“What?” He stares at her hard enough to pop a vessel-- which he doesn’t, but it’s a close thing, considering. “Right here?”

“N-no, Suzu!” A blush blooms over the rosy rounds of her cheeks. “I’m not just telling you t-to whip it out in front of me!”

He nearly asks why not-- it’s not like it will be the first penis she’s seen outside of a clinical setting-- but his teeth snap shut around the impulse. That’s one of those things that could be career limiting, if one considered the bedroom a place of employment. Which he didn’t; it was his sanctum sanctorum, the place in which he rested his head at night, but--

Well, if he had a reason to be employed in there, he might. He’d at least like to be conducting interviews, instead of, ah, self-review.

“I meant that you could, I don’t know, go around the corner.” She waves her hand vaguely towards the back of the stockroom. “Use a shelf for cover or, um, something.”

“There’s a closet,” he says, because elaborate self-sabotage could be listed on his curriculum vitae under professional skills. “We use it for storing light sensitive materials.”

Against all reason, she actually lifts a finger to her chin and ponders the suggestion. “You’re able to do it in the dark?”

He could find his cock blind, deaf, mute, and one-handed, but that strikes him as a relatively unimpressive feat, considering how it’s attached to him.

“Yeah,” he says instead, “if you, ah, don’t mind.”

There is a distinct, heavy hesitation before she replies, “Well, it’s not like you’ll be in the same room.”

“No,” he agrees, technically.

“I think--” she worries at the edge of a page, thoughtful-- “that as long as we’re, ah, recording our findings, then it’s fine to be...scientifically rigorous.”

He swallows, hard. It makes a noticeable thunk.

“Right,” he says, weakly, rising to his feet. “Scientifically...rigorous.”

2:15    Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation

“What?” Suzu squawks, peeping out of the closet. “You can’t write that!”

Yuzuri flattens the journal against her chest-- that’s not helping what going on down in his whole...Pavilion Street reconstruction down south. “Why not?”

“People are going to read that!” He makes a terrible, uncoordinated swipe for it. She easily sidesteps him, giving him a withering glare. There was a reason Kirito always asks Obi to be on his team for the little snow battles him and his rascally friends enacted on the quad and not Suzu.

“That’s the point,” Yuzuri deadpans, “it’s being documented for posterity, like all you scholars love.”

“Right, yes, I get that.” He shuffles, cock bobbling painfully in his pants. Really, something has to be done about this. “But Shidan will read it.”

Her mouth pulls thin; or at least it would, if her lips weren’t full and quantifiably kissable no matter their configuration. “Shidan is a person, yeah.”

“Which means I’ll have to talk about it.” He licks his lips, nervous, and Yuzuri watches him with ever-increasing incredulity. “In, you know, a meeting.”

She stares for a long moment, then opens the journal with a sigh.

2:15    Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation to self-administer proposed course of treatment

“That’s better.”

Yuzuri glares up at him. “Just get in the closet already.”

2:19

This should be easy. After all, Suzu always joked-- with Obi, alone, door locked after surreptitiously checking the halls to make sure no one was lingering too close to hear through the solid oak-- that if they’d handed out doctorates for masturbation, he’d have three. He is, in as much as one could be at a private practice with no grading rubric, a professional.

But as soon as he unbuttons the fall of his trousers, letting his cock sit heavy in his hands, he’s just...lost.

It should be a relief. When he’s left to his own devices, there’s no bigger rush than making it to his room before midnight, work finished-- or at least, avoided-- and stripping down to nothing. Just him, his bed, and a bottle of vanilla-scented oil, with the whole night before them.

But now he stands here in the dark, cramped closet, the scent of herbs so heavy he can feel it pressing against his skin, and even with his aching cock, he just can’t quite, well--

Get it up. No, wait, it’s definitely up, but--

But there’s nothing sensual about this. No romance. No chemistry. Like the dates Yuzuri always complains about-- no dinner first.

“How’s it going?” The wood muffles Yuzuri’s voice, but he can hear each word as crisp as an accusation. “Getting close?”

Suzu’s tongue falls in an exasperated cluck, swiveling his neck toward the door. “Just how long do you think this takes?”

“In my vast experience,” she drawls, her tone vibrating at the frequency glass shatters, “you should already be done.”

He’s tempted to balk, maybe even disparage her previous paramours, but, well-- if she was here, her soft, slender hands wrapped around his cock, whispering encouragement into his ear, Suzu doubts he’d fare much better. His cock gives a good twitch of agreement, and promptly continues to get absolutely nowhere.

“Well,” he manages, mouth utterly dry-- another factor making this whole venture both uncomfortable and unlikely-- “I can’t do it when you’re right out there, listening.”

Even through the door her sigh is heavy, frustrated. “I’m taking notes!”

“I don’t see why,” he snaps, giving his shaft a vengeful stroke. It, like all the others, feels good while also being irrevocably, disappointingly wrong. “It’s not like you’ll be describing this in Methods.”

“Because if I take notes, this is experimentation,” she explains haltingly, “and if I don’t, then...”

Then he’s just a young man fruitlessly jerking off in a closet while she listens, no matter the details. She could sit back at the table, of course, folding those shapely legs beneath her, biting her lip with a longing glance over her shoulder but--

But it wouldn’t change anything. He’s still in a closet, hand around his cock, hoping for some relief, and she’s enabling him. The science is the only thing between her and a scandal.

“It’s just...” His palm squeezes the base of his shaft, a spark of arousal zipping up his spine. “It’s like trying to pee when there’s someone in the next stall.”

There’s a long moment of silence, enough that he wonders if she’s wandered away after all, ready to wash her hands of the whole thing. It’s his problem, after all, not hers, and she--

“Suzu.” Her voice is low, the kind of deep-throated whisper that sends static swirling over his skin. “Are you a shy pisser?”

His cheeks sting, heat prickling like a rash. Unfair-- by any natural law, or at least the ones in his repertoire-- he shouldn’t have the blood to spare for a blush, let alone one that fully threatens to expand its horizons in either northern or southerly direction. Any moment now he’ll start to get dizzy, maybe even pass out in this tiny bolthole of a closet, and Yuzuri will have to drag him out with his pants around the ankles before she goes and writes something like, subject’s delicate constitution precludes finishing trial, and--

“NO ONE LIKES PEEING IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.” His breath huffs out of him in ragged pants, and for once it has nothing to do with the state of his erection. Well, tangentially it does, but-- “honestly, Yuzuri.”

“Strange stance to take when you can pee on any tree you want,” she mutters, just audible through the oak. “Now are you going to finish this up or what?”

Suzu looks down at his cock-- still painfully hard, ridiculous jutting out from the ruin of his trousers-- and glares.

“Why are you even still here,” he grumbles, shoving it back behind his fall, buttons fumbling out of the grip of his trembling fingers. “Nothing about this is arousing.”

2:20

“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Yuzuri says, incredulous, for what had to be the twelfth time since he’s stumbled out of the closet, desperately aroused and with no relief in sight. The repetition has not made the observation any less embarrassing. “You must do it all the time.”

Suzu hunches over his knees, willing himself to disappear. Like everything he wants, invisibility remains frustratingly elusive. “I’m not talking to you about-- about--”

“Jerking off?” Her brows make a rousing bid for her hairline. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He shrivels sullenly. “It’s not fair.”

Yuzuri sighs, but she tips her head to look at him, hair falling like a solid sheet of gold over her shoulder, neck curved in an elegant line, ready for a mouth to--

Ugh. Suzu buries his face between his knees. His suffering is unending.

“How is this unfair?” She asks, annoyance adding spikes to every oblivious word that falls from her lips. “Just because your genitalia is external and obvious?”

It should be impossible to be so angry and so aroused at the same time, not without blissfully passing out to avoid both states, but here he is, still conscious. Still conscious, and the tatters of his brain-to-mouth filter frittered away by the ache in his crotch.

“It’s not fair,” he seethes raggedly, “because nothing is happening to you!”

The silence his shout leaves behind is deafening. What was he thinking? He never raises his voice, not like this, and especially not at Yuzuri. Yuzuri who could be doing anything else instead of sitting here, nursing him through the worst night of his life.

“What?”

He can barely bring himself to look up, to look at the confusion furrowing her perfect alabaster brow.

“I know it’s not your fault, but--” he should really stop himself, but an object in motion stays in motion, and there’s no friction he can provide that can stop the truth from barrelling out of his mouth-- “here I am, experiencing death by erection, and you--” he waves his hand vaguely in her direction-- “are immune or something.”

“Immune?” The word hisses between her teeth, sharp as a page’s edge. “Suzu, I’m dying. I-- I can barely sit upright, but someone has to write this down.”

Suzu stares. Properly this time, gaze fixed to her face, and-- she’s flushed, pink blooming around the gathering at her collar, and twinging up her neck, flooding her cheeks. “W-what?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’“ she snaps. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding it! Just because I don’t have external genitalia doesn’t mean I’m not--”

She throws up her hands, the noise she makes halfway between a grunt and a scream,all frustration. Her one arm drops, wiping at her forehead--

Her forehead, which is coated in sweat. Wiped by her hands, which are trembling. Right above her eyes too, too dark even for the dimness of the room. And her thighs, they rub together, pressed tight at their apex--

His mouth dries. Her chemise is wet, right where it settles over her crotch. The scent in the room now is not just herbs and alcohol, but something earthy and tantalizing, something he’d like to taste on his tongue.

“Yuzuri,” he says slowly, heart pounding in his ears. “Are you...horny?”

She turns to him with those too dark eyes, breath huffing out her small nose.

“You,” she sighs, trembling fingers pressing to her temples, “are an utter moron.”

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

hiii 5 30 and 32 for harrison pls (my king <3)

5. Your oc has to make something for an art exhibition. What would they make? How terrible is it? Would they enjoy making it?

on one hand Harrison would do something like splat paint on a canvas OR have y’all seen the episode of suite life on deck when zack sneezes jelly on a canvas and all the rich white people are like yessss we love itttttt THAT would be the art he makes! (yes i’m watching shows from the 2000s ok it’s breakdown time) ON THE OTHER HAND harrison is actually a visual artist lol (I always forget this because it seems so out of character but it’s been canon since book 1!) SO! if anybody follows SLEW on YouTube, that’s totally how his art would look! Either way he’d love making it! he would draw Lonan yes I said it (I have a few scenes I cut out from Feeding Habits where he actually does this which I’ll put under the cut)!

30. What topics does your oc know the most about? Are these obvious or would these be surprising to others?

Harrison knows a lot about building things and taking them apart etc though I can never do that justice for him because I am incompetent at both :) that is definitely expected he just has that vibe (is it because he wears flannel?? maybe??) like I said he is also a visual artist so I would assume??? knows a lot about art history?? I don’t enjoy art history because I have no attention span but I think he would love that and know tons of little facts and that would totally be surprising to others! again I probably don’t do him justice in that field because I was the worst at art history!

32. What five ingredients would you throw into a cauldron to make a potion based on your oc? How would you cook/mix them? What would the potion do?

The 5 ingredients would be 1) WAFFLES (loves them, would die for them), 2) pasteis de nata (LOVES these I cannot blame him) 3) coffee (he has no blood it’s just coffee) 4) cinnamon (i just re-read book 6 of fostered and the amount of times reeve compares harrison to cinnamon?? yall i’m no longer calling it cinnamon i’ll be calling it harrison) and 5) hot sauce (because he’s SPICY). Because Harrison is chaotic I would put it all in a blender and make a smoothie :) The potion would make you ~happy and ~relaxed and just generally chill and in love even if that’s with yourself (the only vibes harrison wants)!

This is the first Harrison Drawing Lonan moment which is from a subplot that no longer exists!

In his room, he scales his bed and tacks sketches to the ceiling with dashes of masking tape. He is so fast, if anyone sees him do this, they will question their sanity, and by the time he’s done and all the pieces are up, he’s in the centre of a black hole, and the black hole is a single face of charcoal, and the face has got hair that carves his forehead like raven wings, his eyes swathes of cyan pastel, his body staining Harrison’s hands irreparably and hours later, Harrison lies on his sheetless bed like the next star waiting to be vacuumed into the mouth of his muse.

(why am i fangirling over my own writing it’s so CUTE i cannot harrison loves lonan so much oh my he really does!!)

This is a random flashback that never really went anywhere?? but apparently it’s an entire scene oops! maybe I’ll put it somewhere if it fits!

Lonan’s eyes in monochrome still look like the ocean. He’s vivid in charcoal, a good model, slushing the rind off a mandarin.

They sit knee-to-knee on the jute mat by the hearth. Fire icebergs Lonan’s retinas and embers pinch his hair.

Harrison scrawls onto a scrap advertisement for a washing machine set, Lonan’s jaw melding with its Best Offer: $599 Two Piece. He is firelit and juddering with heat. He is peeling the mandarin like its his own work of art, each removal tear of skin nearly a fresco, ready for auction. He is the only thing Harrison is interested in studying.

Harrison finishes a flare of Lonan’s hair. From above the notebook he watches, aware he is noticed, so unashamed in his staring. Tonight, Lonan is his raven with the ocean in his eyes, his muscle memory, his magnum opus. At one point, Harrison no longer looks up to check his reference; he remembers exactly where every slot of him goes.

On Harrison’s last lick of hair, Lonan has finished peeling the mandarin. The segments sit, unpaired like jewels. A line of juice dribbles off his palm. It is only inevitable that they lean toward each other, charcoal and citrus, and Lonan looks at the portrait and Harrison feeds off that fruit with fervor.

“It’s missing something,” Lonan says, their bodies criss-crossed as Lonan examines the portrait and Harrison eats the mandarin. When Lonan gestures for the pencil, Harrison nudges it to him.

Lonan retrieves it and leans over Harrison so their hands morph. The pencil makes contact once more with the paper, and together they pull lines against the paper, curve up, hook down, hatch. They move in singularity, their fingerprints one fingerprint, their palms one palm. Harrison tastes mandarin, so Lonan does too. Lonan stamps charcoal onto his ring finger, so Harrison does too.

By the time they’re finished, the portrait has become two. Lonan’s right charcoal eye becomes the left charcoal eye of another face, Harrison’s, their faces combined into monochrome together.

It is inevitable, not choice, when their single hand tears the portrait from the book and reels it into the wall of flame. It is inevitable, not choice, to simultaneously feel a jilt of joy for at last burning together.

did harrison just call lonan his magnum opus oh my GOD so cute okay i’m going to go bye!!

[98prilla]

Abductions, Past and Present

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AO3

Bit of a lighter chapter, this time, but the next one is gonna be a bit rough. I’m real low on motivation right now, so long term projects like this one are just hard to write at the moment. It’s gonna be slow, folks! One shots are easier for my brain, so expect those while I procrastinate. 

...

He jolts awake, shaking off the tail end of a nightmare, heart racing as he tries to place where he is, eyes locking on the bed, on the form of Roman sleeping peacefully, and his chest knots tighter.

 “hey kiddo.” He tenses a bit at the voice, eyes shooting up to Feathers', flinching back a bit. “it's ok, bud. Can you drink something for me?” his throat feels like it’s closing up, but he nods, letting Feathers hand him a cup. He doesn’t know what's in it, why he's still here, but he's not going back on his deal. So he steels himself and takes a swig of the liquid.

 His eyes widen. It's… water. Cool, fresh, sweet, water. He closes his eyes, taking another, slower drink. God, it’s amazing, he hadn't realized he'd forgotten what actual water tastes like, but it's somehow the most beautiful thing in the world.

 “easy, buddy. Too fast and you'll get sick.” He opens his eyes at hands gently taking back the mostly empty cup. He keeps his eyes down, hands in his lap.

 “Can we get some food in you, kiddo?” He nods again, letting Feathers guide him off the cot he'd been asleep on, barely wincing at the touch, biting back a hiss. The whole time his eyes never leave Roman.

 They settle on the other side of the room, a small table and three chairs around it, which makes him stiffen even as he slides into the seat.

 “I brought breakfast. Is he awake?” His eyes fly to the door. It's Naga. “ah, he is.” Naga answers himself, a small smile flitting across his face, coming to sit at the table, sliding a bowl in front of him and Feathers, before he sits down with his own bowl.

 It smells like oatmeal of some kind, slightly cinnamon and sugary, and he can see fruit mixed in. Fruit. Just the thought nearly makes his mouth water, but he holds back, waiting for permission as the others begin to eat. He doesn’t know if this is another test, he won’t fail so easily if it is.

“Go on, kiddo. Eat up!” Feathers voice is light and cheery, and that's all the invitation he needs. He doesn’t care if it's poisoned, he decides with the first mouthful, nearly crying at the taste of sweet, warm, actual food. The next bite has a pop of sweet citrus and he can’t help letting out a small sound as he savors the flavor. It seems all too soon the bowl is empty, and despite being full he wishes for more.

 Full. The ever present gnawing of hunger that he had nearly gotten used to is absent, he feels almost strange, without the ever present pangs of emptiness.

 “Feeling better?” he nods again, eyes locked on Roman, missing the small frown exchanged between the two beings.

 “kiddo… you can go see him.” Before the words are fully out of Patton's mouth, the human has vaulted out of his chair and is perched on the edge of the bed, hand entwined with Roman's, the other stroking his hair, murmuring softly.

 Janus clears his throat, and instantly, the human freezes, an expression of pure fear on his face as he pulls away from his brother, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, eyes downcast. Patton lets out a soft breath, looking to Janus for guidance.

 He doesn’t look up at the sound of wood being pulled across the floor, seeing Naga out of the corner of his eyes, settling in the chair from the table, about a foot away from him.

 “My name is Janus. I’m a Naga. My home planet is Chaemera. I was taken when I was six. My venom is very potent, you see, and gold scales very rare. Individually, they’re not all that strong. But when crafted together on fabric, mimicking their natural placement on my skin they are nearly impenetrable. I’m told they also make fine jewelry. They’d pluck them. Then wait for them to grow back in, and do it again. It hurt, obviously, but I thought this was normal. Just how things go. Until the ship was boarded. And I was freed, taken in and helped to heal in all manners of the word, by Logan. He made a mistake, keeping you two apart, not telling you what was happening, but he means well. He isn’t the most socially adept. He never meant to cause you the fear and pain and stress you underwent at being kept apart. And I am swearing to you now on every scar on my body and soul, that you are safe and I will fight to the death anyone who tries to put you back into that fucking cell.”

 Remus stares at Naga, Janus, with suspicion and hesitancy, searching his face for any sign of a lie, for any sign of cold cunning or icy curiosity, finding none. He can’t decide if that puts him more or less at ease. He wants so badly to believe him, but he can't. He can’t because if he believes it and he’s wrong he will do something he'll regret, something that leaves Roman all alone.

 “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. You’ve been hurt really bad. We want to give you whatever it is you need to help start healing. It doesn’t matter if that means you ask us to leave right now and not come back, or if you want to talk. We won’t be angry, we won’t push you for anything, this is all at your pace. You control this. You can come and go as you please, we can drop you off somewhere, if that's what you want, you are free to wander the ship. Nothing here, none of us here, will hurt you.” He looks at Feathers, whose blue eyes are wide and filled with warmth and sadness and kindness, and he lets himself let out a ragged breath, pulling his knees to his chest and shaking, rocking back and forth, relieved, breathy sobs escaping his lips.

 “oh, kiddo. Can… can I hug you?” Feathers asks hesitantly, and before he can second guess himself he nods. He barely flinches, his innate response to touch, but Feathers immediately pulls back at the small sign of discomfort. Which, really, convinces him more than anything else has, because none of his captors would ever have the empathy to playact a motion so innately kind.

 “no… don't… please…” he heaves out, and instantly, those arms are back around him, wings wrapping him in warmth and sky blue softness, and he folds into the embrace.

 “There we go, buddy. It's ok, let it all out, it's ok.” The touch burns at his skin, it feels too hot and too much and too close, the pressure around his back, where the palms rub circles feel aflame and his brain can't process this because touch equals pain, but this is so gentle it's agonizing in an entirely new way that he never wants to end.

 “M-my name is Remus. His is R-Roman. I tr-tried to k-keep him safe, it w-w-was never en-ough I was n-ever enough…”

 “Shh, baby no, you did so good. You did. You kept him safe. You kept him alive, you did it, you did it, baby. You’re out, you got him out. You’re so brave.” Feathers lets go as he shifts away after several long minutes, tear streaked, but lighter, so much lighter, than he can ever remember being.

 “I can… I can stay, with him?”

 “Yes. Of course, yes.” Janus answers, the thought of separating them again causing a flash of pain across his face.

 “ok.” He whispers, voice hoarse, careful as he slips under the covers, curling tight around Roman, so he can feel every inhale and exhale, can feel the steady beat of Roman's heart. He smiles as he feels Roman let out a soft sound, melting into him.

 He's exhausted. He hasn’t slept, really slept, in days. He feels the covers being gently tucked tighter around him, the warmth and heady sense of safety impossible to resist as his eyes slip shut.

 “sleep well, Remus. We'll be in and out to check on you two, ok? If you need anything, just call. If you’re up for it, I'll give you a tour of the ship later, so you know your way around.” He nods, mumbles something affirmative.

 “thanks, Feathers.” He mumbles, slipping into a restful, soothing sleep.

 Patton turns to Janus, eyes aglow, a bursting smile on his face.

 “He called me feathers! That's adorable!” Janus sighs good naturedly, steering Patton out the door.

 “I heard… Feathers." He laughs at Patton's squeal, rolling his eyes but letting himself be drawn into a hug.

 “Are you okay?” Patton asks, pulling away, not missing the flash of something across Janus's face before his mask of smooth confidence slips back on.

 “Of course, darling. I’ve had years to move on, it’s certainly fine.” He dismisses, walking away down the corridor.

 “Jan. I know it must bring back unpleasant memories-"

 “It's fine, Patton. I’m certainly not reminded of my own fragile state when looking at them, I definitely don’t hate playing the spy to get on board those ships, and I’m certainly looking forwards to doing it again!” He shouts, regretting it instantly as he slaps a hand over his mouth, stumbling back against the wall.

 “Janus-" Patton hates the cool mask of calm that slips back on, eyes going dim and distant, looking past him as he straightens.

 “As I said. Everything is just fine.” Then Janus has slipped inside his room and locks it tight, something he only does when he's getting stressed, usually after night terrors or a triggering encounter.

 “Jan? It’s alright to be not alright. I’m leaving you alone now, since you want space, but if you wanna talk ever, my door'll be open.” He hesitates a moment, as he hears a slide and thump, no doubt Janus sliding down the wall, sitting on the floor. “and I know you'll over think it, so I'll say it now, I’m not mad, or hurt, that you yelled. I love you.” He pulls away from the door, slowly, staring at it a moment longer before shaking his head, heading to the common area. Maybe Virgil would be there. He was likely wound up, too, and they could both use some company.

 He didn’t hear the very faint, very whispered “I love you too" that escaped Janus's lips at the sound of his retreating footsteps.

…

He's surprised to find Logan in the common room instead, the distant look in his eyes telling Patton that he was deep in his mind, a form of meditation, almost, that helps the Straevion organize his thoughts and information. But Logan should have been sleeping, not delving through his memory.

 Well, there was nothing to do but wait. Startling him out of it was more damaging and disorienting than nearly anything else, and it was a sign of great trust in his companions that Logan felt safe enough to do this in the living space, where anyone could stumble upon him, completely defenseless and vulnerable. It warmed his heart, how much faith Logan had in them all, and his feathers fluffed up before resettling. A small shuffling from the couch alerts him to Logan ‘waking’, and he smiles softly as Logan lets out a soft breath of air, silver eyes dilating and meeting his.

 “hey.” He says softly, noting Logan’s ramrod straight posture, his hands steepled in his lap.

 “Greetings, Patton. How may I be of assistance?” Whew, if Logan was falling back into his purely formal mode, he must really be upset. His race were generally stoic and formal, showing emotion a sign of weakness, but Logan had long since opened up, though it was still difficult sometimes for him to find the words to express what, exactly, he was feeling. But Patton is more than patient, and more than willing to help Logan express himself, lighting up at any small shred of emotion Logan shows, knowing how much trust it takes for him to share any sign of feeling, every twitch of the lips, any small snort of laughter, any tears or twinge of pain, each one was a tiny gift.

 “Preen me?” He asks, instead of any of the other questions he wants to pepper Logan with, knowing he won’t answer any of them honestly if he’s this wound up. Logan hesitates, but nods minutely after a moment. Patton smiles, settling on the floor, wings stretched out behind him. After a moment, he hears Logan follow suit, and he shivers at the gentle touch on his feathers, closing his eyes and letting out a happy hum at the ever gentle, careful contact.

 “If you’re out here, I’m assuming everything went adequately when he awoke?” Logan asks, voice still even, hands not hesitating in their careful straightening of his feathers, but Patton can sense the tension underneath.

 “They did. He’s sleeping now, real sleep, poor thing. He trusts that he’s free, too, though that may come and go. His name is Remus. The other is Roman.” He feels Logan nod, absorbing the information. He let the silence linger, letting Logan organize his thoughts.

 “I hurt them.” He says finally, his hands never stopping their steady motion, voice still dangerously flat. “I made a grave miscalculation in my ministration of care and failed to recognize the obvious signs of stress and grief acting upon Remus. I failed to see his signs of aggression as anything other than just that, when it is quite obvious that he was, in fact, in pain. At the very least I should have updated him on Roman’s condition and seen how he reacted.”

 “You could have. But we both know that being kept like that for as long as he was can easily lead to madness. It was perfectly reasonable to be warry, given his behavior. He hadn’t even spoken, we didn’t even know if he was cognizant. I wouldn’t have thought he was, until his outburst at me.”  

 “Do you know what it was he said, before Virgil burst in?” His voice is strained now, on the edge of cracking, and Patton softens, tilting his head back to look at Logan’s face.

 “I don’t, Lo. I’d hoped you’d tell me, once you were ready.” He sees that small twitch of Logan’s lips, and he smiles, drawing his wings in and turning so he’s kneeling face to face with Logan.

 “he said that keeping them apart, letting him think that roman was dead, was the cruelest thing that’s ever been done to him. and the worst part is… I think he’s right.” Instantly, he’s wrapping his arms around Logan, pulling him closer with his wings, as he feels his stoic friend shaking.

 “you can cry, Lo. You know I won’t tell anyone, if you do. You know it’s ok.” He murmurs.

 “I don’t deserve to let myself feel, after what I did.”

 “No, Logan, no. That’s not how this works. You are entitled to your feelings. The fact that you feel guilty and miserable now proves that you understand you did wrong, that you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and I know you will do everything you can to earn their trust. To prove to Remus you deserve his. I know you have mine, Logan. Always, always, you have mine, plumana.” He replies, using a term of endearment native to his people. Logan relaxes against him, finally, his tears quiet and slow against Patton’s chest.

 “Have you been up, this whole time? It’s been nearly two days since Remus passed out.”

 “Couldn’t sleep. I… tried but without physical touch I found myself unable to relax enough for my mind to settle.”

 “Awww, Lo, that’s so sweet!” He can feel Logan blushing, his entire skin faintly glowing with it. “now, let’s get you to bed, Plumana mine.” He whispers, brushing back Logan’s dark hair, softly kissing his forehead.

 “You don’t mind staying? Just until I fall asleep.” Logan asks as Patton gets to his feet, helping pull Logan to his.

 “I’ll stay as long as you want, Lo.”

[winksasleeplesseye]

Frustration

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Fandom: Resident Evil

Warnings: it’s basically porn with some/without plot (squint and you might see the plot)

A/N: I can’t for the life of me know how to end these or title them so here we are but anyways enjoy and let’s be real on the citrus scale this fic could be considered the most acidic @beddtredd-archives @imagineleonkennedy @corvosattano

You couldn’t believe you were actually happy to sit in a dingy motel room. Sure, you were probably going to need a tetanus shot after the hell you’d been through tonight in Raccoon City, but all that mattered was that you were alive.

All of you. But you owed much of your thanks to Leon. Had he come even a minute later, you’d have been zombie food at the police station. You spent half the night thanking Leon in different ways (like splattering dog guts all over him in the parking garage, that was disgusting but fun) and the other half admiring the rookie cop and not just for his earnest nature.

You’d have to be blind not to notice how insanely attractive he was. You weren’t always exactly starry-eyed for guys with blonde hair or blue eyes but Leon had to be the exception. Of course, you weren’t alone in your “admiration”, as you caught him checking you out in your peripheral vision.

There had to be something there, right? God, is this really the time for this?

A knock comes to your motel room door, interrupting your thoughts.

Then a couple more.

Was it Claire? Back with some food maybe? You couldn’t really ignore the grumbling in your stomach much longer.

“(Y/N), open up.”

Leon. He knocked a few more times before pushing yourself off the bed and making your way over. You hesitate to turn the knob Did you really want to see him right now? The one person invading your thoughts? Maybe you could just open it enough to tell him to go away.

Your hands fumble with the chain and twist the lock of the knob until it clicks. Turning the door handle, you peer out just enough to see him standing outside with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

“Leon, what’s u-“

And all at once, you were taken off guard by the feeling of soft lips pressed to yours. His movements were hasty as he closed and locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and tangled his hand in your hair, tugging harshly to elicit a wince from you.

You didn’t want him to stop.

Leon backed you up into the bed until you stumbled onto the mattress with him leaning down close to your face. He continued his embrace, only pausing to say one crucial thing:

“God, please tell me you want me as bad as I want you right now.”

You kissed him back in affirmation of his statement. Both of you working hard to rid yourself of your clothes. He pushed your shirt up, hands smoothing over the skin on your chest, while you pulled it off your neck and threw it somewhere on the floor. Eventually your pulled your pants off and came back to Leon in nothing but your bra and panties (you thanked the Gods that you wore underwear worth being seen), crashing your lips into his harder than ever.

He climbed on the bed and urged you to shuffle up to the headboard. The sight of Leon made your knees weak and your skin feel hot; You could feel his tongue gliding over your own and encouraging you to do the same. You propped yourself up and took his lower lip between your teeth; tugging gently and letting him pull you down to him. He groaned when you released it, a thin string of saliva connecting you both; with any other person it would've been a little disgusting, but you could make an exception for him.

"Do you really want to do this?" He asked, trying to catch his breath. "And don't nod- I want to hear you say it."

"I want to," you whispered. I found it quite chivalrous that he, at the very least, asked. You smiled and kissed him again before trailing your lips to his cheek and down the curve of Leon’s jaw. Your pecks became sloppier as they traveled the length of his neck, sucking in light red and purple patches and marking him with your very own brand.

"This is pretty," He smirked, gilding his fingers over the lace of your bra before reaching behind you and unclasping it, pulling it down your arms revealing your chest to him.

Leon bent down and held you close as he flicked his tongue over your nipples, sucking until they were sensitive to his breaths. He continued downward, licking pieces of your stomach until he came to a point where the band of your panties were the only thing separating you from him.

He extended his arm to you and slowly pulled down the material down your legs. Your body shuddered at the sensation of the cool air in the room tickling the skin that rarely got uncovered. Leon kicked off his boxers and you hummed in approval of what you saw. He dipped his head down and painted a bold stripe along the center of your core, and your back arched at the foreign feeling. You whimpered as he went on, the sound of him lapping up your arousal driving you insane. You felt like you were going mad; everything was so delicate and he was throwing you curve balls and surprise attacks in the form of his tongue delving in and out of you, and gently sucking on your clit to a point where you squirmed to get away from him. At the same time, you never wanted him to stop; You ran a hand through Leon’s hair and urged him to keep going.

Your breathing became unstable and your vocal chords were shaky; Leon’s name spilled feebly from your mouth; your toes curled, your legs shook, and just as Leon knew you were about to come undone, he stuck a finger-then another- into you and pumped in and out, in and out, until you were no longer aware of your name- the only word you knew was Leon.

"That's it," He breathed, still pumping, "just like that. Jesus fucking Christ, you're amazing."

Leon has to feel some sort of gratification; He was doing all of this to you. Your body was clad in nothing but a sheen of perspiration and you both hadn't even done that much yet. You collapsed onto the sheets, the fibers sticking to the light layer of sweat on your backside, and he kissed you to pull you out of your euphoria. You could still taste yourself on his lips-a sweet, tangy taste that reminded you of a sherbet you used to like, though after that realization you knew you wouldn't be eating that sherbet again.

Leon sat back at the foot of the bed and coaxed you to come forward with a curl of his index finger, spreading his legs to reveal his erection in full. "Hands and knees, sweetheart."

And you did so, crawling to him on all fours. He began rubbing himself at the sight of your butt propped in the air for him. The bed wasn't big, and it creaked noisily under your combined weight, but you think it added to the mood of the moment. Just as you came to a stop between his legs, Leon tipped your chin with his finger and kissed you quite dearly. He broke off from you, stroked your cheek with his thumb, then gently placed his hand on the back of your head and egged you on.

You took a hold of him and pumped his shaft, earning a few deep breaths and a smirk from him. Your mouth slowly descended upon him, taking him into your mouth and slowly enveloping it with the warmth of your tongue.

Sooner or later, Leon’s hand helped hold your hair out of your face and you went down on him again and again and again. You especially enjoyed it when he let himself slip little profanities.

Leon stopped you in the middle of one of your attempts to swallow him whole and got to his knees, gently laying you down on the pillows.

He looked down at you, scanning you from head to toe.

Steadily, and ever so cautiously, Leon positioned himself at your entrance and pushed in. Both of you gasped in shock; the last thing you saw before your eyes clamped shut were Leon’s eyebrows knitting together into a frown, but his face donning a look of such pleasure that you felt obligated to take credit for. His lips created an 'O' before he bit down on my lower lip to relieve himself. You just couldn't believe this is what you had been missing out on. And he wasn’t even all the way in yet.

"Fuck," Leon huffed, running his hand through his hair before propping himself above you and trying again, this time holding your hips and angling himself a little higher to make it easier. He pushed again, slowly and at even pace, and paid close attention to your body language, pushing only when your breathing had calmed and stopping when you winced. Before long, at the very last moment, he slid into you and dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

"God, you're so good," You groaned, as Leon kissed your neck and relieved you of your shallow pants. You could feel yourself clench around him. Your ankles rested on his backside and your hand gripped his biceps, urging him to move before you expired right then and there. Leon began to thrust, pulling himself almost all the way out before pushing all the way back in. Everything was still a bit sensitive, but he went progressively faster.

The headboard was knocking into the wall. The bed was making more noise than both of you were. Leon brought his hand up to your clit to get you to fall apart again. You tried to contain yourself, but the pleasure was far too great for you to block out. Leon’s eager "C'mon, sweetheart"s and utterances of your name made it so hard to keep it together, and so, for the second time, your sanity unraveled. Leon growled at the feeling of your core tightening around his length and slowly thrusted in and out as you threw your head back onto the pillows to alleviate the spinning in your head.

"Le-Leon, I-"You stammered, "I can't-"

"Shh," He hushed you, dropping his forehead to yours and staring at you with his darkened, blue eyes, "I know you can take it, you're so good for me-fuck-I know you can take me."

He pulled out of you and nudged you onto his stomach, squeezing your ass in his hands before sending his palm down your cheek and eliciting a shriek from you. God, you couldn't even protest-you loved it so much.

"You can take me, can't you?" He asked, smoothing over the palm print he left. You nodded before he grabbed one of the pillows and placed it under your pelvis so your butt was propped up just for him. Leon let his tongue glide over your core again, and you squirmed under his control-the fact that you couldn't see what he was doing made everything that much more exciting. The tip of his length prodded into you, and you were once again being railed into. All you paid attention to was the sound of your skin slapping together.

You really thought you both were going to break the poor bed. Leon’s movements were so harsh and emphasized that if your legs felt like they wouldn't hold you up, then the legs of this bed wouldn't support you either. Leon twisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail and pulled back, jerking your head up as he lowered himself down.

"See? You're so good, sweetheart- fucking Christ- I knew you could handle it," He whispered, plowing into you even harder. You could tell you were both close; his sentences became choppy, your breathing got heavier, his movements became irregular, Leon leaned down and gently bit the skin of your shoulder blade, letting out a primitive growl instead of words, and just before he spilled his warmth into you, his moans carried throughout the room.

"Shut the fuck up!" came a voice from the next room. You and Leon jumped at the sound, pulling the covers over yourselves in reaction. They pounded their fists on the wall numerous times. "Get laid somewhere else! Some of us are trying to sleep!"

You looked at each other and burst into laughter only to stifle your noise with your hands before he kissed you again, long and slow.

That’s one way to finish.

[thesurielships]

New Girl meets the Court of Dreams Part II (Feysand AU)

I know I already said this in my part 1, but this is my first time writing a fanfic, and though I have a general idea of where it’s going, the chapters may be messy, and the characters not perfect. I feel like Feyre got too comfortable too soon with them, but dammit she doesn’t need to suffer in every single universe.

Part I, Part II, Part III

The next morning, Feyre was roused from the most fulfilling sleep she’d had in months by unfamiliar voices whispering.

“Az, come over here!” a first voice whisper-yelled. “Rhys has been turned into a girl!”

Footsteps came into the room.

“Don’t be stu- oh. I can’t say I mind,” said a second voice, this one a quiet murmur.

Feyre decided to ignore them till they went away, and snuggled deeper into her citrus scented blankets, eager to go back to sleep.

Another pair of footsteps shuffled into the room.

“Cassian, get out of my room.” It was Rhys’s voice. Feyre smiled into the pillow. “Az, you too?” he added in disbelief.

“I must say I liked you better as a sleeping beauty,” replied the quiet voice, which she guessed to be Az.

Obnoxious laughter erupted in the room.

“Cassian,” Rhys hissed.

Feyre sighed, accepting that her sleep was over, and peeked over her blankets.

“Why, Rhys, you’re more uptight than my mother.”

The laughter got even louder, and she glanced at its source. A tall, muscular guy with shoulder length dark hair and mischievous hazel eyes was currently doubled over, slapping his knee. She turned towards the quiet chuckle in the other side of the room. Az, she guessed, looked a lot like Cassian, with the same dark hair and hazel eyes, but where Cassian’s features were strong and his expression open, Az exuded soft elegance and stealth and grace. He was glancing between her and Rhysand, who was looking at her with a half-smile on his lips.

“This is what I get for trying to let you sleep in?”

She snickered and sat up, still unwilling to leave her warm cocoon.

The sight hit Rhys in the gut. He wished he could wake up every day to her in his bed, her golden hair fanned across his pillow and a languorous smile on her face.

“So, was Rhys’s performance so unsatisfactory last night that you kicked him out of bed?” Cassian asked, wiping the tears that had escaped from his eyes.

She smirked. “I didn’t even get to kick him out. I fell asleep.”

Rhys’s jaw dropped.

Cassian grinned. “I like you.” He extended his hand. “Cassian.”

“Feyre,” she smiled back, shaking his hand. When she made to let go, he pulled her closer and mock whispered, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “If you’re still… unsatisfied, my room is just next door.” He winked at her before releasing her hand.

Rhys grinded his teeth.

“Hello, Feyre. I’m Azriel.”

“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

“Now that introductions are over,” Rhys interrupted before his other brother got a chance to flirt with her, “I think we should start the screening process.”

Cassian and Azriel looked at him then, eyes wide.

“You mean to tell me that our roommate is gonna be a girl?” screeched Cassian.

“I know models,” she offered.

Cassian’s expression immediately went from disbelief to excitement. He clapped his hands and all but squealed, “our roommate is gonna be a girl!”

“Easy,” Rhys chuckled. “She still hasn’t passed the interview.”

Cassian looked at her. “Are you going to set us up with those models?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then it’s a yes from me.”

Rhys sighed. He opened his mouth to put an end to this mess of a conversation, and to give Feyre a chance to freshen up before she had to deal with the hurricane that was Cassian, but Azriel spoke first.

“Do you know how to make a hangover cure?”

Feyre’s eyebrows rose. “I guess?”

“From a scale of 1 to 10, how messy are you?”

She chewed on her lip, thinking. “4? Except for when I paint, then it’s a solid 8.”

“Is there something specific you don’t like eating?”

“Not really.”

‘Do you shed hair?’

She stifled a laugh. “I’m not a dog, Az.”

Rhys was a little jealous that Azriel got her to call him by his nickname so fast, and without even needing to ask.

“How many hair products do you use?”

“Shampoo and conditioner.”

“How long do you take in the shower?”

“About half an hour.”

Rhys was rapidly getting uncomfortable with the direction this interview was taking.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She opened her mouth before processing the question. Her cheeks heated, and Rhys grunted. Azriel looked at him, assessing, then smirked triumphantly, and Rhys realized he’d just been tricked.

“Okay. I cook and clean. Rhys takes care of grocery shopping. Cassian fixes things around the house. You can be home decorator. Mother knows this house needs a woman’s touch.” A loud crash sounded somewhere in the apartment, followed by a yelp. “Welcome to our house, Feyre,” Azriel concluded, and then left in a hurry, no doubt to go fix the mess Cassian was making in the kitchen.

Rhys sighed and went to lean against his desk in the edge of the room.

“What do I need to do to get my third yes?”

He smirked at her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She chucked a pillow at him, which he caught inches before it hit him in the face. “How about-“ he was interrupted by another one smacking him in the nose. He lowered the pillow, his movements slow and his smile slower. “You wicked thing.”

Feyre barely got a glimpse of his indigo eyes twinkling before she was hit with such force that she fell back on the bed. The prick had thrown both the pillows at once. She grabbed one of them and aimed blindly, but she only heard it thud against the wall, followed by a dark chuckle and retreating footsteps.

“The toilet is two doors down, to the left. Welcome to our home, Feyre darling,” he said by way of goodbye. And though she didn’t quite realize it then, it was the first time she’d felt at home in a long time.

***

Rhysand joined his brothers in the kitchen, only to find it all coated by a thick layer of flour, and smudged in places by puddles of raw eggs.

“I wanted to make pancakes for our new roommate,” Cassian pouted.

“So is she going to take Kallias’s room?” Azriel asked, picking up the cracked egg shells from the floor. “Or is she going to share yours?”

Rhys was careful to keep his face blank. “What do you mean?”

“He means,” Cassian smirked, “that you could’ve easily put her in Kallias’s room yesterday, but you put her in your bed instead.”

“I figured she wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping in a stranger’s sheets,” he lied smoothly.

“She did seem very comfortable in yours,” put in Azriel.

Rhys felt heat creep up his neck, so he tried to change the subject. “Are you sure you two are okay with her living here?”

He was met by two sets of knowing eyes and teasing smirks, but thankfully they decided to let it drop. For now.

Cassian shrugged. “As long as she pays the rent, I don’t see why not.”

“Are you okay with it?” Azriel, ever the observant one, asked.

“As long as she pays the rent, I don’t see why not,” Rhys repeated with a half-smile.

Approximately half an hour later, the time it took Rhys and Az to clean up the flour and egg explosion, Feyre appeared in the doorway. She had just showered and her hair was still a little damp, but what really got to him was the shirt she was wearing. It was his favorite shirt.

Feyre noticed his gaze and grinned. “I hope you don’t mind.” She passed by him on the way to the sink to get a drink, and he got a whiff of his shampoo. Gods above, she even smelled like him. 

Rhys’s voice was strangled when he said, “make yourself comfortable, Feyre darling.”

Azriel shut the fridge he’d been scouring for food. “Someone finished all the eggs, so I can’t bake anything for breakfast. Velaris?”

Feyre immediately perked up at the name of her new favorite restaurant. “Velaris makes breakfast?”

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been there?”

“Yeah, Rhys and I had dinner there yesterday.”

Cassian was shocked. Never in the long years he’d known Rhys had his brother taken a girl there. It was his sacred place, and he never showed it to strangers. He considered the girl standing in front of him in Rhys’s shirt in a new light. She was pretty, he supposed. And feisty. He was glad he liked her because one look at how Rhys was staring at her like she hung the moon and he knew that if his brother had any say in it, she would be with them for a while.

***

Feyre was once again at awe. Velaris not only made the best pasta she’d ever tasted, they somehow also made the best pancakes. She was on her fifth pancake when Rhysand asked her, “so, where are your clothes?”

She coughed. “About that… I don’t really have clothes?”

Silence. She was pinned by three pairs of eyes, and she struggled to swallow her bite of pancake. “I left everything behind at Tamlin’s.”

“By Tamlin, you mean Tamlin Rosefield?” Cassian asked, disbelief coloring his words.

“Won’t you go get them back?” Azriel asked quietly.

She could feel Rhys’s gaze on her face, cool and calculating, as she mumbled something along the lines of yeah, later, and scooped another pancake into her plate, digging into it before they could question her any further. 

[istheresomebodywhocanimagine]

Sweet Bird of Paradox

Sweet as the smell of success / Her body’s warm and wet / She gets me through this god awful loneliness / A natural high butterfly Oh I, / I need, need, need her.

The smells of the private room were dizzying to John. On one hand, a saccharine, citrus incense burned nearby, but the stench of sex was too powerful to mask. As illegal as it was, John figured that more than one man before him had paid a little extra for a little extra. Mixed together, it made sure the senses were overwhelmed by a sort of sweet debauchery, but the overindulgence wasn’t shameful to him. Not yet, anyways.

His calloused, aged hands gripped the armrest of the leather chair tightly as he looked around for a moment, the dim lights of the room making it hard for his eyes to adjust. He was teetering in on the scale around his mid 40’s, and most of his senses didn’t work quite the way they used to. He strained a little harder than he would have 20 years ago to see, and the music of the club just below was fainter than it would be to any 20 year old.

But he could still feel. God, could he still feel. Those hands that had created some of the most iconic basslines of the 70s and 80s, and every inch of skin on the attached body, felt everything.

Immediately following Freddie’s death, it was different story, sure. It was like the nerves had shut off – everything was numb, head to toe. His body desperately craved contact that would spark anything, and so he’d tried everything with Veronica, just so he could feel something. But touching her was like touching a wet blanket – it did mostly nothing for him, and if it did, it slightly repulsed him.

Shame and guilt debilitated him for a while. He couldn’t even bear looking at her, lest he reveal his aversion to her touch, and that purposeful avoidance had brought him here 4 months ago, a sophisticated, hush-hush exotic club where he’d immediately got a private room. He’d went through several girls on the roster before he’d found you. One dance, and his body felt like it was on fire. He was feeling again, just like he’d felt everything years ago. He was young again, and that scared him to no end.

So, he disappeared for a week. But then, he was back again, and asked for you by name every time since. You couldn’t even count on your fingers and toes the amount of nights you’d spent in John’s company. Some nights, you honestly would just sit and chat over a bottle of champagne. He was intriguing to you – never had you met such a quiet, reserved gentleman with so much to say in the middle of your place of work.

And he’d never taken advantage of you, not once. There was an odd sort of bond between you two, an inexplicable attraction, but you’d never even began to fool around with him. It was either a dance, the same you’d given tons of other men, or an in-depth chat that lasted well into the hours he’d pay for. At this point, you could usually read his expression and know exactly what the night warranted.

But tonight was different. As you stepped into the room, clad in a maroon red, strappy lingerie set covered by a creamy silk robe adored with red floral pattern, his face was unreadable. Letting the heavy wooden door shut behind you, you walked over to the minibar in the room, opting for the bottle of red wine tonight to match your lipstick and the towering heels that were adding a good half-foot to your height.

Carefully picking up two glasses with your free hand, you made your way over to the chair where John still sat motionless, following you with his pale grey eyes that matched the aging silver of his hair, which was crew cut and far shorter than his ‘do in the 70s, he’d told you. You did remember long hair being the standard in the 70s even if you were just a kid, so you took his word for it.

John moved his hand so you could perch on the wide armrest of the chair, his usually kind face riddled with conflict. But he still cleared his throat and managed to speak as you uncorked the bottle, pouring two glasses of wine.

“Red tonight?” he asked, his sweet-tempered, somewhat nasally voice making you relax as you realized he wasn’t in a foul mood tonight. Sometimes, he came in and didn’t really say a word for fear of revealing his moods like that, but you could tell through the silence anyways. “I thought you liked white whines.”

“I’m in the mood for a red tonight, is that a crime, John?” you asked, handing him a glass before holding out your own, smiling when he obligingly clinked his glass to yours, both of you taking a sip at the same time. A blood red swatch of lipstick was left on the edge of your glass as you swirled it around, looking down at the silver fox of a man while you draped your legs across his lap. A hand came up to rest on your ankle instinctively, his other still holding the wine glass as he keep his gaze on your face, seeming to be scanning you inside and out. “You’re quiet today. D’you want a dance?”

“No, no,” he quickly objected, and you could swear you saw a ghost of a smile cross his lips as he rubbed circles into your ankle with his thumb, his plain black sweater – or was it brown? You could never tell in this lighting – suddenly seeming to constrict his breathing as he took another drink of the wine before setting it down and tugging at the collar of said sweater. “I actually wanted to ask you something. Or give you a proposition, of sorts. It’s alright if you say no, I’ve just been thinking about it more lately and I wanted to see if the idea held any weight with you.”

John being this serious was nothing new to you, so you nodded along and sipped your wine as he spoke, arching an eyebrow and cocking your head to the side in curiosity afterwards. “What’s on your mind, then?” you asked, the shoulder of your robe slipping to the side and down your arm just a bit. But John’s eyes didn’t wander, not for a moment, instead staying trained on yours as he replied without missing a beat.

“I know you’ve said you don’t like it here before. Some of the men are too rough or go too far, is that what you said?”

“Well, yes, but it’s a living.” You grimaced as you spoke, mainly trying to convince yourself you didn’t hate the work more and more recently as the men got braver and stupider. “Why do you ask?”

“What would you say if I offered to get you out of here?” John’s face was dead serious as he spoke, and you held back a laugh that was bubbling to your throat as you furrowed your eyebrows, realizing he wasn’t joking. Was he proposing an arrangement? “I can put you up in your own place, away from here, pay you weekly, and I’d come visit you there instead.”

“Oh, so you call this visiting me?” you teased, climbing up from the chair and eluding his grasp as you finished off your first glass of wine. Grabbing the bottle of wine by the neck, you poured yourself another one as you focused on the stream of red liquid splashing into the glass. Just beyond that, John still sat there, the same expression as before, cool and controlled. “I bet that’s not what your wife calls it.”

“Not important,” he dismissed, quickly disposing of the topic of Veronica. He’d told you about her months ago – the kids, the separation, the rough patch, his bender, reconciliation, and then now, the stall, the filibuster. And it wasn’t like it bothered you – half of your clients were married men, you had to shed yourself of that morality quick. You just wondered what this proposed arrangement would mean in terms of his family. “I can send you to Bali, Cancun, Hawaii, wherever you want to go. All I ask is that you let me get you out of here.”

“Why?” you asked suddenly, sitting the wine bottle down on the table and standing with your free hand resting on your scantily clad hip as you let the other hand rest down at your side, daintily holding on to the wine glass by the rim. “Why do you want me out of here so bad?”

“Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m partial to you. And you deserve to be somewhere that doesn’t make you miserable. Go on, tell me you’re not miserable here and I’ll leave you alone about it from now on, I swear it.” His vowels were getting more and more clipped as his voice was laced with just a hint of excitement, knowing he’d presented a very good point.

Pursing your lips, you scanned your eyes over John’s entire body, starting at the dark leather dress shoes that almost matched the chair he was in, all the way to the collar of the plaid shirt peeking over his sweater’s neckline. Then to his hair, silver strands slowly transforming to a very soft brown-grey at the top of his head, all uniform in length, so clean-cut, like John. And yet, he was an enigma, the least clean-cut personality you’d ever witnessed.

“Alright. What’s the catch?”

welcome to spring break by whitney! i’m on a partial hiatus, so this is what i’ve lined up for my absence. let me know what you think of this one, leave comments, feedback, anything! the brian one will be out tomorrow, and the roger one wednesday - leave notes on the one you like the most, and i’ll chose whichever one seems to be the most well-received to start a new series once TNC is over! have a great week yall <3

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[shsummertimefest-blog]

Love, Spoken And Unspoken

Enjoy, @alecsplushpillow!

Sam, I hope you enjoy the personal touches that I’ve included in this one - and that they give you a chuckle, at least! Love & Hugs! XX   The Oracle!

[Read on AO3]

Love, Spoken And Unspoken

As the Torchwood credits rolled, Magnus couldn’t help but tease his peerlessly handsome boyfriend, as they spooned on the couch.  ‘I think you’d look almost as hot as Captain Jack himself in a greatcoat, Alexander,’ he whispered, nuzzling into the attractively messy locks that tickled his nose.  He was rebuked (or maybe rewarded?) with a playful slap to his butt cheek.  Magnus laughed deep in his throat as a territorial grip replaced it.

‘You have a ‘thing’ for the tall-dark-and-handsome type, clearly,’ Alec observed, as his fingers began to move of their own accord, kneading clenched muscles beneath the black pinstripe trousers Magnus was still wearing after returning from a client. ‘And they all seem to have blue eyes, I’ve noticed,’ he added as an afterthought, almost to himself.

Magnus’s arms pulled him even closer, sneaky fingers slotting between the poppers on the denim shirt.  ‘That’s because they’re a very distant second-best colour after yours.’  Placing his lips to Alec’s ear, he smiled. ‘No other hazel eyes could compare, my darling.’  He nipped at his lobe.  ‘No other.  Full stop.’

Alec thrilled to the words, even though he pretended to scoff at them. Unfortunately, his blush gave him away.  ‘I get it,’ he said softly, twisting his body so that he was facing Magnus, drinking him in.  ‘I also have a ‘thing’ for the tall-dark-and-handsome type.’  Scarlet tipped hair bounced as this was acknowledged.  ‘Except I love brown eyes every bit as much as gold ones. No other eyes compare.’  Magnus shuffled closer to press their foreheads together, his gaze unwavering.  ‘No other.  Full stop.’  

And like every time before when they were compelled to be as close as they could possibly get, it was their kisses that spoke louder than words. Slow, lingering and intimate,,,,,perfect for a couple with a lazy night in front of the TV ahead of them.  Torture for someone with a busy evening of work-related research to look forward to.  With a hard last kiss Magnus pulled back, untangling himself from the altogether too-comfortable hold of his boyfriend as he muttered apologies for having to break up their cosy canoodling in order to attend to warlock duties.  

Knowing from experience that it could mean hours of Magnus being locked inside his office pouring over ancient texts and tomes, Alec swallowed his own disappointment and concentrated instead on making things easier for his boyfriend. Silencing the unnecessary explanations with his index finger, he stood up pulling Magnus with him, unable to refrain from stealing one last hug.

‘I understand. I’ve got reports that need finishing anyway,’ he confessed, scaling down their contact to just holding hands but still unwilling to let him go.  ‘How about I get us a Starbucks while you make a start? I need my caffeine intake before I deal with paperwork.’

Magnus nodded in sympathy. ‘I would love that.’ And with a wink, he withdrew to his study.

Alec missed him already, but his one consolation was the view his retreat afforded him.  His sigh was bone-deep and lengthy.  Magnus in casual clothes was an arresting sight, but Magnus in a pinstripe three-piece suit was simply criminal, and although he’d removed his jacket upon returning home, the blood-red silk shirt and tie made him look as hot as fucking Hades, and Alec wanted to be engulfed in his heat. Like, now.

‘Coffee, Alexander!’ came the amused voice of the Devil himself from his pit-come-office.

Rolling his eyes, Alec silently cursed his annoyingly self-aware partner as he headed out.

It was over an hour later before he returned.

Rushing in, beverages in hand, Alec made a bee-line for his studious boyfriend ensconced in his throne-like leather chair, dropping a kiss on his head before handing him his order. ‘Magnus, I’m sorry, I-’

‘Don’t apologise, it was Sam again, wasn’t it?’ he asked, a look of understanding on his face as he sipped at the extra creamy cinnamon coffee with added chocolate and strawberries. Nodding confirmation, Alec winced on Magnus’ behalf at the consumption of such a sugary sweet drink.  ‘An accomplished barista she may be, but a typical Scorpio first and foremost.’ Alec leaned back against the desk next to him and raised an inquisitive brow.  ‘She reminds me of myself in a lot of ways - curious, determined, resourceful - but it does mean you face a barrage of questions every time you’re in a hurry.  Who would refuse her though? She’s not ruled by the God of War for no reason!’

Alec chuckled. ‘Well, she certainly asked some probing questions, I couldn’t get away. They were mostly about you though. I think you have a fan.’ Magnus smiled his agreement, obviously fond of her too.  ‘She kept quoting poetry at me every time I answered her, said love always inspired her.’ They shared a look warmer than the coffee itself, and Alec quickly gulped down the last of his drink, knowing if he didn’t leave the room now, Magnus would get nothing done tonight.

Magnus’ grin told him he was right. ‘Thank you for the sustenance, darling. I believe I might actually be getting somewhere with this confounded invocation, now that I’ve had a chance to brush up on my Old High German. It was a little rusty, I’m afraid.’  

Alec’s pride in his abilities was evident in the adoring look he gave him as he collected a (relatively safe) kiss on the cheek, as well as Magnus’ empty cup before exiting the room, both wearing the expression of a lovesick teenager.

Magnus tried (unsuccessfully) to school his features as he returned to his task.

After two hours of shuffling patrol statements, tidying an already pristine loft and familiarising himself with Gordon Ramsay’s version of Jocelyn’s famous chicken cacciatore (as recommended by the vampire) which he planned to cook for Magnus tomorrow night, Alec had decided they’d been apart long enough. So, armed with Sam’s eagerly loaned book of poems, he peeked around the office doorway, about to ask if he might keep him company, when he felt his heartbeat skid to a halt.

Still seated at his scroll-cluttered desk, Magnus had shed his tie and waistcoat and undone a number of buttons on his shirt, exposing what Alec knew was his Achilles Heel, but was actually in fact Magnus’ Adam’s apple. What a great way to die, he thought as he savoured the way it bobbed whilst he read to himself.  ‘Can I help you, sweetheart, or am I merely an object for your amusement?’ came the sultry voice that still made him shiver with pleasure whenever he heard it.  Even though he’d just been caught with his hand down his pants, almost literally, Alec didn’t care.

‘I’ve missed you, and I came..’ An undignified snort interrupted him, but he shook his head and persevered.  ‘I came to ask if I could join you in here. I promise I won’t distract you, I’ll just be reading.’  Magnus bid him enter with an outstretched hand, pulling him down onto his lap with a playful tug before cradling him in his arms as he inhaled the faint traces of citrus from their shower that morning.

‘I’ve missed you too, Alexander.  Even though you’re only outside the door, it’s still too far away.’  Alec pressed his lips to Magnus’ throat, enjoying the vibration of his words against them as he spoke, letting his fingertips explore the collarbone that was begging to be touched underneath the silk. The hitch in his lover’s throat was deeply arousing.  ‘Darling, I won’t be able to finish anything but your fine self, if you keep touching me like that, and I’d hate to think I’ve denied us great sofa sex for no reason at all.’  

With a flick of his tongue to the pulse point on his neck, Alec sighed, ‘You’re right. I’ll be all the way over there by the fire, maintaining a respectful distance.’  Gracefully, he rose to his feet before crossing the room to sit by the hearth, opening Sam’s book to the bookmarked page.  After a quick glance up to find Magnus still watching him, he jabbed a finger at the parchments requiring attention in front of him.  ‘Finish it. Quickly.’ Receiving a mock salute, Alec began to read.

‘Found a quote you like, sweetheart?’ Magnus asked, standing over him an hour later.  Alec tapped the rug in front of him, enveloping a weary but grateful boyfriend with his legs and his arms, whilst still holding the page open on a poem that had resonated instantly with him when he’d read it. Taking a shaky breath, he read an extract from Beau Taplin’s The Defining Moment over Magnus’ shoulder:

“You were an unexpected surprise.

The defining moment. The collision of stars that slammed

into me hard and sent my neat little world plummeting into

the ocean.

I never expected it to be you, you know?

But it is you.  It’s all you.  And now there’s no looking back.”

Alec kissed his temple. ‘This is what you are to me….only I could never have said it so….so well.’

‘Oh my romantic nephilim, it’s beautiful,’ Magnus agreed.  Reaching forward, he took the book and closed it, setting it to one side before pushing Alec down onto the fire-warmed rug, his face a picture of happiness and desire. Straddling Alec’s thighs, he laced their hands together, holding his gaze.  ‘I have a quote of my own from that poet, called The Goodnight, and it’s exactly how you make me feel.’  

“I want to fall to sleep with you,

and I couldn’t care less

if it were in

layers upon layers

of clothing

or only our skin,

all I really want is to wake up

not knowing

where I end and you begin.”

Lifting their hands to his lips, Alec held his lover’s gaze as he kissed them, letting a tear slip from his eye, his heart fit to burst.

‘Me too,’ he whispered.

[inked-convulsion]

He’s my manager...

Sometimes, deep down, you know it’s wrong, but it’s surprising how strong one’s desires could be.

I’ve been at this job for less than a year, and being the only single girl in a sea of mostly male colleagues posed its challenges. Most of the guys were okay - I didn’t really have a benchmark to define ‘good-looking’, apart from the personal aesthetic appeal overall. Like this one guy in the design department had amazing eyebrows, but his nose looked strange; or the other guy in HR who had the most amazing jawline, but he was almost a head shorter than her.

It was a corporate office, small scale, but she still had to dress formal for work every day. I used to only wear T-shirts, but the job demanded that I fill my closet with all sorts of different blouses and shirts that overflowed the closet. What I liked to look for the most were the sheer blouses that buttoned fairly low - after all, the company dress code only mentioned “no excessive cleavage”, and HR hadn’t given me any warning notice yet.

I grew close with most of the guys, even the ones with girlfriends, but I drew the line there - I was looking for a partner, not looking to break up anyone.

There’s this one guy, though. I’ve noticed that he’s always had his eyes on me. Well, everyone does, but his gaze lingers, especially when I have on something a little more sexy than usual.

His shirts were always crisp, and compared to most of the guys, he dressed the best, and always smelled amazing - musky, with a slight tinge of citrus. I never felt awkward or shy around other guys, but he made me blush without even realizing it.

We wasn’t traditionally good-looking, but there was something about him that was so attractive. It could be the way he carried himself, the way he spoke with such confidence, or the little gestures he made during meetings that made him stand out from everyone else. Or it could be just his gorgeously broad shoulders that very gently strained against the fabric of his shirts.

It was a Friday, and while every one had finished most of their work and went out for lunch early, I had a mountain of paperwork handed in last-minute by her client that I needed done by the end of the day, so I just asked a colleague to pack something for me.

I was alone in the office - or so I thought.

I needed a tea break, so I grabbed by mug and went to the pantry - also empty. As I reached up into the cupboard to get a teabag, a pair of hands slithered around my waist.

In my shock I dropped the box of tea I was holding, and fell back into his chest.

He seemed stoic at my blushing, but I could see the corner of his mouth curl ever so slightly. His hair was coiffed backwards today, which made him look different (read: ravishing).

I looked around after the initial shock subsided and realized he had trapped me against the counter. He was too close for comfort, and while his questioning eyes seemed to flicker with amusement, I took notice of the features I never noticed before - his skin was lustrous, and his lips looked so damn kissable. And his scent just made me soak my panties, if I were wearing any.

“Your make-up looks nice today,” he murmured, leaning in closer ever so slightly. “And you look so pretty in this dress today.”

“Uh... thanks,” I managed to croak. My throat was dry from this unexpected encounter. “But... uh, I think you’re a little too close.”

His eyebrow raised slightly at that statement, and with a little smile he said, “I thought you wanted me close? You should be a little more subtle when you stare next time.”

I blushed furiously, pressing my legs together just a little more.

“Don’t do that, you’re so airy already,” he whispered into my ear, sliding one of his hands along my thigh.

I let out an involuntary gasp as his skin touched mine, while my legs obediently loosened a little. My hands moved as if by a puppeteer, the hooked gently onto his shoulders as his lips made contact with my neck.

Oh shit, this is wrong. But...

It felt so good!

“Wait, we can’t, not here,” I managed to say.

His hands paused somewhere up my dress, traveling from my bare, pantiless butt toward my stomach. “We’re alone, babe,” he breathed, “I made sure of it.”

His kissed my neck harder, his movements more urgent. I was pulling him in - I wanted this. I’d fantasized about riding him right there in the meeting room, I’d masturbated to the thought of his body laboring above mine.

I was lifted onto the counter, and my legs spread apart. I looked away, slightly embarrassed at the state of my pubic grooming - I was in between waxes, and only about a week due from my next appointment.

But that moment only lasted for a split second before he buried his face in my pussy and ravaged it. I was clawing at the edge of the counter while he masterfully maneuvered my pussy with his lips and tongue, making me moan while he kissed, sucked, and licked me everywhere I wanted to be touched, like he could read my mind. His moans matched mine, occasionally praising my flavor, glorifying my scent.

It wasn’t long before my pubic area burst into contractions and intense pulses, and my mind to swim in the endless pool of orgasmic ecstasy - my moans were almost animal-like and loud. In my blurred vision, I saw him look up at me with satisfaction, wiping his chin on the back of his hand.

My juices had dripped all over the counter I was sitting on, all the way down to the floor.

As my orgasm faded and breathing maintained at a heavy pace, he was carrying me princess-style to his office. He set me on the little sofa he had facing his desk and unzipped his pants.

I hadn’t noticed his bulge until now, and it was straining against the fabric of his pants and boxers. I released it so that it bounced out to me, throbbing, begging to be touched.

I pulled his pants down further and made him spread his legs slightly, then went to town. I started with his balls, just gently cupping and tickling them, slipping a finger from the back of his scrotum slowly up to the tip where a bead of precum was forming.

I let that bead build up slowly, taking his throbbing dick into my hand as he let out a long moan. I tasted the precum with the tip of my tongue, swirling around the glans. He was looking down at me, pupils dilated and mouth slightly open. I continued teasing him, licking around the sides and bottom side of his penis, pressing it against my lips and rubbing his back and forth, but never putting it in.

His eyes were pleading, hands starting to grab me in different places. It was time.

Looking up at him and giving his glans one last kiss, I pulled down his foreskin and slid his penis into my mouth, savoring his tremble as I did, releasing an almost groan-like moan.

I paused before I started the motions, to wait for him to completely savor his first contact, for him to complete his little explosion of pleasure.

I let my lips gently push and pull his foreskin along his penis, looking up at him every so often, my hands constantly stimulating his base and his balls. He smiled at me as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a smooth, defined chest, and then wonderful, wonderful abs.

I returned the favor by switching to a handjob, standing up, then pushing him so that he was now the one sitting on the couch.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I teased as I took a few steps away from him.

Thank fucking god I wore heels today, I thought to myself, before stripping. With slow deliberation, I let my back face him and unzipped my dress, letting him drink in the clasp of the lacey black bra I chose. I let the dress fall to the floor. It felt so exposed, to undress without panties.

I turned around to let him examine the “goods”. I almost turned an ankle trying to sashay sexily to him, but I managed to straddle him on the couch with my bra on. We were both now bare, with the exception of my bra.

My hands automatically slid to his phallus, wrapping my fingers around it; while his hands explored my body. I allowed one of my hands to feel him - his solid chest, the subtle indents along his abs, the way the curve of his belly button led down to his manhood.

Meanwhile, his hands first rested on my hips, and without changing form, moved up along the sides of my body, thumbs gently pressing into my belly, around and above my boobs to my shoulders, then progressing into a soft tickle up to my ears, and finally down to my boobs.

My nipples were straining against the lace, which he slowly pulled down and watched them pop out to freedom. His hands went around, and after a brief fumbling, he carefully let them settle.

Satisfied with admiring them, he pulled my closer and enveloped on of my nipples in his mouth. I threw my head back in a moan, now rubbing myself gently on his phallus.

As we both stopped, our eyes locked. It felt like I could fall into the darkness of his soul at any moment, and as if we’ve done it a thousand times, kissed.

His lips were firm, slightly nervous, but still soft and gentle. I lost myself in that kiss - time and the world did not exist, only us in that little bubble of intimacy. His arms grew steadily tighter around me, locking my body to his. We reluctantly pulled apart, and he wiped a tear from my eye.

He slowly reignited the carnal flame, kissing my once more on the lips, pinching my chin briefly, then slowly down to my jaw and neck. I teased his glans on my labia for a while, gauging his reaction - we were ready.

I sunk down on his phallus, both our eyes rolling backwards, groans escaping from deep inside us. I felt his junk fill me, and I could feel the very slight throbbing.

Before I could move, he pulled my knees up and lifted me, then set me down on his desk, my butt jutting slightly over the edge.

Positioning himself and admiring the glorious sight of a naked woman splayed open so vulnerably on his desk, he started thrusting. While most men would start at a fairly slow pace, it was apparent that he liked it rough.

His pelvis thrust against me hard, and it felt so good. With one hand, he cupped one breast and let the other bounce, while another alternated between rubbing my clitoris and pushing my legs further apart so he could go deeper.

I came over and over again, but he didn’t seem to slow down. On the contrary, he was fucking me even harder, letting out moans that aroused me even more.

“I’m close, babe,” he panted through the groans.

I was already in cloud nine of pleasure heaven - my vision was blurred, and motor reactions were dulled.

He bent down and cradled me while maintaining his rhythm.

“I’m coming,” he groaned, slamming deep into me after a few hard strokes, filling me with his precious juices. He continued to moan as his penis contracted inside me, and I came one last time from his orgasm.

His muscles slowly relaxed, gently slumping onto me. We were sweaty, panting, and somehow connected to more than just each other.

He pushed himself up after catching his breath, giving me a kiss on the forehead before pulling out his now satisfied dick. His sperm readily dripped from me, which he let me taste by dipping his fingers into me twice.

We managed to clean up before the lunch crowd returned, and we’ve been dating - and fucking - ever since. It’s funny how some of the most sinful and carnal encounters could end up in a satisfying relationship.

[greatdrams]

Adam, The Whisky Pilgrim, visits some Tasmania Distilleries

I visit my fair share of distilleries. 52 in the last 18 months, if you're counting, which I reckon is reasonable going given I've had to take holiday for every one of them! One feature of these trips has been early starts. I've blearily awoken everywhere from wigwams to the front seat of cars; from Islay hotels to Invernesian sofas.

City centre of Sydney, however, is a new one.

This trip came about by chance. My little sister is studying in Australia this year; not fully sure why, as she normally studies Sciences at Nottingham... In any case, the upshot was that my parents and I found ourselves planning our first ever jaunt Down Under. I'd say that it was more about seeing Vicky than it was about getting a couple of weeks of sunshine and adventure, but the year I lived unvisited in Inverness and Dundee rather speaks for itself...

You've probably heard that Australia is in on the whisky scene by now. If you haven't, then where were you two weeks ago when I wrote my Starward review? That particular bottle came from Melbourne, but the place that gets really raved about by folks in the know, and by Soho hipsters who like to sound on-trend, is Tasmania.

So I dug my heels in when we were planning our trip. I wanted to get out to Tasmania for a few days, get amongst the whisky scene, and see what was being done and by whom. My mother, who was planning the trip as a General might a campaign, insisted that one day was all that could be spared.

Which led, a fortnight ago, to my alarm clock squawking at me in a Sydney hotel and to an early flight taking us for a rather intense day trip.

Such necessary brevity meant that I had to be selective on my tours, and that I couldn't roam too far from Hobart airport. I'd have loved to have seen what Peter Bignell does with his home-grown rye, but it would have taken too long. I'm intrigued by the notion of the stainless steel stills at Hellyer's Road - how do they get sulphur out of the spirit? - but again, not an option.

Eventually I made my choices, so shortly after touching down in beautiful Tasmania (whose scenery is like a fusion of Scotland and the Mediterranean) I found myself at the front gate of The Tasmania Distillery, home to Sullivan's Cove.

Of the 22 distilleries on Tasmania (yes, 22!) Sullivan's Cove is probably the most internationally famous. (I know it's The Tasmania Distillery, but I'm going to call it Sullivan's Cove from this point to avoid confusion.) There would have been some dispute about this until recently, but in 2014 one of their French Oak Single Casks was awarded World's Best Single Malt by the World Whiskies Awards.

Since then Tasmanian whisky in general, and Sullivan's Cove in particular, has enjoyed rather a moment in the sun. Names like Lark and Overeem have started appearing on the shelves of London bars for the hipsters to try once and then go back to Japanese. Demand has exceeded supply to the degree that three casks-worth of Overeem can sell out in 20 minutes, with a huge list of disappointed customers failing to get their hands on it.

And that supply is not a big one. Sullivan's Cove, I was told, is the second biggest distillery on the island, behind Hellyer's Road. Last year they filled about 18,000 bottles.

18,000! I can't begin to stress how small a quantity that is. But to give you some idea, Highland Park's recent 'Fire' edition, described as 'limited and exclusive' was 28,000 bottles. Kilchoman, who by Scottish standards are tiny, make comfortably over 100,000 litres of spirit per year.

The natural upshot of this size:demand ratio is some pretty ambitious pricing. Don't expect much of a Tasmanian whisky in the UK for under £100 a throw - and a few go to well beyond that. A bottle from that French Oak Single Cask range - not the award-winning barrel, naturally - retails somewhere in the region of £300.

If you've read my posts for Great Drams, or on their former high horse, The Whisky Pilgrim, you'll know my thoughts concerning price and value. I understand why it happens, of course, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I've certainly never spent £300 on a bottle of whisky; couldn't afford to if I wanted to. And of course, a distillery charging those sort of prices has a very great deal to deliver. So I was fascinated to learn whether it did.

Funnily enough, the distillery I was initially put in mind of on arrival was the last Scottish place I visited - Wolfburn up in Thurso. Much like Wolfburn, Sullivan's Cove operate out of a small industrial unit. But in Sullivan's Cove's case literally everything is under the same roof, and in the same room - including all their maturing stock. If you've ever been to a Scottish distillery before, that alone should give you a sense of scale.

The number one law of The Whisky Pilgrim reads "thou shalt arrive unnecessarily early," and a different hemisphere wasn't going to change that. So forty minutes before tour began I was given a glass of water and directed to a seat in their charming visitor centre. It's a rather nice place to sit; I don't think I've ever seen such a wide variety of chairs!  Everything from chesterfields to 'doctor's waiting room-style', via what I can only describe as a pseudo-regency-period throne. Anyway, no prizes for guessing where I sat. It was gold for God's sake.

Talking of prizes, Sullivan's Cove have adorned the wall with theirs, and there are rather a lot. Certainly a good number for a range that effectively numbers three. Besides the French Oak they've an American Oak Single Cask, and their 'Double Cask', which works out about 70:30 in American Oak's favour.

Something worth noting about the French Oak incidentally - in Scotland it would probably be labelled "Port Cask", as that was what the barrels previously held. Actually, being legal and proper, they held nothing of the kind. They held an Australian Fortified Wine modelled on Tawny Port, and as a wine man by trade, that distinction matters to me. Bit clunky for a label, I admit, but based on my subsequent trip to Lark I can confirm that the PDO laws of the Douro Valley mean the square root of Jack to Australian whisky makers. Oh well. Probably no harm done!

My guide for the day was Ryan, an incredibly friendly, knowledgeable and enthusiastic young bloke. In fact everyone around the distillery seemed pretty young - ok, 'look who's talking' I guess, but you get my drift. Pretty much everyone was around my demographic, and the only place I've been before like that was Eden Mill, near St Andrews. Which, incidentally, is another small-scale operation cut from similar cloth to Sullivan's Cove.

Idiosyncrasy number one: Sullivan's Cove has one still. Not one pair of stills; not one wash and one spirit still: one still. Their wash comes from a local brewery, Cascade, who also used to do Lark's, and it goes through the still, comes out as low wines, then through the same still it goes again. Said still has a capacity of 2,500 litres. For some frame of reference, Glenfiddich describe theirs as 'unusually small' - and by Scottish standards they are - but they still stand at 9,500 litres capacity.

From a vantage point on a balcony, Ryan was able to point me towards the entire operation; still, casks, bottling line and the vats containing the gin that Sullivan's Cove also make. (Using the same still. That still earns its keep.) For some reason I was surprised to learn that each whisky bottled by Sullivan's Cove is over 10 years old. When a cask hits its decade, the contents are tasted by everyone at the distillery to assess where the whisky inside is at. Since the French Oak and American Oak expressions are both Single Casks, they come with their own sticker detailing distillation and bottling dates. In the case of the Double Cask (which usually comprises four different casks) they use the dates of the youngest constituent. The Double Cask I tasted was just shy of 16 years old.

I'm not sure why that surprised me so much; I guess I'd just got used to the notion of New World whiskies being a fair bit younger than their Scottish or Japanese counterparts. Shows what I know...oh, and by the way, the legal minimum age for Tasmanian whisky is 2 years, and they work at about a 3% evaporation rate.  Which was a shade or two lower than I expected.

On to those whiskies then. Ryan kindly gave me a taste of all of the core range. That included the gin, which smells like lemon and tastes like aniseed, if you're wondering!

Sullivan's Cove Double Cask - Lots of nose for 40%ABV. Vanillas and honeys initially. Rather fruity too, and the fruit grows as the glass sits. On the palate a touch of sweet spice emerges, and the development is demonstrated through a certain maturity of oak. Mouthfeel also surprisingly creamy for the strength. No burn though; medium intensity of flavour. More of the vanilla and honey, plus a big injection of malt. Some tablet too, and a splash of citrus providing lift and refreshment. Very clean. Decent balance. One for Balvenie fans. 40%ABV

Old Whisky Pilgrim readers will know that I only usually do a full note for a distillery's flagship expression when I write up  my tours. But since you're probably wondering how the other two tasted, I'll summarise by saying that I thought the French Oak was the pick of the bunch, and that the American Oak, whilst very tasty, was - to my palate - the least characterful of the three. Very clean; everything you'd expect from an 11-or-so-year-old ex-Bourbon cask malt...but no real surprises. Didn't have the idiosyncrasies of the Double Cask or the French Oak. Mind you, it was Ryan's favourite, and he knows Lark better than I do!

Hopped into a taxi which the fantastic guys at Sullivan's Cove kindly phoned for me, and plunged through the coastal Tasmanian fields towards  Hobart, the island's capital. Tour number two of the day was Lark, the first of the new age of Tasmanian distilleries.  Prohibition ended whisky production on the island over 150 years ago, but in 1992 Bill Lark persuaded the powers that be to let him start crafting aqua vitae again, and the rest is history.

A new experience for  me in more ways than one, because you don't actually drive yourself to the distillery at Lark. Instead you make your way to their "cellar door", from whence they chauffeur you  to where the magic happens in a minibus with a terrific pun on the bonnet. (See pictures below...) In this instance it's well worth your while turning up early, because the bar at the cellar door is quite something. I'd venture they have a couple of hundred bottles open on the shelves; predominantly Scotch, but with a good number from elsewhere, including a strong 'home showing.'

Taking a "when in Rome" attitude, Pilgrim snr and I selected a couple from Belgrove; the farm distillery that grows  all of its own rye onsite. We made our way through the peated and unpeated variants, and I can safely say that I've never tasted  anything like either of them in my life.  Good luck hunting any down in the UK, but if you do spot a bottle, don't hesitate. Particularly if it's the peated rye.

Behind the bar was Diana, who was full of enthusiasm for Belgrove's kit, and very chatty when we started swapping stories of our respective distillery visits. She'd recently made a trip to Scotland, and taken in 15 or so distilleries, so very much someone after my own heart! It turned out that she was also the guide for our tour, so I can only apologise to everyone else on the Drambulance for calling shotgun and continuing to compare notes!

I've been to a lot of distilleries by now, but Lark shoots straight to number one on my 'best sited' list. Not only does it have an absolutely stunning sea view, but it is cheek by jowl with a large vineyard. Whisky and wine literally next door to each other. If that isn't the dream then your dreams are wrong.

Hi-vis jackets donned, we made our way into the first warehouse, wherein the stills and mash tun are kept. The Lilliputian theme continued; Lark's mash tun is about the size of  a hot-tub, though I'm not sure I'd be keen on drinking a whisky whose wash had been used for that purpose. Since it's a manually stirred mash tun, potential jacuzzi enthusiasts would also be subject  to attack from a rouser. All in all I'd leave it as is.

Around the tun were a series of tiny stainless steel washbacks at various stages of fermentation. We had a taste from two, as well as a sip of the newly mashed wort. Not sure I'd make a habit of drinking them! We were then taken through the distillation process by CJ, the distillery manager, who had originally made his way over from Scotland on hearing about Lark's operation.

Before tasting the new make spirit we were given a glass of Lark's flagship, the Classic Cask. An apology here. Usually at this point I'd present my note for your consideration. But as it was a beautiful day we were outside at this stage, basking in the warm agricultural air. And on this warm agricultural air there floated a warm agricultural smell, with the upshot that my nostrils were charged with all sorts of aromas for which the whisky was not responsible, and for which the good people of Lark would not thank me were I to incongruously record them. So I can tell you that the Classic Cask was of medium intensity; that it featured characters of butterscotch, orange and light smoke, and that it would be right up the street of West Highland whisky fans. And I can tell you that  Tasmanian farmers don't stint on fertiliser. But I can't tell you much more than that!

After CJ had talked us through the spirit Diana took us to one of the cask houses, where several delicious treats were waiting. Firstly the 'Port Cask' expression from Lark's 'sister distillery,' Overeem. This was followed by a taste of Lark whisky straight from a tiny 'Port cask'. In both cases I'm sure you can guess why I've used quotation marks, but the whiskies were truly stunning. The Overeem, which was bottled at only 43%, could have used a bit of extra zing to counterbalance the huge weight of flavour and body, but the cask strength Lark was spectacular. In fact, based on my day, I'd say that Australian 'ex-Port' whiskies suit me a lot better than Scotch ex-Port does on the whole, and it's a shame they can't be labelled loudly and proudly as ex-Australian fortified wine. Or something a little less unwieldy. But I guess more people have heard of Port...

Due to the nature of our flights, my family and I had to flee at this point - though not before sampling Lark's gin selection. Out of respect. For the record, I genuinely don't think I've had a more enthusiastic, knowledgeable or friendly tour guide than Diana, and given the guides who have led me round distilleries previously, that really is saying something. Massive thanks to her, to CJ, and to the rest of the Lark team from myself and all of my family.

It obviously wasn't long enough of a trip.

Our flight from Sydney touched down at around 9:45 in the morning; by 5 in the afternoon we were back on the plane. Barely seven hours spent in Tasmania. I felt very strongly at the time, and still do now as I type, that I've never been more reluctant to leave somewhere in my life.

Because, quite apart from the stunning scenery and the gorgeous climate, Tasmania has something incredibly vibrant and magical and extraordinary to witness. Within my lifetime - within twenty-four years - they have created a whisky culture from nothing. The girls and guys at the twenty-two distilleries are doing something that no living Australian has done before, and what's more, they're doing it sensationally well. In the miniscule amount of time I spent there I got a flavour of the passion, the pride and the boundless dynamism of the Tasmanian whisky industry. It's inspirational to witness, exhilarating to be around, and if someone there were to offer me a job tomorrow I can't say I wouldn't be over like a shot. They're building a legacy, and they're building it on a labour of love.

The thing is, I'm still not sure about the prices. I know it's boring of me; I know  that the scale of production necessitates them; I know that Australian alcohol tax laws are pretty draconian, and I know that the distilleries sell out at those prices - so what's the problem? Well I think the problem for me is that, when I tell my friends and family about Tasmanian whisky, I won't be able to recommend that they go out and buy some. It's out of their price league - and mine - every single bottle. If they were Scotch I reckon the Sullivan's Cove Double Cask and the Lark Classic Cask would hover somewhere between £35-£55, and at that price they'd be up there with the very best.  I'd be telling everyone I knew to buy, buy, buy - just as I have been with Melbourne's Starward from the other week.

It's disgustingly unromantic of me to want some massive distillery churning out millions of gallons of whisky just so everyone can have a taste. And I don't want that; the atmosphere and the buzz around Tasmania is so optimistic and so alive with blissful vitality; how could anyone want that sensational, addictive ethos to be changed? But talking to Ryan and to Diana, it sounds as though the success stories of Tasmania are going to grow and grow in the next few years; bigger premises, higher production - same staff. If that is the case - and my God I hope it is - then perhaps we'll see some of the prices start to creep back towards the more affordable end of the spectrum.

I can't wait to see what happens next on the Tasmanian whisky scene - and I'm absolutely desperate to go back. But next time it'll be a proper visit; I want to see it all. I'm greedy like that.

Oh, and Ryan and Diana - if you're reading this, and by any chance find yourself in my hemisphere sometime, sincerely please do give me a shout. Because it isn't just Tasmania with a burgeoning whisky scene.  We've got one closer to home, too. The English are coming. But more on that another time.

Cheers!

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The post Adam, The Whisky Pilgrim, visits some Tasmania Distilleries appeared first on GreatDrams.

from GreatDrams http://ift.tt/2lEtplO Adam Wells