#This was supposed to be art of the new building their claiming as home but my brain said interior architecture is a NO

[ipegchangbin]

— heavy lifting

sub!gym buddy!changbin x dom!personal trainer!reader | 8.1k words

♡ … sequel to uplifting After Changbin’s gotten too comfortable around the gym, you needed to remind him of his place. You’re his significant other, sure, but you’re still his personal trainer — and his training is only getting even more personal.

❥ gender neutral reader (they/them pronouns, no specifics). smut. fluff. established relationship. pure porn, no plot.  ❥ bratty perv changbin. petnames “baby,” “coach,” “rat,” and “bun”/“bunny,” semi-public unprotected sex, anal creampie (reader receiving), fingering (changbin receiving), strength kink (headlock), no specifics about y/n’s physique—but y/n is strong.

📝 happy new year bitch!!! i finally fucking finished The self-indulgent fic!!! header art by ME! otherwise, enjoy!

18+ only. minors do not interact.

You and your client — now boyfriend — Changbin were getting ready to go to the gym. Staring at your bathroom mirror together, he flexed his arms as he hugged you close to his body.

One look at the man and you can tell he’s changed.

He’s far from the man you met a year ago, the boy with a thick build that shyly signed you up as his personal trainer. He used to close his big body into itself every time he wasn’t trying to impress you. Shy as he was with you, his crush, Changbin was also confident whenever he had the opportunity to try and make you swoon.

Now that he got you in his arms, you all his and him all yours, he’s a lot more toned now and a lot more open.

You got very clear glimpses of his personality at the gym, but dating him officially was like opening a gate and welcoming yourself into his colorful world. It didn’t take too long to find out that he works as a lifestyle journalist, but it took many months more to find out that his side gig is working as a talent manager for some small-time DJ named CB or something. Whoever that guy is, your boyfriend claims that he’s just as shy as your coworker Chris, hence why he doesn’t show up often.

Changbin opened up more of his life to you just as you gave lots of your life to him. Every date extended from the gym to the cafe next to it, from fancy restaurants in each of your hometowns to humble home-cooked dinners at either his or your apartments. He stutters less and he’s more giggly around you, while you’re definitely not your usual strict self when it comes to cuddles in his bed.

You two allowed your lives to meld into each other and bond, mix in, and create one shared universe that you can both breathe in. He loved you and you loved him and that never seems to end anywhere.

But it all starts at the gym, you figured, and it always goes back there; he hasn’t signed out of being your client and technically still pays you to help him work out.

“Y/N,” he said with a smile on his face. “Wait first, please? I’m not ready to go to the gym yet.”

You raised an eyebrow at him and struggled to look back as his arms engulfed you. “First time I’ve ever heard that from you. Why?”

Changbin is always more than eager to go to the gym, so the request set you back. He giggled and you could feel his chest pump against your back. He smiled at your figure in the mirror.

“What are you plotting?” You squinted your eyes back at his reflection. Changbin smiled dumbly in response.

You almost asked again until he leaned down to kiss your cheek from the side. It wasn’t a peck at all, his lips solidly planted on the apple of your cheek for a bit longer than two seconds, and it ended with an audible smooch at the pucker of his lips.

“Heh. I love you, bun.”

The smile on his face returned bigger and brighter. His cheeks heated up and his ears turned incredibly red at his own actions even if he was supposed to leave you melting; well, you were, definitely relaxing in the hold of his biceps at the simple display of affection.

But you’re stronger than him, at least emotionally, and he knows that.

“That was it?” You faked dissatisfaction in your tone and it turned him back into the shy guy you met a year ago. “Gonna delay your gym appointment for just a little kiss?”

His eyes didn’t leave your figure in your bathroom mirror. Changbin’s body heated up and you could feel every bit of him collapse slightly as he stared at your face.

To him, you’re still as handsome and as pretty as the time he met you, if not significantly more beautiful now than ever. Even when you were intimidating.

“I don’t think my coach minds if I’m late,” he attempted a smirk.

Changbin grabbed your wrists with a swiftness and held them against your back. Holding them with two hands, he made sure that you were unable to separate your arms, teasing you with one of his strength displays.

“Coach probably wouldn’t mind, especially when they’re late too.”

He wasn’t just planning on locking your hands there. He was feeling bold and you could feel it in the strong hold of his hands against yours.

But you’re physically stronger than he is.

You raised your arms and his hands together over your head, catching Changbin off-guard, twisting your wrists and your body so that you finally faced him. With his hands in the air, you grabbed him by his wrists this time, holding your shocked boyfriend’s hands together and slamming his frozen body against the wall.

You had his hands over his head, locking him in a far more vulnerable position. A blush ran through the apples of his cheeks and painted his ears red. He looked most delicious with his eyes wide open, mouth hung ajar, and pretty little head racing endlessly with thoughts.

“And what makes you think your coach would excuse this unnecessary tardiness?” You asked him with an ear-to-ear grin and half-lidded eyes.

“I’m not saying they’d…allow it…” Changbin bit his bottom lip for a second to ease his stammering. “I’m saying I don’t mind the punishment.”

You chuckled at his weak response. “Where’d you get this boldness?”

“From you, bun.”

You leaned in impossibly closer to his face, tightening the grip on his wrists. Your thumbs massaged the peaks of his palms as your gaze drilled into Changbin for making moves that you never thought he’d do. The man felt so much smaller under you, his biceps clenching suddenly at the tense atmosphere that he initiated.

You stepped away, releasing his hands, and softly smiled. “Binnie, you owe me a hearty dinner tonight.”

Changbin blinked. “Is that my punishment?”

“Yes and no,” you tapped his bicep and squeezed at his muscles. Your sultry voice returned briefly. “Why, do you want more?”

Changbin nodded almost a little too quickly to be subtle.

You turned around to face away from him and smirked.

“How about we go to the gym and find out?”

The trip on the way to the fitness center went on as it usually did, full of banter and tight hand-holding. Your boyfriend was extra giddy in the driver’s seat — he insisted on driving — and seemed way too excited for something just a little less special than a date. After all, this was your work, and he’s still your client.

That didn’t stop him from wanting to be yours for a day.

You both greeted Chris, your coworker, and Changbin’s right-hand man, and Minho, Changbin’s left-hand devil. They were both sparring until you two entered the picture. After handshakes and smiles, they noticed the subconsciously possessive hand of yours snaking around your boyfriend’s back.

They always had knowing grins and your boyfriend always looked like a bullied little dog whenever they teased him.

Whatever it was between you or the two friends, you shrugged it off and headed to the semi-private training room that Changbin liked. It was a four-walled room full of mirrors and equipment, almost always reserved for you and him, your personal training all upgraded to something much more personal now that everyone in the gym knew the both of you.

Shutting the door behind you, your boyfriend let out a giggle. You turned to see him hiding a smile with a dumb look on his face as if he was aching to tell you a joke. You lightly tapped his cheek and he shrugged it off with a downturned smile.

“Anyway, silly boy, we’re here to work out your upper body and arm strength,” you headed over to set up the equipment, yet Changbin’s eyes wouldn’t stop following your figure as you spoke. You could feel the stare right onto your ass, his favorite part of your body, and it felt nasty yet comfortably familiar.

“Binnie, please pass me the—”

“Hmm…” Changbin crossed his arms, pretending to stand inattentively.

You blinked. Tapped your shoe to grab his attention. Nothing worked, and your boyfriend — your client — just looked at his reflection in the mirror, biting back a grin with sharp teeth.

“Bin?” You called out to him. “Baby.” No response. “Bun, bunny.” The eyes that were once on your ass seemed to look away, settling for your impending reaction.

“Seo Changbin.”

He whipped his head your way, feigning surprise, but you didn’t miss the way the corners of his lips turned upwards for a split second. He loved hearing his name, loved it so goddamn much that he’d tease you this way just to hear it fall from your lips, no matter how stoically you called him. If it meant that you would succumb just to say his full name, a sign that you were his, then that meant he won in his own book.

“Mhmm? Oh right, what’d you say?”

If he was going to play some stupid game again, you were definitely catching on, and you were going to fucking win it.

“Put the bench down here.”

Changbin’s ears were impossibly red again at the sternness of your voice, but he scoffed, appearing like the overconfident self that he wanted to be to you. He grabbed the bench, sure, but he hovered it just above the spot you wanted him to place it on.

“I said put it down.”

He dropped the bench down with a loud thud. His eyes shifted back and forth between you and his pathetic reflection in the mirror.

You smirked at yourself after watching his natural obedience shine past his antics. “How about we try something?”

Changbin shook off his nervousness to listen to your inquiry.

“Plank with me underneath.” Your voice was stern, eyes all strict on his figure; if an outsider was watching, they wouldn’t know that you were looking at your very own boyfriend.

He merely scoffed in response.

“Extra bossy today, huh?” Changbin smirked at you, the shit-eating grin leaving your heart burning.

You’ve seen that smile before: he flashed that smirk often, teasing you especially whenever he sent you mirror selfies from his apartment with suggestive follow-up voicemails. It made you laugh every single time how tough he tried to look, flexing whatever muscle he wanted and texting like he was going to ruin you; only to look like a piece of dumb melted mess whenever you teased back with the promise of breaking his cock.

And now, of all times, you couldn’t back down. “Of fucking course. Aren’t you forgetting who’s boss?”

Changbin wiggled an eyebrow, knowing he was pushing exactly the right buttons. “You already know.”

“I don’t care. Remind me who your personal trainer is,” you sternly said.

A whisper left his lips. “It wasn’t supposed to be you,” he subtly said, but you unfortunately picked up on it.

The dark stare you gave him was all he needed to realize what he had done, mouthing “oh shit.” All he could do now was expect you to double down on whatever you were already doing.

He fucked up, pushing the one last button too early — but he loved that he did, and maybe you did, too.

“Who’s your trainer?” You walked behind his figure on the weight bench. The reflection of your menacing stance in the mirror in front of Changbin left him nervous, his heart skipping a beat as he watched you trace a hand down his back.

You grabbed him: one hand pushing his upper back down while the other hugged his hips upwards. With full force, you caught your boyfriend off-guard by making him fall on all fours on the bench in one singular motion.

“Who is it?” You reiterated, ignoring the long whine that escaped him.

“…Y-You, babe. I-It’s…you—” The words left his mouth all chopped up in stutters.

“I need a name.”

“Y/N,” Changbin whimpered before biting his lips to smile again.

“Seo Y/N.”

If he hadn’t pushed enough, then he did now. It was your job to tease but he was catching on. “Don’t play with me.”

“You know you l-like it. You love my name—”

His response earned him a sudden and firm slap on his ass. The boy cried out, his smile replaced by a scrunched face, his giggle replaced by a full moan.

“Filthy little gym brat,” you hissed.

You grabbed a fistful of his curly hair, forcing him to stare up at your reflection in the mirror alongside his pre-fucked-out face. “That’s what you are. Some dumb little workout junkie who thinks of nothing but their trainer’s ass.”

Changbin subtly turned his head in an attempt to look at your actual face. “You’d do the same if I was your trainer.”

“That’s what you think, rat.” You spanked his ass again, this time allowing it to sting through his thin shorts. “At least I’m not a weak little submissive toy of a man like you.”

He whimpered again, this time sounding pained. You thought it was from the spank itself but immediately figured that he was attempting not to leak precum in his shorts. His cock strained against his pants painfully. How cute.

“Y/N! Please, please!” Changbin hissed.

In a twisted attempt to worsen his situation, you sneaked your hand under his shorts to grope one of his ass cheeks, your nails digging into the spank mark. “Please what?”

“F-Fuck…” He attempted to speak straight, holding back drool from spilling out of his mouth by biting his lips back. He stared at you through the mirror with glossy eyes. The hearts in his pupils shined through his bangs, affecting you as if they were aphrodisiacs.

“Please fuck me?”

Without a doubt, his bratty antics were getting to you, but you merely smirked back at him. The same grin he flashed you earlier now pasted on your face, mirroring everything he did from the ego boost down to the annoying scoff that left his mouth. Only yours was more sadistic, infuriating, yet all sorts of hot and addicting.

Changbin anticipated your response, the brattiness leaving him, faux fear inching close to his heart.

“Do you really think you deserve that?”

He tried to whine but nothing could escape his mouth. He was incredibly hard and his poor little fat dick couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe if he didn’t rush his flirtatious antics before you two got into the gym, he would’ve changed into looser shorts that could actually give his cock some breathing room.

What’s worse is that you probably knew this but never gave him — nor his cock — the mercy to breathe.

Changbin settled on shaking his head, his scalp stinging a little from the hold of your hand on his curls. At his response, you forcibly let go of the hand, pushing his head down slightly, making his head bow in painful humiliation.

A delicious whimper made its way out of his mouth.

“I’m here to train you,” you said, your other hand still firm on his ass, “I will train you to be patient, hmm? I’m not your partner now.”

You squeezed his ass one last time before removing your hand from his shorts. “I’m your coach for now, you’re my client, yeah? I’ll fuck you if you’ve been good enough.”

Changbin simply nodded his head eagerly. You chuckled darkly, impressed at your brat’s sudden obedience.

“Now, where were we?” You slapped your palms on his round and bouncy pecs. “Oh right.”

You got on your knees down to meet his eye level, him elevated as he was supported by the bench. You looked like you could kiss him, or if he stood up then you would suck him off, or maybe eat his ass in that position — but you simply grinned, laying down with your back to the floor and front facing up under Changbin.

“Do a bench plank with me underneath. One minute and thirty seconds. Go.”

Poor guy had the most agonizing minute and a half of his life.

The sight of you, winning at the game he set, and teasing him with the nastiest curl of your dark smile left him struggling when he usually never did. He could’ve gone on for possibly two minutes or more, he never tested the limit, but maybe he hit it when he was forced to stare at you.

“Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two.” The husky timbre of your voice rang in his head as you counted the seconds down, a daunting timer right underneath him. He couldn’t believe himself, that he tried to become an annoying brat — and he never expected such a return.

But what was he supposed to expect from you — the partner he bagged through fucking in the very same gym he was struggling to work out in.

Changbin’s cock was straining, raging boner only ever getting harder while staring at you and your body that he loved so much. He couldn’t say a word, mutter a single word of worship even if he wanted to; he was still keeping up the act, refusing to succumb to the game he was still trying not to lose.

Maybe he already did, but he’s stubborn, just as you found him out to be.

“Fifty. Fifty-one, fifty-two…”

Flowing through his popping veins, his blood heated up his entire body when he was just planking, a simple warm-up exercise, as he fell into the pit of disbelief that you held the reigns and all the power even while being physically under him. He felt humiliated, less than the confident man he wanted to be, feeling smaller and significantly less strong than he actually was.

“Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine…”

At some point, he felt like giving up, like bucking his elbows and letting go of the bench. That unfortunately meant that he would drop onto your body and crush you, losing the game and, more importantly, hurting you.

It was beyond a game at that point. His nerves were fighting themselves, he wanted to cum, to drop onto your hips and just be fucked by your body. He was so ready to admit defeat, but he couldn’t at the cost and real fucking risk of crushing you.

Crushing the body he so loved. The collection of parts that made up the whole that is you, the one he fell in love with. The curves and sharp edges that framed your plush skin and contours, the hairs that grow in directions that flatter you. There’s something in the way the sight of your body places him in a trance; perhaps because it is the very body that houses the person he loves, his coach, the one who loves him, the one who knows how to love him. And god, you were strong, strong enough to bear his weight, but his anxiety boiled all the way down his crotch.

Can’t crush the body he loves.

He didn’t want that. Of course, you wouldn’t want that. He shut his eyes and listened to your voice instead of the thought. His sweat dropped from his forehead and neck down to your cheek, making you chuckle. The lightness of your laugh relieved him a little, but also made him harder, his hips wishing to line up against yours.

Of course, you noticed. Of course, you knew how badly he wanted you. You pulled your knee up and brushed it against his crotch.

“One hundred!”

Changbin yelled loudly at the action and your last count, failing to realize that he had gone ten seconds past a minute and a half. He tensely let go of the bench, only to catch himself painfully with his elbows and propping his body just inches above yours.

He flinched more at the fact that you barely flinched rather than the last-minute save down on your body.

“Good job, Binnie. You went beyond the time limit!”

Cock aching between his legs, Changbin resisted to call for a restroom break as he knew you would’ve humiliated him. He would want that, but not in the way he truly needed. He craved your validation in the form of proper disciplining, wishing to bring out that side of you, his coach.

But lord was your praise music to his ears.

If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it then.

The workouts went on for what seemed like hours of agony and his cock wouldn’t soften at all.

He did more reps on the pulldown machine than usual. It didn’t help that you hovered over him with your ass just above his hips as his back ached and arched at each pull. He looked beautiful, *fuckable,*especially when he complained slightly about doing another set at your command.

“Another?”

“Why, can’t do it?”

“What if I said no—”

You pulled the bar down with his arms in a sudden burst of strength, stretching his entire upper body, making Changbin groan so loud it might’ve echoed beyond the private room.

“You’re doing it anyway, that’s a demand.”

Then he got on the bench press while you hovered over his crotch. You counted the reps as he tried to focus on the heavy barbells. Your ass teased him, luscious hips just above his own in a way that made him feel like throwing the weights and pushing you down on his cock instead.

Turns out that wait is more tiring than weights.

Then you commanded him to use the sit-up machine while your lips were dangerously close to his every time he curled up. Then you took him to the chest press and forced him to stare at you, not your ass in the mirror behind him. Every single other exercise felt like another lap down the circles of hell.

He also did elevated push-ups on the bench as you sat on his lower back. The tease of your ass against the back of his hips drove him insane.

You spanked his ass again and he almost came then and there.

He was heaving, not just from the muscle soreness, but also from the thought that you could just fuck his ass in this position if you could — but alas, you held it over his head, and he was just a “filthy fucking gym brat.”

You could feel your veins popping as he smirked at you upon accomplishing his last set, only to feel satisfaction when he ducked his head and pouted when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t get too cocky, rat.” Your hand found his right bicep and held the firm, exhausted muscles.“How about I check your progress, hmm?”

A finger ran across the grooves of his shoulder blades and defined collarbones. “Oh, this rat did so well after all.” You ran your knuckles against the firm skin, feeling his biceps flex under your bones. Changbin shuddered at the touch, affecting him mentally and physically.

But god was your lovely voice making it so much worse. “Body got so much prettier.”

So was your teasing. “And you’re still so eager.”

You pointed straight at his erection while your other palm squeezed his strong forearm. He hated the teasing, or loved it; he isn’t too sure. Before he could say anything, feel the humiliation creep in for being a huge pervert, you bent down — and intentionally showed the curvature of your ass — to pick up a bottle.

“Does my baby want a treat?” You offered the treat in the form of a bottle of his favorite energy drink, still all cold even after being sat on the floor throughout the entirety of the workout.

The boy was thirsting, sure, but he wanted to quench a different kind of thirst. If the short yet thick tent on his crotch was any indication, then it was the darkened gaze that suddenly flickered in his eyes when he stared at you.

“No.”

A bratty side was returning and you hated that same lopsided smile on his small, puffy mouth.

“I want Y/N.”

You fiercely grabbed him by his cheeks, pinching your thumb and index finger down onto the softness of his cheeks. Your boyfriend’s luscious lips puckered at the pressure, but he tried to look less cute in your hands with a little tinge of failure.

“Demanding now, are we? You’re gonna have to train more if you think you deserve me.” You dug your nails harder into the skin of his cheeks. “What are we here for again?”

No response. Your nails sunk in more, making your boyfriend whimper. “Answer me.”

“Training.”

You let go. “Good. Training for?”

“M-My body.”

“Yes,” your voice softened. “For your pretty body.” You felt up his muscles, fingers walking across the thin fabric of his shirt and dancing around his firm, sweating skin. The threads were cool due to his sweat yet his skin was warm under your touch, the blood of a full-body blush creeping just within his veins, flesh reddening where it’s most sensitive — which is everywhere your hands graced.

“Such a glorious thing. So thick. So firm. So smooth, so beautiful.” Fallen into a trance at your warm words and touching, Changbin grew lightheaded, losing sense of thought almost completely even if he was feeling all sorts of emotions at once.

With a dark voice, you asked him an important question. “My baby worked out so well. But you’re missing something, why are you really here?”

Everything had to be mustered up for him to even reply. “To be…a good boy.”

Dumbing down, he felt his head spinning at your touch. He couldn’t form full sentences as he grew dumb, but he tried, and you could feel him trying. He still wanted to impress you but you had him drunk on the thought of you.

At this point, his poor cock had been edged past his record limit, but he hadn’t backed down to rub one out even in the private room with you.

Even if he wanted to. God, it would be nice, being sat with his back laid flat on the bench while your glorious ass cheeks bounced on his fat cock—

“I don’t think we’re done though.”

Feeling the grooves of his well-carved muscles, relishing in the subtle instinctive flexes, you felt a burn inside your heart just above the chest. Changbin was shaking ever so slightly, judged by the mere touch of your fingertips, a lovely little tactile feeling all contrasted with the flaming intent of your actions.

“I want more from you. How much can you lift again?”

Dryness caught itself in Changbin’s throat. “M-More than…130 kilos…”

“How about we see who’s stronger?”

“Baby—” Realizing how deep your pupils seemed to drill themselves into him, he changed terms of endearment. “Coach, what do you mean?”

“I lift you, then you lift me. Let’s see who’s stronger then. Got it?”

The matter-of-factly tone of voice and hands on your own hips got Changbin reeling. He especially loved seeing your displays of strength, something you were ironically subtle about even as his own trainer.

Is it bad that he got more excited to watch you outdo him than to prove you wrong? He hadn’t realized yet, but he was losing his own game.

This gym session was going overtime.

“You gotta be stronger than me to pass.”

Squatting before him, you looked up at him with shiny eyes as you readied yourself to carry your big boy.

He thought he would look unattractive from the lower angle however you digressed. His tummy became more apparent, one of your favorite parts of his body, alongside his ass.

It was no secret that the both of you were obsessed with each other’s bottoms. He wanted yours in a way that a hungry man would want to savor the food he’d finally get. You wanted to finger his as if his plump, round, and firm cheeks weren’t an invitation to be violated.

Maybe you should finger him.

Maybe you’d do it after lifting him off the ground.

“Holy—woah, Y/N, woah woah! Put me down!”

“Ah. Won’t put you down for a minute, I kind of like the heaviness.” You lifted him up by snaking a strong arm around his hip and supporting his heavy upper body with your other arm. “You weren’t this big before.”

You spanked his ass one more time, watching the jiggly form recoil, until you held it firmly in your hand.

“Now, I’m sorry Binnie, but I can’t resist you.”

While holding him up, you slammed both of your bodies against the wall, making sure not to break the mirror behind Changbin or hurt him in the process. After realizing that it had only gotten his cock pulsating in his shorts, you made the wise decision to pull it down.

The yelp that Changbin let out was to die for.

You hastily pulled his shirt all the way up to his mouth, forcing him to bite onto the fabric as his belly and chest exposed themselves to you with the prettiest subtle bounces. They had been freshly worked out, skin glistening and glowing from his sweat. Each form of his pecs and the round firmness of his tummy was detailed enough to make you admire it even more than when it would naturally be while relaxed.

Every side of him was attractive, whether or not he worked out, but the view of his exposed body made your core tingle with delight.

Tracing a finger up his stomach, you felt up his skin until the dip of his chest. His cleavage was extra prominent, especially in the way you squeezed his body between your own and the wall. You played with the space before your fingers settled on pinching his nipple.

Of course, you were aware of his sensitivity around his chest, and that made you intentionally tease him even more.

Changbin let out a muffled cry, drool pooling in the fabric of his shirt where his mouth clamped on it. You still held him up, but this time, you adjusted your hold by throwing his leg up and over your arm. He shuddered at the action and then at the realization of what was to come.

Before he could even think, your finger dug into his exposed asshole, and prodded it open.

Changbin bit down and cried, writhing in your arm and attempting to grab anything. He settled on holding onto your shoulders as he felt your finger enter him even deeper.

His cock seemed to move painfully on its own. It twitched rapidly as the heavy dick was left unattended but his ass clenched around you in the same way.

Figuring that your boyfriend already had enough stimulation going on in your little game, you decided to make it worse by sucking on the nipple you pinched earlier.

At this point, Changbin’s mind had gone completely hazy, all thoughts fogged out as he could only focus on the pleasure on opposite ends of his body. Your tongue swirled around his hardened nipple as your lips sucked around the skin of his tit. Your finger was joined by another digit, slowly going as to let him adjust to the sensations. His prostate was getting violated, used, and abused, but it only spurred the both of you on to keep going.

And then you went merciless on him.

Your fingers curled against his sweet spot before getting pulled away, only to push back as soon as Changbin attempted to whine; his subconscious obedience proved itself to manifest as he dropped the bratty act and kept his mouth clamped around his shirt. He made muffled noise after muffled noise, tearing up and drooling, wishing for his cock to be satisfied. He was close, dangerously so, and you could feel it in the way his balls started to grow heavy against your wrist.

Denying him relief, you moved on to suck on his other nipple, picking up the pace in which you fingered your boyfriend.

He threw his head back against the mirror with a loud thud but he could care less. Your other arm’s hold around his body kept him in place but also flexed enough to make him feel all of you.

Maybe it was subconscious possessiveness. Maybe it was the need to keep his melting body up. Maybe it was the lone sensation of being surrounded by muscles and also being penetrated by muscles that made Changbin—

“No, you’re not cumming yet baby.”

Your lips left his chest with a pop and your big boyfriend ducked his head in response. You pulled the shirt off his mouth and dragged it down while your other arm set him down on the ground.

Still shaky, Changbin grew confused and frustrated — not at you, but at the denial of relief once more.

“Time to show your strength Bin. Show me what you got—”

Changbin hastily pinned your body to the mirror wall as well, breathing heavily while holding your body by the hip.

Just as you held him practically with one arm only, he did the same, this time using the other to pull your own bottoms down to reveal your ass.

“Please, Y/N, p-please, ‘m so needy.” Changbin was out of breath, brain still jumbled from being fucked mercilessly in the ass. “Can’t take…anymore…please, please…”

He mustered up every single bit in him to form sentences. The poor thing’s bicep wrapped around your ass as if he could never let you go. “Wanna fuck coach, please, let me fuck you.”

It would’ve been a grave sin to detach from you at any moment. His hunger for your body had grown past his primal instinct and now he had been craving you like crazy.

“What’s gotten you so horny?” You had to ask, shocked at the drooling, sweating, blushed-up mess of a man that you still proudly call yours.

“Couldn’t…stop staring at you. Since earlier. S-Since last night. Since yesterday. Couldn’t get my mind off you.” The words that fell from his mouth graced your ears as slowly as possible yet tasted sweeter than ever.

Praises and worship left his mouth at a rapid rate as he felt up your body lazily with his free hand. “You’re just…so strong…Y/N, you drive me crazy.” Changbin kissed any inch of skin he could get. “I really love you, you know that?”

“Of course. I love you too and you are mine.”

Your response made Changbin shiver, evident in the breathy whine he let out. “I promise I’ll be your baby b-bunny forever. Your strong bunny.” Your boyfriend shook as his mouth left love bites on your neck. “I’m obsessed with you, I love you, I love you, I—”

You shushed your boyfriend’s mindless mumbling with a deep kiss, one that Changbin had been craving for hours. He relished in anything that was you, felt like you, tasted like you, and he couldn’t bear to bring out the bratty act once you finally planted your lips on his.

Sighing into your mouth, he shuddered, leaning into your touch and pouting again to receive more of your love. You smiled in response, teasing ever so slightly, before returning the favor with a dart of your tongue.

Changbin’s arms shot up to hold onto you for support, the strong man crumbling under you. What was better was that you held him up, your own arms circling his body again, the grip from every inch of your body around his putting him steadily in his place.

Then you squeezed.

“Fuck, coach, you—” Then you pinned him down on the bench. “Y/N!”

“Hush, boy, aren’t you so excited?” You chuckled as you repositioned yourself and him. “Wanna fuck your coach so bad?”

“Please! Please, I tried to be good!”

Adjusting your hold on him, you gently laid him down on the bench and abandoned your bottoms completely. “Aw. Not so much of a brat now, are you?” You shuffled your hips to hover over his thick, desperate cock.

“Deep down you’re just a pathetic little boy, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah,” Changbin whimpered mindlessly. “Couldn’t be a brat!”

All you could do was laugh while lining up the entrance of your ass with his tip. “So why’d you try?”

“Because…” He choked on the lump in his throat.“Y-You’re so hot when you’re strict, Y/N…”

You shoved your ass down onto his cock in one fell swoop, enveloping your boyfriend whole.

It was known ever since the beginning that he loved anal; your first bit of sex in the very same gym was telling enough, but he loved giving and receiving in both ways. He loved the dirtiness but also the fact that the both of you prepare and clean yourselves well for it “just in case” it comes up.

This scene was one of those emergency moments that you were glad you both prepared for. Otherwise, you would’ve had the worst time adjusting to Changbin’s sheer girth.

His size was something he had never truly believed to be astounding, but even with your strength, you couldn’t help but lose a bit of yourself to it. The girth was to die for: even if his cock didn’t reach deep, it was heavy, loaded, and big enough to stretch your ass wide. As you lifted your ass before slamming it back down, the feeling of your behind being opened and filled despite the tightness felt amazing.

Changbin felt like crying at your first strokes. He always loved it when you two fucked or made love, but shit, he basically edged himself the whole time in the gym. He had never done such a thing, most especially while putting up a brat act, but every single morsel of thought flew right out of his head as your ass picked up the pace and took him whole.

Somehow, you’d both become sopping wet as you both met in the middle once, twice, thrice, four times — you’d lost count, unable to keep the seconds and rounds of body slamming as you would’ve earlier.

You couldn’t help but moan from the pleasure, making Changbin hold you using all of his limbs with the last bits of strength in him. The both of you knew that he wouldn’t last.

A heat was pooling in your stomach as well, sliding all the way down to your crotch just in front of your ass. While his cock hit the sweet spot in your hole over and over, you could feel your own orgasm building quickly alongside your boyfriend’s.

Neither of you could care less about the mess you were about to make.

Quickly picking up the pace, you slammed your hips down over and over again and pressed your hands against his chest, rubbing his nipples and soothing the sore muscle. The stimulation grew far too much and too fast, but Changbin was so lost in the ecstasy that he couldn’t complain, and he grew so physically tired that he couldn’t hold you off.

Despite the hurt in his cock he still didn’t want to stop you.

“S-So fucking…close…holy shit, Y/N, gonna cum!”

“Cum inside me,” you demanded.

Fully shaking, Changbin dug his fingers into your thighs with all his remaining might and held you in place, shooting load after load from his poor, aching cock deep into your plush walls.

He was so warm, his release filling you with a certain nastiness that you loved so much. You could tell how much he saved all of it from the amount he shot into you. It even started spilling despite the fact that you stilled in place, unable to move from the force of his hands pulling you down. Maybe his training on the pulldowns earlier helped him with it.

But you were both far from done.

You kissed Changbin on his plush lips and sighed in faux contentment. “Binnie baby, you filled me well…” He could only mouth “thank you” in reply.

Then you pulled his sore body up after pushing yourself off his sore cock. “But I want more.”

His eyes widened in a mix of surprise and fear at the prospect of you using his spent cock more than he intended. This might’ve been the punishment he wanted, but it was nothing like what he’d expected.

Making matters worse, you sat behind him and suddenly wrapped your arm around his neck. The other hand found his cock and both arms squeezed, locking Changbin in your hold.

The boy moaned the loudest he had ever done in his entire life.

“Gonna fuck you like this,” you said as you pumped his cock at a rapid pace, “I’ll milk you dry.”

Your words left Changbin gasping, moaning, whimpering, and whining like a trapped dog. The tears in his eyes flooded down as he struggled to adjust in your arms, but god, you were far stronger than you displayed earlier. He barely had any strength left to push you off, to wiggle out, to even form a coherent enough sentence or word.

Was it bad that he liked it this way?

Changbin could only tremble. He moaned your name deliciously over and over as your hand pumped his fat cock from the tip all the way down to his balls at a breakneck pace. You softened the headlock slightly to make him breathe, but the flexing of your forearm drove your boyfriend past the point of self-control. He was overstimulated in every single way.

Again, it was the strength display. The fact that you were putting such a huge man like him in his place. You rendered him unable to function, tired him out until he became putty in your arms, and now you had him caged like a real rat. You flexed your forearm again and Changbin let out a severely choked out whimper.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He came non-stop with his head rolled back to your shoulder, curly bangs covering the fucked-out face he gave you from the sheer amount of pleasure.

Overstimulation sent him over the edge though, making him cum again and again. You could even feel the vein on his cock pop and pulsate under your palm. The lone fact that it only seemed to soften after a few more shots of cum on Changbin’s own belly and on your hand made you feel powerful.

“My tamed brat, my good boy.”

The praise made Changbin see stars. You saw the hearts in his eyes as he struggled to look back at you.

Wholly dumb and unable to move, your boyfriend simply lay in your arms and you both sat there for a moment. You pet Changbin’s fluffy hair with one arm and rubbed his belly with the other, playing with the cum on his tummy before you two shifted in your seats.

A year or so ago, you two had been in the same dilemma and position as you were. You and Changbin were both sweaty and exhausted, his head rested on your shoulder, unable to move. The both of you relished in the glow of being fucked nasty in the gym with your clothes barely hanging onto your bodies, soiled with sweat and cum — it sounded disgusting, but it was the reality that you two had to face with your puffy cheeks.

Lord knows how agonizing the cleanup would’ve been if you weren’t going to do it with your boyfriend at least.

Guilty at the mess he made, Changbin kissed your face everywhere and mumbled to “take care of it” as he attempted to stand up — only to groan in pain after the soreness hit all of his muscles at once. You laughed and supported his weight with your own. Unable to register how you’re still managing, you guided him up and took mops, towels, and bottles of isopropyl alcohol.

Everyone knew you two were lovebirds, but nobody could use this room after you tainted it with an atmosphere of pure sin.

It’s funny though, you thought; Changbin’s goofy self returned in full force, albeit in a tired body, but still entertained you enough to keep your spirits up while cleaning the room. He hummed, giggled at you, nudged his face into your arm, and even sniffed at you as a joke.

It was your silly signal to take a break in a shower together within the adjacent locker rooms that, somehow, were empty then.

Perfectly enough, you two took a single stall together and showered together just as you two were accustomed to doing. This time was a little more special, the deja vu of the first meeting settling in as you happily scrubbed your boyfriend’s once-sweaty scalp. He was too tired to do it to himself he returned the favor by cleaning you too. The rest of the shower was quiet save for a few “I love you’s” and light chuckles.

He gave your back a peck before drying it, relishing in your natural scent and the aroma of the post-shower lotion. You dressed him up in your extra clothes the same way that he dressed you up too, feeling at home even in a slightly public space.

Home was wherever Changbin was, in the same way, you were his home as well.

Back to the reality of the messy room, you handed him a mop and he grimaced.

“Hey, Y/N, slap my wrist next time I try to act bratty. That’s not really me.”

Your reaction must’ve been funny, as your face earned Changbin a hearty giggle.

“Then who might this just-as-handsome asshole-ish guy be?”

“I’m thinking Changbin would be a fitting name.”

“Ew.” You grimaced in the same way he did earlier. “And you should be jealous of him?”

“Nah. ‘Cause I know you love The Seo Changbin only.”

You snorted at him and threatened to swipe his leg with the mop. He laughed and snorted back. He liked the idea of poking fun at you with his own name so much that he pulled it thrice.

“Say, I owe you dinner tonight, right bun?” He huddled closer to you, the comfortable distance only growing warmer. It was touching to know that he remembered your silly claim from earlier, softening your heart. You got excited to listen as his ideas for hearty food were always right, a privilege you unlocked by having a lifestyle journalist wrapped around your finger.

“Mhmm. Gotta heal from that ass-kicking I gave you.” You bumped the side of your hip onto him, but he blushed as the slight memory of half an hour ago flashed before his eyes.

“Anyway! I know a cozy restaurant just downtown that serves banger seafood. It’s the side branch of that beachside bar I told you about.” Changbin went on to describe his recommendation.

Your eyes lit up at the idea. “Wow, your lifestyle writing really takes you places, huh?”

“Yeah, but actually,” Changbin raised his index finger, “I discovered it through my side gig’s talent, Chan—I mean CB.”

You paused and raised an eyebrow back. “…Interesting. Tell me about it.”

“How about I just show you?”

As if on cue, you both heard a punch, then a comically loud groan that sounded like Minho. Following it was an even louder apology from Chris. The other end of the gym must’ve been busier than you two, you thought.

The laughs that escaped both of your chests filled the air of the private room. It was one of many beats in your relationship that you shared with him often but it’s still an unconfined joy to have with him. You could live in the banter and tiny conversations forever, even the bratty behavior he displayed only cemented how much you loved the man even if he made your heart burn and filled your ass up.

Brats used to be off-limits until you brought him to his limit, and now it’s all you could ever think about.

Changbin expected punishment but only got rewarded with your love and warmth in the end. It’s a mission he successfully failed and a game you aimlessly won.

As you two walked out of the fitness center, wobbling in your steps back to the car, you fought over who’d be the driver. You won again, and Changbin fell asleep angelically in the backseat. At least then you’d wake him up with the hearty meal he recommended.

Even after all this time, your client — and boyfriend — never changed the love he had, has, and always will have for you. He might as well renew his gym subscription under your name even after the gym closes.

taglist: @toastyseungmo @hobihearteu @biddes-enthusiast @snow-pegasus @subby-kpop @myrandomthoughtsandhobbies @eggielix @turnipfizzle @hanniecheesecake @chrisbahng @laylasbunbunny @ppiri-bahng @he-they-heathen @chriscentric @svintsandghosts @starryoong @bbyquokka @abiaswreck @suengmi @fun-fanfics @fairylouist + @stupidshitsworld @compersian @skz-hell @certifiedwootiny @xcookiemonsteer @lino-jagiyaa @imrllytootiredforthis @straykidsholicleigh @wonhosmistress @fruitcakebin @jisvngc0re1 @silentreadersthings

very special mentions to @meivida for proofreading and editing my fic (and for indulging in my nonsense). please wish them good health this year!

header art is mine! have a great new year everybody :))

thank you for reading ! consider reblogging and leaving feedback if you loved my work 💗 artwork and writing © ipegchangbin. no reposts and translations.

#skz smut #sub!skz #sub!changbin #dom!reader #stray kids smut #changbin smut #💬 z is writimg

[perrysoup]

Jewish State Ideas BEFORE Palestine

CRITICAL PREAMBLE: It is important to keep in mind that the idea of building a Jewish State is Zionist. It does not reflect the views of Judaism as a whole, and any antisemetic actions will result in blocking and banning. It is critical now more than ever that we recognize that there is a different. Your issues in Palestine are with ZIONISM, not Judaism. Do NOT associate them as the same. Doing so is a common Zionist tactic to make comments or opinions against Israel be rebutted that it is antisemetic purely because it comments on actions by Israel and their Zionist government and military.

Again, Zionism and Judaism are NOT one in the same, and should not be treated that way.

Anywho, timeline time!

1820 - Ararat City - Grand Island Niagara River in Western New York. Considered a precursor to Zionism as known today.

1902 - Leaugue of Eastern European States - "would entail the establishment of a buffer state (Pufferstaat) within the Jewish Pale of Settlement of Russia, composed of the former Polish provinces annexed by Russia."

Date Unsure - Herzl Plan - "The Jews who wish for a State will have it. We shall live at last as free men on our own soil, and die peacefully in our own homes." His proposed location? Cyprus 1903 - British Uganda Program - Rejected after (shocker) there were lions in Africa. Also "it was populated by a large number of Maasai people, who did not seem at all amenable to an influx of people coming from Europe." fuckin wonder why. Note that some Zionists were concerned it would "make it more difficult to establish a Jewish state in Palestine in Ottoman Syria, particularly the Mutasarrifate of Jerusalem" 1928 - Jewish Autonomous Oblast in USSR - Proposed by Russia specifcally to prevent a State of Israel AND done because it viewed Judaism as a threat to the state. "In that sense, it was also a response to two supposed threats to the Soviet state: Judaism, which ran counter to official state policy of atheism; and Zionism, the creation of the modern State of Israel, which countered Soviet views of nationalism. Yiddish, rather than Hebrew, would be the national language, and a new socialist literature and arts would replace religion as the primary expression of culture." Also included the idea of a JSR in Crimea or "part of Ukraine, however these were rejected because of fears of antagonizing non-Jews in those regions."

1940 - British Guiana - "the British Government decided that "the problem is at present too problematical to admit of the adoption of a definite policy and must be left for the decision of some future Government in years to come""

The Madagascar Plan and the Italian East Africa plans were both efforts by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy to "solve Jewish problem" (YES THIS IS BAD). "Jews from Europe and Palestine would be resettled to the north-west Ethiopian districts of Gojjam and Begemder, along with the Beta Israel community."

1989 - Plans for the West Bank - Contemplation of a Second Jewish State - "Israeli settlers in the West Bank have mulled declaring independence as the State of Judea should Israel ever withdraw from the West Bank. In January 1989, several hundred activists met and announced their intention to create such a state in the event of Israeli withdrawal."

So yea, don't tell me about "homeland" when there were a shit ton of other ideas accepted within the Zionist ideal prior to SETTLING on Palestine. It's "homeland" cause that's where the British Empire could throw Israel. Not because they though it was the "right thing to do" or whatever thing Zionists claim now a days.

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #israel is a terrorist state #israel #genocide #fuck the israeli government #gaza strip #idf is a terrorist group

[astudyincontrasts]

Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie

Viktor x Fem!OC Reader - Western AU (NSFW)

Just a little gift fic for the kind and lovely @designfailure56 and their sweet, inspiring hee-haw Viktor art, and all their beautiful Arcane art.  Thank you for blessing this fandom by being a part of it and sharing your wonderful talents and huge heart with us all.

Synopsis:  Western AU set on a ranch in the 1800′s, just a romantic, slightly angsty, sometimes steamy little drabble I probably should have cut into three or four chapters.  A young widow struggles to run a ranch in the midwest with the help of one skrunkly, adorable man we all love.  No Y/N.

TW: mentions of death, mentions of sibling death and spouse death, angst, longing, possible allusions to non or dub con, minor bride typical for time period, domestic violence, off screen animal death, sex, oral sex, slight somnophilia.

“Viktor?!”

The heat of the day was sweltering, shimmers of it rising off the baked earth that wasn’t covered in the verge and scrubgrass of the rolling, open land.  Summers out here were nothing like those back in the country you knew in your youth.  No temperate, easy climate here.  Winters were harsh and cold, dumping piles of snow across the land from the storms that came off the mountains, and summers were breathlessly hot.

It wasn’t the verdant green of your island motherland, but the prairies had a beauty of their own.  It was just difficult to see it sometimes, when the sweat rolled stinging into your eyes and even your lightest cotton shift clung to your damp skin; prickly and cloying and trapping the heat in as it rose up under your feet from the baked earth.

But this was home, and it was your own.

Your parents, tired of no prospects and facing down starvation under the thumb of imperial rule, had packed you and all your siblings up and set sail for America, for hope and something new, only to be met with as much if not more derisive bigotry than they’d left behind.  But at least here there were jobs, there was work, and money to be made for those willing to work themselves to the bone.  Your father had joined the railroad teams, and your mother followed with all the kids in tow, moving town to town and work camp to work camp to help stitch this new land together with sutures of iron track and wood ties.

You were the eldest now, after your brother died of an illness borne in the contaminated drinking water in the crossing.  And being a girl, it meant your hands were supposed to help raise and care for the other little ones, until you were old enough to be unloaded.

You supposed your parents had meant well by it; thought they had worked out the perfect way to offer you security and prosperity, things they never had.  Still, you’d barely been 17 when they agreed to betroth you to the old man.  

He owned a vast, sprawling tract of the prairie your father’s team was currently building the railway through, a parcel he’d snatched up back in his own youth during the land grabs.  He used to love to tell that story over and over again, how they’d line up back in town and then when the gunshot rang out would ride or run like devils to snatch the stake or stakes driven into parcels of land.  Him and his brothers had got the biggest stake claims all adjoining and now that he was the only one left alive and they’d had no kin, he had one of the largest tracts of land outside of the nearest town.

The town where he’d spotted you while you lived there with your family as the railroad work was done.  Where he decided a pretty young thing with freckles across her nose was just the remedy for an old man’s lonesomeness in his big home.

He dowered you well, and you did your duty as you always had.  Went and married him at the little steeple church in a borrowed, scratchy lace gown.  Your family made richer for the loss of you.  

They still wrote, from time to time, or at least your mother did.  She was the only one of your parents with enough education to make letters and at least she’d taught you to read and write as well.  But the mail out here came rarely, and you had no way of knowing if the letters you sent back ever reached them or if they had moved on to a new town or camp, well aware the very last you’d ever see them was when the railroad team packed up to move out to the next stop.

The old man hadn’t been unkind.  He was gruff and quiet and set in his ways, but he never beat you or hurt you and he gave you a good home.  He died only three years after you were married, unexpectedly.  Took fever from a slight injury and went fast.  Terrifyingly fast.  It felt unkind to say you were grateful not to have to share his bed anymore, even if it was true… but it also thrust you into the unexpected position of land-rich widow, sole heir of the ranch and home and all the land.  

Your late husband had been a frugal man, and left you a tidy sum.  You could have sold the property and moved on, found a life of your own elsewhere, but you liked it here.  It was wild and free and beautiful.  And in the sweltering summer sun with not a single forgiving cloud in the sky, it was hot.

Many of the ranch hands had their doubts about the young immigrant widow inheriting the old man’s business.  And you still had your accent from your home country, that pretty little lilt that gave you away every time, and inspired no end of sneering or snide comments.  You were used to the precious little respect paid a woman, but you couldn’t understand why other native English speakers should hate people from your island so much, should make such terrible jokes and be so belittling.  And weren’t you all immigrants here?

Most of the help had left the week after the old man was buried, believing you would sell the ranch or else run it into the ground.  A few stuck around.  Viktor had been one of them.  He was young, just a little older than you, and had also been born elsewhere, a country with a language you didn’t know that gave him the most lovely soft accent.  And when he got frustrated and cursed in his native tongue it never failed to make you laugh, though you tried to hide it.

He stayed, and you were grateful.  He was gentle, quiet, good with the animals and so terribly smart.  A keen intelligence that took the place of the physical prowess most ranch hands had to offer, because there was certain hard labor he could not do with the squeaking metallic brace that ran up the lean length of his bad leg.  

It stunted his gait, and when he took it off or got tired he needed the support of a cane, but he could ride just fine, and never shirked in his work.  Found smarter, better ways to do things.  

You liked him very much.

He’d helped you, when you decided the cattle were too much trouble and too much of a risk for you to keep.  Helped you sell them all off at a tidy profit and then purchase sheep instead.  Easier to graze on the land, less work.  Far nicer to keep to sell their wool and the lambs each spring, and less of a target for the cattle poachers.

Viktor was a natural with the animals.  Gentle and quiet, they seemed naturally drawn to him.  You’d gifted him your late husband’s appaloosa gelding when you saw how the horse practically followed him around like a puppy.  How it nudged at his back or tried to steal his hat if he did not pay it enough attention with absent gentle petting.  He tried to refuse but you wouldn’t take no for an answer.  He’d stayed when others left, he was kind when others felt callous, and he listened.  The ranch flourished under you both.  And you had freedom.

He made you feel like… you.  Like your own you.  Not someone’s daughter or someone’s sister or someone’s wife or someone’s widow.  Just you, yourself.

He called you Miss where the others called you Ma’am.  And never referred to you as the Widow Walker, which you heard in town more often than you’d like to and made you feel like an old hag at 22.

He’d smile and it lit the world up a little more.  He’d watch you as you spoke with him, with those soft amber eyes under the heavy dark of his brows and you felt seen.  A little too seen, sometimes, could feel a soft blush creep up under the freckles across your cheeks if his attention stayed on you too long, and hoped your perpetual slight sunburn was enough to hide the way he turned your skin pink.

It wasn’t difficult to admit to yourself that you wanted him, just difficult to admit to wanting anything at all for yourself.  And you’d turned down multiple marriage proposals from men in town or the surrounding ranches, men looking at you as a ways to a means, a conduit to getting their hands on your land and money.  Denied your hand to good prospects in your quiet longing to never be someone’s something again.  

How could you then turn around and want instead to touch and be touched by a young man with no money, prospects, land or even a horse to his name until you’d gifted him one?  It felt impractical, foolish and silly.  Felt irresponsible and just a little selfish in a way that ignited all the quiet guilt both the church and your parents had always told you you ought to feel at wanting anything for yourself.

But god, you did.  You did want him for yourself.  A little more with each passing month since your husband died, and now two years in, it felt like a little more with every passing day.

There was not a ton of work to be done, outside of the usual everyday business of running the house and farm which was sufficient enough to fill a day, in the dead heat of late summer.  And most heavy jobs were confined to the early morning or early evening hours when it was still cooler out or the worst of the sun had faded.  Many of the ranch hands were seasonal, only showing up when it was time to cull or shear, or harvest or any number of the big jobs.  Only a few lived out on the ranch itself at the distant outbuilding where they could oversee the flocks and rotate pasture easily.  

Viktor, as your right hand, stayed closer.  You’d given him the foreman’s rooms, just off the big house.  An adjoining modest cluster of private rooms befitting the position of the person who helped run everything.  He’d tried to turn that down too, but you’d been at such a loose end after the original foreman quit not one day after your husband had been lowered into the ground.  And Viktor had stepped right in without needing to be asked or told, picked up the slack and kept you afloat when the rest of the world felt like rocks in your pockets, trying to sink you.

He refused to come into the big house and infringe on your domestic kingdom, though the large place was so quiet and felt so empty most of the time, you wished he would.  Only the kitchen, for breakfast or dinner when offered, and it was always offered.  Wouldn’t join you at the dining room table, too formal and fine a thing you supposed, for him.  But would happily sit at the little rough hewn kitchen table and have his coffee and eggs with you.   He’d come in at the end of the day and pull a colander full of green beans into his lap and start shucking the peas out of them without you having to ask, chatting away about the day and the plans for tomorrow.

And after dinner he’d go back to his rooms and you’d be left in the big house all to yourself.  To sit before the fireplace or sink into a hot bath if you had the energy to boil and haul that much water, or to lay alone in the big bed and listen to the crickets outside, praying for a cool breeze to lift the heat and stop you sweating through your nightgown.

Left to think about him.

About elegantly long fingered hands with rough calluses and how gentle they seemed.  About dark lashes over amber golden eyes and the shape of his mouth when he smiled.  How all his smiles seemed either shy or sly and nothing in between.  About the soft mess of his hair, the lean strength of bare forearms, the look of fierce concentration that he could get that made all the lovely angles of his face and jaw look like a work of art.

About what his skin might smell like when clean or taste like when sweated.

About how he’d feel between your legs or under your hands.

About him being tender.  Or him being rough.

Thought about him enough that some days it was impossible to look him in the face without blushing hotly, so sure he could read your mind and knew all the horrible things that went on up there.  Could hear you moan his name softly in your sleep at night when all the world was quiet save for the crickets and hoot owls and the distant howl of wolves out in the far foothills.

But if he could, he never let on.  Treated you with the same respectable distance and friendly coolness he had when the old man had been alive.  It made you certain he did not share your longing in the least, and in a way you were quietly grateful for it.  Made keeping your shameful crush all the easier, and keeping those safe boundaries in place simple.

“Viktor?!”

He’d been out in the heat of the day, expanding the chicken coop.  You’d been busy baking the week’s bread, and though the wood oven you were using was outside in the summer kitchen, it had no shade; designed and built by some man who would never have to make use of it himself, of course.  And you were feeling half baked to a toasted golden brown yourself by the time the second round of loaves were in the oven.  

You’d pulled some fresh, cold water from the pump and juiced four of the precious lemons from the crate you’d splurged on at market last week.  Grated sugar into it from the hard pressed little paper wrapped cone you kept, and mixed it all until it was a deliciously cold, tart-sweet lemonade sweating in the pretty crockery pitcher.  

You’d grabbed two glasses and made your way out toward the barn, calling his name.

Sat by the coop, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose and running rivulets down the dust on his cheeks, he looked up from where he was securing the wire fencing to fine posts to make a larger, longer run for the chicken flock.  

His smile sweeter than the sugar you’d licked from your fingers a minute ago.

“I thought you’d like a drink and a rest?”  You held the glasses aloft in offering.

“Oh, yes.  Thank you Miss.”  He rose, stiffly, always cognizant of that bad leg, and nodded toward the open breezeway doors of the hayloft and the shade within.  You followed in his stilted footsteps.

It was slightly cooler within, and the heat made the sweet scent of the hay all the stronger.  He eagerly accepted the glass you gave him and held it while you poured.  Nearly gulped down the first one, exhaling a soft gasp of breath as he drained the glass that had you laugh a little as you poured him a second and sipped at your own.

“That is wonderful, thank you.  This is why you wanted that bitter fruit?”  He asked, savoring the second glass instead of chugging it down.  Lemons were not a terribly common thing found out here, but you recalled little sweet cakes iced with them and served with tea from your youth and had bought the whole crate of them, much to Viktor’s dubious surprise.  “This is not bitter at all.  This is delicious.”

Skeptical of your purchase, he’d grabbed one of the lemons on the cart ride home and before you could stop him had sliced it like an orange and taken a bite.  His puckered reaction and wide eyed stare at you had been priceless, nearly had you pitch off the cart bench in a fit of teary-eyed laughter that had him bashfully sullen the rest of the ride home, pride and tastebuds wounded.  Grumbling occasionally under his breath in his native language in a way that you were sure was questioning your sanity. It only served to make you fight not to giggle more.

You grinned at him over the rim of your glass, feeling quite superior to have finally proved your point that you weren’t mad for spending so much on such silly bitter fruit, and plucked at the neckline of your dress.  Thin cotton clung to skin sticky with sweat.  You watched his gaze fall to it and then skim away quickly, glancing toward one of the hefty hay bales.

“Would you like to sit?  You look overheated.”  Kind words from someone far more sunstroked than yourself.  You nodded, but the prospect of the blades of hay poking itchy through the thin cotton of your dress was not a pleasant one.

“Help me with my apron?”

You turned, and setting the pitcher down on another hay bale, scooped your hair up off your neck and piled it high, holding it atop your head as you stood facing away.

His fingers found the bow fixing it at your lower back first.  Tugged slow until it gave, and then the one up at the nape of your neck.  Fingertips a light graze as he pulled it open.  You pinned the apron to your front with the hand still holding your glass and would have dropped your hair and turned back around, until you felt the soft skim of his fingertips gently tugging sweated fabric of the collar of your dress away from hot skin, and you froze.  Heart climbing up into your throat to lodge like a comfortable beating stone as he inhaled, and softly, softly blew a cool little breeze across the back of your neck, sending every fine hair of your entire body lifting in a tickling, electric thrill.

Your own breath escaped past that pounding heart in your throat as a near silent little shuddering sigh.

He had to have heard it, but he did it again.  Soft little blown breeze gently tickling behind one ear, along the path of your pulse, against the fine baby hairline and down the nape of your neck.  You couldn’t keep eyes open, gaze shuttering as every ounce of focus bent upon the soft breath he blew against sweat-slick skin.  You heard him shift slightly behind you and could only think of dropping the apron, of his hand coming round to pull open the string stays of your dress at the low front neckline, to peel damp cotton from skin and bare the shape of breasts, to graze fingers light as his breath over the aching stiffness he’d made of nipples with those little breezes.

Would he pinch?  Tug?  Tease little touches until you were begging for his mouth instead?  You were shivering, terrified it was visible.

Instead he must have switched hands that held the glass of lemonade, and used the ones cooled by the drink to gently trace down the skin of your neck in slow strokes, dragging the cool touch out so that skin sang for him.

You spun to face him, dropping hair, unable to take the tease a second longer, certain he’d kiss you, fit to die with the need to kiss him.  Only to find him smiling amicably at you, like he was the sole man on earth devoid of desire or want, and all he’d done was offer you a kind respite from the heat as you had done for him.  Meanwhile all your hungry attention was fixed on the shape of his mouth, your own parted embarrassingly obviously, your breath coming in shallow little fits.

He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at your nose, then up over your forehead and one cheek.  You watching in slow dawning horror at the white smudges of flour that came away on the dark blue cloth.

You’d wandered out to him straight from baking, covered in flour, looking like a silly mess.  Like some kind of white-painted circus clown.  Embarrassment turned your stomach over in a hard knot.

“Keep the pitcher.  I’ll make more.”  It all came out as one continuous word as you struggled to pull your loose apron into your free hand and beat a hasty retreat that was as close to running as the attempted nonchalance of absolutely full speed hurried walking away could manage, leaving him there with that handkerchief still hovering midair.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

Back in the house, in the kitchen, you pitched up against the doorframe and clunked your head hard against the wood of it, repeatedly.  So stupid.  He probably thought you were a simple minded little fool, and who could blame him?  Shivering like that, making those sighs, staring at his mouth like you wanted to be devoured and all the while painted white in erratic smudges of flour.

God, but his touch lingered on your skin though.  Neck still a soft riot of cool fire where he’d grazed it.  

What if he had kissed you?  What if he’d let you push him back onto one of those hay bales and pull your skirts up to your hips, let you climb onto his lap.  His hands gripping your waist as you rode him slowly, watching his sharp chin lift and back arch as you showed him just how well you could ride astride and not foolish side-saddle.  The soft gold of eyes fixed on you as you came undone atop him, as you bounced on the delicious feel of him inside you.

Your hand had strayed down, pressed over your sex between your thighs as you shuddered, tried to compose yourself and failed, just leaning there, living in that daydream a long moment, unwilling to face the embarrassment that waited just outside the door to remind you what a silly idiot you’d been - were being.

You’d nearly dropped the glass you were holding before you finally came around again.  And set to wearing yourself out with chores to keep from thinking of any of it again.  You’d never had thoughts like this before, about anyone, and the intensity of them was a little frightening.

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He brought the pitcher back with him in the evening when he returned to share dinner, and thankfully did not speak of what had happened, or rather didn’t happen in the barn.  Didn’t tease you or make light of it.  Just complimented your dinner and shared the meal in relative silence.  

Afterward, after the dishes were done and he’d scrubbed himself up in the sink as well, washing dust and dirt from face, neck, forearms and hands, you thought he’d retire to his rooms.  Instead he headed off to them only to return with one of the books he’d borrowed from your late husband’s meager library.   Viktor loved to read and he’d regularly borrowed a single book at a time from the old man while he was alive, a tradition you took pleasure in keeping up with him.

“May I choose another?”  He offered his finished one back and you accepted it with a nod, turning to let him follow you into the big house and to the great room.  You fitted the book back in its empty slot in the shelf and watched him browse.  He had to have read nearly all of them by now, it was not a large collection and he was voracious in his reading.  It pleased you to no end to watch him struggle to settle on a new title before you crossed to the little writing desk nearby and turned the brass key to lift its lid.  Took a small paper-wrapped parcel from it and held it out, clearing your throat softly.

Golden gaze ticked from the bookshelf to you and dark brows lifted in surprise, his hand still gripping his chin thoughtfully now frozen there as he stared at the little parcel you held out.

“Something new?”  You offered, the smile spreading on your face almost sly in its pleasure.

Lemons weren’t the only different thing you’d bought at market last week.

Viktor’s attention ticked from the package to your face and back again before he managed to unstick himself from the spot and walk over to accept the gift.  He arched a dark brow at you questioningly as he pulled open the twine and unwrapped the paper.  The book that lay within was gorgeous, leather a deep oxblood red and etched in gold gilt at its spine and front cover, the title gorgeously stylized.

Viktor sucked a breath of delight and turned the book over and over again in his hands.

“Frankenstein?”

“It's a novel about science and galvanization - or something like that.  Whatever that means.  The bookseller highly recommended it.  I thought you might like something new.  Perhaps to start your own library?”  You offered shyly, taking the plain brown paper wrapping and twine from him so that he might enjoy the book unfettered.

As hungrily as he looked down at the book, the expression he turned up to you was more agonized than pleased.

“You should not have done this.  You’re too generous as it is.  This is…  this is a luxury.  I don’t -”

You stopped him there, your pleasure at being able to gift him something he liked so well being soured by his embarrassed attempt at refusal.  Stepping forward and fighting against hesitation, you placed a hand gently on his bare wrist.  Skin warm under your fingers, contact shooting a breathlessly wonderful static tingle straight up your arm.  

“I’ll thank you however I please.  You do much around here, and you’ve always helped me.  If I want to make you a gift of something as simple as a book, that’s my right.”

He gazed down at you in quiet awe and nodded slowly.

“Do you like it?”

“Do I… Yes, very much.”  He seemed to remember his manners the next moment, “Thank you.”

You smiled up at him and with no small effort managed to lift your touch off his wrist.

“You’re welcome, then.”  You watched him go back to examining the fine cover of the book and thumb gently through its new, stiff pages.  “Would you… that is, do you think you might read it to me a bit?  Out on the porch?”

The night was nice enough, the temperature dropping from the heat of the day.  And while you could read and write it was not as well as Viktor could.  You’d tried some of the books he’d borrowed and returned only to stumble over more than half the words and struggle so hard it made you tired.

“Of course.”  Again that lift of heavy brows in slight surprise at your request, but he acquiesced readily enough it left no room for you to feel guilty that you’d somehow imposed on his free time.  “If you like.”

“I’ll meet you out there.”  Another sweet offering of a little smile for him, one he seemed to puzzle over as he left the room.

Up the stairs you went to clean the dirt of the day off yourself at the wrought iron stand in your bedroom that held pitcher and ewer.  Careful to check your reflection in the little glass mounted above it.  No flour or smudges or unnoticed marks to make you look a fool.  You shed the damp dress and left it to hang and air out by one of the open windows, changed out of underthings and pulled on the soft, thin white muslin of a nightdress that bared your arms.  You brushed out your hair and braided it to one side for sleeping, grabbed the thin comfort of a finely crocheted shawl your mother had gifted you for your wedding and shrugged it on for modesty as you padded back downstairs in bare feet.

Outside, Viktor had settled into one of the rocking chairs on the large porch that wrapped three quarters of the house.  He’d lit a little hurricane lamp to read by and sat thumbing through his new novel, waiting on you patiently.

You felt a little pang to see he’d chosen one of the rockers instead of the bench you might have shared together, and fought against the impulse to imagine climbing right into his lap instead of taking your own seat, and settling against his chest in a warm cuddle.  The way your younger siblings used to clamber into your lap when you’d read them bedtime stories from the tatty old book of fairytales your mother had taught all of you to read from.

Viktor glanced up as you approached, and you could watch the sudden, unguarded look of shock pass over his features to see you in your nightthings.  It gave you a momentary pause, to think perhaps you should have been more modest, waited to get ready for bed until after he was done reading, but the day’s heat still lingered a bit and it felt far more comfortable in a clean shift the air could move through.  You simply gathered the thin crochet lace of the shawl a bit more around yourself and sank into the nearest rocking chair with a smile you hoped was more charming than apologetically embarrassed.

Viktor’s mouth parted as he watched you settle, like he was struggling with the impulse of observation or conversation, before he finally gave it up as lost and instead just opened the book and began without preamble.

“Frankenstein  or, the Modern Prometheus.

A Letter to Mrs. Saville, England;

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight… ”

It was lovely, listening to him read.  His voice gentle, warmly accented in a way that made the words feel fresh and soft.  He never stumbled over the words like you might have done, or struggled with the larger ones.  His pace picked up as he reached exciting portions, losing himself and his usual quiet reserve in the thrill of the story, letting that mask slip to reveal a bit of passion underneath.

The bookseller had been right, it was a good book, and you were glad you’d bought it, the tale nearly as enrapturing as the young man reading it to you.  Still, the day had been a long one and the heat took much out of you both.  It was all too soon you were yawning, struggling to keep eyes open but unwilling to ask Viktor to stop so that you might go to bed.  Too greedy for his company and to keep listening to his voice.  Small mercy he seemed to be able to tear himself away from the story enough to notice you fading out and closed the book gently.

“You should sleep.”  As if he himself didn’t look utterly exhausted as well, dark shadows under luminous eyes and lids heavy even as he obviously craved more of the book held tenderly in his hands.  You nodded, stifling yet another jaw-cracking yawn and rose, him following, pausing to blow out the lantern and follow you through the door.

He caught you inside, after he’d shut the door and turned the lock, your foot on the first of the stairs.  The warm grasp of his hand on your bare upper arm where the shawl had slipped stopped you in your tracks, had you glance up questioningly even as you wanted to sink all focus into the feel of his skin on yours, the sweeping lift of goosebumps that ran straight down from elbow to wrist.

He was staring at the floor, at your bare feet and his own boots.  Like he couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eyes for the very first time since you’d known him.  His thumb pressed to the soft of your bicep, and slowly swept a little back and forth arc, and suddenly you understood very well why all the animals seemed to cave and gentle under his hands.

“Thank you again, Miss.”  

Before you could speak or move or even finish forming a rational thought he leaned forward, brushed a peck of a kiss to the soft apple of your cheek.  And your brain became nothing but the static soft sound of rain, entirely blank, an empty void where all that existed was the warm little press of his mouth, the radiant heat of his nearness as he lingered close enough for his nose to brush your cheekbone.

“Good night.”  

And then he was gone.  Touch was gone, mouth gone, the back of him retreating toward the kitchen and his adjoining rooms.  Leaving you stood there blinking, swaying slightly as you clung to the banister with the white knuckle grip of one hand. Struggling to recall how air worked and lungs used it and what a heartbeat was for, if not to deafen you as it hammered away inside the empty hollow where your brain once lived.

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Things settled for the next few days, though that following morning he had just taken his coffee and headed out to chores without sitting down to breakfast across from you or while you puttered about the kitchen.  You supposed it made you feel grateful, not to be subject to an awkward silence or the unspoken tension of what had happened the night before.  As exhausted as you’d been, he’d robbed you of a good night's sleep with that kiss and this morning you were struggling through the fog of starting the day more bone-tired than you’d ended the previous one.  Not a great space for keeping your head on straight and staying coolly collected.

You stuck to the work you could do in and around the house, gave you both some space.  Decided it was a fair day to tackle the laundry and spent hours filling the massive tubs outside, heating water, scrubbing and wringing and rinsing and wringing until your forearms ached and your wrists burned and fingers trembled weakly as you pinned everything to the lines stretched between the sapling trees in the sun of the side yard.

Glad that he’d been busy down at the barn with the coop and caring for the hogs so that you could sneak shoving your face into one of his worn shirts before you washed it, inhaling the scent of him, spice sweat and sharp musk, fresh air and sunshine and him .

So tired after you were done with the washing that you went inside and sprawled out on the couch in the great room, windows flung open, begging for a cool breeze, the scent of the cold, unused fireplace filling the space with the ghost of woodsmoke from autumn and winter fires gone by.  A little nap in the quiet space couldn’t hurt.  So tired your eyes were closed before your head even hit the stiff, overstuffed and tufted cushion.

Your husband slapped you awake.  You jolted upright, startled.  He’d never raised a hand to you before.  The old man stood glowering over you, fists clenched like he was ready to beat you senseless.  Shouting.  Something about betrayal, about being a filthy hussy, an embarrassment, a whore.  The room behind him was crowded, you noticed, to your horror.  Your parents, the preacher, your siblings, the ranch hands, half the town it seemed.  All watching in disgust at you.  The old man had you by the shoulders, was shaking you until your teeth rattled, heaping abuse upon you as the others shouted agreement.

You woke with a start, bolt upright, a scream choked in your throat and tears wet on your cheeks.  The room empty.  No one, nothing, not even the wisp of a phantom dissipating into the stagnant afternoon heat.  The door to the kitchen banged open and closed.

“Miss?  I brought the eggs up.”  

Viktor.  Oh no.  Scrambling up off the couch you panicked.  Not enough time to make it to the stairs and up them, nowhere in the open great room to hide.  Eyes landed on the little door to the understair cupboard and you flew to it, wrenched it open and ducked inside, shutting it behind you and clinging with all your weight to the little knob within.

“Miss?”  Viktor’s voice in the room just outside a second later.

You balled up your apron and shoved it into your mouth, willing the choking sobs left from the dream to subside, struggling mightily to regain calm or at least not cry audibly.  One ragged breath, two, before you trusted your voice.  

“...Yes?”  It still cracked slightly, and you winced.

“What are you -”  Puzzled, just outside the little door, you felt him give the knob a tug only to find it immovable with all your weight thrown behind it.  A long moment’s pause and you could practically hear him trying to figure out just how to ask what the living hells you were doing in a cramped dark cupboard with the door shut.  Trying to figure out if you’d gone mad and how, if you had, he ought to proceed.

“I brought the eggs up.  And a pail of milk.  I’ll… I’ll leave them in the kitchen?”

“Yes ok.  Thank you.”  You managed to get out, and strained to hear the footfalls of his boots as he at last turned hesitantly away and made his way back to the kitchen.  Unwilling, unable to relax until the kitchen door banged again on his way out.

Releasing the doorknob, you collapsed on the cramped floor of the cupboard, pushed your whole face into your apron and screamed soundlessly.

You could not stop your hands shaking the rest of the day.  And it was your turn to not be able to look him in the face when he joined you for dinner in the evening, picking at your plate only to finish early and head up to bed with a mumbled good night before he’d even finished his meal.  Convinced your face was still splotchy and eyes still puffy from the tears earlier.  The dream confused you, sickened you and set you on edge.

How could something that felt so good bring on so much guilt?

But that’s how you were brought up, wasn’t it?  Don’t want, don’t need, don’t ask for anything.  How dare you have desires, you who were made to be daughter, wife, mother, worker, caregiver.  

The following two days were better, more normal, full of so much work that there could be no distractions, no lingering or fantasizing or dreaming.  From sunup to sundown nothing but the daily toil, falling bonelessly into bed each night exhausted into a blissfully dreamless slumber.

But the heat had increased each day until by the third it was positively baking.  

Too hot to move, to think.  Even the animals refused to come out of the shade.  All you could do was offer cool water, give them their feed and then hike it back to the house to sit on the porch and fan yourself as sweat rolled down and stung your eyes.  Viktor sat sprawled uncomfortably in one of the rocking chairs, fanning himself with the broad brim of his hat, unable to even open his new beloved book for fear sweat-damp fingers would smudge and ruin delicate ink and pages.

“Enough of this.”

You turned to blink at him.  It was possibly the most declaratory statement you’d ever heard out of him.  Heat had a way of raising tempers, not that he sounded mad, just agitated and exhausted with sweltering away into dust.

“There is a watering hole by the stream.  I am going swimming, do you wish to come?”  He rose, slipped his hat on and stepped off the porch, waiting for an answer before he headed to the barn to get the appaloosa saddled.

Swimming, god yes.  The stream that cut through your lands, which by rights was more like a small river in places, came down from the snowpack high in the mountains.  Always cold, always fresh and clear.  You nodded absolutely elated agreement and jumped up, hurried into the house as he made his way for the barn.

Grabbing a basket, you packed sandwiches, fruit, two cold bottles of beer left in the root cellar from the fall brewing, and then ran upstairs to pull on the best approximation to a swimming costume you owned; a pair of muslin bloomers that came to just above your knees and a thin muslin underbodice, a sleeveless shirt made to go under the frippery of a corset, an item of clothing you’d stopped wearing except on trips to town when you had to look a proper lady.  It laced with fine thin ribbon in the front, gathered at the bosom and fitted neatly from ribs to waist, matched perfectly to the white thin fabric of the bloomers, both cool and soft against skin as you pulled your dress back on, shoved two towels and a blanket for sitting on into the top of the basket and headed out the door.

Viktor waited by the porch on the appaloosa, the horse blinking unhappily in the searing midday sun, its tail flicking flies from its flanks restlessly.  He hadn’t saddled it, just tossed on a bridle and lead and sat waiting bareback.  He rode up to the stairs, offered you a hand and helped pull you on behind himself.  Silly side-saddle of course.  You balanced as best you could, kept the basket clutched tight in your lap and one arm snaked round his chest.  

He kept the pace sedate, probably as much for the horse’s sake as for you own, and the appaloosa, surely part quarter horse mingled with the wild ponies of the plains, had a sufficiently broad backside and rump that the ride, whilst swaying, was comfortable enough.

Out into the open fields, past some of the older grazing herd of sheep kept close to the property and not further out in the grasslands with the ranch hands, he picked a meandering path toward the river and its watering hole, a half hour’s ride at this slow saunter.  Were it not for the hot sun beating down, blinding you, turning the very surface of skin to sizzling pink, you might have enjoyed the distracting nearness of him, of your side pressed to his back and arm round him, your hand splayed on his chest.  Instead the heat made every point of contact a sweaty, sticky nightmare.  Increased heat to unbearable levels so that by the time you drew up to the watering hole and its shady bower of leafy trees you felt like you could drink the entire stream and still not regain all the water you’d lost on the ride over.

Viktor swung his good leg over before himself and slid down off the horse to reach up and take the basket from you, then offered you a hand as you slid off yourself.  You took the basket back and Viktor had just about enough time to relieve the appaloosa of its bridle, leaving just the halter and lead rope looped round its neck, before the horse had left you both to go drink deeply from the water.  Once sated, it waded to the other side of the stream and lowered itself unceremoniously onto its side to roll in the lush, tall grass that grew in the shade.

You found a rock by one of the trees and left the basket in the shade there to sit down and fuss with the button hook closures of your boots, prizing them open carefully before kicking feet free joyfully.  Viktor had settled a little distance away and was undoing his brace.  You both struggled not to watch the other undress, no cover or shrubs to duck behind in order to preserve modesty.  Thankfully all you had to do was lift your dress off and be done with it, left in your pretty, frilly white underthings and bare feet, you bent to gather your hair and pin it up in a messy little twist, then picked your way toward the little waterfall that tumbled down into the basin of the watering hole and took a seat on the slippery rocks to dangle your feet into the cool waters.

The hole was large enough to almost qualify as a small pond, shallow at its edges and deep in the center and near the waterfall.  The banks were soft, sandy loam scattered with pebbles rounded by their trip down the stream, marks of animal prints here and there told of the sheep and deer and cattle and coyotes come to slake their thirst.

Viktor pulled off boots, and you struggled not to be too terribly noticeable about how you watched him undo his shirt buttons, about how you memorized the hunch of broad shoulders as he focused on the lower ones and worked upward, straightened and shrugged out of it and then pulled loose his belt.  Eyes darted down hard into the pools of water below you as he remembered his audience and glanced up before turning his back to open his pants and shuffle out of them.  Left you struggling not to laugh at the hop he did on one leg as he got caught on removing the other.

He heard you though, and shot a heatless glare over one shoulder that had you jerk eyes up to the sky in feigned innocence.  Clearly too preoccupied with watching the cloudless sky to have possibly been laughing at his undressing antics.

Free at last of his pants and left only in his drawers he hobbled carefully to the waters’ edge and gradually minced his way into the chill pool.  Hands up by his shoulders, arms bent outward like folded wings, teeth bared as he bit by agonizing bit inched into the cool depths in the most hilariously fastidious manner you’d ever witnessed.  It had you rolling, snickering unabashedly at his suffering as he tried to acclimate to the cold water.  And at last when you couldn’t take it any more you scooped one dangling foot into the pool and kicked an enormous, soaking splash at him that left him frozen in place, drenched and dripping and glaring balefully off into the distance before he rounded on you with mock-irritation.

“Aya!”  He shook dripping hands like a cat who’d gotten its paws wet, only earning him another heavy splash from you that left him more drenched.  He glowered, and without another word dove deep into the pond, leaving nothing but a ripple behind in the dark waters.

You waited, watched.  Time stretched, cicadas buzzing, the birds singing overhead and the appaloosa noisily munching lush grass while it lay lazily on the bank.

The hand from the depths closed on your ankle with a yank and you toppled into the pool of water with a delighted shriek.

Laughing hard as you surfaced, you splashed furiously at the water-blurred shape of him, only to feel him grab hold of your wrist and drag you under, a dunking in retaliation.   Once more a gasp of laughter as you broke surface again, treading water messily, feeling a foot kick his shin and his hands close on your waist as you blindly found purchase with your hands on his bare shoulders.

The world stilled, laughter dying, trailing from a quiet giggle to nothingness as you floated against him, nose to nose.  Watched a bead of water run down over the freckle of a beauty mark under his one eye and reached with your thumb to dab it away in a light stroke.  Felt the fine long fingers of his hands slide to span your ribs as the two of you just stared at the other, watching water roll off skin and drip from noses and chins, watched how it made a gloss of lips and clumped dark eyelashes.

Your legs rose automatically and hooked round his lean hips to keep afloat, keep from kicking him again.  His skin warm against your own in the cool water.  You could feel his hands tighten and release on your sides, and by some small mercy kept from shivering as his thumbs grazed the outer curve of breasts over soaked fabric, a touch that had you winding arms slow around his shoulders.

Kiss me, please kiss me.

The pleading played refrain over and over again in your brain as you watched his gaze fall toward your mouth, only to feel him lift a hand to reach up and tug loose your hair pin, letting the wet of your hair down, letting it fan out in the water over your shoulders as you bobbed against him, tightened the grip of your thighs ever so slightly.  Fully incapable this time of repressing that soft shiver at the little friction and pressure of being pressed against him, sex bare save for that thin, wet cotton between you.

Kiss me, please.

Your hand cradled his face, shaped to the hollow of cheek, and once more you wiped away a little shivering drop of water, this one clinging to the underside of his lower lip.  You could have licked it away, if only he’d just tilt his face forward a little bit, part his mouth and take yours.

His gaze ticked up to catch your own again and you couldn’t stand it one more second, couldn’t keep staring into his face and not do something foolish.  Instead, you wrapped arms all the tighter around his shoulders and leaned your head past his in an embrace.  Held the warmth of him close in the cold water as you laid your cheek against his damp hair.

You felt his ribcage expand and contract in the huff of a silent sigh as he wrapped arms around you as well, the slow stroke of his hands along your back a soothing caress nearly as good as having tasted his mouth would have felt.  The point of his chin came to rest in the hollow between your neck and shoulder, and the pair of you floated.  Suspended, silent, entwined.

It felt a little bit like heaven, a little like purgatory.  So close.

Even from the safety of this you felt tempted.  And after a while, rocked your head lightly against his, turned ever so slightly to nudge the shell of his ear with the tip of your nose.  Felt him exhale again hard as his hands fell, scooped under your bottom and brought you hard and tight against him in a way that had you gasp a little breath.

That seemed to break him out of it and he disentangled slowly, mumbling something that sounded apologetic in his native tongue.  You let him go, unwound your arms and swam away, under the hard pound of the cold waterfall to let it wash your hair back and drum away the feeling of his hands, his skin, his heart beating up against your own.  Not that it did any good.  They were branded on you now, and you’d feel them in your sleep, you knew it.

Back into the water you dove, paddling about as Viktor climbed to the shore, shook out the blanket and laid it down in the grass, setting the basket on it and stretching out as he dug in its depths to pull out an apple and take a bite.  He was all long, lean lines.  A whip thin shape even with the benefit of clothes.  Clad only in dark drawers, he made a taut, tall slice of a figure.  Skin pale save for face and throat, hands and forearms where the sun had kissed it more golden.  The soft dark trail of hair from navel down into drawers was distracting, enticing, had you keep your attention fixed on the water before you as you swam about, reveling in the cool wash that sucked the heat right out of skin and bone.

“You swim like a fish.”  He called from the shore, had you cast a smile in his direction and paddle toward him.  Sandy loam squelched under your feet as you set them down and rose, walked out of the watering hole and toward him, watched something in his face flicker before he carefully schooled it to stillness and turned his focus on the apple in his hand as you took a towel and wrapped it around yourself to sink down beside him, the basket between you.

“Did you learn how to, where you came from?”  He asked, taking another bite of the fruit before glancing toward you again.

“Mmhm. You?”  You dabbed at your chin and face with the towel, knees drawn up to your chest and the dry cloth wrapped round you as the summer heat slowly sunk back into chilled skin.

“No, I learned here.  I was quite young when we left the old country.  I don’t remember much of it.”

“We lived in a city near the sea.  It was always cold water and never very hot like it gets here, but when you are a child, all you want to do is play in the waves.”  You could still taste the bitter salt spray, hear your siblings laughing and begging you to toss them in the water, as your elder brother had tossed you.  Airborne in flight for a breathless second then a plunge into the pinching cold.  Prizing mussels and cockles off the slippery rocks and taking them home in baskets for mother.  Lips blue, teeth chattering.  Sand in your hair for a week until bathtime next.  

“Do you miss it?  Your home?”  He asked, watching you caught in the reverie of distant childhood.

You offered him a little smile and took a sandwich wrapped in brown paper from the basket.  Pulled the two halves of it apart and held one out to him.

“No.  This is my home now.”

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You had realized later what it was that had earned you that slightly wide-eyed look of his as you had walked up the bank.  When you rose at last to finish drying off and put your dress back on you realized the white muslin cloth of your underthings had gone completely transparent in the water.  Even slightly dried as they were now they still clung close and obvious to skin, translucent where they touched you.  It had you pulling your dress on quickly and struggling to repress the heat of embarrassment that you’d paraded your practically naked self up out of the water toward him.  

You gave up putting your boots back on, incapable of rebuttoning them without the button loop, and tossed them in the basket instead.  Dressed and back astride the appaloosa, Viktor took the basket in one hand and offered you a hand up with the other.

This time when you climbed up you sat astride, bloomers and the lack of saddle keeping it from being uncomfortable, though your dress did bunch and ride up a bit.  You took the basket back in one hand and looped the other arm around him as the horse set off for home.

The sun was sinking lower, the worst of the heat passed, and the water and shade had done the trick to suck the swelter out of you both, leaving behind only a warm sleepiness that always seemed to follow swimming.  You settled against Viktor’s back and let your cheek rest between the broad span of his shoulderblades.  

Against his chest your hand stretched wide, and you could feel that slow pound of his heart again in it.  You felt him shift the grip of reins to one hand and then the trail of his fingers along the underside of your arm, a soft and stray drag until his palm pressed over your own, kept it tight to his chest.  The pair of you swayed with the horse’s gait, moving a bit faster in its walk, eager to get home to its evening ration of grain.

Back home he helped you off the horse again, letting you slide to your feet behind him with a hand, and rode back to the stables to finish the evening chores and put the appaloosa away.

The heat of the day lingered inside the big house, and you left the basket in the kitchen to head upstairs, strip out of damp underthings and rinse off with a cloth dipped in the ewer of water.  Redressed, and headed down to start dinner.

He joined you just as you were finishing setting the table, and the surprise of his hand on the small of your back stopped you in place.  For a heart stopping moment you were flooded with the notion he might gently push you down onto the table top.  Hitch your skirt up and slide those lovely calloused long fingers of his between your legs.  That he might speak in that language you didn’t know, lavish you with quiet praise you couldn’t understand as he stroked tenderly through slick folds.  That he might take you there, rattle the dishes off the table as he thrust into you, hand gripping your hip, the other pressed to your back, pinning you down as he fucked you into the table, its rough hewn edge cutting along the tops of thighs with each thrust, listening to you moan his name like a litany and only beg to have it harder.

Instead you felt his hand lift, and he caught up the spill of your nearly dry hair, twisted it gently and pinned it atop your head with the hairpin he’d pulled from it earlier.  You’d forgotten all about the little trinket, forgot your hair was down like you were a child, drying in soft waves and curls.  He pulled one of those curls free behind your ear, and for a moment the warmth of his hand rested tenderly across the nape of your bared neck.

Made you feel ashamed for what you’d just imagined, for the heavy weight in the pit of you and the hard throb between your legs.

Then his touch was gone and he was scrubbing up for dinner at the sink, leaving you to try to scrape yourself together and get the meal on the table.  You had an appetite after the day, but you couldn’t do much more than pick at your food as you sat wondering in silence if there was something truly wrong with you.  If you had some kind of brain fever, or something.  Maybe… maybe it was just the heat, the lonesomeness of the open land, the big quiet house.

You glanced up and found Viktor watching you, saw the way his mouth curved in a shy half a smile, the pretty cupid bow shape of his upper lip made all the more lovely with the softness of that smile, the distracting little beauty mark just over its curled edge stealing all your focus.

“Should I read again tonight?”  He asked lightly.

Another evening of listening to his voice?  That soothing gentle timbre and soft lilt that tickled just as well as his errant touches did?

“Oh yes.”  You offered him as sweet a smile as you could manage, feeling like a terrible, disgusting snake in the grass.  He was kind, and lovely, and you were consumed with nothing but the most wicked thoughts for him.  If he knew, he’d leave, and rightly so.

Once more you left him to finish the cleaning up after dinner, went upstairs to change.  You wanted to brush your hair out and braid it, but it looked so pretty the way he’d pinned it up, you left it instead.  Grabbed a shawl to cover your thin nightgown and padded downstairs in bare feet.  You could see him through the windows, sitting out on the porch, the hurricane lamp already lit, glowing warmly in the darkness beside him.  You hesitated in the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of the cherry wine, uncorked it, and chose two tumblers before heading outside.

You found him sitting on the bench settee instead of the rocker, and it would have given you pause had he not glanced up with another of those darling tilted smiles the second he heard your bare feet on the floorboards, and you had no choice but to come, sit down right beside him and smile in return.

He accepted the glass you offered, though with a bit of a puzzled look.

“You shouldn’t waste wine on me.”  He protested as you poured, and you shook your head, totting out a glass for yourself as well before setting the bottle aside on the floor.

“I don’t like to drink alone, Viktor.  And I have no dinner guests or parties to throw.  Besides, cherry wine tastes best in summer.”  You clinked your glass gently against his and took a long sip, watched him do the same and lift those heavy brows as the tart sweetness of it hit his tongue.  He laughed softly with a little cough as he lowered the tilt of the glass, surprised by the thick sweet of it, but he still took another draught.

You settled in beside him, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh as he opened the book and found the place you’d last left off.  In the far distance, over the mountains, lightning lit the sky in lazy, slow bursts of light behind deep purple clouds.

“When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery. ”

He read and read as the storm rolled in slowly over the plains, unhurried.  His hand that held the glass of wine came to rest it upon your knee, and he stole swallows between paragraphs as you sipped yours slow.  Had time to refill both your cups three times before the cool, rushing winds preceding the storm reached you both.

They blew in sudden gusts, cool off the mountains, but you were both warm sat together, and feeling deliciously moreso with bellies full of wine.   You’d be feeling pleasantly heady if it weren’t for how the horror of the story was picking up.  Grave robbing, crimes against man and nature, a man gone mad with the power of his own mind.  You pulled the shawl tighter about yourself and huddled a little closer as a hard clap of thunder shook the porch under you both.  It did not help that the man in the story was readying himself to reanimate the dead in a thunderstorm of his own.  Your skin crawled with the notion, hazy slightly drunken thoughts creeping toward your long buried husband, climbing and clawing his way out of the grave, stitched together with a horrifying mess of other body parts.

Another blindingly brilliant streak of lightning kissed the plains and the deafening clap of thunder had you jump.  Viktor laughed softly at your side but you wound a hand tight around his upper arm and held close.  It was just a story, just a story and just a storm.  You willed the hard hammer of your heart to stop its erratic, frantic rhythm but it refused to obey.  Another clap of thunder and another reflexive little jump.  You shoved your face into Viktor’s shoulder with a soft cry and he stopped reading.

“Miss?  Are you… maybe we should stop for now.  Get the windows shut before the rain begins?”

You nodded and practically jumped up, leaving the empty dregs of the wine bottle behind to hurry inside as the rain began to patter down on the dry earth, the scent of petrichor strong and heavy in the cooling air.  

Viktor helped, once inside, closing the open windows to small slats to still allow the cool air in but keep the rain from ruining the sill or floor within.  You ran to the second floor while he managed the first, and found no comfort in the darkness up there broken by jagged flashes of lightning.

He found you once you were both done, huddled on the steps, shawl wrapped tight, trying not to shiver or look like the frightened rabbit you felt like, jumpy and tipsy and convinced there were monsters in every shadow.  Not since the dark fairy stories your father used to tell around the fireplace late winter evenings had you been so terrified by a simple tale.

Instead of tsk over your silliness Viktor sank down beside you and had an arm around you, both arms around you, drawing you in tight.  You caved to it, shoved face into the crook of his shoulder and caught a tight hold of his shirt.  The thunder outside shook the beams of the house.  You were convinced the next strike would take the roof, or hit the chimney and bury you both in stone and rubble.

“I don’t want to be alone.  Don’t leave me alone.”  You heard yourself pleading.  You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, just another of those little mantras, little silent prayers running chorus through your brain.  This one had found its way out while you weren’t paying enough attention.

“Okay.”  Viktor helped you to your feet, slowly.

So grateful he didn’t try to take you upstairs, but instead walked you through the kitchen to his rooms.  Left you standing alone just long enough to light a lamp and dim it, and then to pull back the covers on his narrow bed to let you climb in.  

You’d been in his sparsely furnished rooms before, to clean or collect laundry or change the bedsheets, but never stayed long or poked around.  It felt too much like an invasion of his privacy.  The writing desk was littered with papers, more tacked to the wall above and around it.  Sketches, drafts that looked like engineering or architectural work, endless lists and scribbles you didn’t understand.  A small collection of his own second hand books piled on the nightstand.

You climbed into the bed only to have him tuck the covers over you and you realized with a start that he meant to let you have his bed and sleep himself in one of the uncomfortable straight backed wooden chairs, or else slumped over the desk.  Watched as he toed off boots and reached to take a folded throw off the foot of the bed.  

It was a tatty thing, one of your mismatched yarn crochet jobs - never as skilled at it as your mother.  It was uneven, only generously to be called square in shape, and with gaped holes where you’d dropped stitches or packed others too tightly.  You thought you’d thrown it into the basket of scrap fabrics and yarns to be unraveled and redone when you had nothing better to do.  Never realized it had gone missing, that he had it.  

Something about it clenched your heart tight in your chest.

He reached for the lamp on the nightstand and you caught his hand by two long fingers, stilled it, stilled him as you gazed upward and he looked down at you, expression unreadable.  His thumb grazed your knuckles and you gave his hand a silent little tug.  

He hesitated a single, heartrending second before he relented, took a moment to undo his leg brace before he climbed in over you to settle behind you, between you and the wall.  Slid one outstretched arm to pillow under your head and wrapped the other around you, let you tuck it under your arm and pull his hand tight to your chest as he fitted close to you, over the sheets.

“I’m sorry if the story scared you.”  He murmured and you shook your head, mumbling back reassurances even though you knew he could feel how you still shivered slightly.  He only gathered you a little tighter, hummed a tuneless, quiet little song.

The rain pounded against windows and walls, the winds buffeting the house and thunder echoing outside in loud rolling booms that rollicked across the open sky overhead.  Sleep closed in slowly, had to slide its interminable fingers in under the door of your irrational panic to get the latch open and come creeping on silent feet.  But it did come.

Still, you woke in the middle of the night, most likely at another all too close clap of thunder, the storm still lingering outside, rain having eased from a downpour to a steady fall that beat gently against the windowpanes.  Viktor had at some point gotten cold and climbed under the covers, still spooned you closely even if his grip was not as tight.  His broad hand a gentle flat splay over the soft, vulnerable stretch of your stomach.  

You stroked fingertips over his knuckles lightly and heard him murmur.  Felt him press his hand tighter to your softness and start a slow caress lower that closed your throat in terrified excitement.  Fingers paused just above your sex.  All it would take would just be a little nudge, a guiding push to ease touch lower and he’d have a light grip of you.  It felt so terribly wrong to lay there and think of doing that to him in his sleep, to have his fingers pressed over you as you suffered the throbbing ache redoubling under his touch.

Instead he shifted and mumbled again in his sleep, hand skimming back up to settle a cupping cradle to one breast that did nothing to stop how your head spun and breath hitched.  His palm big enough to fit the entire curve within neatly, touch warm.  Against the nape of your neck the press of his face nestled in and you swore you felt the graze of his mouth on your skin.

And then his thumb moved.  Little, erratic metronome, just a tender back and forth, right over the stiff, eager little nub of your nipple.  A moaned, low whine escaped you like a prisoner making a jailbreak, eeking out as you shivered sweetly, struggled not to arch.

He squeezed the softness in his palm and stroked again, still speaking nonsense in his sleep, killing you by inches and completely unaware.  And then his thumb caught that sensitive little bud between it and the edge of his hand, tender pinch, as his hips shifted a slight roll, pressing him to your backside.

You were huffing breath, struggling to not moan again, not to writhe back into him or shove your own hand down between your thighs to press against that glorious, painful ache between them.  Not to tug the ribbon of the neck of your gown open and let his hand find its way in.  Not to wake him and beg, beg him to touch you, taste you, let you have him.

Hot little tears traced slow, silent tracks down your cheek, dampening the pillow under you as you lay there, suffering, drowning in want, dizzy with how good he felt holding you.  Why had you asked for this?  Wouldn’t it have been easier to have just gone up to your room and been a little scared for the night instead?

He mumbled again behind you and his nose tickled behind your ear.  

Your chest felt tight enough to collapse, like your heart was determined to crush itself to dust instead of suffer one more second of longing for him.

So much harder to sink back to sleep after that.

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He was not in bed in the morning, and you had a bad feeling he’d woken and discovered how he’d groped you in his sleep and leapt from the bed in mortification at his transgression.  Then you had an even worse feeling that he’d let you oversleep, too embarrassed to come back and wake you.  You rose, made the bed, folded that pilfered throw of yours at the foot of the bed and headed out to the kitchen.

Coffee in the pot, kept warm and waiting on the stove.  

A cup could wait while you went upstairs to dress for the day, comb out your hair and fix yourself so that you looked less sleep deprived, make the faintly bruised purple shadows under your eyes look less obvious.  Only then did you go back down, get yourself some coffee and head out to the porch to survey any damage done by the storm.

Viktor was on his way back up to the house from the barn, smiling up from under his hat when he saw you leaning on the porch post, mug steaming in your hand.  In one fist he held a riot of color, a thick bouquet of wildflowers in a mad array of violent, beautiful hues from chill cornflower to deep bloody poppy.

Swaying pace took him up the steps and he held the bouquet out in offering, practically shy about it, as you set down the mug on the railing and accepted them in silent shock.  They smelled heavenly, petals still wet from the rains.  

“T-thank you.” Gaze ticked from the flowers to him in utter confusion.  “But… why?”

He’d never so much as picked you a daisy before.

Viktor tugged at the brim of his hat, attention fixed on his boots until those luminous amber eyes glanced up at you from under the broad brim that had been obscuring them.  Shoulders lifted tensely as he reached forward, caught your free hand in his, the leather of his work glove rough against your skin as he gathered up your fingers.

“I believe it's called… courting?”

Mouth open, head empty, you stood there.  Felt your eyelids flickering, felt your heart a hard, steady pound in the hand he held.  Felt the world turn under your feet.  Unable to think, speak, to answer him.  Lost in the gold of those eyes under the shade of his broad brimmed hat, in all the softness in them as they looked down at you.

You drew breath to speak.  The hard pounding thunder of hooves and shouted cry of greeting stopped the words in your throat.  Hands held between you and Viktor jerked apart as you both turned to watch the two riders incoming.

Ranch hands of yours, ones that lived out in the far pastures with the roving herds of sheep, watching the flocks and ensuring they kept their grazing confined to your lands.  Their horses looked winded, breathing hard and nostrils wide as they wheeled up and dismounted.  The riders didn’t look much better.  It could take days to ride from the backlands in to the ranch and the men had precious little kit on them, had been sleeping rough and traveling hard.

You and Viktor both came down off the porch to meet them, you hesitating a moment before setting your bouquet of flowers aside on the seat of a rocking chair.

“What’s wrong?”  Viktor got the question out before you could.

“There’s a pack ‘a wolves come down the foothills.”  The less breathless man explained to you both, pulling his hat off to wipe at sweat beaded brow.  “Three big’uns.  The dogs can’t seem to scare ‘em off, especially now that the buggers kilt one of ‘em.”

“They’re gettin the herd in a panic.”  The other man filled in, handing off the reins of both horses to you.  “With only three of ‘em they can’t take too many but they’se sneaky as the devil and it seems they get another each night.  We can’t spare a hand to hunt ‘em down, it’s all we can manage keepin’ them chasin the herd up into the foothills.  Two nights ago they managed to cut half’a the herd and chased ‘em out toward the slopes.  Half’a us gotta go find the missin’ and then we gotta bring em all down closer to the inner fields for a time an get rid’a the wolves.”

Viktor’s gaze cut towards you the same instant you glanced to him.  There was a silent, tense second before you watched him nod, eyes still on you.

“I’ll get the gun, and my things.”

Your heart sank, even though you understood very well there was no other option.  His determination snapped you into action.  No time to wallow, to worry.  Not that it stopped the hot bile of it rising in the back of your throat.

You gathered the reins you held and turned back to your men, forcing the no-nonsense tone of authority you’d perfected when corralling your younger siblings, and only refined as the sole woman running a large ranch.  It didn’t matter how much your knees felt like water or your stomach like lead, if you could sound in charge, then you were.

“Boys, get yourselves some water at the pump.  Refill your canteens.  I’ll get you fresh horses.  Ask Viktor to show you the pantry and help you restock for the ride back out.  Go on, now.  And don’t let him forget the extra box of shells for that gun.”

The men split for the house and pump respectively as you turned to walk the huffing, winded horses to the barn.  You pulled saddles from them both, then bridles, and turned them out in the small paddock in the shade, giving each a small bucket of water to suck thirstily.  They could have all they wanted to drink from the wellspring trough in the big paddock once they were cooled down.  Too much water now might colic them or worse.

You grabbed the appaloosa and two fresh horses, bridled and saddled all three and led them up to the house as Viktor and the two ranch hands were headed back out with full packs and canteens.  Viktor had a bedroll tied to his pack and your husband’s big shotgun in its soft leather holster slung against his shoulder.  The gun was a monster with a kick like a mule but its double barrels could and, legend had it, did once take out a bull moose at full charge.

The men took the reins of their fresh mounts from you and slung up into saddles as you held the appaloosa, standing close to its neck, fingers tugging, toying nervously with its mane as Viktor tied the gun to the back of his saddle along with bedroll, shouldered his pack and slung canteen over saddlehorn.  One careful hop on his good leg and he was up into the saddle.

Your heart was in your throat, eyes stinging for some reason.

“Viktor…”

You put the reins in his hands, felt him grab hold of your fingers in a little squeeze.  You couldn’t stand to turn eyes upward, to look up at him.

“Be safe.”  His voice was low, quiet, strained.  You stepped back as he dug heels into the horse’s sides, felt the large animal shift hard back on its haunches and then thunder past.

Nothing to do but stand there as you watched the three men ride off.

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Days stretched into a week.

The time crawled, minutes passing as hours.

The flowers he gave you withered in the grey crockery pitcher you’d used as a vase, no matter how frequently you changed the water.  You’d chosen a select few of them, the prettiest ones, and pressed them in one of the thick books of the library, between sheets of brown paper, before they could wilt.

The silence in the big house was deafening.

You found yourself waking earlier and earlier, up far before the sun. Laying in bed, waiting until the pale grey licks of dawn to started to touch the sky, sitting alone on the porch with your coffee, watching the thick mists that enclosed the ranch, gauzy walls of obscuring nothingness that cut you off from the entire outside world, as it slowly burned off and evaporated with the rising sun.

Like a ghost lifting, taking flight with the morning sun, only to return night after night to stretch cold fingers toward the house again.

Be safe.

It's what you should have said to him.  You should have told him; be safe, be careful, don’t go, I love you.  You’d realized that last one with a jolt at the end of the fourth day alone.  You loved him, loved him terribly, and it filled you with fear.  You’d sat alone over dinner and sobbed into your napkin so hard it felt your ribs would break and eyes would leak out over your cheeks with how much the tears came and how bitterly hot.  What if he never came home?  Accidents happened every day.  It didn’t have to be a wolf that took him out, it could have been any number of things, small things.  His horse taking a misstep into a prairie dog hole and toppling over on top of him, crushing, thrashing.  Getting turned around in the endless stretch of grasslands and running out of water.  The gun misfiring.  Bandits or livestock thieves.  A simple wound turned septic.

The possibilities played out over and over and over in your head until you felt you’d go mad with them.

Be safe.

You threw yourself into both your chores, filling the time with his work and your own, and more.  So that you did not lay awake at night but rather had to drag yourself up the steps and collapse into bed, every muscle aching, every joint crying out for mercy.  Still, you felt him there, warm against the back of you, your heart beating in his hand, skin singing soft songs of his name on every fingertip, his breath a cool breeze on the nape of your neck.

The work didn’t stop your mind either, only focused those thoughts, gave them outlet.

Courting.  You hadn’t had a chance to get a word out.  To say yes, or anything at all.  To ask him why.  The initial thrill of it so spoiled by the almost immediate looming threat of danger and need for action that you still hadn’t truly had time to process it.  What if… what if he was only asking because he felt obligated?  Because you’d forced him to share his bed and now he felt beholden to maintain your honor by asking for your hand?  Or because you were so obviously lonesome and Viktor, so sensitive and kind, felt there was nothing else he could do that might help save you from yourself besides this.  So many reasons he might not have meant it, or why it might be disingenuous in spite of his good natured, serious, quiet kindness.  

But what if he did want you, the way you wanted him?

That felt like the most terrifying thing of all.

You tended the animals, slopped the hogs, fed the chickens, collected the eggs, cared for the horses, baked the bread, milked the cow, tended the vegetable garden, mended the fences, cleaned the house, did the laundry… the list went on and on ad nauseam.  Always something to do, more to clean, to fix, to keep hands busy.  And the days stretched.

One week started to reach toward two and you lapsed into a silent fugue.  Numb, empty.

When would the riders come back and tell you something terrible had happened?

How long did you have to wait to find out this quiet hell was permanent?

Instead of putting it through the laundry, you took one of his shirts upstairs with you one night.  Draped it over your pillow and pushed your face into it.

Took a book out on the porch with you and struggled to read it, to hear it in his voice.

Two weeks had just about passed when you began debating riding out toward the distant ranch house.  It was foolish in the extreme, you could not leave the animals here alone or the big house unguarded and empty.  The not knowing was killing you though.  But you’d never make it out there and back and not have something go horribly wrong back home.  No matter how many crazy ways your brain tried to come up with a way to make it feasible, make it safe, you couldn’t go.  

And the last thing he told you was to be safe.

The light was starting to stretch toward evening as you plodded up toward the house from the barn, shadow long behind you, pail of eggs in one hand.  Knees and back a dull ache from the day’s mucking out.  You’d made it up the steps of the porch and had your hand on the doorknob when you heard the unmistakable thud of hooves in the distance pounding closer.  Nearly dropping the pail, you whipped around, went running down the long stretch of the side porch out toward the front.

Yes.  Yes!  Yes, it was him!  Tall lean figure on the black and white dappled appaloosa, leaning over its whipping mane as they cantered up.  You practically flung yourself off the porch as he drew up, and hopped down, albeit stiffly.  

Caution, modesty, manners, doubts, all of it forgotten as you careened into him hard enough to knock the breath from him audibly and have the horse beside you both shy away with an unhappy whickering.  You did not care.  Face pushed to his chest tight enough to suffocate yourself, arms iron bands around him, squeezing.  Real, real and here and back and alive and safe and solid.

“Viktor-”  You began as he prized you off of himself stiffly, turning your face up.  Only to have him catch the shape of your jaw in both hands and bend to kiss you.  Kiss you hard enough to knock his hat to the ground, to mash the tip of his nose into the apple of your cheek and nearly split your lip against his own.

He did not stop.  Did not let you go as you both opened mouths against each other’s, as he tried each lip in slow, hard sucks, caved to the invitation of your tongue and slipped his own against it in eager taste.  As he suffered your gentle bite and tug and caught you up all the tighter until you were both breathless, panting, his forehead pressed to yours as you dared to open eyes to find that precious amber gaze an inch away.

The callus of his dust covered thumb stroked slow along your cheek, tracing the spangling constellation of freckles.

“I should have done that before I left.  I should have done that a long time ago, too.”

His words raised a tight lump in your throat.  Two simple, quiet sentences that washed away all the grit of horrible doubt that had nearly worn your heart to a smooth, cold stone.  The hot tears that shivered on lashes and streaked down cheeks betrayed you.  Had his brows knitted and hands cupping your face, wiping them away as he fussed and you tried to wave it off only to have him catch your mouth up again and you melted into it, into him.  Fists closed tight at his sides in the fabric of his shirt, humming a soft moan against his mouth.

Even covered with the dust and dirt of the fields he tasted better than you had ever imagined.

He shifted uncomfortably in a little hop on his bad leg and you broke away from the intoxication of that kiss to look him over worriedly.

“Are you hurt?!”

“No, no.  Just stiff, and tired.  It was a long ride back.  I brought you a gift, though.”

Something large wrapped in his bedroll tied to the back of his saddle, if his glance was any indication.  You bent to pick up his hat for him, beat the dust out of it but kept in in your hands, loving too much the wild mess of his chestnut hair, wanting very badly to run your fingers through it, to see what he did when you tugged, or if he’d sigh when your ran nails ofer his scalp.  

He was smiling down at you, that precious half tilt curve, and you went up on tip toe before you could stop yourself to kiss the little beauty mark at the zenith of it.  It made him blush, fiercely, and you couldn’t stop your smile.

“Take yourself and your things inside.  I’ll see to the horse.  A bath’s what you need after that ride.  Go get a drink of something cool and sit down.  I’ll be in.”

He collected his pack and roll and the gun off the back of the saddle, accepted his hat back, and limped up toward the house without argument, though his hand did trail long down your arm, caught your hand and let fingers slide away lingering under his own as you stepped away.  It was no fuss to unsaddle the appaloosa and turn him out with an extra handful of grain in its bucket and a kiss on its forehead, for whatever part it may have played in bringing him home safe again to you.

Back up at the house you pumped full the largest galvanized tub that sat up on wrought iron grating and shoved tinder under it, lit a fire to heat and fed it until it was glowing hot coals and licking flames.  Back inside the house you pulled the big copper tub out and pushed it before the fireplace.  Lit a small fire in the hearth, just enough to keep any chill off from the bath, though the heat of the day still lingered.

It took a few trips to get the tub partway filled with cool water, the rest would come after the tub outside had heated through and the water was nice and steaming.

You lit the two hurricane lamps in the room, offering a dim glow to the quickly fading dusk, and gathered soap and towels before heading to find Viktor in the kitchen, bad leg stretched long and brace off, a glass of cool water in one hand as he slumped back against the wall in his seat, looking exhausted.  He sat up the second you came in the room though, that lovely smile back in place.  

You fixed him a plate, just something quick and cold for the time being, but most likely more filling than anything he’d had out in the plains.  He caught your wrist as you set the plate before him, looking like he had a great deal to say but no idea where to start saying it.  You gave him a gracious out, stroking free hand back through the thick tangle of chestnut hair as you gently pulled your captured wrist up, freed it from his grasp and brushed a kiss to the heel of his palm.

He watched you in a kind of silent awe that made your heart stutter against your ribcage.

“Eat.  The bath will be ready soon.”

Bucket after bucket of now hot water hauled up the porch steps and into the great room until the tub by the fireplace was full and steam rising up off it thickly.  You turned to find Viktor standing in the doorway, watching you dump the last bucket in.  You straightened and huffed a little laugh as you wiped the sweat off your brow with the back of a forearm, the steam curling the loose tendrils of your hair in soft, slightly frizzy spirals.  

“I’ll… I’ll give you the room.”  You tried to back toward the door, give him privacy to soak sore muscles and wash off the dirt of the road.

“No, wait.”  He hobbled in, that bedroll under one arm, and set it in your arms.

You put the pail down to unwrap the roll curiously.  Three massive wolf pelts lay within.  Fur soft and gorgeous, white as driven snow in patches and ticked with ash grey in others.  You opened the bound roll of them in awe and Viktor helped you lay them out over the couch.  They were massive, almost terrifyingly so.  Gave an awe-inspiring glimpse into just how large the creatures were up close, and made you very grateful indeed you hadn’t had the opportunity to ever meet one in the wild.  

You ran your hand up through the thick lush of the fur, savoring the soft tickle of it through spread fingers.  Not nearly as soft as the back of Viktor’s finger as it stroked down your cheek, had you turning face toward him where he stood alongside you.

“G-go, uhm.  Go ahead and get your bath.”  You insisted, unable to focus on coherent thought with the way he was looking down at you, and backed away again to grab the pail and hustle out of the room.  Sucked deep breath of air outside on the porch, and another but still couldn’t stop your heart from hammering.  You wanted to feel foolish for all the time you spent worrying and fretting but were too elated to feel anything but the sweet rush of joy that hadn’t ended since he’d hopped off that horse.

You waited a sufficient amount of time and even peeked through one of the windows to make sure he had disrobed and settled into the tub.  Then snuck back inside and hovered in the doorway nervously.

He glanced up from scrubbing one long arm with the soap.

“Is the water hot enough?”

He laughed a little.

“Yes, I think I might be cooking, actually.  If you wish to make me into soup, I won’t complain.  I think you’ll want salt instead of soap though.”

Your cheeks burned with his gentle teasing and you turned to go back to the kitchen, to leave him in peace.

“No, please.  Come sit.  I spent all these days thinking of you…”  He trailed off, like he was unsure how to finish that sentence or if he’d said too much already.  

You came in, tucked the skirt of your dress under yourself and took a seat on the couch beside the wolf pelts.

“Thank you for these.”  You said, petting one again softly, “And for coming back.”

He sat back in the tub and smiled shyly to himself, continued scrubbing for a while before he shared the story of his time out there.  You sat rapt, listening to the wild ride back out to the far fields, the terrifying stalking and hunt, the hard and long search for the lost half of the flock.  And how they almost realized too late it was not three wolves but four.  How one of the lads had been quick and sharp enough to grab the gun as Viktor was struggling to free a lamb stuck between two rocks, unaware of the final wolf rushing up behind him.  Took it down a scarce pace away, jaws open.  He’d left that pelt, and rightly so, with the lad, as bragging rights for life.

Your knuckles had gone white on the wolf pelt under your hand, head a slow, dizzy spin to think how close it had been.  How close you’d come to the worst.

He rinsed himself and you shook off the reverie to reach for the towels, handing them over before excusing yourself back to the kitchen to let him dry off in privacy.

Fingertips trembled on the tabletop as you stood there staring at his empty plate.

So close to loss you could taste it, bitter on the back of your tongue.

You crossed yourself, a helpless ingrained custom at this point, and totted out a saucer of milk, left it on the windowsill over the sink, a gift for the fae or brownie or pooka that had kept him safe from mischief.

No sooner had you set it down then you felt the heat of gentle hands on your waist.  The warmth of a mouth on your ear, your cheek.  You spun and Viktor caught your mouth again in a kiss much softer and slower than the mad rush of the one he’d given you outside.  Hands found his skin bare, still damp from the bath, towel tucked around the narrow of his hips. Arms wound up over his shoulders as he steered you with that grip on your waist, until your backside hit the kitchen table.

You broke the soft, sweet suckle of his upper lip to clamber eagerly back upon the table, only to watch him stall as he took your face in both hands.  Watched him release a heavy breath, those dark brows drawn tight over the soft fire of eyes.

“I’ve wanted you since you first came here.”  He admitted it like a confession, and it had to have been a stone around his heart if he’d carried it for nearly five years now in silence, watching you be another man’s wife for three of them.  “Wanted to kiss you for so long.  Wanted you as my own.  But… are you sure, miláčku?”

His gaze cast aside as he frowned slightly.

“A poor cripple, from a country you don’t know?  I will always be an outsider here.  I don’t have a name, or prospects. I simply have my work… and I believe in myself.”  He glanced up, leveling you with that gaze once more, fingers tracing your jaw.  “Are you sure I’m what you want?”

You were nodding emphatically before he even finished the question, sucking the taste of him off your own lower lip as you pulled him close, stole another kiss before your hands fell, tugged open the ribbon at the scooped neckline of your dress and tugged the three buttons below it open before turning pleading eyes back to him, to find him breathless, face flooded with want.  

Those fine hands of his came down off your jaw, slid into the part of fabric and cradled the shape of the outside of each breast, his breath a soft fan over your skin as thumbs you could see trembling teased gently over the proud little push of both pale nipples.

“Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you, the day we went swimming?  You looked like a mermaid, and that - your clothes.  Wanted to lay you on the blanket and peel them off you, let me actually see this pretty pink with nothing in the way.”

His hands cupped, thumbs making a teasing, squeezing little pinch of sensitive, singing little buds.  Left you unable to help the way your head rocked back and legs hooked round him where he stood between the spread of thighs, unable to stop the soft noise of want that climbed up, deep out of the core of you and up your throat.  

He pushed you back onto the table, the fall of his hair a tickle against skin as his mouth traced warm tracks over one rising curve and then the other.  When he finally caught a slow, sweet suck of one sweet nub you bucked against him, hand slapping to the table top and all the years of polish upon it peeling up under the bite of the curling dig of your fingernails.  He licked, flicked tongue in a way that had you cursing in the old language you never used, arching under him as he paid the same lovely attentions to the greedy eagerness of the other nipple.

God, and it was sweet.  The electric rush of it heady, sensation pouring out like soft fire lit under skin, a pink flush creeping across your bare chest and up your throat as you sunk fingers into his soft mess of hair and listened to him groan with his mouth full of you.

And then both your hands were sliding between the pair of you in a frantic struggle, him to get your skirts up and you to tug his towel loose.  You each got what you wanted, but he won out, getting his bared hips clear of the grab of your hands as he got a hand under one of your thighs and lifted till the heel of your shoe hooked the edge of the table, forced a wider splay of legs as he braced an arm on the table and gazed down at your bare skin.

Fingers stroked you slow, gentle sweep over soft skin under navel,  over the soft V inward from hips, slow caress over lips before your gasp had him parting you, stroking tenderly through the slick wet of silk soft skin.  It had you lifting into each caress, practically ready to beg before he dipped down.  You were stuttering, startled, ready to ask him just what he thought he was doing when he spread you wide and you felt the warm, ticklish flick of his tongue hit some sweet part of you that you’d only felt when you pressed the agony of your hungry throbbing against your own fingers.

You arched hard against the table top and heard the empty plate go clattering, to smash upon the floor as you pushed up into the soft circling flick of his tongue.  Nothing, nothing in your life had ever felt so good.  You caught a fitful grip of his hair again, not wanting to tear at it but struggling to be gentle as he licked at you and that wanting ache within just doubled and doubled and doubled until your core clenched tight, hot little flutters that felt like heaven had exploded within you, every muscle strung taut as a bow and sweet stars in your veins as you gasped his name.

He rose over you, wiping the gloss of you off his chin as he gathered you to him with a grip on your hips, leaning over, watching you suffer sweetly for panted breath, eyes glassy and unfocused as you tried to offer him a sweet smile.

“Are you certain?”  He asked, voice hoarse, and you could feel the hard length of him slide through the wet parting of your sex as the backs of his fingers traced the shape of your jaw from chin back to ear, to slide a cradle to the back of your head against the hard surface of the table.

“Yes, Viktor, please.  Yes.”

In spite of your begging agreement he kept that little tease up, sliding himself along you, taking a grasp of your bent up leg in a one armed, tight hug.

“Do you want me so badly?”  He asked, sly teasing nearly ruined by how breathless he was, by the burn of hot flush over his pale cheeks as he gazed down at his cock sliding over your eager little sex.  You moaned softly for him, reaching to grip either edge of the table as you rocked hips invitingly.  How could he doubt it?

“Speak to me, miláčku.”   He murmured, gaze ticking up once to offer you the wicked tilt of that smile of his before eyes fell again to watch as he pressed to your entrance, pushed slow.  

“Hnn, Viktor, please.  I want you in-!”  Ah, it stung at first.  Ready as you were, as much as you wanted him, it had been so long, and what had passed between your husband and you had not been like this, not in the least.  The stretch hurt, but so good.  Had you humming, moaning soft encouragement, though he refused to do anything but take his time.  

“Ah…  yes…”  He wanted words but you were too gone to find any save the ones to beg him to keep going.

He kept the hold he had on your bent leg pressed to one side of his chest as he settled deep and began a slow, small rock with his hips, a deliciously tormenting see-saw that had you writhing as he stroked one broad hand down and back the open splay of your other thigh laid out on the table’s edge.  

You’d wanted, in your wild little daydreams, for him to watch you come undone for him.  But none of it compared to how wonderfully wicked you felt actually watching him gaze down at you, watching his mouth drop open slightly as he felt your walls clench eagerly around him, at how he thumbed over that amazing little bundle of nerves he’d licked so well at, making your hips jump again and stomach tighten.

“Please tell me this is mine, you are mine.  Tell me, miláčku. ”  He was hoarse, voice seductively thick and dripping his own want that had you smiling blissfully.

“Yes, yours.  Just yours, Viktor.”   However he wanted, whenever he liked.  

It earned you the first hard, deep thrust, sent eyes rolling back in your head and mouth open in a strangled, ecstatic little gasp as he did it again.  Doubtless that the pair of you both wanted to keep this dirty little tease going, draw it all out and pour every ounce of those years of waiting and wanting into it, but it proved too much for the both of you after a moment, and instead became a mad rush.  Wonderful, jarring hard thrusts of his hips that had you eager to meet him, had you gasping out mewling little sounds each time he filled you up.  

He was no better, the soft sounds that escaped the clench of his teeth delicious, something you wanted to commit to memory and find further ways to drag more out of him.

More, you wanted more, the both of you, and he dragged you to the end of the table till your bottom was near hanging off of it, let your leg unfold to wrap around him as he gathered up your hands, fingers laced pinching tight between his own desperate ones, pinning them up beside your head and just barely catching your mouth with his as his pace staggered, went erratic and stalled, your nails digging little biting furrows between his knuckles.

He spilled hot inside you as you claimed the prize of his kiss, sweet treasure yours to keep at last.  His.  Yours.

No more ghosts, no more silence.

#Viktor #arcane #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor western au #arcane western au #viktor fic #arcane fic #viktor x reader #viktor x oc #arcane viktor

[taintedpompom]

The First Day

Rose stared up at the iron wrought gates, fingering a jade pendent dangling from her neck. The schools fence loomed, heavy and made of twisted metal. Rumors claim that Sassacre's Hallowed Academy for Potential Expansion (Or "Shape") was built out of a closed prison way back in the day. Granted, Rose checked and such allegations were merely jealous slander... however the campus had a imposing stature that made the student second guess her own research.

Sure the school seemed friendly enough, a large fountain streatched accross the court gardens, the water a frothy white as it sprayed out of a jug of a angel. The dorms sat across each side of the courtyard, long brick buildings with large ornate windows, ensuring that, wherever Rose looked, her new home was in view... It was simply coincidence that, between them as she was, the buildings had a shape that veered a bit too close to a pair of jaws for her tastes... or maybe simply legs.

Rose squeezed Kanaya's hand for emotional support... well KANAYA's emotional support mostly, this WAS Rose's idea after all. This school was miles away from home, up in the mountains hours drive away from the airport. Sassacre was considered the proto ivy league, spitting out celebrities and genius's with a almost spotless track record. The fact that her web novel got her a scholarship here was too good to be true. In fact her mother said as much... And so she simply HAD to apply.

Kanaya darling, was a little more hesitant, SHE liked her mother (And Rose's mother as well), and was more then happy staying home in the big city. It was just... Rose never did anything without Kanaya by her side before, it didn't feel right to split up. It was them against the world, not HER against the world.

Rose looked up, staring at the clock tower looming above the school, jutting against the sky like it was liable to pierce it. She shivered in her leather jacket, the cold air a little too unseasonable for her torn jeans. Fashion was a statement, and Rose's statement said she didn't back down to peer pressure, society, or the elements. Goth and cozy didn't mix, no matter how brisk it was.

Rose stared at the tower, scowling at the tinted windows, unaware that she was being stared back at.

Eventually she pulled herself away from the window, walking past the cheery trees into a crowded doorway. Next to it was a bulletin board listing all the classes. Rose and Kanaya shared most of them... same English class, Rose had creative writing when Kanaya had Domestic Arts, and Family Sciences, and... Home Economics?

Rose gave Kanaya a dubious glance. Kanaya was great... but a mother? Rose tried to imagine Kanaya in such a duties, pulling a turkey from a oven like a 50s housewife, folding laundry, cradling a child...

Hmm.... Rose lingered on that thought for a moment, and then dismissed it. Roses glance, lingered into a look, teetering on a stare. It was clearly a fantasy, Kanaya was a atrocious cook, and just because she looked nice in a apron didn't mean she knew how to use one... granted Rose supposed that was what school WAS for wasn't it... to learn? Maybe the school saw something she... hmm. Rose frowned, noticing that Kanaya wasn't frowning at her own classes... but Rose's.

Rose felt a pinpick of nerves, scrolling through the classes. Physical Education, dance, yoga, literature, Naked body- wait no that just said painting... all normal classes! Sure a little... artsy fartsy, Rose always thought, novel or not, shed end up in STEM but no even Kanaya had more math classes then her... granted Rose at least had physics... wait no that was just a different physical education class. Rose blinked. This was... such a normal class layout! What could Kanaya possibly be concerned with.

"Rose Darling." Kanaya said, speaking slowly, gingerly. "I Did Not Presume You Were So... Active."

"Well..." Rose frowned, her black lips pursed in thought. "I... am not lazy? But I am sure it wouldn't hurt to have a few classes to get the blood flowing. I cant imagine sitting on my ass all day."

"...Yes, I Suppose..." Kanaya glanced down at Roses hips, at the studded belt that was too small for Rose to actually tighten around her large lap. "That Would Be Um, Wasteful. But I Think This." Kanaya tapped the glass, Roses eyes trailing down towards Kanya's lilac painted finger... then the words she was pointed at. Huh. Rose didn't even notice she was assigned a sports club.... lets see which one...

Rose gasped, her legs, giving out. Kanaya bend down, catching her petite girlfriend as she swoned.

"Rose Are You Alright?" Kanaya asked, Rose could only moan in response.

"How can I be alright?" Rose whimpered. "I'm a Cheerleader."

[secret-third-thing]

Heatwave (Elriel) (Part 1)

Elain helps her sister prepare for a gallery showing. Azriel is entirely too distracting. Oops.

Read on AO3 or below the cut

Part of the 2023 Acotar Writing Circle organized by @azrielshadowssing! Can't wait to see what everyone else is working on. ❤️

also I have never written Elriel in my life so L O L. As always, thank you to @praetorqueenreyna and @bennylavasbuns.

Elain grumbled at the heat as she disembarked from the plane and walked across the blistering tarmac toward the entrance to the gate. The flight to middle-of-nowhere Massachusetts had been pleasant enough on the small plane, but she hadn't accounted for how sweltering hot it would be when she finally stepped outside. Wasn't New England supposed to be cooler? 

Her younger sister, Feyre, had eagerly persuaded her to come up for the summer, promising a retreat from reality.

"Get away from that crappy ex of yours!" she yelled into the phone. "You have to visit me and Rhys now. No excuses!" Elain nearly bristled at that comment, having just broken up with her boyfriend, Greyson. He had been upset that Elain hadn't wanted to take things further, despite Elain being happy with the slow, sweet pace they had maintained in the year they had been dating. Then after a disastrous Valentine's dinner, he had given her a call, called her a tease, uncommitted, potentially unfaithful even, and hung up, leaving Elain an emotionally devastated mess. 

At least at home, she was an emotionally devastated mess with AC. When she reached the inside of the building, Elain groaned. It wasn't much cooler in here, either. It looked like someone had set up multiple fans to at least circulate the air around the building, but the heat had settled here too. Elain pulled out her phone and texted her sister, "Just landed… grabbing bags." Feyre sent a thumbs-up emoji, and Elain headed for the baggage claim. 

Despite the miserable heat and grueling flight from the South to here, Elain was excited to finally see her sister again. She hadn't been able to make the trip for Feyre's graduation - Greyson hated New England. Now, she could be a part of her sister's new life. Elain wondered if this was the start of her new life too. 

The baggage claim was slow, creaky, and stunk of burned rubber, but Elain quickly fetched her bag. She texted a photo of it to her sister, who then typed directions on where to meet. 

Elain was looking for a beat-up blue subaru crosstrek, her sister's first car that she had bought with the money she had earned from her graduation art show. Feyre had started her own gallery (using a loan from her boyfriend, she claimed) and had been selling art and teaching classes in the back ever since. Elain was a bit envious. Greyson hadn't taken such measures for her, but she knew she wasn't the type to ask for anything, either. 

Elain walked out of the building and, as promised, was a blue Subaru. Feyra was leaning out the passenger window waving wildly, a massive smile plastered on her face. Then she unlocked the door and ran over, hugging her so tightly that Elain thought she would crack a rib. 

"I'm glad you could make it!" she said. Feyre looked different, happier, almost glowing. It was nice to see her this way. Their childhood hadn't been easy, with their mother's death and their father's inability to hold down a job. Yet, here Feyre was, thriving. 

A tall man with dark hair opened the driver's side door and sauntered over, hands in his pockets and smelling faintly of citrus cologne. He was handsome, to say the least, with warm, tan skin and beautiful, sparkling eyes that looked adoringly at Feyre. 

"And you must be Elain," he said, sticking out a hand. Elain shook it cautiously, eyeing Feyre, who was trying to lug her bag into the car. "I'm Rhysand," he said smoothly. "Feyre says such wonderful things about you." He turned to watch his girlfriend and then sighed. "Let me help her." He walked over and gently took the bag from Feyre, who was heaving and groaning to get the navy suitcase into the trunk. Rhysand lifted it easily, much to his girlfriend's chagrin. She flipped him off, affectionately. 

"What do you even have in here, Elain?" Feyre said, wiping a hand on her brow. 

"I brought some gifts for you and Nesta," Elain said. Their older sister eventually moved up here, eager to escape their father. She sounded happier on the phone, though Nesta admitted the brutal winters made it difficult for some. Elain had brought some of their childhood trinkets and other warmer-season items to remind Nesta of the sun. For Feyre, she had brought a couple of art books from a gallery in their hometown.

The three of them got in the car; Rhysand offered to drive so Feyre and Elain could catch up. Feyre rattled on about the town, pointing out specific places:  where I first met Rhysand! Where we had our first date! That's where I accidentally ran into one of our childhood friends! Isn't that so weird? Elain nodded occasionally but was distracted by how pretty the outside had become. The farther away they drove from the airport, the more trees, flowers, and greenery appeared until it bloomed into the town square, packed to the brim with gorgeous bluebells, rue, and ferns.

Soon they reached an elegant townhouse near a quiet, tidy park. It was two stories tall with a pointed roof to combat the heavy snowfall in the winter. The exterior had been recently painted, giving it a very modern look. When Rhysand took Elain's bag, Feyre turned to her sister, looking guilty. 

"I know you just go here, but I wanted to ask you a favor," Feyre asked, wincing slightly. Elain's stomach churned, but she pushed the feeling down.

"I don't mind! I mean, you're letting me stay in your house for free," she said.

Feyre let out a sigh. "Well, you know that art showing in the gallery I mentioned last we called? The friend helping me had to step out for a family emergency, and now we're short a person." She grasped Elain's shoulder gently. "Would you be willing to help out? You'd just be keeping track of some inventory. Some of Rhysand's friends are also dropping by some wooden sets so I can decorate them for the event." 

Elain nodded encouragingly, thankful her sister was asking for something simple.

"Maybe you'd have to answer a phone call or two, but it's just for a couple of days until the event this weekend!" Feyre said. 

Elain gave her sister a soft smile, "It would be no problem at all," she said. Elain had done similar work before; she volunteered at the local church in town, helping organize fundraising drives. Her boyfriend Greyson had wanted her to be more involved in the community, so she had done it, finding it enjoyable. 

Feyre leaned over and gave another bone-crushing hug.

"Great, thank you so, so much," Feyre squealed. Elain attempted to say something but settled for patting her sister's back until she could breathe again. 

The next day, Elain situated herself at the gallery's front desk, admiring the dark wood's smoothness under her fingertips. Feyre had failed to mention that this was more of an administrative job than an actual volunteer role, but Elain didn't mind. It was apparent Feyre deeply cared about this gallery. Every detail of the building had been negotiated and meticulously designed into her sister's dream space. 

That said, Feyre had left Elain with a packet of poorly written instructions that had taken her almost an hour to decipher. She was responsible for checking the gallery info-email to provide answers to any of the customers that were joining in the evening. She was also to print out and prep name tags, amongst various miscellaneous tasks, to make the event easier the night of. 

The phone interrupted Elain's blissful silence. 

Elain rushed over from where she was sliding names into the plastic sleeves, nearly tripping over her own feet. She took a deep breath and offered her most professional tone. 

"Starlight Galleries, this is Elain” 

"Hey…this is Azriel." a deep, masculine voice rumbled. 

"Azriel?" Elain said. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to know who he was. She flipped through the packet, but Feyre had not mentioned an Azriel. Even so, he had the most alluring voice she had ever heard. She twisted the cord of the old-style phone around her finger. 

"You're Feyre's sister, right? I'm one of Rhys's friends," he said. 

"Oh," Elain said breathlessly. "Yeah, that's me. Hi. How can I help you?" 

"Well, Cassian and I are delivering one of the sets that Feyre had designed. We're in the back. Could you open the garage door and let us in so we can drop it off?" 

"Right! Yes, she mentioned that. Give me a moment, and I'll get back there." Elain said. Without thinking, she hung up the phone and shivered. If he was as half as hot as he sounded, she might die on this trip. Elain regretted not wearing one of her nicer sundresses today. 

She changed the gallery sign to closed and grabbed the keys from the desk drawer where Feyre said they would be. She then scurried to the back and unlocked the door to the storage area. Elain hit the garage button, and the door on the far wall crept up slowly. She could see the feet of two men standing there. The reveal would have been dramatic and almost cheesy if this had been a movie, but the door couldn't move fast enough for her.

When she saw Azriel, her mouth went dry. 

She had seen Cassian many times before. Cassian was the type of boyfriend who often stole Nesta's phone, took pictures, and sent them to her entire phone book (and that is how her many exes found out she was no longer available), but Az…she had never seen a picture of him. He was tall and broad and wore a determined expression, emphasizing a sharp jawline. The way he looked her over made her knees threaten to buckle. 

Elain wanted to run away or run to him. She wasn't sure. She rested her hand against the wall so she wouldn't fall over. Dramatic, she thought. She was being so dramatic. It hadn't been that long since she had dated Greyson, so why could she feel her face flush a bright shade of pink? Elain stood there, nearly dumbfounded.

"Delivery!" Cassian said with a wave. He raised his brows at Elain and laughed sharply, throwing his head back. Elain looked carefully over at Az again. He stood in jeans and a tight, muscle tank, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. 

"Right," Elain said as she met his hazel eyes. "Let me get you a cart." 

Between the three of them, they could maneuver the set into the gallery for Feyre to decorate with art for her event. Elain had swung by the kitchenette and brought the two men some water. Cassian took him with a grin and walked to the back room, launching into an animated phone call with Nesta. Elain sat behind the desk, trying to avoid gawking at Azriel, who leaned against the wall beside her. 

"Are you woodcarvers by trade?" Elain ventured, eyeing the wood structure that now took up half of the gallery space. 

"No, we're just transporting stuff. Feyre's outsourced the building to someone else." Azriel's eyes bore into hers momentarily, and then she looked away. He wiped the sweat from his face and took another swig of water. Despite the AC going, Elain watched a bead of sweat roll down the side of his neck. 

"Well, Feyre seems very excited," she said. Elain wondered if there was any reasonable way for her to pat his muscular arm without it being obvious that she merely wanted to feel him up. Deciding against it, she started twirling a pen.

"Are you coming to the event then?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, giving her a sly smile. "And you?" 

"I'll be checking in guests at the front."

Azriel hummed at this and wiped another bead of sweat from his forehead. "Let me know if anyone gives you trouble. Most of Feyre's friends are harmless. But some of them…" he trailed off.  

Elain nodded, not entirely sure what he meant. "I will." 

"Let me give you my number just in case," he held out his hand, and Elain gave him her phone, savoring how her fingers brushed his in the exchange. He typed in a couple of things and then sent off a message, which led to a vibration in his pants pocket. Elain used every ounce of her willpower not to stare at the front of his jeans where his phone was clearly outlined.  

"There you go," he said. 

She sputtered before she could help herself, "Are you delivering the rest of the supplies? I mean… Feyre said there's at least of couple more…." 

Azriel gave her a half smile. "We are. You're still going to be here?" 

"Yeah!" she said, praying she didn't seem overzealous. She was just excited about Feyre's gallery show. That's all.

"I'll call you directly next time," Azriel murmured as Cassian returned to the room, complaining about how Nesta had hung up on him. Elain wasn't sure what he had said after, her mind moving a mile a minute as she watched Azriel pat Cassian on the arm. After a moment, the two nodded goodbye. Elain smiled back, forgetting how to speak. 

When the two men had left, Elain faceplanted onto the cool wood of the desk, cringing at the whole affair. She was in for it now.

#acotarwritingcircle #azriel x elain #modern day au #Feyre is on redbull im sorry #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #rhysand #cassian #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger

[somethingclever666]

More byers family headcanons!!

-will missed castle byers and eleven missed her blanket fort, so they make a new and improved castle-fort in the backyard and go out all the time to read comics (El has been reading lots of Wonder Woman comics)

-every time Jonathan gets home, he checks on Will, to make sure he’s still there

-Joyce didn’t have a lot of money to take El clothes shopping, so Nancy and max gave her some of their clothes to give to her

-argyle always brings a pizza when he comes over after a shift, and always dares el to try a slice with something like ice cream or mustard or some other weird ingredient. She always believes he means it’s supposed to be good, and her brothers can’t stop her from trying

-Joyce picks them up from school on fridays, and lets them pick out a movie to watch

-El is part of her first family fight when they lose the remote and Jonathan claims he saw her sitting on it (it’s a good thing she didn’t have her powers)

-Will has to wrangle the remote from her hands on saturdays because she is a chronic channel surfer and he wants to see cartoons

-Joyce comes into wills room with some fruit or leftovers when he hasn’t left his room in a couple hours and asks what he’s working on

-Jonathan jokingly suggests El should learn some magic tricks but this backfires when she perfects the quarter-behind-your-ear trick and performs it approximately 7,000 times

-will painted butterflies on El’s walls because she thought they were pretty

-El picks flowers for Joyce and she has several vases full of bouquets now

-El forgets about money sometimes and has to be supervised or else she starts shoplifting

-one time when Jonathan is high he offers the blunt to El and she inhales a little too much and starts crying because she’ll never have hair as pretty as argyle’s, which is all the colors of the rainbow and swishing all around the room

-El has her first inside joke with the byers when she announces excitedly that all their names start with j (Joyce, Jonathan, Jane), with Will going “oh so guess you can call me Jill now” and they proceed to call him Jill for a month

-this includes a letter to Mike that confuses him deeply

-Joyce loves coffee and accidentally got Will hooked on it when neither of them could go to sleep cause of nightmares. They have lots of long nights drinking coffee and watching tv or talking together

-When Jonathan tries to get will to quit, eleven chimes in “mornings are for coffee and contemplation” and will high fives her

-the byers go all out for Christmas and El especially loves putting up ornaments on the tree that are handmade

-for Halloween, eleven wants to match with will, so they go as luke and leia

-one time Joyce picks up the phone and it’s Mike, but she’s so tired and in Customer Service mode, can’t understand that he’s trying to talk to will and instead talks him into buying some product before hanging up on him. He cries for half an hour after that.

-Jonathan tries to compensate for the lack of pictures of El by having her do a daily outfit picture (fit check) and dedicating a scrapbook in her honor

-when Nancy visits, she always brings some stuff of hers she thinks El will like, and El slowly builds something akin to a Nancy shrine because of this

-Nancy also gets art books for will, and he makes sure to get her a snack that they don’t have in Hawkins, which always makes Jonathan complain that Will is outshining him (Nancy laughs and Mike is jealous he didn’t get anything)

-Joyce says hello to the neighbors three weeks after moving in, and manages to actually make some neighbor friends despite the late greeting

-will is a really good presenter and helps El practice all of her presentations

-El and max have another sleepover and el made them matching Wonder Woman crowns

-El likes to brush Joyce’s hair, and she always tells Joyce she looks pretty when she’s done

#stranger things #byers family #joyce byers #jonathan byers #will byers #jane byers #eleven #jane hopper #nancy wheeler #mike wheeler #max mayfield #sorry I just had to do more #byler #elmax

[crypticroleplays]

And we are back here again folks! I've got some writing urges again and some new ideas brewing so I'm bringing forward some roleplay ideas and scenarios!

All of these share a general world building theme and that is Dragons, specifically Dragon Riders.

I'll be keeping mostly everything vague in terms of characters since this will be for both potential original character content AND my usual choice of DSMP Characters! I am slightly more partial towards DSMP stuff so I will say those characters are preferred just due to my own au ideas but I am also interested in potentially doing some stuff with original fellas.

For some of my general rules with roleplaying and specifically DSMP stuff go here

In general, I prefer to roleplay with people 18+ and am a fairly literate writer! I'm down for almost anything within reason aside from that - minus obvious exceptions (i.e. incest/underage+adult pairings, etc.)

---

Not so much a needed note but there's a pretty high chance of me doing art for at least the dragons for any rp I do - I just like drawin dragons your honor.

---

General Ideas/Vibes:

-Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon inspirations, basically just heavy medieval fantasy and wyvern esque dragons (and maybeeee taking some of the world building and/or the setting of Westeros for locations). I am a bit of a sucker for the vibes of asoiaf and how dragon riding is such a rare and powerful commodity, additionally works well for royalty themes!! Note: You do not have to know about the shows/universe in full! I can give details or information it's just kinda the vibes I'm aiming for.

-Dragon riding being a rare if not extinct practice same for dragons themselves. Additionally, going for animalistic dragons, I do like sentient classic dragons but it's just not the vibes for this idea.

-In direct opposite of the main vibes, I'd also be interested in coming up with something that could take place in a semi-modern setting, just to switch it up!

-How to train your Dragon vibes!!! Would also love to maybe do a Httyd themed roleplay, or one in that universe!

-I would also love to do some ships with these concepts, in general I'm a sucker for romantic flights on dragonback what can I say?

---

Scenarios/More Specific Ideas:

#1 | Dragon Thief: In this grand kingdom dragon riding is far from common, a privilege supposedly held only by the reigning royalty of the land and their bloodline, wether it be bastards or not. Though as the kingdom rests on the brink of war rumors spread like dragonflame of a thief - as one of the old unclaimed dragons had supposedly been missing, and by word through smallfolk it seems as if someone had taken the beast. Stole and claimed the dragon under the nose of the rulers. Unrest of the people is a guaranteed, if this is found out to be true so royal decree is sent out - a hefty price for anyone who can find this supposed dragon thief and bring them back. Noble and common people alike are now on the hunt for this individual and the great beast they 'stole'... It's all a matter of who finds them first.

#2 | It's Tough to be a God: The idea of a dragon rider or perhaps a duo of them fleeing their homelands for whatever reason, taking to the skies on the backs of their great winged mounts and flying for shores unknown. They find themselves and their dragons in a new place, that hosts far less dragons - for one reason or another - and this in turn brings forth its own set of trials and tribulations. From the no doubt celebrity esque fame that follows our protagonist(s) to the potential threats from the people of their new 'home', only time will tell on how their escapades will play out.

#3 | Secrecy: A secret friendship (and/or full on relationship) between a royal squire or prince and a supposed "street rat" though the street rat companion turns out to have been the first to hatch a dragon egg in centuries and is now the first dragon rider to exist since the fall of the last rulers. Both have to keep their relations a secret to the greater public especially now, though shadier things are taking place in the shadows - pulling of strings and trading of secrets behind closed doors... After all dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power, so whoever hosts the dragon rider automatically has a boon for the throne of the kingdom.

---

I am also open to hear out other ideas!!! I'm just going off of some concepts I've had rattling around in my brain for a hot minute, but you can 100% throw unique stuff at me!!!

#roleplay #discord rp #dream smp #dream smp roleplay #dsmp roleplay #dsmp rp #new rp #open for rp #cryptic ads and ideas #dragon rider #medieval fantasy #medieval fantasy rp

[tameila]

I know that A-Side is all about the Scanlan-Kaylie/Pike Wedding shenanigans, but I wonder what B-Side is all about 👀

oooh so A-Side and B-Side are going to have concurrent story lines! In other words, they will cover the same stretch of time, but A-Side is Scanlan's POV and B-Side is Pike's. The overall theme for both stories is family.

In A-Side, we see Scanlan grappling with finding out about his daughter and him learning to juggle the new obligations and expectations that come with co-parenting while still trying to build a future with an existing partner who has her own set of needs and expectations of him (& who is also grappling with all this as well).

We haven't gotten it dropped yet in A-Side. We will next chapter! However, the Trickfoot cousins are on the scene.

So, in B-Side, we will see Pike's POV of A-Side's events but also introduce her own up-close-and-personal family dilemma as she reconnects with J.B. and the trouble that brings to her door...

and, example of how the concurrent storylines will (hopefully) work is that, in A-Side, chapter 2 ends with a denouement from Scanlan while at Sybil's apartment. In B-Side, we will actually get a fully formed scene of that night from Pike's POV, including a moment of tense but understanding connection between Sybil and Pike.

I won't spoil much else, because I really do plan to continue A-Side and B-Side as long as people keep turning up, but...here's a few snippets from my notes.... 👀

The next time Pike meets up with JB, their meeting is crashed by Astrid who fawns all over Pike (who she pretends not to know at first) and tries to play off her snooping by claiming that she thought JB was hiding a secret boyfriend or something. Astrid talks about poor Ogden, so frail and sick. (JB never mentioned because she didn’t want to burden Pike). Pike leaves in a rush but she feels terrible leaving JB behind.

Pike’s POV, Pike stands awkwardly back as Scanlan enters the house with Kaylie. Sybil and her lock eyes. Pike apologizes and says she’ll wait in the car, but Sybil invites her inside. They stand in the kitchen while Scanlan and Kaylie talk in the living room.

The fridge has photos and an old art project. There’s those magnetic letters and some of them spell out “shit” and “butts”. Pike’s lip quirk. Sybil, without looking, scrambles them before giving Pike a sheepish look. “Twelve year old humor…”

Sybil asks if Scanlan is good to her. Pike bristles but understands.

Scanlan was supposed to be home in Westruun for Winter’s Crest for the first time. However, the week before, he gets an invite from Kaylie to attend her choir performance. She has a solo. She’s very excited. Pike waves off Scanlan’s apologies and his offers to go with him. She only has so many Winter’s Crests left with Wilhand.

She’s more upset than she lets on and is mad at herself for feeling that way.

The next week, she’s surprised by Ogden and co showing up in Westruun under the guise of – through JB’s reconnecting with Pike – wanting to reconnect with Wilhand

Astrid making snide comments about Scanlan not being there that get under Pike’s skin

When Ogden makes a comment about staying somewhere, Pike is curt in telling them that they don’t have room at the house. After they’re gone, she sits with Wilhand and apologizes to him for getting short with their guests. That’s not how he raised her. Wilhand reassures her that it’s okay. He had felt overwhelmed. He was glad she was there to support him.

#WIP meme #The Sun Always Rises #also just like how the prologue for A-Side was from Sybil's POV not Scanlan's #the prologue for B-Side will be from another third party character teehee

[bmmmindset]

Are you like this, always busy, never have time to calm down, feeling tired and stressed? Never the time to take a break at work?

How are you supposed to  become relaxed if you don't have enough breaks during the day. 😱

Is it actually possible to feel relaxed in a busy job and leave your work at work without going home exhausted as a result of bringing your work back home with you?! 🤯

I bet you’ve tried a dozen times... And nothing has quite worked for you, right?

How do you find the ⏰ TIME ⏰ to relax and slow down your daily stream of constant activity… if you're a extremely busy person  with kids or have a full time job?

How do you justify spending money on programs that require you to buy equipment  if you barely use it?

😨 Why's it so nerve-racking to go through endless books or classes to learn something’?

Is the constant battle to enjoy your work and become a more relaxed person really worth it?

Can you really get happy and enjoy time with your family and friends with a relaxed mind and body without endless meditation or learning new things that might help you.

🤔 And when should you be able to enjoy work when you are feeling exhausted?

🤔 Should you even go to classes you don't like and take even more precious time?

🤔 Are you doing these kinds of classes ? How often?

🤔 What about reading a dozen books if you don’t like reading?

 STOP. JUST STOP. 🤯

If any (or all) of the above questions run through your head… day after day… I might be able to help.

Hey, it's Rody  here… 👋

And, while I don't claim to know it all, I do have the knowledge to teach you how to calm and cooperate with your  body, mind and movement, and so your  life  by creating a sustainable step by step action plan. I  call those who follow my easy to do training,  Martial Thinkers 💪 because you will use a mindset from a Martial Art called Aikido.

And yet…

Not that long ago, I was in your shoes.

Those early days were rough.

I'd take a step forward only to take three more back. I was drowning in too much work in too little time.

Anyways, if that's kinda how you feel right now...

Let me give you a road map, so that you stop hitting dead ends or getting lost on back roads, and instead take the fast lane to a relaxed life  that you can be proud of.

Let me show you by the following statement: Learn it today, remember it forever💪 It is SO EASY!

👇 Here is what I’m proposing. 👇

I believe that there are more like you that reach out to me asking for my help.

So I had this crazy idea to build a step by step plan  that will guide you from going to work tired and grudgingly to going to work with a happy face and the knowledge to calm yourself . Learn how to do this with the 6 -  weeks “Body, Mind and Movement The Aikido Mindset Challenge”.

No fluff. No messing around, just a simple plan to take you from tired, unhappy and stressed to a happy more relaxed and in control personality..

✅ If you are interested in claiming one of the 10 spots available, comment below with: I AM A MARTIAL THINKER

👉 More details to follow tomorrow, on Instagram @Body_Mind_Movement   at 19.00 hours CET ( Central European Time ).

From one Martial thinker to the other Martial Thinker

Rody

#movement #aikido #stressrelief #relax #mindset

[jiracheer]

authors note: sorry for not posting requests n what not. I needed to write this piece as a form of self comfort </3

reader uses she/her pronouns, wanted to try something new! reader is also an artist :]

tags: a bit angsty, but ends on a good note!

She was beyond frustrated, but not exactly angry. Maybe upset? She wasn't sure. It was so hard figuring out how she felt and perhaps it made her even more confused about the whole thing.

"I just can't do it!" Tossing her laptop to the side onto the plush bed she had claimed that evening, she drew her knees to her chest. Squeezing her legs closely to her frame with heavy sigh through her nostrils, shame and embarrassment washed over her. She was overreacting. She knew she was, but she couldn't help but react the way she was.

Glancing back over at the drawing displayed on the screen of her laptop, a look of disgust settled deeply on her typically soft face. She had spent so long on it and put every ounce of herself into it as well, and yet, it wasn't looking good to her. And she needed this piece out soon.

Before she could even get angry again, a sudden smack of insecurities hit her over the head. Why wasn't she getting it? She had a reference, she had spoken to her friends about the piece, even got their insight! But it just. Wasn't sticking. It wasn't looking good. Then she just had to make a scene and pull away from them.

She was ridiculous.

"Dearest? I'm home!"

An oh-so familiar voice rung through the apartment she shared with her lover, and the stress that hung heavily on her shoulders lifted just slightly. "I'm in the room, Ingo." She croaked out, pushing herself off the bed to greet her husband halfway through. Sinking into his arms as he embraced her she nuzzled her face into his chest as he gave her a good squeeze. Lifting her slightly off the ground to make her giggle before settling her back down, brushing a gloved hand over her cheek in the process.

"How was your day, hm? Oh. You look tired... Were you just resting? I am terribly sorry if I woke you." Ingo looked as if he was caught doing something wrong and stroked your cheek, gazing at you with so much love and affection you almost began to cry on the spot.

"Hm? Oh. No, no. Not at all Ingo, I just... I dunno. It's so stupid." She sighed, rubbing at her face. Tears of frustration were already building in her eyes. "It's dumb."

"I'm sure it isn't, my dove." Bringing her again into his embrace, Ingo swayed her gently side to side. "Talk to me. I'm here to listen to you, and to make sure you're well. What kind of husband would I be if I couldn't make your worries go away?" With a kiss to the top of her head, the Subway Boss rested his cheek on her head. "But if you prefer not to talk about it, we can go find something to do. We can go watch that movie you like so much-"

She began to sniffle, feeling so touched by his words. "I... I." She swallowed the lump in her throat, "I wanna talk about it. I just ask that you don't judge me, because. I think I'm still a bit raw about it all."

Ingo nodded silently as he guided her to their bed, sitting next to her with her hands in his own. "I have no reason to judge you." Nodding to let his wife know that he was ready to listen, she took in a deep breath to begin.

"I guess I got really frustrated over this art piece I was working on. I mean, I've been at it for hours. You knows this... I've been sending you w.i.ps when I could, and as much as I loved your feedback." Her smile dwindled as her insecurities crawled up her back. "I couldn't take it. I hate the piece, and I hate my art in general, Ingo. I feel like I'm not where I'm supposed to be, and all of my friends are way ahead of me, I mean. They draw so well and I don't at times. Look at Burgh! He's come so far and it comes so naturally to him, why can't that happen to me-?" Choking up on her words, she shook her head. "I'm jealous of him, of all my art friends, which is so selfish of me, but it's the truth."

She continued on her tangent, going on and on about the thoughts that caused her such distress before sighing through her mouth. She looked more tired, a bit worn out, and possibly even burnt out.

"My sunlight... I'm so sorry you feel this way, truly. It pains me to see you in such a way. I wish I could simply grab that feeling from you, and take it away." Ingo began as he stroked her knuckles with his thumbs. "I love you deeply and think you are a fantastic artist! Now, before you interrupt me, I mean it sincerely. Even before we met I thought you were a stunning creator! Your ideas are unique, your strokes and style scream your name. Whenever I get a chance to see your art I am filled with joy, and you inspire me to be the best that I can be with my own job. Which sounds odd since we both work in different professions, but your art is simply that impactful.

"What I'm trying to say is... It will be difficult for you to get over this mental hurdle, but I know you'll be able to get through it because I'll be here to help you every step of the way. As will your friends! Why don't we look at the sketch together, hm? See what we can change and adjust? And if you still don't like it at the end... That's fine! We can move along and start something new. How does that sound?"

Gracing her with one of his rare smiles, Ingo reaches upwards to grab the back of her neck to gently bring her head down to kiss her forehead. That starts the waterworks. All the pent up emotions came out with ease as she sniffled and sobbed in front of her husband. His support meant the world to her and him being so patient with her meant even more, she couldn't help but throw her arms around him to embrace the silver haired man.

"T-Thank you Ingo, I'd love that. Really I would. It would mean a lot." She wept into his shoulder, sinking into him as he rubbed her back.

"Then we'll get to it... After you take a break. I'll go get takeout from your favorite restaurant, and we'll spend the rest of the evening relaxing. Come morning we'll face this head on." The conductor rose to his feet, hands still holding hers with a fond smile.

With one final nod from her, Ingo let go of her hands and pulled out his phone to get the order started as he left the room. She could hear him instruct his Pokemon to go comfort her while he was gone, and a large smile replaced her sad features when she heard Crustle's familiar clunks were met with Excadrill's complaints towards the bug-rock Pokemon for ruining the surprise, meanwhile Chandelure was already singing a song for her as they entered the room.

Leaning back on the bed, she felt more at peace. More at ease. And with one final glance at her laptop screen, to gaze at the drawing, she no longer felt frustrated. But hopeful.

#. 🥣 fics #pokemon #pokemon x reader #subway boss ingo #pokemon ingo x reader #subway boss ingo x reader #submas x reader #ingo x reader

[monkeyandelf]

Paul Laffoley: alien implant, occult obsession or manipulated autistic?

Boston-based artist and architect Paul Laffoley (1935–2015) had a strong affinity for mysticism, the occult, and theology, but claimed he had an alien implant in his head that influenced his work. According to Laffoley, it is thanks to this implanted chip that he managed to create bright and unusual paintings and architectural visions.  His more critical fans are sure that "there is no alien implant" and his works were influenced and manipulated mostly by the personality of his father, who, although he worked as a lawyer, was a great lover of occult, Eastern religious practices, and was also supposed to be a medium. In his youth, Laffoley was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. He lived for years in the home of an Indian Brahmin who taught mathematics at Harvard. Paul himself said that his first spoken word was "Constantinople" at the age of 6 months, and then he did not say anything until he was four years old.

From an early age, LaFollie showed an obsessive interest in UFOs He watched the movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still" 873 times. He explained that his obsessive interest in the movie was partly due to his fascination with the film's spaceship architecture, which was subconscious early in his life. As a child he wanted to become an architect to design "flying saucers", but became a registered architect when he was 50 years old. Despite critics, in 1992, during a routine CT scan, an abnormal object was discovered in Paul Laffoley's brain.  He shared with the public: "In preparation for major oral surgery, I underwent a routine CT scan of my head. As a result, a miniature metal "implant" was discovered in my brain next to the pineal gland.MUFON experts declared it a "nanotechnology" capable of speeding up or slowing down my brain activity. I came to believe that the implant was of extraterrestrial origin and was the main motivation for my ideas and theories.”

The paintings he painted have been exhibited in prestigious galleries, including Kent Fine Art in New York. Often they are filled with square mandala-style designs and various occult symbols such as the pentagram, the All-Seeing Eye, etc. In addition to painting, Laffoley was an architect, and his most famous work is related to the World Trade Center in New York. The floor plans of the Twin Towers, which collapsed as a result of the September 11, 2001 attacks, were drawn up by him.

Occult symbols, pentagrams, the All-Seeing Eye, blown-up buildings. What did Paul Laffoley had in his head? An alien implant, an occult obsession, or both just because they couldn't turn off? Was he a manipulated autistic person, or something completely different? Read the full article

#alienimplants #Occulttech

[pikminenjoyer]

I finished Sense and Sensibility and it was great! Lost a few points due to me not liking Edward that much but I'll get over it.

This means its time for another round of CHOOSE MY NEXT READ!!!

This time, with propaganda included!

The Bell Jar - The Bell Jar chronicles the crack-up of Esther Greenwood: brilliant, beautiful, enormously talented, and successful, but slowly going under—maybe for the last time. Sylvia Plath masterfully draws the reader into Esther's breakdown with such intensity that Esther's insanity becomes completely real and even rational, as probable and accessible an experience as going to the movies

Anxious people - Viewing an apartment normally doesn’t turn into a life-or-death situation, but this particular open house becomes just that when a failed bank robber bursts in and takes everyone in the apartment hostage. As the pressure mounts, the eight strangers begin slowly opening up to one another and reveal long-hidden truths.

Catch-22 - Set in Italy during World War II, this is the story of the incomparable, malingering bombardier, Yossarian, a hero who is furious because thousands of people he has never met are trying to kill him. But his real problem is not the enemy—it is his own army, which keeps increasing the number of missions the men must fly to complete their service. Yet if Yossarian makes any attempt to excuse himself from the perilous missions he’s assigned, he’ll be in violation of Catch-22, a hilariously sinister bureaucratic rule: a man is considered insane if he willingly continues to fly dangerous combat missions, but if he makes a formal request to be removed from duty, he is proven sane and therefore ineligible to be relieved.

Rosemary's Baby - Suppose you were an up-to-date young wife who moved into an old and elegant New York apartment house with a rather strange past. Suppose that only after you became pregnant did you begin to suspect the building harbored a diabolically evil group of devil worshippers who had mastered the arts of black magic and witchcraft. Suppose that this satanic conspiracy set out to claim not only your husband but your baby.

Well, that's what happened to Rosemary... Or did it...?

Too Like the Lightning - Mycroft Canner is a convict. For his crimes he is required, as is the custom of the 25th century, to wander the world being as useful as he can to all he meets. Carlyle Foster is a sensayer--a spiritual counselor in a world that has outlawed the public practice of religion, but which also knows that the inner lives of humans cannot be wished away.

Daughter of the Moon Goddess - Growing up on the moon, Xingyin is accustomed to solitude, unaware that she is being hidden from the feared Celestial Emperor who exiled her mother for stealing his elixir of immortality. But when Xingyin’s magic flares and her existence is discovered, she is forced to flee her home, leaving her mother behind.

Alone, powerless, and afraid, she makes her way to the Celestial Kingdom, a land of wonder and secrets. Disguising her identity, she seizes an opportunity to learn alongside the emperor's son, mastering archery and magic, even as passion flames between her and the prince.

To save her mother, Xingyin embarks on a perilous quest, confronting legendary creatures and vicious enemies across the earth and skies. But when treachery looms and forbidden magic threatens the kingdom, she must challenge the ruthless Celestial Emperor for her dream—striking a dangerous bargain in which she is torn between losing all she loves or plunging the realm into chaos

#anti booktok #booklr #poll #my next read #rosemary's baby #the bell jar #too like the lightning #daughter of the moon goddess #dotmg #anxious people #catch 22 #booktok #books #book time

[simonbragg82]

Minecraft Player Spends two Years Creating A Virtual City

Minecraft player spends two years building virtual city By Zoe Kleinman Technology reporter, BBC News

17 October 2014

A student from Delaware has spent two years building an imaginary world that he named Titan City in the video game Minecraft.

Titan City is built out of 4.5 million Minecraft building blocks and contains 96 buildings.

Duncan Parcells claims it took him two years to build and that he works up to five hours a week on the project.

The first building he built was a virtual model of the World Trade Center, which took 18 months to finish.

The 19-year-old however says Titan City is not a real-life model of New York.

He said to the BBC, "It's inspired New York."

"A majority of people believe that it's a pastime, but it's not."

He constructed the city with the Xbox 360 version of Minecraft but has now moved it to the PC version that, he says, offers more construction opportunities.

Mr Parcells plans on adding an airport and an arena for sports.

He said, "I suppose it's an outlet to architecture and energy."

"I've always liked architecture. I'm most proud of more traditional buildings, and the more Victorian, art deco builds.

"A lot of people drop by and want to walk around and explore, or assist with the build. Many of them assist in helping construct roads. MINECRAFT SERVERS

While Titan City has been welcomed with open arms Mr Parcells declared that he's kept his virtual world a distance from his real life.

He said, "I've kept this under wraps. It's sort of like a different life I'm not talking about however, people are beginning to find out."

"My parents think it's cool. I'm sure they're content that I don't play it all the time."

Microsoft recently signed an agreement to acquire Minecraft studio Mojang in a deal worth $2.5bn (PS1.5bn).

The game reached its 100 millionth player in February 2014, the game's creator Markus Persson, aka Notch announced on Twitter.

After an initial purchase of the game Minecraft is completely free to play, however there are in-game purchases that can be purchased.

The game is set in a virtual environment made of cubes of different materials. Almost all of these can be used to build blocks, and a few of them can be refined into usable raw materials (wood diamond, iron, etc.).

The game demands you to survive by building shelters using blocks and turn raw materials and combinations thereof into useful items (swords and bows, armor and bows, etc.) to beat the various monsters in the game.

Minecraft map of UK includes homes

24 September 2014

#minecraft servers #MINECRAFTSERVERS

[blue-opossum]

The Glass Blower

        The Glass Blower

        Tuesday morning, 4 April 2023.

        Dream #: 20,560-01.

        2 minutes and 15 seconds to read.

        My dream's setting has the essence of the living room of the Cubitis house mixed with the kitchen of my present home, but my waking-life identity is not predominant. Even so, an aspect of my current status builds upon protoconsciousness dynamics. It relates to creating art, or what people call art.

        An unknown object sits atop a large table on my left. It may be a large box but could also be an analog television. Protoconsciousness personifies as an unfamiliar man. He is looking at something on the other side of the box that I do not yet see. He seems appreciative of what he sees.

        "Someone is a glass blower?" He says. I realize he is looking at my art, which consists of more than a dozen beautiful glass figures that are red and semi-transparent. I say "yes" even though I know a 3D printer made them based on my input. It is common for my dream self to make up concepts to "answer" protoconsciousness, not an untruth - but something imaginative to account for an illusion. It is one of many dream state factors I have never seen anyone else understand or acknowledge correctly.

        I focus on a semi-transparent red glass sphere with a rough texture. It is beautiful. Although there are also figures of people and animals, I remain focused on the globe.

        The underlying dynamics that built this dream relate to A.I. art and all the popular misconceptions that go with it.

        In waking life, over the past several days, I have experimented with A.I. art as much as possible, learning everything I can and making over 15,000 images while publishing only 2,200 in my account.

        As with the endless mindless folklore of dreams (that makes it impossible to converse intelligently with someone about the subject - publicly speaking), I find when it comes to A.I. art, people invent bizarre endless claims (as with dream lore) - pulling nonsensical ideas out of the air and holding them as a "belief" or worse - supposed "facts" when they could not be more wrong. Most of it, as with most conversations (and publications) about dreams, is annoying gibberish. Even so, I appreciate the likes I get for "my" art, but I feel strange when someone pretends I was the one who created the image.

        I leave my prompts open at times and closed at others - but typically give it multiple possibilities and enjoy being surprised by what it renders. Ultimately, it does not matter that much. Even a simple prompt with one instruction, A.I. can rarely get right. If you study what people write and what the technology produces for a given image, you will find that it rarely "listens" to what is in a text prompt (kind of like people), especially the new version (SDXL). The idea of the negative prompt (or telling the so-called A.I. what NOT to render) is absurd beyond words.

        For example, I instructed the (SDXL) A.I. to render a painting of a doll, and it made a photograph of a bridge.

        Even so, I use version 1.5 to model most of what I make (as higher versions do not work for what I want to make), and I enjoy modeling artists and integrating different styles. As in this dream, I enjoy rendering 3D models of figures and objects with different textures and materials.

#dream journal #meaning of dreams #dreaming #my dreams

[hakesbros]

Communities

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See gross sales marketing consultant for details regarding the builder’s Smart Home options and prices. Photograph is for illustrative functions solely and is not an actual illustration of any options or design of a specific homes or options supplied. This materials shall not constitute a legitimate provide in any state the place prior registration is required or void by legislation.

Once labeled Texas' most eccentric neighborhood by Texas Monthly journal, Southtown is known for its various community, art galleries, eating places, and Victorian era homes. There is a heavy focus of resident artists and up to date art spaces, such new home builders san antonio as those found on emerging South Flores. Restaurants and bars in Southtown include Bar America, Blue Star Brewing Company , Rosario's, La Tuna, El Mirador, and The Friendly Spot. Art spaces and galleries include Blue Star Contemporary Art Center, UTSA Satellite Space, San Antonio Art League, SAY Si!

A new location of the Goddard School and CFISD’s Middle School No. 20 will open in Bridgeland this year. Carman said commercial progress should decide up in 2023 as floor breaks on Village Green at Bridgeland Central, which will open in 2024 with an H-E-B and mass timber workplace building. “We’re really in the homes for sale san antonio tx bullseye of what Houston will appear to be 10 or 15 years from now. Many of the projections say that Cypress would be the heart of metropolitan Houston inside the subsequent 20 years. One of the most notable homes in Government Hill is the Romanesque Revival-style Lambermont , inbuilt 1894.

For families who enjoy the small city feel while still accessing a bigger city, Homestead will be an exquisite place to call home and find a newly built single household home for his or her beloved one. To view more new construction homes for sale, see the alphabetical list of cities and suburbs within the space above. Click on any of the listed suburbs to visit that metropolis's new construction page.

For most of us that is just speak, we wish to see household or pals extra often, but busy schedules get in the greatest way. Although should you assume you may be ready to make that household compund that you’ve at all times wished this property in San Antonio, Texas could be the right place to make it happen. EisnerAmper provides particular methods to protect mental property and what to do in case your IP rights have been infringed upon. The new settlement “would permit us to have a very extensive number of product choices and actually approach housing affordability and attainability, which is a continuing challenge in this market,” Wagner informed the council. Unlike a public enchancment district, municipal administration districts are principally managed by a district board somewhat than the town itself. An impeccable example of the Chicago School architectural style, this building has been reimagined into trendy, well-designed residences ideally positioned in downtown Detroit.

Learn more about our partnership with Pulte Mortgage. The traditional Mckinney provides one level of straightforward residing house, including a fantastic room with optionally available hearth and a sunny nook, plus lined rear patio. Culinary enthusiasts will love entertaining within the connoisseur kitchen, and make good use of the optional examine. San Antonio has much to offer for every type of new home consumers and Ashton Woods is amongst the premier home builders within the area.

#real estate

[sigmonhinson6]

Simple Steps To Getting Started With System Marketing

Should you can't be seriously interested in multilevel marketing, you can not entirely have any success. There are many individuals that take care of this process as though it have been a pastime, the greatest blunder you might make. Establish the best goes starting with these essential multi-level marketing ideas. Enrolling team members is just not a job, it's a form of art. Get started with learning how to bring men and women to your company's occasions to listen to a business presentation. If your invitees basically show up and register after the presentation, you may well be able to recruit new team members. One of the biggest problems that people associated with multi-level marketing deal with is laziness or simply just acquiring also cozy. Despite the fact that mlm can provide you with results rapidly, it is not a get rich quick plan. It takes work! For that reason, to achieve success you need to treat it as with any other job and set up hours each day dedicated to your job. 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#ull #promote your business #pro