#i forgot her eye bogs

[ghouljams]

jumping off of that other anon about love and war: discussion on pieces of art (like the Brunswicker) or poetry (Lord Byron) who combine that sense of devoted love and helplessness. love recites Byron to simon and it turns him on, not because it's Byron, but because it's her (and he loves the way her mouth moves)

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes

Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground

When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise

From thence, if thou an early grave hadst found.

Ghost is absolutely entranced by every part of this woman, but her mouth? The way she smiles at him makes his heart stop. The way she talks to him is like music, he can't help but want to listen to her for hours. He's down astronomical. Love is awful for his sanity and yet he can't turn her away like he does everyone else.

It's just- She's smart. She's smart enough to know better than to like him, than to go after a guy like him, and yet here she is. She perches on his desk to read Vonnegut just so she can turn to him and point out her favorite section, or ask his thoughts on whatever philosophy the book is lecturing. Love is the sort of pretty he'd never go after at a bar, the sort that has too much life to be bogged down by the type of love he has to offer. Absolute, rabid, devotion. And yet! And yet she knocks on his door, and leaves little notes in his books, and takes an interest in him in a way that no one else has. He almost touches her on purpose once, just to check that he hasn't imagined her. He thinks better of it.

Love jokes with him, to him about him. She's so... lovely. She's a fountain of knowledge, always inviting him to drink, and where he thought once that he was drowning in a sea of people he finds himself parched. He's alone when he's not with her. He finds his eyes on the lecture hall doors, watching for her. He tracks his time for office hours closer, waiting an extra few minutes for her. That's how he finds himself in her lectures, drawn to her when he can't stand being away any longer. He hovers in the back, unsure why he's even there, though he always comes with an excuse, and wonders why he enjoys her flirting so much.

She's discussing the anthropological importance of "heroes" the way that humanity craves the safety of them. The shift in ideals, the Byronic hero. Ghost wonders if this might not serve a literature class better, he glances at a nearby student's notes and sees the class is cross listed: "Human evolution through story telling." He got his times wrong, this isn't the philosophy one.

"Speaking of heroes," Love grins, and Ghost knows that's for him, "Simon, my favorite Byronic gentleman, here to recite some poetry for us?" God the way she says his name, he might need a pace maker to keep his heart beating the way it's supposed to. He holds up a paperback, and she shakes her head. "Knew I forgot something."

Love holds her hand out, and despite his better judgement Ghost walks down the lecture hall steps to hand the book to her. She flips through the pages, and almost seems disappointed. He's reminded of the little notes she leaves him in the books she returns. That's different though, those are in scholarly texts, this is a copy of Kafka's "Metamorphosis." She already heard his thoughts on it. Maybe not all of them, she'd started leaning too far over and he'd had to kick her out before she noticed him staring down her shirt, but enough.

"Not a poetry guy," Ghost tells her, she always seems to perk up when he talks. Now is no different, the light comes back to her smile as she glances up at him.

"I can start it off." She offers. Ghost hesitates, glancing back at the silent lecture hall, and gives a short nod.

"I watched thee when the foe was at our side,/ Ready to strike at him—or thee and me,/ Were safety hopeless—rather than divide/ Aught with one loved save love and liberty." He watches that pretty mouth shape the words, his head tipping with a gentle shake. One loved, together intertwined even in hopelessness. Love and Death, it's funny... he actually knows this one.

"I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock/ Received our prow, and all was storm and fear," Ghost swallows, frowning against Love's eager stare, something woefully soft in her eyes feels as sharp as a knife when he meets them. He looks away, finds more eyes, looks back. He lowers his voice, feels the rasp of it in his throat, the sticky promises he wants to make, hidden behind a stranger's words, "And bade thee cling to me through every shock;/ This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier." She's so dangerously close to him, stupidly close with those sweet lips curved like sin into a smile. "Love dwells not in our will." Ghost breathes.

"You're skipping ahead," Love leans in to whisper. Ghost can't help the way he leans as well, the tip of his head and aborted raise of his hand. Ghost stiffens, straightens and turns to go. He can't be around this woman any more. She's going to be the death of him. "Bye Simon," She calls after him.

"Dr. Riley," He grumbles. One student sitting on the aisle notes in the group chat later that they aren't sure if he was correcting her, or extending a similar goodbye, with a teeny-weeny Freudian slip.

#x oc #simon ghost riley #cod x oc #ghost x oc #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #oc: love #professor au #professor!ghost #f!oc #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #Love and Ghost talking about Cat's Cradle #Ghost has never been more in love with someone in his life

[spookyjuicefiction]

Violets & Plums: Astarion/Tav, Part 2

Part 1 Masterlist A/N: no thoughts, just bitchy vampire man and his Big Feelings

------------------------------------------------

In spite of his nagging uncertainty regarding what had happened between he and Tav the night before, Astarion emerged from his tent that morning in the best mood he'd felt in ages. His mind felt clearer than he could ever remember, and he could hardly even feel the scratching of his thirst in his throat. He only wished he didn't have Tav's blood to thank for it. He hated feeling like he owed her something.

Still, her willingness to allow him to drink from her boded well for his plan to seduce her into submission. With his newfound strength, he was ready to turn on the charm and entice her to his bed for a different purpose this time. And, well, if he could get a little blood out of it as well, then the deal was all the sweeter.

He was happily busying himself by packing up to head out for the day when Karlach's voice cut through the morning quiet around the campsite: "Gods, what in the hells happened to you?"

He turned to look. Tav had just emerged from her tent, and she really did look like hell. She was unusually pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair hung limply around her face and her shoulders sagged. Astarion winced slightly at the sight, knowing it was likely due to blood loss from his overindulgence.

"Didn't sleep well," she grumbled, helping herself to a scoop of scrambled eggs at the campfire. Shadowheart and Gale, who were eating nearby, exchanged a worried look that Tav did not miss.

"I'm fine," she insisted, "no need to worry. Had.. a headache that kept me up last night, that's all."

Astarion smirked to himself. That's one way of putting it.

If Tav was insisting she was fine, Astarion was not about to spoil his good day feeling guilty about her. He walked in the front of the party for once, cracking jokes and making witty commentary. He did not realize what a wide departure this was from his usual petulant brooding in the back of the group until Shadowheart fell into step beside him that afternoon.

"You're unusually cheerful today," she remarked. "Any particular reason?"

"Well, darling, the sun is shining, there are so many people that need killing, and I am exceedingly good looking. What more does one need to be cheerful?"

Shadowheart huffed out a laugh. After a moment, she asked, "there wouldn't be any particular reason why you're full of boundless energy and Tav is so exhausted she can barely walk, is there?"

"What?" He asked too quickly. "Why would you ask that?"

"No reason, just an observation," her voice intoned innocence, but Astarion could see impishness in her eyes and playing at the corners of her mouth.

He frowned, irritated. "I don't know what you're insinuating, darling, but in case you forgot: all Tav and I ever do is argue. We don't spend a lot of quality time together."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Please. Haven't you ever heard how schoolboys taunt and tease little girls when they have a crush on them?"

"A crush?!" Astarion's voice came out higher pitched than he would've liked. "What an asinine and juvenile notion, even for you." He snorted. "I assure you, I wish Tav nothing but pure misery for the rest of her days."

He saw the half-elf roll her eyes again. "If you say so, Astarion."

"I do say so," he snapped, and then sped up so that they were no longer walking in step. So much for not spoiling a good day.

It only got worse when Tav insisted they would help two idiots find their sister who was apparently taken by a hag, and this led them through the nastiest, most putrid bog Astarion had ever seen. Every day he missed Baldur's Gate more.

"Who cares about some brat? If she went to a hag, that sounds like her business," he complained through gritted teeth as foggy bog water splashed over his boots.

"Hags perverse magic. They're foul creatures. The people of this area won't be safe until she's disposed of." Tav led the group now, apparently undeterred by the unpleasantness of their walk.

"Goodness, I've never heard you so vicious!" Astarion brought his hand to his heart in mock shock. "I guess the kitten does have claws."

"Tav is right. We can't let this hag get away with using magic to lure innocents into false deals," said Gale, and Astarion rolled his eyes. Of course that bookish fiend would rush to her defense. He wanted to shoot an arrow into his stupid hair.

"I look forward to cutting her down. It has been many days since we've seen combat," Lae'zel hissed, cracking her knuckles. "I ache for battle."

"Well, I don't," Astarion sniffled. "I ache for a massage and a nice bottle of brandy."

"Perhaps we should rest for lunch and gather our strength before we charge in with weapons blazing," piped up Wyll, indicating a dry-looking hill that would suit. The others mumbled agreement and made their way up to the spot, fanning out to sit on rocks and pull food out of their packs.

Astarion settled on a large, fallen tree on the edge of the clearing and pulled an apple out of his bag and began to peel it, so as to appear that he was eating. To his chagrin, Tav sat on the other end of the log, shooting him an annoyed look.

"Must you always complain?"

But something had caught Astarion's eye and he turned to take it in: a man was approaching their group, and he seemed to be heavily armed. Being the closest to him, Astarion and Tav rose quickly to intercept him.

"Greetings," the man said with a good-natured smile that immediately set Astarion on edge, for some reason. "Forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-vine, and old hunters' trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."

Ugh. Astarion wrinkled his nose. "You're a monster hunter? I'm surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats." He could hear the rest of the party's footsteps approaching behind him. Tav shot him a withering look.

"Ignore the elf, he talks too much," she told the Gur, turning back to him. "What sort of monster are you hunting?"

"A vampire spawn," Astarion stiffened, narrowing his eyes, "but I fear he's gone to ground. I am hoping the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price. When I saw your group, I thought it was best to warn you. His name is Astarion, and he may be very, very dangerous."

"Indeed," Tav cut in, taking a step forward. She had noticed Astarion's hands moving toward his daggers. "And what will you do with this 'Astarion' if you find him? Kill him?"

"No," the man replied. "My orders are to take him back to Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there."

Tav cleared her throat. "Well, we thank you for your warning. We'll be sure to keep a sharp eye out."

The Gur nodded. "Safe travels, then." He gave a wave to the group at large and headed away down the hill. Nobody moved until he was out of sight. Then Tav turned to look at Astarion, and he was sure everyone else was also.

"Well, I guess that's the cat out of the bag, then," he said, turning to face them. "Surprise?"

No one said anything for a minute. Finally, Wyll was the one who broke the silence.

"Well, mate, I'd say we've all got our hangups. As long as you keep your fangs to yourself, I see no harm in carrying on as things have been."

"Agreed," Shadowheart said, and Gale nodded along.

"If you so much as bare your teeth in my direction, I will not hesitate to slice you open from sternum to groin." Lae'zel, obviously.

"Now, there will be no need for any groin slicing," said Astarion raising his hands innocently. "I haven't tried to bite anyone so far, have I? Well, I would've bitten Karlach if it wouldn't have melted my perfect face off."

Karlach laughed at that and wiggled her eyebrows. "What you wouldn't give for a taste of Mama K! But you're alright with me, Fangs. No hard feelings."

All eyes turned to Tav. Of course, thought Astarion, no decisions can be made without her final approval.

"Then we're all settled. Now, finish up so we can go hunt some hag."

Astarion could only stare as everyone made their way back over to their packs. That was it? No one wanted to fight him? No one had given him over to the Gur? Wyll had called him mate? He was completely dumbfounded. What game were they all playing? Were they all actually insane, or did everything else, including vampirism, seem normal in comparison to the tadpole problem?

The whole ordeal set his teeth on edge for the rest of the day, swearing they were whispering to each other about him behind his back. But nothing had changed at all, aside from Karlach calling out "nice one, Fangs!" when he struck the hag with a particularly good shot during the battle. When they made camp that night, no one even moved their tents further away from his.

Astarion couldn't stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stood tensely outside of his tent door pretending to read a book, but staring over the pages at the others to catch them conspiring, Thus, his heckles were already raised when Tav picked her way over to him.

"So, what do the Gur want with you, do you reckon?"

What are we, bosom buddies now? "How the hell should I know?"

"You must have some idea."

Astarion sighed and closed the book.

"I expect Cazador sent him."

Tav's eyebrows shot up. "You think so?"

"I know so." Astarion frowned. "It's very like him to send a... message like that." Noticing Tav's confusion at this admittedly vague explanation, he continued, "It was Gur who attacked me the night Cazador turned me. Sending one after me now has to be some kind of sick joke. He's reminding me that I'll never be free of him. That he can still reach me."

Tav sighed. "Tadpoles, mindflayers, goblins, and now vampires. We've got quite a bit to contend with."

"Then why didn't you just turn me over to him then, and save yourself the trouble?" Astarion snapped. She looked taken aback.

"No, Astarion, that's not what I meant. Why would I turn you over to him?"

He scoffed dramatically. "To finally rid yourself for good of all of my complaining that's so annoying to you? I don't know, why wouldn't you? He's a monster hunter, and I'm a monster."

"Because you're my friend!" She threw up her hands.

Her stared at her. "I'm your what?"

She stared back. "My friend. Aren't you?"

"Am I?" She looked hurt. "I - well, I hadn't really... yes, I suppose," he amended, and she offered a small smile. Cautiously, she took a step toward him. He looked around at her and tried to resist the urge to step back, wary of what she might be about to do. To his great shock, she slowly lifted her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling him against her. She was giving him a hug.

"You're not a monster. A spectacular bastard, maybe, but not a monster," she murmured in his ear. He could feel her breath tickling his neck, making his hair stand on end.

Astarion didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember ever receiving a hug before. Carefully, he brought his hands up and pressed them so gently across her back that he was scarcely touching her. He felt her body shake as she chuckled and pulled away.

"We'll work on it. Goodnight, Astarion."

The second she turned away from him, Astarion made a beeline for the trees. He hadn't needed to breathe in 200 years, but suddenly there wasn't enough air. The camp was too crowded, although he was more than ten feet away from where anyone else was sitting. As soon as he hit the tree line he broke into a run, pumping his legs as fast as he possibly could. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting, synapses long dead suddenly lit up and firing at random.

He was overloaded with sensation: the warmth of her body, the curve of her against him, the low hum of her voice in his ear, the chill of her breath on his skin, the scent of her - her perfume, her blood, overpowering him, incapacitating him. The memory burned through his mind white hot, scorching him from the inside out like the sun would have prior to the tadpole.

The tadpole. Finally, he slowed his pace, dropping to his knees. He had reached the lakeshore, and he placed his hands palm down in the sand, trying to ground himself. The tadpole must be the reason the sensation was so powerful - it was amplifying the memory, playing out all the sensations in overdrive that shock had blocked out initially.

He squeezed the sand in his hands and took deep breaths, even though he didn't need to. The sensation was calming anyway. This intense reaction to receiving a fucking hug was scaring the hells out of him. He settled back into a crossed-leg position and stared out over the lapping lake water and didn't move again until the sun rose the next morning.

It wasn't the hug, he realized, that scared him. The hug had been... well, incredible. The first soft and gentle thing he could even remember in his life. No, the thing that scared him was being seen. Being seen by her. She saw him so clearly that he didn't even know why he bothered trying to keep the mask on. The only time he'd ever had the upper-hand over her was the moment they first met - ever since then, she'd read him as easily as if he'd opened his tadpole to her and let her see him laid bare. He had been wrong to assume that she was trying to manipulate him, but she'd done it all the same. Every mean-spirited joke, comment, or action had been a roadmap to his pain, and she had landed a critical hit to the heart.

"Because you're my friend."

----------------

He tried to return to camp with as much subtlety as he could muster, wanting to avoid any questions about his absence the night before. There was no reason to continue to pretend to join the group for breakfast, so he set to packing up his tent, pointedly keeping his back to a certain friend of his. He was so anxious, however, that the task took little time at all, and he was left wringing his hands while the others took their time tearing down.

He risked a glance at Tav, and almost immediately regretted it when his stomach did some kind of sick fluttering that he had never experienced in his living dead memory. She was brushing the sleep tangles out of her hair and pulling it up for the day while laughing with Karlach about something. The sunlight caught her jewelry, making it twinkle, and he skin was flushed from her mirth. Had she always been so pretty? Certainly she'd taken some beauty potion in the night. Or perhaps he'd never really looked at her properly before.

Her body was supple, smooth and curvaceous. As a sorcerer, she didn't need to have the rippling muscles of Karlach or Lae'zel, but she was no weak, wilting flower either. He had seen the solid way she handled herself when she trained with Lae'zel. Most impressively, she walked with ease and confidence, even in the face of men twice her size. Astarion wondered how many creeps had regretted messing with her in the streets of Baldur's Gate after she fixed them with one of her most murderous stares, conjuring pure static shock between her fingers. As she swept the hair off her neck, he noticed the puncture wounds from his biting her, and the sight made him swell with pride. Mine.

The word sprang to his mind as intensely as if someone had shouted it in his ear. He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear it. What the fuck was wrong with him? Didn't he hate Tav?

She caught his eye and smiled at him, and his stomach did a somersault. It seemed, despite his best efforts, he most certainly did not.

Part 3

#astarion x reader #astarion fanfic #astarion x you #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #fic wip #astarion fluff #astarion angst

[aquaquadrant]

Hiii question!!!

What would the hels be for each member of the soup group, and what part of the original players do they represent?

I remember we know Pearl's already, but I forgot her name and what trait she is. I think it was something about 5 am Pearl with less chill?

Impulse.. I don't think we've met his yet? My guess just knowing Impulse probably has something to do with pettiness and also untrustworthiness (3rd life)?

And Gem! This is who I was really asking about but I decided to add the rest of the soup group in because why not :) My guess is that it has something relating to Geminislay? I would also assume based on 4+ years of watching her that her hels counterpart would likely being very sarcastic and have very dry humour. Like the rare times Gem pulls the sassy card are always hilarious and I think that hels!Gem should get to speak like that all the time :)

Also would you be okay with me taking this au/universe and writing some of my own stuff using different characters? As of right now I don't think I'll actually post it anywhere, but I have a lot of silly ideas mainly regarding the soup group and empires crew, but since this is you and Lunar's au I wanted to ask first before actually going anywhere with them <3

oooooo ok so first off, absolutely. while i’ve done a lot of worldbuilding for the HTP au, i def don’t own the concept of hels or helsmits- that was a gift bestowed to the fandom by welsknight and my interpretations are just one of many. all i can claim to really own are my original versions of the helsmits, who again, are one of many, and my storyline. so i’ve got no prob w you doing your own thing, and if i did, that’d be pretty unreasonable of me imo.

BUT YES, soup group. so we’ve actually met both pearl and impulse’s hels so far in ‘from eden,’ though only very very briefly. pearl’s hels is opalescentmoth, a giant monstrous moth hybrid who lives in a cave and eats players that come across her. she’s huge and has big fuzzy wings and antennae and multiple arms and massive compound eyes. her defining traits would be unhinged-ness (??? however you’d say it) and silliness. so yup, basically 5 am pearl all the time, but now she’s a man-eating monster.

impulse’s hels was introduced more subtly via a chat convo as instinctEV, atlas’s rival in the redstone business. he’s a demon like impulse is in this au, but with all his demon attributes cranked up to 11. big scary boi. horns, fangs, glowing eyes, forked tongue, forked tail, maybe even some kinda freaky demon legs, the works. but one of instinct’s defining traits is insincerity, so he sorta throws ppl off with his supposedly kind demeanor. in reality he’s more preoccupied with his other defining trait, hyper-efficiency, and only cares about other players so long as he can use them.

now, neither gem nor her hels have showed up in the au so far and probably never will. i do have a vague concept for her tho. i’ve always pictured gem as some variation of deer hybrid, whether it’s just an elf with antlers, a faun, or full-on cervitaur. so her hels is capricornslay, a unicorn hybrid (yes i know the actual capricorn sign is a goat, don’t come for me). i haven’t nailed down her traits, mind you, just the Aesthetic. she’s a centaur with a horn, and she’s like the old-fashioned unicorns on medieval tapestries and the side of vans, all delicate with the cloven hooves and lion-like tail. big ‘the last unicorn’ vibes. but her deceptive beauty and gentleness belies a hidden viciousness. she portrays the dark side of the forest, like that creepy old bog and mossy decay vibe, while gem portrays the light side of the forest, the cheer and vibrancy and life. cottagecore and dark cottagecore, u know the vibes.

#hels to pay au #HTP cast #again these are just my own takes on them #i don’t own the concept of helsmits #so GO NUTS #i’ve been in fandoms before where ppl try to claim a really broad concept or idea #and lemme tell ya it ain’t pretty #so as long as ur not directly ripping off someone’s ideas or straight up plagiarizing then ur fine #it’s totally ok to be inspired by someone else’s work- that’s why fandoms form right?

[notasapleasure]

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

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

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

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

I'm just gonna post it.

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

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

---

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

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

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

Kiaya Khatun's own eyes widened.

"You."

-

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

Only one pony remained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A friend is the one who beheads you.

A swindler puts a hat on your head.

A host who pampers you becomes your burden.

The Friend deprives you of yourself."

-

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

-

No voices were raised: raised voices travelled.

"Silly girl," Kiaya Khatun said softly.

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

"She is dead."

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

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

This brash effrontery made the courtesan laugh.

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

Russia needed warriors, not soothsayers.

-

Lymond crouched by the embers of the hearth.

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

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

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

He had returned to the building to protect his exit.

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

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

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

-

"It's early."

Lymond stood - too quickly. His head swam.

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

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

"I am fine," Lymond answered.

Jerott peered at him with a dubious expression.

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

"Have you been outside?"

Lymond let his arms open in a sort of shrug.

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

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

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

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

Jerott looked at Lymond with sharp new panic.

"Where is she?"

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

-

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

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

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

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

She had taken his place. That was all.

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

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

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

"She is looking for a new station."

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

"But I was going to marry her."

-

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

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

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

Kiaya Khatun had always been too curious.

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

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

-

"You don't understand."

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

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

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

"I understand." Lymond spoke softly but firmly.

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

Lymond's jaw tensed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerott flushed red, though the firelight camouflaged it.

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

Lymond sighed: "Ah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

This was precisely what Lymond had feared.

"I am losing time," he said warningly.

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

Attempting to shake him off was like negotiating with quicksand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To that one order, Jerott had remained faithfully compliant.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lymond regretted it, but he remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The boat," Lymond ordered through pressed lips.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

"Francis! Francis wake up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you in pain?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not look.

He did not let himself look.

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

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

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

Stay me.

Refresh me.

I am sick with love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[…]

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

[…]

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

-

"Are you leaving?"

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

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

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

"Would you not have use of me there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Francis..."

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't begrudge you it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you knew what you offered."

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't begrudge you it."

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

What do you think I want?

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

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

-

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

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

-

-

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

"The attacks affect your memory also?"

"They do."

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

"What do you remember?" he asked grudgingly.

"Enough to surmise that I have been unjust."

Jerott shook his head and looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent, Lymond measured Jerott's hurt and confusion.

[…]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[…]

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

[…]

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My clothes are soaked," he muttered.

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

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

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

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

A pace away.

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

"Francis. You're shaking."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you all right?"

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am sick with love.

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

Comfort me.

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

Stay me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But evidently, Jerott retained some reservations about this approach.

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

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

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

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

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

"You are saying no now, then?"

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He slept without dreaming.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, "No - " he managed to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

#wip ask meme #my wips #kinda. this one's probably gone as far as it will go #i resisted editing so forgive the clichés/jumps in register #this is a draft after all #francis/jerott #marthe/guzel #lymond chronicles

[sarahlizziewrites]

OC Kiss Week 2024 - Day 1 - “Almost”

In which Trix has some help discovering her sexuality - or lack thereof. (725 words) WIP: The Adventures of Sitora Lux Characters: Trixanra Ajisai, Taleigh  Taglist: @mrbexwrites, @zeenimf, @hippiewrites

Trix watched Taleigh stretch, painted fingers reaching for where her toes rested against the ceiling. She had her headscarf off in the privacy of their room, black hair tightly wound into braids, and her long and lithe body moved through her stretches with grace and ease.

She turned over on the bed, and both Taleigh and the world returned to their usual upright positions. Her roommate moved into a deep lunge, accentuating the muscles in her thighs and the curve of her back. She noticed Trix staring then, and her eyebrows pulled together in a scowl.

“What?”

Trix huffed, resting her chin on her knuckles. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” Taleigh straightened, folding her arms over her chest. Her sleeve rode up, revealing the bracelet of multi-coloured gemstones she always wore.

“You’re so hot,” Trix said, gesturing at her with an open palm and sitting up on the bed. “You always dress so well. My mother would approve of you.” She sighed, pouting at the other elf. “Why aren’t I attracted to you?”

Taleigh twisted her finger around one of her braids, cocking a hip. “You forgot ‘charming’.”

Trix leaned back to pick up a pillow and hurl it at Taleigh, who caught it with a laugh. “Yeah, now that you have your bracelet back,” she quipped, flicking her smooth black hair behind one long ear.

“Hey!” Taleigh scoffed, then readied herself to throw the pillow back at Trix. “I was charming without it!”

“More charming than a bog frog, maybe,” Trix smirked, arming herself with the other pillow from her bed and leaping from her seat.

The girls traded blows, laughing when the pillows began to spew forth feathers. Soon, they were sparring with their hands and feet too, lessons from months of physical training keeping them evenly matched, until Taleigh managed to find a marginal advantage and pin Trix to the wall with a pillow between them.

“See?” Trix said, pouting again as she caught her breath. “I’ve even managed to set up a perfect romantic moment - we did the flirting thing, the pillow fight, and now we’re in a prime position to kiss,” she said, looking into Taleigh’s brown eyes. “But…I feel nothing. I’m a husk.”

Taleigh’s smile softened. “You’re not a husk, Trix. You’re…” She paused, biting her lip. “Are you attracted to anyone?”

Trix thought, then shook her head. “If it was anybody at the Academy, it’d be you.”

“Well,” Taleigh replied, a plan forming visibly on her face. “What do you say we run a little test? Like you say, it’s the perfect romantic moment. But if it doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel right, and we leave it at that.” 

“Okay,” Trix replied. 

Taleigh leaned closer, pressing the pillow firmly between them. “I’m going to kiss you,” she said softly.

“Okay.”

And she did. Her lips were soft and plush, with a gentle give to them, not unlike the pillow between their bodies. Her skin was smooth where Trix’s nose brushed against it, and she tasted like the rose-petal lip balm she always wore. It was pleasant, and it was brief, and Taleigh looked at her expectantly as she pulled away.

“Well?” she asked in a whisper. “Did that feel right?”

Trix sighed. “Almost.”

Taleigh shrugged, releasing the pressure on the pillow. “You know, some people aren’t meant to marry or be in relationships.”

Trix collapsed to the bed, letting her head loll to the other side, observing the room upside-down again. Taleigh joined her. “I’m not even talking about marriage,” Trix said. “I’m only a hundred and ten. There’s plenty of time for me to find someone I wouldn’t mind marrying.”

“Some people aren’t meant to be in love, either,” she said, looking sideways at Trix. “Or have babies. Or any of it.”

Trix huffed, her brow drawing into a furrow. “So, what’s left?” She thought of her mother, the powerful matriarch of their branch of the dynasty, happily married, expecting Trix to do the same.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taleigh said. “Being a badass with a glaive? Being a sexy fucking hero?” She continued, leaning up on one elbow. “Becoming the head of the dynasty anyway and letting others do the procreating?”

Trix sat up, smiling. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “That sounds good.”

“Good.” Taleigh threw down her pillow onto Trix’s stomach. “Now come on, we’re late for dinner.”

#the adventures of sitora lux #ockiss24 #ockissweek #ockiss #asexual #aromantic

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Absolutely no-one asked for this, but me and @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ have very strong feelings on what different EM characters would have as their fish and chips orders. 

pov: me writing this fr

this is a full stupid ass shit post, it’s not serious guys, and unless I post something about it it won’t leave my brain

So without further ado, EM FISH AND CHIPS

First in the ring, the man who STARTED IT ALL, THIS LITTLE SHIT

Salad Days - Will What’s-His-Face

It’s canon that Will gets chips and a fanta, that’s it. 0 nutritional value. Also 10/10 on choice of chippy, it’s actually a really good chippy

HOTD

pov: aemond avoiding the grease

Aemond is not particular to a chippy dinner, insisting he doesn’t want anything bc it’s ‘too greasy’ (pussy). Aegon absolutely tears him apart for it. Just buys a San Pellegrino cos he thinks it’s fancy - absolutely fuming  cos Aegon shakes it up on the way home and it fizzes everywhere when he opens it

If Aegon hasn’t been drinking, bog standard boring ass fish and chips with half of a bottle of ketchup slathered over his chips so nobody else nicks them. Won’t go near mushy peas, thinks they’re gross af. If he’s drunk, a doner kebab, but the local chippy doesn’t sell them so he gets Alicent to drive 15mins up the road to the one that does. A diva through and through.

Helaena doesn’t eat fish, so opts for just chips and is the only patron who actually buys the picked onions. Has mushy peas and curry sauce and mixes it together with her chips, mostly does it to annoy Aegon tho.

Daeron is waiting at home, but everyone forgot to get him something so ends up with the crap, lukewarm chips left behind.

Alicent is a scampi girlie all the way, with a diet coke

Otto is put off by the food hygiene rating at the local chippy, so takes his own fish to get battered like a weirdo. Decimates his chips with a litre of vinegar.

Daemon never gets to eat a chippy dinner, so he gets a pie as a side dish, despite Rhaenyra claiming it’s not a side dish. But Daemon stands by that it most definitely is. It’s a gash steak and kidney pie and refuses to use any cutlery for any of it.

Rhaenyra is also a scampi girlie, but unlike Alicent, has G&T out of a can.

World on Fire - Tom Bennett

Now THIS BITCH.

Ok.

Strong feelings but, Tom is a Northerner yeah. So he is a full gravy bitch. Loves that shit. Would bathe in it if he could. Has dry ass fish, unseasoned chips cos he’s boring af.

TLK - Osferth

*sigh* Osferth. Angel. Baby boy.

Osferth orders a battered sausage, but gets given a battered Mars Bar by mistake. He doesn’t like confrontation so he pretends like that’s what he ordered anyway, but he’s secretly devastated and tries not to gag when he eats it.

Uhtred can have the kebab that gives him food poisoning, shitting for days, idec, if face annoys me

High Life - Ettore

Ok this guy is weird. SO he’s gotta have a weird choice.

Ettore has the saveloy because he enjoys the innuendo. Stares at it on his plate for an uncomfortably long time, making sinister eye contract with everyone while he eats it.

Trigger Point - Billy Washington

Ooft. THIS sad boy.

Billy gets a chicken and mushroom pie. Yes from a FISH AND CHIPS SHOP. But the Food Safety rating of his local is like a 3, so the pie has been sat under the heatlamps for HOURS, so it’s all grey, sad and soggy. But he eats it anyway.

To tie it off, I imagine Ewan Mitchell as 100% a battered sausage guy. He has gravy (cos midlands boi, we love). Won’t touch mushy peas with a barge pole and perhaps partial to a chip cob. Carbs on carbs, we stan.

Thanks for reading this absolute trash.

#shitpost #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #alicent hightower #otto hightower #daeron targaryen #daemon targeryan #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd #hotd fandom #hotd funny #tom bennett world on fire #tom bennett #world on fire #tlk #tlk osferth #osferth #high life #ettore #high life ettore #trigger point #billy washington #fish and chips talk #ewan mitchell

[cyncerity]

I am becoming a utter bitch for Jackmanifold so I was curious if he is in your Epic au and if so tell me about him

Hi hi hi!! I know this ask was sent like a year ago but uh in case you’re still curious, he’s basically Tommy’s nanny! Phil got tired of Tommy running off so he’s been hiring people to try and keep an eye on him (keyword: try)

Anyway Jack is my comfort streamer so I always want to include him in stuff, so I wanted to write a short little thing to show his dynamic with Tommy and Niki. This “short little thing” turned into a full story and character designs because I have no self control! Hope you enjoy!!

(btw anyone who can pick out the song quote in here and tell me what it’s from gets a cookie)

“Hold on, get back here!” Jack yelled running after the young prince, who stopped his sprint down a hallway to turn and look back at Jack with a disapproving stare. Jack stopped and took a few deep breaths from exhaustion before continuing through pants. “I promised his majesty that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, and I intend to keep that promise. The last thing I want is the fuckin king mad at me…again.” Tommy simply rolled his eyes, hands on his hips as he took a few steps towards the older leafmen. “Ooo King Philza this, King Philza that,” Tommy said in a mocking tone. “Let’s be honest with ourselves here Jack, if Phil hasn’t fired you yet he’s not gonna. The last guy got kicked after losing me like 4 times and you’re already way past that. The only reason you still have a job is cause you’ve got connections in high places.” “Is not!” “Is too!”

“God you’re so immature,” Jack said, having finally fully caught his breath. “Maybe if you could actually be responsible and not fuckin disappear every day then the king wouldn’t need to assign you a-“ “Babysitter. You’re a babysitter.” Tommy cut him off, only angering Jack further. “You’re such a fucking child! Why can’t we have one normal conversation about you disappearing under my watch, it’s like you want me to get exiled or something!” “Oh my dad’s not gonna exile you,” Tommy responds nonchalantly, “Niki likes you too much for that.” “There are only so many times you can lose the crown prince before his dad will get fed up. Niki isn’t more powerful than the fucking king, Tommy.” “No, but she’s one of his best soldiers, which means her and her happiness is important to him, and for some unexplainable reason you’re part of that happiness. Phil isn’t gonna risk losing his General cause he dismissed her best friend like he dismissed the rest of the fucks he hired to watch me.”

That made Jack pause. He knows Phil; they’ve had plenty of talks personally (well, personally with Schlatt in the room too, as if Jack would ever pull something with the ruler of the whole goddamn forest). In all the talks he’s had with Phil, he’d never guess that anyone’s personal happiness was important to him. The kingdom’s happiness? Sure, of course, that was his fucking job, after all. But, personally? Jack just always assumed that Phil was kind of a cold guy. To hear that he valued Niki’s happiness personally, even for his own gain, was…an odd thought. “Phil cares about Niki?” Jack asked, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Tommy seemed just as confused, before shrugging it off. “Yeah, ‘course he does. She and Schlatt are, yknow, his friends.” That genuinely shocked Jack. “There’s something in that guy to befriend??” He questioned, though as soon as the words came out of his mouth he regretted it. Tommy’s face wore absolute shock, and Jack quickly slapped a hand over his mouth as they both stared at each other in silence.

“I- I’m so-“ Jack’s poor attempt at an apology was cut off by roaring laughter from Tommy, the teen bent over to his knees wheezing as Jack stood terrified. He’d almost forgot that he was in the presence of the second most powerful person in the forest, magically and politically. That the boy in front of him was just as capable of exiling him to The Bogs as King Philza was. And, just as a bonus, Tommy never let Jack doubt the fact that he didn’t fucking like him. And now he’s just gone and insulted the king and gave his son a free pass to get rid of him for good. Oh fuck.

But, to his shock, when Tommy righted himself his face was absolutely beaming. He wiped a tear from his eye as he slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Ok, I take it back, maybe I can see why Niki likes you, just a little bit though.” “S-so you’re not…gonna tell Phil..?” Jack asked, his fear only slightly relieved. When Tommy’s face morphed from humored to smug, though, that fear was immediately back. “Well, I think that can be arranged…for a price.” “Price?” “Yeah, let’s put it like this; you let me go right now and don’t make me tell you where i’m fuckin going, and I don’t report you for lèse-majesté.” Tommy stuck out a hand, and Jack shook it before he could even fully fathom what he was agreeing to. “Deal, a hundred times deal, your dad would fucking kill me.” Tommy just laughed. “Good man. Well, i’ll see you later then, Jack! Good luck with Schlatt when he comes to ask where I am!!” Tommy chuckled as he began to walk away.

“Wait, your majesty!” Jack shouted, and Tommy turned, seemingly slightly annoyed that Jack was still trying to talk to him when he so clearly wanted to fuck off to wherever he went to when he disappeared for hours. Jack knew he had to be careful with this; he’d just made Tommy like him a little bit, he couldn’t lose that yet. “Just…when you get back, can we talk about this? A bit? I don’t care where you go, for fucks sake you can do magic, I know you can protect yourself, but can we like…work out when you leave or don’t? So your dad doesn’t absolutely fucking hate me? He may be a bitch but he’s still my boss.” Jack hoped that insulting Phil again (as horrified as it made him feel) would open Tommy’s mind to the idea since it had seemingly worked before, and given that Tommy seemed less annoyed, it apparently worked. “You mean…you’d cover for me? Without even knowing where I’m headed off to? You would lie to the king for me?” “I mean, sure, man, why the hell not. Right now I don’t know where you are and I get in trouble, I’d much rather not know where you are and not get in trouble. Plus, who’s gonna turn me in for lying, you? You’d be turning yourself in.”

Tommy stood in shock, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and that scared Jack. Shit, had he overstepped a boundary somewhere? Was Tommy angry that he would advocate a scheme against his dad? Did he just fuck himself over?? But Tommy, ever so full of surprises, just smiled at Jack. “We’ll see, let me think about it. I’ll let you know when I get back.” He said, and held a fist in front of him. Jack smiled unsurely and fistbumed him, making Tommy chuckle as he turned and continued down the hallway.

Oh Prime, what has he got himself into?

~~~

“So, Jack, where is my son?” King Philza said, sat at his desk in his chambers, and Jack could barely utter a word. Schlatt stood behind Phil on his right, face as stone cold and intimidating as ever. Niki, bless her heart for arguing to be in the room with him for this, stood behind Phil on his left, eyes pleading with Jack for him to think of something. But, truly, in the dozen or so times he’s had to do this because Tommy fucking sucked, he’s never had an excuse. He’d always just apologized and Phil had disappointedly sent him home for the night with the command that he’d better be able to do his job tomorrow. That he’d better know where Tommy was the next night. It never happened, he never did, and this “i’m not mad i’m just disappointed” routine with the fucking king had become a nightly routine. Jack was getting kind of sick of it.

“Jack?” Philza repeated, and Jack sighed. “Your majesty, I-“ The door was kicked in suddenly, scaring the shit out of Jack and no one else in the room (fuck the royals and the guards and their unnatural lack of fight or flight), the prince in question proudly standing in the doorway, panting and exhausted but excited looking. “Holy shit!” he shouted. “You were right Jack! This was a tough book to find!” Tommy chuckled only mildly unbelievably before chucking a book at Jack, who quickly caught on. “Ah, yes! I was just about to tell his highness your father that you were down in the library grabbing a book on…uh, gardening…yeah! Yeah, we…we gardened today.” Jack lied through his teeth. “Yeah, we were looking into where the best place for crops would be so the bugfolk have a good harvest this spring! Y’know, doin some charity work, spreading peace and kindness and all the shit you preach, yeah?” Tommy continued, waltzing up to the king’s desk and leaning on it. Jack had to keep himself from gasping, reminding himself that Tommy was the prince and therefore wouldn’t be harshly punished for showing such disrespect in a royal’s presence. He himself was a royal, after all, though that didn’t make his lax behavior any less unexpected in an area that Jack had come to know as strict and horrifyingly stressful.

“So you were…out gardening.” Philza repeated, seemingly not buying a word, and Jack felt his heart stop. Tommy, however, was unfazed. “Yeah!” Tommy exclaimed, ignoring his father’s skepticism in favor of pulling a map out of the book in Jack’s hand. The map was a hand-drawn top view of the forest, with doodles, circles, arrows, and written notes scribbled all around it. He proudly came around to Phil’s side and excitedly began rambling about every little thing on the map. If Jack didn’t know that Tommy was his son, he’d assume that Phil was on the verge of exiling him based on his face alone. He seemed…more than annoyed, he seemed straight up miserable sitting and listening to Tommy talk. Yeesh, maybe this was why he had to hire someone to be around him. It seemed like an overreaction to listening to his kids talk about plants, he looked like he wanted to die right then and there.

“-so I think the best place for the sugar cane would be this spot where there aren’t any trees so it gets super hot, and it’s close to the lake but not too close so the soil doesn’t get waterlogged, which means the dirt will be ideal fo-“ “Stop!!” Philza shouted, slamming his hands on his desk and startling everyone in the room, even his guards. He dropped his head into his hands and sighed, fully missing the reaction of everyone in the room. Schlatt’s eyes were wide and Niki looked panic. Tommy looked…scared. Well, scared for all of .2 seconds before his expression shifted to something smug. Phil looked up at him with pity and Tommy’s reaction quickly changed into innocent confusion, slipping a mask back on to continue his act.

“Just…just stop. Listen, Tommy, I’m glad you think you’re helping. I am. But we can’t involve ourselves in the bugfolk’s problems. Their crops provide absolutely nothing to us, it’s a waste to fix what they need to be fixing amongst themselves.” Jack saw Tommy’s mask crack a bit. “But they’re like us, dad, they’re our people! This winter has been rough for them and they need all the help they can ge-“ “No, Tommy.” Phil interrupted, eyes turning hard, any and all pity gone. “They may be our people, but they’re not like us. They will never be like us. They’re in our land, and we allow them to be, with all of the benefits that come from living here. That’s all we owe them, nothing more, nothing less. End of conversation.” Tommy’s facial expression was blank, though if looks could kill, Jack was sure that Tommy would have needed a coronation by the next morning. He was pissed at Phil. A bubbling, festering anger that was sure to explode and cause permanent damage at some point in the near future.

However, it wouldn’t today.

Tommy, ever the actor, breathed out deeply to compose himself before rolling up his map. “‘Course, dad. Whatever is best for our p-…for the forest. You know best.” “You’ll learn, Tommy.” Philza said, reaching out to hold Tommy’s fists that curled around his map. “You’ll be a great king someday. A wise man once said: ‘the line between naivety and hopefulness is almost invisible.’ You just haven’t found the line yet, and I don’t expect you too at your age. In time you’ll learn just as I did exactly what needs to be done to keep the people you care about safe.” Tommy just stood, pointedly not answering. Philza sighed. “You are dismissed, Tommy. And Jack, good work today, keep this up. You are dismissed as well.” Tommy, deadpan as ever, walked back towards the entrance as Jack bowed in response. Well, tried to. Tommy yanked him by the shoulder and dragged him out of the room midway down, almost making him drop the gardening book.

As soon as they were far enough away from the chamber, Tommy dropped jacks arm and started screaming with clenched teeth, yanking on the petals on his head and kicking the nearest wall to him. Jack figured it was best to just…let him have his moment. “UUGGHHH, just, who does he think he is?! ‘oH Tommy they’re not liKe uS, they’re our people but they’re woRsE cause they’re not LeAveS’ it’s fucking ridiculous!! He barely knows anything about them, who is he to just decide that we just shouldn’t help with their crops?!” Tommy yelled, kicking another wall. “I- i don’t know, man.” Jack whispered, unsure if any of what Tommy said was rhetorical. Tommy looked over at him and just sighed.

“Sorry, it just drives me up a fucking wall. He thinks he’s the prime example of a fucking king and meanwhile he hates like half his citizens, and 3/4 of the forest as a whole, it’s fucking ridiculous.” Jack stood for a minute, eyes wide. What did he say? 3/4 would imply that he was upset that Phil hated…the enemy? “Well…he, uh, at the very least protects us from the boggins, but yeah…all that stuff about bugfolk, that wasn’t, uh, that wasn’t cool, man.” Now it was Tommy’s turn to be shocked, before he quickly tried and this time failed to put a mask back on. “Oh, yeah, ha! Whoops, sorry, I, uh, yeah, no fuck the boggins. Totally, yeah they suck. They’re, ha, yeah they’re horrifying, i’d hate to ever have to face one of them, thank god Phil keeps ‘em out!” Tommy rambled awkwardly, which led to a far more awkward moment of silence between Jack and Tommy after he finished.

“Look, man,” Jack finally broke the silence, “I appreciate you helping me out of that. I think Phil was really done with me that time.” “Well, I figured it was a good enough idea. Would benefit both of us, anyway. You wouldn’t get in trouble, my dad gets to think i’m doin’ shit, it’s foolproof.” “So, it’s official?” Jack said, offering a fist. Tommy laughed and fist bumped him back, a genuine smile on his face. “It’s official. We’ll work out the details tomorrow, though, I’m tired as shit. See ya, man.” Tommy said as he turned away, waving with one hand and holding a map in the other…

He was still holding a gardening book.

“Wait, Tom!” He didn’t know when he decided that it was ok to call the crown prince by a nickname, but given that Tommy didn’t correct him when he turned in response, he supposed the nickname was accepted. “You forgot your book.” He said, holding it out to a very relieved looking Tommy. “Shit, right, thank you! Can’t believe I almost forgot this.” He said, unrolling his map and placing it back in his book. “I gotta say, man, that’s a lot of effort to put into a map for a bit.” Jack said. “Where did you even get this gardening book? I’ve never seen it in the library.” “Oh, it’s not from the library, it was a gift from a friend. And the map wasn’t for the bit.” Tommy said gleefully, ignoring Jack’s shock for probably the fiftieth time that evening. “I wasn’t lying this time, that’s genuinely what I was out doing all day. I didn’t have time to think of a fake out story. But don’t expect me to tell you everything from now on, that’s just a thank you for helping me out. Night Jack!” Tommy said, waving and running down the hall towards his room, leaving Jack in confused shock. Jack huffed and shook his head as he started in the opposite direction towards the castle’s exit.

“Jack, wait up!” he heard a familiar voice call as his best friend caught up with him. “Hey Niki, don’t you have important General shit to do?” “C’mon, you’ve been a personal hand to the royal family for almost a month now, i’d say it’s important to make sure you’re escorted home safely.” She snickered, and Jack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, as if the king would care if I got home safe.” “Well, he might start to if you make a habit of keeping track of the prince! It’s been a while since he’s even told us how his day was.” “Has it also been a while since his highness had a freak out like that or is that a regular thing?” Jack whispered. A pause, before Niki sighed and whispered back. “He’s stressed. I…I haven’t seen him get like that in a long while. Phil is my friend, I know him, I know how he is, and that isn’t him.”

Ok, so getting the confirmation that Phil and Niki’s relationship wasn’t strictly professional and was an actual friendship was unexpected, but that wasn’t the topic right now. “Was it Tommy? Does he really hate the idea of gardening that much? Does he just…not like being with Tommy? Is that why he needs me?” “No, not that, definitely not that.” Niki responded urgently. “He loves Tommy, I know he doesn’t show it well, but he does. I…I think it was more the topic. Not the gardening, more the idea of who it was for.” “The bugfolk? Why?” “Beats me, but Phil doesn’t ever really like to talk about them. If we’re trying to be more specific, though, something happened recently. More territory shit, some leafmen got hurt, we’ve been dealing with it so it doesn’t turn into an uprising. It’s been getting handled, but I think it was just bad timing, we haven’t told Tommy about that incident because it’s contained, so he wouldn’t have known that talking about helping the bugfolk would set Phil off.” “Prime, man, that’s…that’s rough. Not like it’s Tommy’s fault, though, felt kinda wrong for King Philza to snap at him of all people. Plus, some of that other shit he was saying was…how do I put this…..distasteful.”

Niki looked…uncomfortable, to say the least. “I know, and I agree with you,” she sighed, “but he’s my king. He’s my friend. He has his reasons to be like this and frankly? Our kingdom is thriving, so what’s the harm?” The harm is that he might hurt bugfolk like he’s hurt others, Jack thought. The harm is that he could exile an entire species out of the forest to a place of rot and death and savage beastly occupants and the worst part is that it wouldn’t even be the first time he did that. The harm is that he’s destroying his relationship with his kid and making said kid standoffish to anyone who attempts to befriend them. And oh, didn’t that just make so much sense? Maybe it wasn’t that Tommy was just brash and rude, could it…could it be self defense? Was he pushing people away on purpose? Now that he thought about it, he’d never actually seen Tommy talk to…anyone. Prime, did this kid have friends? He doubted it, if his general approach is the same one he used with Jack. He would have given up with the prince a long time ago if it weren’t for Niki and the fact that a royal job pays well.

“Jack?” Niki said, snapping him out of this thoughts. “Sorry, sorry Niki, I’m just…I’m just tired.” “I can only imagine,” Niki laughed, elbowing Jack in the arm, “you’ve got to be exhausted if you were out gardening with Tommy all day.” And oh, Jack hadn’t thought of this part: he’d have to continually lie to his best friend for this plan to work. Fuck his life. “Yeah, yeah, ha..takes a lot outta ya.” He laughed uncomfortably, though Niki didn’t seem to notice. “Well, you’re almost home and I’ve got to get reports in from the soldiers in my unit. I’ll talk to you later Jack! Good night!” She gave him a quick side hug before turning back towards the castle, leaving Jack alone in his thoughts.

Ok, so new notes for the day: the prince is…tolerant of him. Dare he say kind of likes him. He’s kind of still reeling from the realization that Tommy may just be acting out due to daddy issues and loneliness. The king likely knows they’re full of shit and just doesn’t care, Niki trusts him and he’s going to have to break that trust and lie to her because the prince is a secretive prick, and, oh yeah, the king might be a fucking bigot. Great.

Fuck.

#first story of 2024!!!! #i wrote this all in one night at primarily at 2 in the morning!!!!!!!! #cyncerity #cynwrites #mcyt gt #mcyt g/t #g/t #epic au #bedrock bros epic au #t!phil #<-might start using this tag to differentiate from the earlier posts before the cast change #g/t writing #t!tommy #t!jack #t!philza #t!niki #t!schlatt #mentioned: #t!tubbo #<-in case you’re new to this au; the friend Tommy mentioned is Tubbo #Tubbo gave him the gardening book and he’s a carrion beefolk #Tommy keeps breaking out to hang out with his friends that his dad is racist against 💪

[acourtofantumbra]

Was doing a deep dive for a future post about *gestures wildly* witches... Manon's lineage... cross-world connections... something I've found that feels actually tangible, maybe. Anyway, despite only dipping a toe into the ToD reread so far (I am not a ToD hater lol I'm just busy) I found myself checking a moment from KoA and took a nosedive into something immediately shinier. But it was so sudden I didn't have time to do my usual highlights/scribbles on my (currently dead) ipad so... enjoy my measly Kindle highlights.

I KNOW many folks have beautifully analyzed SJM's repeated character names because at one point SJM herself basically said, "I keep a record of all of them and I know what I've used."

I've seen folks flag important repeats for years now (we've seen this film before, A+ work, it keeps me up at night!), but the heavy hitters have been Briar, Thanatos, Cormac and even Ruhn (you know... the Erilean mountains and the hottie who knows 3 things).

So it stands to reason that repeated names might deserve some extra scrutiny... And I pray we get some pay off with that in CC3.

Anyway, as I'm pulling at the thread of ToG witches via our (my) favorite queen - Manon - I hadn't realized I fully forgot her dad's name. Frankly, of all the plot points from ToG, Manon's story's specifics were the haziest... except where Dorian is concerned I'm a mere mortal... and that has me suspicious regardless. Anywayyyy, as you can see above, it's Tristan. Tristan Crochan.

I cannot fully explain the cartwheel flip my brain did thumbing through the roladex of SJM's characters... because Tristan Flynn was not the energy my brain was ready for after reading this really sad passage about Manon's murdered family.

On my first read of the SJMU I went ACOTAR (long break between the original and ACOSF) -> CC -> TOG. And on my first TOG read, this passage triggered no alarm bells. I probably just didn't remember Flynn all that much. But after my CC reread... oh. I remember him. Don't you worry.

Now I am fan of Flynn. He's got a rakishness I simp for, I root for him and the dragon, and clocked his lordship woes despite having what we've all decided is a "hot dad". He's a good time. And Flynn feels like someone to watch! He makes an appearance in not one, but two, CC bonus chapters... and he's got a crush on the aforementioned dragon, who either was introduced for no reason or is gonna be a key player going forward. Or SJM is fucking with us. I don't have the answers.

But what I'm struck by Tristan-wise is a) the similarity in the little physical descriptors we get - brown hair, brown eyes and b) not actually Flynn-related... but a deeply similar sounding story to none other than the Autumn King. Daughter you didn't know was born to a woman you claim was your real love... check. Searching far and wide with a singular focus on recovering your daughter... check. Having another kid out of obligation and duty to continue on important bloodlines... check!!!

It might not have anything to do with Flynn at this current moment... but it's not implausible. Lord Flynn is of course a beloved frat-pack member living in a dump with his fellow bros. He specifically pops up in these bonus chapters going through the motions necessitated by his aristocratic bloodline. His mom/family is eager to marry him and his sister off - of course he seems miserable about the whole idea. But also resigned to it? It seems complicated. TLDR there's a world where Flynn's like "woof, yeah I gotta get married off but the heart wants what it wants!" There is precedent!

Also, I've been 👀 Flynn since it was flagged that he has "super rare earth powers" not commonly seen in Valbaran Fae... first off, what does that mean? Second, hot?!

Well I've done it again, so many words and nothing really of note to take away haha. I'll be honest, my mind was not in a Tristan Flynn headspace!! I'm kind of bogged down in my own thoughts about the witchier women of this multiverse... but in my dragon theory speculation Flynn popped up again and I really can't explain why random dead ends are turning up Tristan!!! I'm not mad about it, but I wish I understood.

#sjm multiverse #throne of glass #cc3 #sjm multiverse spoilers #sjm theory #manon blackbeak #tristan flynn #tristan crochan #crochan witches #rhiannon crochan #crescent city #house of sky and breath #kingdom of ash #autumn king #bryce quinlan

[kadavernagh]

When death hands you lemmings || Regan & Jade

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Baxter State Park, hours from Wicked's Rest PARTIES: Regan & Jade SUMMARY: With only a couple days together remaining, Regan and Jade reach the “find endangered bog lemmings” stage of their relationship.

She decided Regan would come to rest here. Regan would not be drowned, choked out, or carved with an iron blade this time. This was a choice Regan could make, even as tangled as she was in the threads of Fate. Saol Eile would have the banshee, but not Regan. That would be Wicked’s Rest, and that would be Jade.

How long could you avoid thinking about something before it became flagrant denial? Regan suspected she and Jade were going to be figuring that out together tonight. Or maybe not. Maybe it would hit them tomorrow with a grip stronger than death as they curled around each other just as tightly (she would permit, she decided right now, one-time simultaneous holding, which her grandmother would surely sniff out the second she landed on Irish soil). Regan stole a glance – maybe more than a glance – at Jade as she hopped out of the car. How could she think of such things now? She would not spoil this time together; it was one of the few things that would have been made worse by spoilage. 

Regan paced away from the car a few steps, the blood rushing down into her legs. She called over to Jade, only half-serious (but completely serious if asked), “that was a long ride. Be mindful of pulmonary emboli.” She bit the tip of her tongue, trying to keep the sides of her mouth from rising (still foreign when they tried to do that, like someone else pulling her muscles). She didn’t think Jade took her warnings seriously, anyway, not unless they were to come with a convincing scream. “Okay, okay, you’ll be fine. The bigger hazard will be walking into each other or straight into the bog when it gets dark. We have a few hours, I think. Hm… if I do end up in the bog, you’ll leave me there, won’t you?” Pleading, not accusatory. “I will become a bog body.” And stay in Maine.

She yawned and stretched to the sound of red-winged blackbirds and the first crickets of the late afternoon. Regan hadn’t expected to see spring in Maine, let alone Baxter State Park, but the peepers were peeping and early blooms of pink and white wildflowers dotted the earth. Bog aster lined the path ahead, a sign of the proper environs for bog lemmings. 

But nothing could beat the presence sidling up next to her: Jade was spring, too. A force of nature that Regan was never meant to see here, but would not take for granted even for a second tonight. Eyes shiny and bright, the greens in them glowing, hair bouncing, lithe like she hadn’t just been cramped in a car all day, throat tired from talking the whole time (it didn’t feel like hours). Some strange, starstruck trance hit Regan out of nowhere, and she stared at Jade like a fool… again. How many times was that? After being next to each other the whole drive, listening to her breath like it was music, and popping m&ms into each other’s mouths like Regan wouldn’t accidentally steer them right into the ocean, she didn’t like being outside of Jade’s immediate orbit. Easily remedied, at least for– no. Don’t think about that. She swooped in quickly like she could outpace that thought. Regan pushed back Jade’s hair, letting it fall over her fingers, and brought her face closer, landing softly on her lips despite the speed. She closed her eyes, pressing into Jade a little more, absorbing her scent, her softness, her warmth, before peeling herself away and meeting Jade’s eyes, her mouth doing that strange thing again. Jade really was spring. And spring apparently made Regan dizzy.

She caught her breath after realizing she forgot she needed to do that. “What animal heads do you think they’ll have?” The logical question to ask after a kiss. Regan had conceived this as a day trip but, slowly, Jade’s idea of getting a hotel room, presented with admirable determination, won her over. The few photos of this hotel showed taxidermy on the walls, and though that wasn’t to Regan’s post-mortem tastes, it was leagues better than walls without any mounted animal heads. Jade just seemed to be happy to be going to a hotel at all.

But, first, the lemming. “They’ll be here.” Regan declared, shining at Jade, who shined back twice as bright. Had the lemmings they sought been alive, Jade might have scared them off with her radiance. Bás síoraí, she was filled with more sap right now than the maple trees. One day only. That thought squeezed her in all the wrong places.

“I know you can’t feel it,” Regan started, with a little note of sadness, extending a hand like it was too damn easy, “but there will be a lot to find here. I can point the way. And you can use your other senses – smelling for decomposition or listening for the flies.” She realized only after she said it that the latter might have been a mistake. “Not, I mean – don’t worry about the flies, a chroí. They won’t bother you. It’s like the classic stage fright technique. When you see them, picture them dead, like one might with an audience.”

——

The drive had been the stuff of dreams, actually. Regan did so well, by her terrible standards, at the wheel. (The bar was in hell). And in turn, Jade was the best passenger princess anyone could ask for. A few shaky moments aside, Jade didn’t think she’d ever loved a car trip as much as she had with Regan. (Except for Crossroads, the greatest road trip movie of all time). And to be fair, Regan would try arguing that some of those shaky bits might have been Jade’s fault anyway. And maybe, possibly, she would’ve conceded. Like, the bag of M&M was on Regan’s lap, what else was she supposed to do? (Did she linger more than she should’ve? Of course. Regrets? Zero). What mattered was, that they both survived hours cramped in a vehicle, and no one got pissed or yelled at or threatened to stab anyone. You know, usual road trip stuff.

She talked too much, though. Didn’t she? It was a super long drive and Jade was strongly against blasting any playlist out of respect for Regan’s no music rule (that Regan herself was willing to break cause of her, but), so that meant hours and hours entertained by the sound of her incredible voice only. That must be why her throat felt so strange anytime Regan looked at her with her new and improved sparkly blue eyes. Yup. That’s why it was scratchy and watery at the same time. (And sure, it started exactly when she got in the car, and not like… hours after, but… she couldn’t think of any other explanation whatsoever). At least it wasn’t super annoying, and she had plenty of drinks to ignore the sensation, so it was totally fine. (They did have to stop a couple of times for her to pee, though).

Things had to stay totally fine, cause Jade wanted it to be as breezy as possible, blocking any sort of reminder of why they had this very specific objective and why it had to be now and not in a few more weeks. Regan, on the other hand, had pulmonary emboli in her mind. Super chill. That was probably why they worked so well. Best of both worlds. She lifted an eyebrow at her, one that easily translated into seriously?’, but whatever sass she had tried to inject with the action evaporated with one glance. Regan was trying not to smile and… yup, that was a thing she did nowadays. Lots of times, around her. Jade still thought the earth shook each time it happened. 

She was so busy staring at Regan, that she almost missed the comment about bog bodies. Regan was joking, right? Having a laugh about something going very wrong, throwing the worst-case scenario so whatever happened, at least it wasn’t as bad. Regan’s tone made her entire body buzz, though. Inconveniently so. Jade would agree to whatever she wanted if she ever used that voice with her again. She gulped, jumping on the joke. “You did mention you liked bog bodies once, I’ll consider it. Maybe… I’ll bring you little offerings every now and then. How about that?”

Regan’s eyes were on her at all times, and Jade cherished the way she was being regarded, chest heaving from the intensity. Look, she loved preaching about how she knew her worth and stuff, but shockingly! Part of her was still surprised that anyone would look at her like that. Like she might be enough just as she was. (Though she wasn’t, cause Regan was leaving). Regan closed the door and made her way towards Jade immediately. She moved differently too, with ease. Not trying to keep some sort of soldier-like gait. She’d abandoned all effort to follow her granny’s codes. She had stopped fighting the gravity that drew them naturally toward each other, the pull she couldn’t rationalize. Regan moved toward her, simply cause she wanted her. Her, she wanted Jade. 

And somehow, it would never be enough. Jade alone wasn’t enough to change the ending, everything stayed the same. (Regan had to go). But Jade wasn’t one to ponder too hard on that particular aspect, not yet. She was too busy swooning over Regan. Watching her blossom before her eyes, just like the cute little flowers sprouting around them, except they all paled against Regan anyway. (Losers).

The unmovable force wasn’t so unmovable now. And there was no need for Jade to be the unstoppable force either. They didn’t have to brace for impact anytime they met. There was no fear of collision. Which, Jade had greatly enjoyed, every single time, don’t get her wrong. She was so used to that fast-paced, high-intensity, meant to burn fast type of relationship, that she thought it was all she would experience in life. (And okay, insert here all disclaimers about how they weren’t technically in a relationship) (Rub salt in the wound, why don’t you?).

The boiling tension was still there, it hadn’t left for a second since they met, but now their intentions rubbed gently against each other, words grazed each other with mastered compassion. It was unspoken, but they both knew it: They had something precious in their hands. Jade would joke about lubrication, but what was it if not that exactly? Agonizing push and pull turned into a sweet tandem, sleek and intimate and she would not trade it for anything. Not even a Crunch Wrap Supreme. (That’s when you know it’s the real deal). “Missed me, huh?” she teased, hazel eyes greeting her brightly, when Regan wasted no time to shorten the distance between them. The genius she was. (Cause time was what they didn’t have anymore). Give her the Nobel in gayness, Jade retired from contention, beaten fair and square. 

The kiss caught her off guard. Not that she’d ever complain, but her hands were fast around Regan’s body, pulling her closer, delighting in the soft brush of their lips that was unfortunately cut short. “Um, heads?” Jade blinked her daze away, mimicking the way her cats slowly rose from a nap. Why did Regan have words after kissing her? She planned on fixing that next time (cause there were still a few of those in the cards, at least). And what was she even…Oh! The hotel, right. Cause they were staying in a hotel room. For a night. Yup. That was a thing she convinced Regan to do. Sometimes, she was too powerful, wasn’t she? It was so generous of her to use her allure for good things (mostly). 

“Deer?” She guessed, gauging Regan’s reaction, 'cause yeah all dead animals were great, but like it or not, there were the darlings. The GOATs, so to speak. Squirrels were there, for sure. Deers too. Probably not goats, strangely enough. And honestly, if it were up to Jade, no head would hang in the room. But whatever, if it lifted Regan’s spirits after a potentially disappointing search, (she didn’t want it to be, but there was a chance), Jade would personally ask for every head they had available. (That was… how it worked right?) (Surely not the weirdest hotel request ever made). 

It was actually Regan who had the positive outlook this time around. A wonderful plot twist. She was basically glowing with her statement, and Jade couldn’t help but beam in return. She’d unlocked a glowing, positive Regan. It made Jade want to turn every freaking stone and…um, nature thingies to find the elusive lemming. She would get her one. She was not gonna be responsible for erasing that look. 

Point in case, Jade didn’t have the heart to tell Regan (pin-wearing, number one death stan) that she was pretty cool not being able to feel death around her. Especially when all Jade wanted to experience with her senses was right within reach. And very much alive (sorry to all decomposition). She grabbed the hand offered without hesitation, her heart fist pumping the air as she laced their fingers, and walked down the path. The skin-on-skin contact brought a rush to her body that almost made up for the fact that they were outdoors again. Eh, actually, it totally did. “Naked,” a shameless smirk pulled at her lips when she glanced at Regan. Then continued, matter-of-factly. “You’re supposed to picture people naked, for stage fright” Duh! Who lied to her? “I don’t wanna picture flies naked,” and actually, she didn’t want Regan to picture anyone naked either. She frowned, annoyed by the hypothetical scenario she brought on herself. “You’re right though, they’re here” She shook her head, switching moods quickly. Good vibes only. That’s what would attract the… um, dead lemming. Yup. Totes. “I can’t sense them, obviously, it’s just… when you say things like that, I believe them”.  

——

“Naked out… here?” Jade wanted to be naked in the woods? That was unlike her. The woods part (only). Quite fae of her, really; the fae were often naked in the woods, dancing around rings of mushrooms or lost humans or both. Regan had been ready to start shedding clothes (Jade’s if possible) but then Jade, annoyingly, elaborated. No, Regan was sure her dad told her it was picturing them dead. With a rub of friction-generating neurons she could even recall when he told her that – tone deafness did not excuse a child from being propped up on stage for a performance of Oklahoma. She was Tree 2, if she remembered, and plucked all of the paper leaves from the branches. “What good does that do? A naked audience would only prove distracting. A dead audience is a comfort. Dead has to be right.” She rolled her neck toward Jade, hair brushing near the crown of Jade’s head. “Some things are both, though, distracting and a comfort.” She was sure Jade agreed, because that shudder Regan felt across her skin had not only been her own.

This, Regan realized, was why Jade was opposed to taking her to see vampires again. But she would have been better behaved than tonight, with the pressure of hours (minutes, seconds…) currently on the clock. She cleared her throat and gave Jade’s hand a squeeze, a ‘put in a pin in it’, even though she couldn’t completely do that herself. Regan turned her cheek and gave Jade’s hair a quick kiss before pulling away. Again, she surprised herself. Had she really just done that? Just like that? That was so easy, so light. The kissing part. Not so much the pulling away or focusing that followed. As if the ride here was not challenge enough. Focusing wasn’t going so well. Her eyes kept getting sucked back where they really thought they should be – which was not in front of her.

Regan nearly tripped over the plank of wood designating the beginning of a boardwalk that would take them over the bog. Jade was bad for her knees. “They need to mark these better,” she proclaimed, “someone should write to the Park Service and inform them.” Yes. That saved her besotted face. 

Something buzzed over Regan’s shoulder, gone practically before it could be noticed, and she thought back on the flies. Her mouth drooped and she held Jade’s hand a little tighter. “The flies. They’re already naked, though, you know. It’s stranger to think of them with clothes.” 

A second ticked by too loudly in her ears. Regan hesitated with each word, but pushed herself to ask. How many times had she thought about it? Far more than she’d ever beat the uafásach things. “What do you think about the ones that scream? Cicadas?” She glanced sideways at Jade, like the answer was important. It changed little either way. So why did her foolish heart pound? Again? Always?

And – oh. There was something. “Hold on,” she stood straight, raising a finger. Her other hand froze in Jade’s. An answer would distract. It was hard to tell which side of her body prickled more. Jade was on her right and responsible for her cutis anserina (typical). Death somewhere on her left. So much for being worried about distractions; there were none more pleasant and ever-present than Jade. Regan let her eyes fill dark and, suddenly, the bog was teeming with life-that-was-death, tingling she could previously feel but not place. Small pockets of putrefaction bubbling at the water’s surface, dark waves radiating from a blackbird that was about to – oh, yes, down it went – and in the distance, about a field away, was something big. 

That had been what she felt. Her body snapped to life again, the patience gone from her voice, a hint of giddiness replacing it. “There’s something. A deer, I think. We should bring it to the car. It will be superior to the ones they have at the hotel, and it’s probably in remarkable condition. Now, we’re going to have to step through some of the bog here, and I didn’t bring waders, so how much do you value those shoes and pants?” She turned to measure Jade’s reaction – obviously not so excited about potential wading – and the breath left her lungs like she’d just screamed them raw. The evening sun turned golden over Jade, making her skin glow like the most beautiful, advanced jaundice. Regan stared even as the sun made her shield her eyes, glaring between the tree branches, casting every pond frond a dark silhouette. There was no one more gorgeous, inside and out. She had seen a lot of both – thousands. Even if Regan had to make educated guesses about Jade’s organs, it was… it was the brain, right? The mind. The heart, if she were going to be foolishly poetic despite anatomical sense. That was the inside she meant. She could stare all evening. Until there was no more light, and maybe no lemmings, but the image of her Jade would be burned into her retinas. 

When the sun did set, it would be okay. She wondered if the lightness inside of her was acceptance of the inevitable instead of denial. If so, was this how people felt once they understood a banshee’s scream, the death sentence? Did they find this peace? Perhaps she could come to think of this, with Jade, as her resting place this time, and not the slow dissolution of self that awaited her across the sea. Life should be defined by its peaks, should it not? Regan had seen hundreds of homicides and accidents that made her stomach churn, but it was those on her table who had a long, protracted illness who strangled her heart the most. She decided Regan would come to rest here. Regan would not be drowned, choked out, or carved with an iron blade this time. This was a choice Regan could make, even as tangled as she was in the threads of Fate. Saol Eile would have the banshee, but not Regan. That would be Wicked’s Rest, and that would be Jade.

——

Jade almost cracked up at how down Regan seemed to be for the idea of getting naked in the woods. (Noted!). But actually, it wasn’t the first time. Jade always thought she was a little too enthusiastic in the cemetery, wasn’t she? Maybe, probably, not the time to get flashbacks of that night. It was fine. Cool. Regan’s hand in hers was distracting. Her voice too, as she broke their silence. Jade shuddered. She knew Regan couldn’t do the whole ‘love’ thing, she was totally chill with it. Not even in an ‘I’m pretending to be chill, but I’m actually fuming sorta way’. Jade couldn’t (wouldn’t) ask more of Regan, these weren’t the scraps she’d been offered at the beginning. She’d like, gotten so much more than she’d expected after they kissed. So sure, love wasn’t in the cards… but sometimes, sometimes the weight in Regan’s voice, the glint in her eyes, the softness in her touch had Jade wondering. Was it wrong to think that maybe…

(Maybe, yeah) (With more time, Regan could’ve grown the confidence to admit it).

Regan’s lips on her hair pulled her out of her thoughts. Right. Enjoying the moment! (She was always so good at that, why was she so desperate for more now?). It was a good thing they were walking hand in hand, cause Regan wasn’t doing so hot, tripping on the boardwalk. Jade would’ve thought she had more experience than her outdoors. She snickered, her thumb tapping Regan’s hand in sympathy. “I’m writing them a strongly worded email as soon as we get back to the hotel,” how dare the Park Service try and hurt her… Regan’s knees. 

But her amusement didn’t last too long, and Jade should’ve expected it. Her smile disappeared once she heard the first fly near her ear. It was alright, technically. She wasn’t gonna panic or anything over one. Cause then she’d have to explain why she hated buzzing, and then she’d look dumb and weak, and Regan might start loathing her siblings too. (Except, she wouldn’t, Regan would make her feel safe about it) (Which might be even worse). It didn’t make it less unpleasant, though. Her body still felt a rush of adrenaline every time she heard that low pitch rising high the closer it got to her. Her grip on Regan’s hand tightened. At least for now, she could forget about the naked flies next to her ears and focus on the hypothetical ones instead. “Nope, I’m pretty sure they’re in full suits when they get all…” She didn’t even bother dropping Regan’s hand, just pulled it with her, rubbing her hands together, mimicking the flies ‘scheming’ movement.

“Cicadas?” She gaped at Regan. Cicadas were fine. Sort of. Again, as long as they were like, not all up in her ears. She could appreciate that they were loud and they didn’t care who knew it. And actually, how come Regan had never mentioned cicadas before… Jade thought she of all people would’ve appreciated their vibes. Kinda like the banshees of insects, no? She didn’t get to offer her opinion despite being asked for it, cause Regan lifted a finger (a distracting one, at that) and suddenly she went full-on possessed eyes again. She wasn’t angry this time, and Jade knew now, that this was Regan’s doing. Her gift. Like That’s so Raven, except Regan wasn’t getting a vision of the future, she was getting a death (or several). 

“A…deer?” she repeated dumbly, even if she’d heard Regan loud and clear. Regan wanted… but what about the lemming? Couldn’t they focus on getting the tiny adorable lemming? Why? Why not, was probably what Regan was thinking. But UGH. She was so cute and excited, and Jade meant it, she would do whatever Regan asked of her when she acted like this. She was mourning her clothes, though. Knowing they were not focusing on vampire hunting this evening, Jade had dressed a lot nicer. So, expensive pants and a really nice pair of boots. (The up-and-down look from Regan when she first saw her? Totally worth it). But the answer was simple here. Each time their eyes met, there was nothing to even debate. Did she value her clothes? Not as much as she valued Regan’s happiness. They weren’t even in the same league.

(She couldn’t even try to cuff her pants, they were too tight at the ankle. Curse her for being a millennial)

Regan’s gaze was fixed on something. Well, on Jade… but not really. Her eyebrows pinched together. She didn't think Regan’s mind was on those dead animals anymore. So it had to be like, huge to push her thoughts away. She wasn’t concerned, but she wasn’t not concerned either. She’d never seen someone so obviously have an epiphany before. Jade swallowed, meeting Regan’s gaze, who stared at her… kinda. What was she thinking about? It couldn’t be something small like, what to have for dinner (though that wasn’t small either, for some people) (She was people). Jade’s heart had one wish and one wish only, so it rushed to make assumptions. Regan had decided to stay, right? That was the meaning of that look. Had she decided the sheep were not that cute anyway? Did she realize her granny could wait a few more decades after all? (She was a hunter, she couldn’t have too many of those left). That would be so nice, actually. The staying obviously, but more so the fact that Regan was making the choice herself. So Jade wouldn’t have to fight Regan’s duty and plead with her to stay. Which, she wasn’t considering, technically. But present Jade couldn’t trust future Jade. The Jade from a few hours in the future, with nothing to lose and literally everything to gain. 

She reached for Regan’s cheek, hoping to bring her back to the bog. She still wanted this, right? “Where um…” Jade found her voice, shakier than she wanted it to be, but it was a lot you know? “How far is this deer? We could do it. Just one. We can't go picking everything around the bog,” before Regan could protest, Jade added the most logical explanation. “We didn't bring a bag,” duh! Maybe actually, this would’ve been the right time to bring that stupid winter coat with them. All the extra pockets. But she wasn’t gonna point that out. (And thank you, Snickers). “I’ll carry it myself so you don’t get your hands dirty,” Jade offered, which, actually… probably sounded like an offense to Regan, who’d be looking forward to one of those fine specimens. “Cause…You need your hands, for your lemming. Right? Or not! You can… Let’s get moving while we have sunlight.”  

——

The mental image of Jade dragging a dead deer through a bog was one of Regan’s all-time favorites (though, in her mind, Jade was not wearing a shirt and the moonlight shined off her biceps and reflected in the pool of trailing decompositional fluid and–) but… maybe it was best saved for dreams. The warm hand cupping her cheek did have her questioning if this was a dream. She froze for too long, heels in the mud, her brain working hard. Had anyone other than Jade tried to limit her, tell her she couldn’t or shouldn’t collect everything, she would have reminded them that their human opinion did not matter, and then strut right past them to proceed to scoop everything up anyway. Jade’s opinion mattered, though, and her logic even more so. It was a little easier if Regan thought of this as triage. And Jade had a point. The sunlight was dwindling and they were still lemmingless when they needed at least two. She was not leaving here with only one.

“You would do that for me? Wade to the deer? Carry it in your firm, weight-bearing arms?” Was that really a surprise? What would she do for Jade? Anything, her mind supplied instantly. But it wasn’t true, was it? There was one thing she wouldn’t do. The easy offer, despite Jade’s expensive-looking boots (real leather, Regan knew; she could always tell and it had nothing to do with fashion sense), made her heart soar as if it had wings of its own – and they were so incessantly loud, weren’t they? Regan looked off in the distance toward where she could feel the deer’s pull, one last time, before bidding it farewell in favor of Jade’s. “I think you need your hands, too. For, uh, things. Carrying. Et cetera. Um, maybe… we can come back for it? After we find the lemmings?” Though another thought occurred to her. They had nowhere to put the deer, other than in the trunk, and it was a long ride back to Wicked’s Rest. Jade’s nose had a lower tolerance for death than Regan’s did. No, they would figure it out. Except for what waited for them a couple days from now, Fate – or Jade, really – always steered them right.

Regan gave Jade a bright-eyed look; she accepted this outcome. That Jade had been willing was a better prize than the actual carcass. “You are as sweet as the stench of the dead.” Regan declared, and she decided that the soft, watery look in Jade’s eyes was even more lovely than the image of moonlight shining on that trail of fluid. They were in a bog. It should be soggy between them. But it was not only Jade’s sweetness, was it? Jade was trying to make this memorable; she knew what it would mean to Regan. There was a word on the fringes of her mind that she couldn’t put her thumb over and pin down. Jade wished her to be… something. Content, maybe. Whatever it was, Jade must have seen it clearly enough to know what would keep it there on Regan’s face. Those shiny hazel eyes saw everything.

She liked talking to Jade, looked forward to it every day, every hour (so maybe liked wasn’t nearly strong enough a word). But as departure grew closer, it became harder and harder to find a safe approach to what she needed to say, each potential danger like a patch of bogland to adroitly navigate around. Now it was hardest of all, yet there was more to say than ever. The most waterlogged of subjects and exchanges were going to be impossible to avoid later, but surely she could share some of her thoughts right now without dunking the both of them into the marsh. Something about Jade made her spill her contents. 

Regan leaned into Jade’s hand and the air whooshed out of her lungs as Jade’s eyes crinkled at her (surely a direct result of the golden hour and setting sun). “I never imagined I would have someone by my side when I did this, you know. I never imagined I would desire that. Let alone… well, I was just thinking about you.” Regan paused. “When am I not? And there is nothing and no one better who could occupy my thoughts. You’re deserving of everything I can possibly give you. So I will leave one hundred deer behind if it means I can find you a lemming, too.” She rested her forehead against Jade’s, curling Jade’s soft hair around a finger like it would tie them together and keep her close. “Maybe we should have booked an extra night.” The last night, right before those numbers stamped on her plane ticket. “You keep distracting me. How am I supposed to discern between you and a pile of lemmings, when you are such a presence? A… herd? A lemming of lemmings.” 

——

Regan had such a way with words. Jade’s eyes twinkled, laughter caught in her throat. She could listen to her talk all day. She wished to read her journal entries over and over again. (If only she could convince her to share more of those). She lived for those tiny glimpses into what it was like inside that beautiful brain of hers. “That’s um, quite the picture you paint. I dunno if I’d look as smooth carrying a dead deer as you make it sound,” her thumb brushed Regan’s cheek. I would do it, was implied. She’d do anything. Was Regan really questioning it? Did she know what the term ride or die meant? She should probably teach it to her, it would put everything in perspective. Though admittedly, she would love to be riding a little more, but that was neither here nor there. Her hand trailed up, running her fingers through blonde hair. “But um, how about you save those scenarios and write something later?” Later when? Jade wasn’t sure. Cause she already had other things in mind for later. But she loved to encourage Regan’s creativity. It must’ve been a huge outlet for her in the past. (If those pages were anything to go by).

She wasn’t expecting Regan to disagree with her when it came to the deer. Not that disagreeing was a strange occurrence. They had like, months and months of those in their history. (And sure, sometimes she only argued to get worked up, what about it?) But when it came to dead animals? Yup, she was a little confused. Regan was willing to give up the deer? Well shoot, Jade had to wonder if this was a test. Like, to see how much she knew her or how much she loved her or… Was she supposed to go against her wish and wade to that deer anyway? She’d passed the worm test, hadn’t she? She could pass this one too. Just… What was the right answer? Oh, she didn’t need one. 

Regan made up her mind. Like, for realsies. If her eyes lighting up with conviction were anything to go by. She would rather go back for it later, which was like super smart, actually. (When wasn’t she?) (Forget about the emoji subscription, that didn’t count). She cackled at her words, leaning closer until their cheeks touched. Only Regan could talk about the stench of death, and make her belly flutter. She never imagined she’d wake up every day excited to hear new comparisons to decomposition, yet here she was. (And she didn’t want it any other way) (Though, what she wanted never seemed to matter much, did it?). And fine, no deer for now.

Even if Regan’s mind was (allegedly) made up, it didn’t seem like her body had gotten the message. But like, in fairness, that had been a battle Jade had front-row seats to since that failed booty call. And she liked it a lot when Regan’s mind lost. This indecision came from a good place though. (The heart, she would guess). It almost felt like Regan didn’t wanna break the reverie between them. And Jade, as much as she was focused on securing that adorable lemming for her, was only so strong. Especially when she saw in those blue eyes that Regan was gearing up for something. Maybe she was about to share her epiphany with her. Yup. That was totally it. (Her stomach did some Olympic-level somersaults). 

Her eyes were already a puddle that could rival Van’s any day (sore topic, but it had to be said) just as the first words tumbled out of Regan’s lips. Jade felt the magnitude of Regan’s emotion in her first breath. Warm. Her feelings, her words. They contrasted with her cold skin, as Regan leaned forward seeking more contact, sending a shiver up Jade’s spine. That was a thing Regan did nowadays too. Just cause she could, just cause she wanted. Just cause no amount of touching felt like enough. Or maybe it was cause she knew how much Jade needed it? She was struggling to process what Regan was saying, cause… How else could she interpret those words but as a love confession? (Except, Regan had said…) It didn’t matter, what the exact meaning was supposed to be, Jade’s heart rattled in her chest anyway. Hopeful. 

(And how could she say those things, and then hop on a plane to move an ocean away?) (How was that fair?)

But Jade didn’t have fight in her, she wasn’t gonna ruin the last moments she had with the woman she loved, even if it all felt super cruel. (Cause nope, it wasn’t cruel actually. It was duty) (And Jade still respected that… Right?) Her body cared even less for grudges, it did what it usually did whenever Regan moved close. She fell into her gravity, fingers slipping behind her neck, lips asking for permission before pulling her in for a heated kiss. It had been too long. Alright, it had been like, five minutes. But consider the fact that she had to settle for a shoulder or a cheek in the car, okay? Which were nice, don’t get her wrong, but they were not Regan’s mouth. “So change it,” she demanded in a whisper, parting for a second, staying close enough to still enjoy the ghost touch of her lips. And breathe some more of that Regan air. (Premium, no doubt about it). “Give us another night…” She didn’t care how. If she paid more, if they switched rooms, if she used her fae binds, all Jade cared about was having Regan to herself for 24 extra hours. 

Regan did not kiss like she was being inconvenienced by her sudden urge to make out in the middle of a bog. And actually, Jade really had to wonder who had it worse of the two. But like, if Regan was the Nobel laureate of gayness, then it should be totally her, right? Jade kept pushing for closeness, even though it wasn’t possible anymore. Her boot got caught on one of the planks, and she stumbled forward, almost sending them into the bog. (Yup, that email was definitely being written now). With feline reflexes, she wrapped her arm around Regan, keeping her in place while sorting her feet situation. Geez. Her laugh resonated in the air, it seemed to infect Regan too. “I’m distracting? I’m distracting. I haven’t been able to think straight since I met you,” Regan totally altered her brain chemistry. There was no other explanation. Even after losing balance, she was ready to dive in again. Worth the risk. 

But then Regan said something wildly inaccurate, so of course she had to correct it. “Um. It’s so not a lemming of lemmings, that’s like… so silly. Why would…Maybe I’ll ask Van for the answer since she knew about the mice…” and thinking about Van and the mice worked a little bit like a cold shower, actually. She groaned, loosening her grip on Regan’s back. She hated this so much. “I don’t wanna get my hands off you, but I don’t want us to fall into the bog even more.” Regan’s early joke (joke?) aside, she didn’t think she was serious about becoming a bog body. And just like Regan was giving up a deer to find a lemming for her, Jade was giving up this opportunity. They would have time, wouldn’t they? Her body buzzed remembering they had a room to themselves waiting for them. (Yup). 

“We can do it,” Jade decided, planting a peck on Regan’s lips, intent on it being the final one. (They had lemmings to find). But then, that smile bloomed on Regan’s face and, well that was too tempting, wasn’t it? So she leaned in for another one. And then another… that lingered a little longer than it should have (Regan’s fault) and… whoops they were off again (her fault). Regan gasped against her mouth, hands roaming her body like the boardwalk might just have to do, and yup, awesome idea. Whatever kept Regan content. Until the thing creaked below them. (Freaking Park Services, what were they good for?). Jade’s eyes opened, looking around, understanding exactly where they were. Mmmm… nope. Did she so quickly forget she wanted Regan to be comfy in bed? Jade peeled herself away then, for real. “We’re gonna find that lemming,” she squeaked, keeping only a hand in Regan’s as she pulled further into the bog. 

——

Jade was hot and quick on her lips, and any thought Regan had of pressing herself to march onward to the critically important lemmings died with a whimper in her mouth. She had been teasing Jade all evening and finally one of them had grown bold (or shameless) enough to make it last. And Regan also intended to make it last. Her hands inched toward their favorite spot on Jade’s waist and she latched on, trying to bring Jade closer (what if they both fell in the bog together…), but Jade broke the kiss and had the gall to let Regan have air. “Bog bodies shouldn’t have this much oxygen, so stop letting me breathe,” she whined, trying to find exactly where she’d left off. There, right there, around L1. And Jade’s hair was curling so beautifully in the moist air, like a cluster of veins, and her eyes said she wanted this, so couldn’t they just– 

No, they couldn’t, apparently. But all was forgiven when Jade’s voice came out low and breathy, which had rapidly earned its place as Regan’s favorite type of whisper (also the only kind she liked – whispers were insulting). “Don’t tempt me on adding another night. You’re distracting and persuasive. And you would look amazing holding a dead deer.” The spell (metaphorical, always) broke a bit. Regan’s hands dropped a little, looser around her, and a small frown settled over her as she realized there was an actual decision to make. She disliked decisions, choice. Was not good at them, rarely had them. But this was a yes, right? Another night? Why not twenty? Or forever? Because Ireland. She paused, licking her lips and tasting Jade’s minty breath. “You know we can’t do that,” Regan said. And then, immediately, “fearg an chinniúint”. So she was going to call the hotel right now and do that. Regan fished her phone from her pocket. The no reception signal mocked her. She tried to hide her dismay. 

It was easy because Jade almost fell and took Regan with her, but managed to catch and right herself with impressive speed. It was the boardwalk, of course. It was rotting and groaning with every step they took. That was all. Regan looked over her shoulder where dark, swampy water waited for her. But even that heavy, earthy stench didn’t compare to Jade. Regan grabbed her shoulder and pulled herself the rest of the way toward Jade. 

Not even two seconds and she already had her hands all over Jade again, and it sent a current straight through Regan. It was her fault. What was that split second kiss? How was that fair? Sure, Regan had been planting those for the last couple hours, but… her complaints died and she closed her eyes, falling back into an easy and passionate kiss. Her skin prickled and the more she touched Jade’s the more it spread. Some kind of contagion. Jade’s shirt was bunching between her fingers and how many mosquitos were out here to be drawn to all that exposed skin, really? It couldn’t be that bad. Maine didn’t have… well, there was EEE and WNV, but those were hardly a death sentence, and parting from Jade had to be at least 30% lethal. “We can do it,” Regan agreed, panting into Jade’s mouth. What was Jade referring to? If they had some kind of blanket… actually, there was one in the car. They could just hop back over, grab it, and… no, no, that walk was brutal.

She wasn’t sure if that squeak was the boards again or Jade, but Regan went from having everything in her arms to only the gaping emptiness of air that smelled like rotting eggs (which was admittedly nice but not a fair trade). She opened her mouth, offended, because something had put a stop to what was about to be exemplary bog sex. But nothing had snatched Jade away. She did it herself. So Regan’s scrunched up face smoothed itself out and she tilted her head, confused. Then it made sense. How had she not thought the same, sooner? “Were you thinking it could be better with some remains nearby? Oh, the deer! Because… you’re correct. We should find–” Her eyes widened dramatically. “Lemmings. I – you –” She held a droopy, half-hearted finger pointed at Jade. “Unbelievable. How do you do it? I think it’s your, um… musk.” Yes, that sounded right. Regan twisted her mouth (and damn her lips for still being so warm). “No, you know what it is? Other than musk. It could still additionally be musk. You feel like a lemming. You feel like death, right by my feet.” She held out her arm, which was covered in goosebumps, hair raised. “Goose flesh, see? You don’t usually feel this decomposing, though.” Regan sniffed. “Or smell this decomposing.”

So maybe it wasn’t all Jade. How was it that a live person managed to be more persuasive than actual death? The pull of something dead just beyond them made another shudder ripple through her, and she couldn’t attribute this one entirely to Jade. A groundhog, maybe. She’d get it after. Because Jade was giving her that look and– no. Regan tore her gaze away from Jade. It was like ripping her own skin.

There, by one of the half-rotten supports for the boardwalk only half a muck away, in the shallowest pool of water, was a little brown lump. Regan registered what it was immediately. She jumped off the planks and – okay, so she landed in water a little deeper than it looked, but she slosh-ran her way over to the lemming.

“Jade. Jade. Jade look. Jade look. No, not at me. I am nothing compared to this. Look.” She was going to point but couldn’t hold herself back long enough to do that. Instead, she was right on top of where she had meant to point Jade’s attention. Obscuring it from Jade, actually. And despite that… “Look! Lemming! It’s a lemming! Our first lemming. And we’re in a bog, so presumably it’s a bog lemming, an endangered bog lemming, apologies to CITES, and you get to see it, and… wait, I can’t touch it yet. This is banshee history. Can you take a photo?” Regan practically threw her Blackberry at fortunately-well-reflexed Jade (complete with 8 megapixel camera) then realized Jade should probably use her own phone, anyway. Wait. No. That wasn’t right either. “Actually, come here. You need to be in it. Um, my phone doesn’t have a selfie camera. Also, I pressed a button and everything has been tinted blue for weeks. You might have noticed. Forget my phone.” Regan bounced nervously, feet jittering in the mud. The ground vibrated. 

Regan’s heart pounded as she so tenderly lifted the lemming from the reeds and boggy clay it had died in. For months she had been talking about this, dreaming about it, and now the little ball of fur was cradled in her palms like it was always meant to be there. A dreamy look settled on her face as she studied its tiny paws, its soft coat, the glassy surface forming over its eyes. Small animals like this were subject to rapid livor mortis, but she didn’t think it could have been dead for longer than a couple of hours. Not a single fly had located it before she did. Not a hair out of place, other than – well, the hair on its belly was pretty tousled from what seemed like friction, but there were no patches, no wounds. They had done it. An endangered bog lemming and it was hers. And she had Jade to… perhaps not thank, actually. She was distracting (they had been over this once or twice if Regan recalled correctly). But she made the evening immeasurably better. And were they going to have sex in a bog right now? And… and this was it, wasn’t it? The last thing she had to do in Maine. Other than– 

Regan beamed at Jade, who was perfectly clear and bright even as the setting sun painted the sky purple. Jade found her her lemming. Regan’s chest felt like it might burst. But she looked only for a split second, because death hooked her back down. There was more.

Something small, fuzzy…

Another lemming underneath where the first one had been. Right underneath it, actually. Half-submerged in the silt (which was so quick to take things, and was it really asking so much for it to suck her in when she died, too?), a bit waterlogged. Her eyes turned to the one in her hands. It did look a little, um… well… it seemed fairly jubilant, for a dead animal. she turned back down to the second, smaller one, the circumstances sparking in her mind. She scooped up the second lemming with an eager swoop, one in each hand now, and her eyes flashed excitedly to Jade. “Isn’t that so… just so… they died copulating.” Romantic, was probably the word.

Their prizes snug in her hand, she tugged at Jade with the other, pulling her into the mud – well, her boots could be washed, right? – and pressed their lips together, kissing Jade with as much exhilaration and with as much love as the lemmings would have done, if lemmings could kiss.

——

No matter how many times they forced themselves to stay away, Regan was never gonna make it easy for Jade to stick to her guns. Her mouth always enticed her to go back for more, especially now, as she nibbled on her bottom lip like she was still trying to taste her. Jade really wanted to help with that, she was in service of the community after all, but it was so unfair? She loved it though, she loved that she had Regan wanting more, ready to risk it all in a bog of all places. So maybe they weren’t thinking straight (understatement of the year). There was something in the air. It had to be. It really should be impossible for Jade to crave something more and still have to be the one to put a stop to it (how many times had she thought she’d reach the limit with Regan again? At least five… or ten) Thankfully, Park Services and their rotten boardwalk they kept tripping on gave her a hand. Just like Ryan’s figurines helped in her apartment. And Mark what’s his name helped at the cemetery. But it was not easy. It was never easy. (So how exactly did she plan on handling Regan disappearing forever?)

She didn’t enjoy the disappointed look that crossed Regan’s face when she put a stop to everything, it made her wanna groan in frustration. Did Regan not care about being comfortable and warm? Cause it was starting to look like Jade was the only one fussing about it, making sure Regan had a good first experience after being out of the game for so long, meanwhile, Regan’s disposition, nope, her eyes seemed to chant: Bog sex! Bog sex! It was super loud, it even had like… drums, and a whimsical flute to make more noise. Jade held her breath, counted to 7… (10 made her impatient okay?), and broke herself out of whatever horny trance Regan had her in. Wait, musk? That was what Regan thought it…well okay, sure. It all sounded like compliments, in the way only Regan could flatter her (comparing her to death warranted another kiss for sure), especially when she showed her goosebumps. And it was like she was trying to reel her back in, no matter how hard Jade pulled Regan’s hand forward, to the lemmings. 

It turned out, Regan was not trying to make her case for bog sex (um, it was a little vague) (maybe she could give her another chance to hear the arguments in favor), she was also experiencing some death-related tingling. Before Jade pinned down the focused expression on Regan’s face, homegirl was gone. Like gone, gone not Rosamund Pike gone… away from her grasp and into the bog. Not unlike a golden retriever, Regan splashed in the water, almost hopping as she moved toward something. Her radar must’ve pinged, obviously! Jade grimaced even as Regan walked across the bog without a care in the world. Cause what if there was something nasty, like other than dead nasty, inside those waters? Actually, was any of that nasty to Regan? She looked as excited as Jade would be on a vacation to the Caribbean. 

Despite Regan’s clear instruction not to look at her, Jade simply couldn’t obey. She’d never seen Regan act so… carefree, as she called for her to witness her findings. What she’d found was pretty obvious anyway, wasn’t it? So who cared if she missed it for a second or two in favor of staring at her beautiful um… collaborator. Her name had never sounded better, (though there might be one more instance for that sound to be topped), and Jade just had to stay put, drink in the sight of pure joy, helpless to do anything else. She was in love, wasn’t she? It wasn’t a groundbreaking revelation, or a revelation at all, just confirmation. Of how much warmth her heart held for the woman in front of her. Regan’s victory felt like her own. They had found the elusive lemming, the one she’d been searching for forever. Jade barely remembered how long ago it was that Regan mentioned it, she just knew she’d made it her mission to make it possible before she left. And there it was, and Regan’s reaction was even better than she could’ve imagined. 

Regan was giddy, eyes wrinkling at the corners, tripping over her words cause of the excitement. She would like those, Jade figured. (Hoped). The little crow’s feet at the corners, even if the reason behind them might fill her with dread and guilt in a month or two. Jade liked them too. Loved them, even. Loved her. This was it, the closest she’d ever get to that little kid who carried dead animals in her backpack. The person Jade wished she’d met sooner. Years and years ago (before, maybe, their paths had even been set in stone). So this wouldn’t feel like too little too late. And… what were they gonna do to her in Ireland to pluck this moment of euphoria from her heart, and how could Jade preemptively protect her from it? All she ached to do was to protect her. Unfair. That feeling didn’t leave her chest, nope, her throat. It weighed there, even if it was drowned by something so much sweeter.

But right. Focusing on the moment. (Back to her roots).

“That’s right, we did it!” Jade threw her arms in the air hollering and cheering with so much energy it could’ve woken that dead deer for all she cared. Then her entire body shook with laughter. Her eyes felt a little moist too, probably the whole bog environment. And her throat, oof. It was like she had a rock stuck in there. (Cause catching the lemming meant they were closer to…) She almost missed the way the Blackberry flew in her direction, managing to catch it just before it hit her cheekbone and kinda ruined the amazing vibes. She quickly glanced down to sort out the… WHY was the screen blue? Wait, Regan didn’t want that anymore either, she wanted a selfie. She wanted one of those “look I caught the fish” photos straight dudes flooded Instagram with. Except this was way better and she looked way hotter. She reached inside her jacket to retrieve her iPhone, and just started capturing Regan in the process, admiring her discovery. She approached to finish the impromptu photoshoot with the selfie Regan wanted.

Without daring to touch the bog (not unless necessary) (not until the deer), Jade tried her best to squeeze them both (or… er, the three of them) in the frame before snapping a couple of photos. Her hands clasped the back of Regan’s sweater, even if the water was like, not deep or anything, just in case something in there decided to swallow her. Regan looked down, as if contemplating something, then bent to go back in and… Two? Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. What were the odds! Regan then turned to her, eyes dancing happily before announcing to the world what the two little lemmings had been up to before they perished. Wow. “They…” her gaze dipped, gaping at Regan’s hands, where the dead lemmings now rested (lucky them). It had to be some kinda cosmic joke. Like, ha ha ha, everybody was getting laid BUT her. And you know what, someone should. A fantastic way to go. La petite mort and all that but like, committing to the bit. (And wait, how did Regan feel about death used in that way?) Could lemmings even…Maybe something about the lemming's expression looked sated, or blissed out in Regan’s expert opinion, to Jade they just looked dead. 

“Um…Romantic?” she tried, and judging by the look on Regan’s face she might have just read her mind. A hand was fast on her shirt, persistent as she was tugged closer. Regan wanted her in the bog, but what about her… screw the boots, actually. Jade dove, well, she kinda overestimated how deep it was, even with Regan next to her. Correction, she stepped inside, draping an arm over Regan’s shoulder and pulling her in for a celebratory kiss. Mindful not to squish the lemmings in the process, obviously. Cause they’d worked hard (against their hormones, mostly) to get this done, they couldn’t ruin it now. Regan was revved up again though, who wouldn’t be after finding such fine specimens (wait, who said that?) (was she in her head now too?), so it made it especially unfair that she had to be the one to pump the breaks again. Her hands shouldn’t have trailed down from Regan’s shoulders to her waist. Shouldn’t have let her fingertips slip inside the hem of Regan’s sweater, slowly lifting up and up, encouraged every time by stuttering gasps against her mouth and… Help. Something dripped, warm against her belly. “I’m…” wet? She shuddered, breaking the kiss just to glance down between their bodies. Regan’s hand had pressed against her shirt, bog juice, and dead lemmings sticking to it. Oh.

“Think of the lemmings,” she blurted out quickly, realizing it was probably not the mood killer for Regan as it was for her. Was Regan even thinking about bog sex anymore actually? Maybe she just wanted to share her happiness that was all, while Jade was already thinking of a makeshift blanket with both their outerwear. (There was that flute again). She didn’t trust herself not to get them into another heated situation though, no matter how harmless things always escalated. Look where a tiny peck got them. “You need your hands… to hold them. Both our hands, in case we find…” Jade climbed out of the bog, back to the squeaky boardwalk, and extending Regan her hand. She felt a little lightheaded, actually. But if catching dead stuff got Regan this excited then, by all means, it boded well for the rest of their night. ”I think we should go for that deer or… Let’s get you more dead things,” All of them, whatever she wanted. She gave Regan an up and down look (not like that) (well, multitask), and nodded. “Maybe a new shirt, too”. 

#writing #c jade

[iamstartraveller776]

A/N: @averbaldumpingground challenged me to write all 20 prompts from this fake dating list. Fandoms and ships are left to my discretion. I’m doing 500-word ficlets for each.

1. “You don’t have to like me, you just need to pretend you do.” — Labyrinth, Jareth/(Adult) Sarah (ao3)

UNFORESEEN CONSEQUENCES

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Sarah hissed under her breath. Well, what little breath she could get while in this abominable corset. She would have loved this fairytale dress—all silvery tulle and silk organza with golden embroidery—as a naïve teen, but after tripping on the layered skirts for the fifth time, she was ready to chuck it into the Bog of Eternal Stench.

“I assure you this isn’t my doing, precious,” Jareth returned through his fake, toothy grin. “There are certain unforeseen consequences for—”

“—for winning the labyrinth,” she finished with a scowl.

He’d appeared at the foot of her bed in the middle of the night, nearly giving her a heart attack. She flung the water bottle she kept on the nightstand at his head, screaming that he had no power over her.

He caught it with a flat expression. “Oh, I’m quite aware,” he’d said. “But I’m afraid neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“What matter?” she demanded.

With a grimace, he laid out the sordid tale. The goblins had discovered romance novels during one of their recent trips Above. Thanks to dark fantasy and the inability to parse reality from fiction, they’d decided that The Girl Who Ate the Peach and Forgot Everything was Jareth’s soulmate, destined to be Queen of the Underground. They’d whipped themselves up into a frenzy, ready to scour the earth to find her. Something, Jareth assured her, that she would not want to happen.

His plan? A fake relationship to appease the beasts until they moved onto some new shiny interest. She countered with the idea that as king, he could command them to give up this insane idea of making the two of them fall madly in love. Jareth nearly doubled over with laughter as if that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Apparently, there was no deterring goblins when they got a notion in their collective brain cell.

Somehow, she found herself agreeing to completely upend her life for this crazy scheme before she could think better of it.

But now, laced into an archaic gown, hand in hand with her adolescent tormentor as they walked through the great hall, Sarah was having second and third thoughts. Dozens of red goblin eyes followed each step they took toward the dais. There were two thrones there. One she remembered from her run over a decade ago. The other was even more make-shift, constructed with an old wicker chair and pieces of a bicycle frame, all wrapped with a fake ivy garland. The ugly thing looked horribly uncomfortable.

“I really don’t like you,” she whispered.

Jareth hummed in agreement. “I assure you the feeling is quite mutual,” he murmured. “But for all of our sakes, you need to be the very vision of besotted. Now smile, precious. They can sense your contempt.”

She stretched her mouth in a feral grin. She was absolutely going to make him pay for this.

~FIN~

#labyrinth #jareth #sarah williams #jareth x sarah #sareth #labyfic #my fic

[elwenyere]

Best Laid Plans (Codywan, 566w, Kiss Bingo Fill)

A quick fill for the @codywankissbingo​! I used my free space to write a “kiss for good luck.” Rating is G, no warnings apply, everyone lives and nobody dies. The card is below the cut for the incredible mods. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!!!

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“Okay, Commander,” Obi-Wan said, bending his head over the data that Cody had pulled up on his pad, “walk me through it.”

“I’ve analyzed the most recent schematics,” Cody began, “and you’ll notice the floor plan here is considerably larger than what our troops are used to.”

“Ah yes, and we have a limited window before we’re due back on base,” Obi-Wan concurred.

“Which means these aisles here -” He enlarged them on the map. “- are going to present a potential distraction for some of the younger officers.”

“We have gotten bogged down in that territory before.” Obi-Wan stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“A tough challenge under the time constraints, but not insurmountable. I think if we spread out our forces along these lines -”

“- yes, that’s just what I was thinking. Better to risk redundancy -”

“- than to leave critical ground uncovered,” Cody agreed, tapping quickly on his data pad to distribute the orders to their tactical teams.

“As always, I am never so confident as when I’m in your capable hands, my dear,” Obi-Wan assured him. “Now about the exfil strategy -”

He broke off at the sound of Rex clearing his throat delicately behind them. 

“I, uh, hate to interrupt -” 

“- but ohhhhh my small gods,” Ahsoka finished for him. “Can we just get the groceries already? I’m starving, and we still have to make the whole meal when we get back.”

Obi-Wan looked over, projecting battlefield calm at her just to see her roll her eyes. She was draped over the back of the grocery cart, keeping it steady as Luke pretended to pilot the metal craft from the front basket. She seemed to have left Leia-wrangling to Rex, who was providing what appeared to be a heavily directed bantha-back ride around the displays at the front of the store.

“A well-prepared team is a team that gets to enjoy a delicious sourfry later,” Cody said, his voice betraying no hint of the amusement that Obi-Wan could feel rolling through him in warm waves. “Because no one forgot to buy the bone broth this time.”

“Never going to live that down, am I?” Rex sighed. 

“I’m giving you an opportunity to do better, soldier,” Cody offered, easily dodging the answering shove from Rex, who had been thrown off balance by Leia making a grab for a packet of dried jogan fruit.

“I’m going now!” Ahsoka announced, pushing Luke and the cart determinedly toward the produce section. 

“We have one standard hour,” Obi-Wan called after her. “And don’t forget to be mindful -” 

“- of the lists,” she finished with him. “Yes, I know, Master!”

“We’re going to end up with some highly unsanctioned sweets in that cart,” Obi-Wan reflected to Cody as their teams peeled off to begin canvassing the aisles.

“Well, you know what they say,” Cody observed. “The best laid plans are absolutely no match for us.”

Obi-Wan smiled, and then leaned in to brush a kiss across Cody’s lips, lingering for a moment when Cody wrapped his free hand around Obi-Wan’s waist, pulled him close.

“For good luck?” Cody asked mildly. “Thought you didn’t believe in it.”

Obi-Wan’s first answer was forestalled by a crash over his shoulder, a hastily yelled “sorry!” and what sounded suspiciously like a cascade of ice pops hitting the floor.

“Yes, well, in this particular case,” Obi-Wan replied, dipping in to kiss his partner again, “better take one more for good measure.” 

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#codywan #codywan kiss bingo 2022 #some fluff for your monday if you need that sort of thing #every day i come on here and i fight with the tags #my fics

[abutterflyobsession]

both @elf-kid2 and @magically-strange requested a haunted house house attraction!

Bog breathed in the cool air, a grin spreading over his face. There was a crisp note in the air, the fallen leaves crunched satisfyingly underfoot. It was fall. The perfect season. Everything was pumpkin spice and Halloween was coming up. All was right with the world.

For a moment.

“Are you just going to stand there smirking all day or are you going to help your poor old mom?” Bog’s mother bellowed across the parking lot. Bog hunched up his shoulders and scowled, bellowing back, “I’m coming!” before stomping over to help her unload the car.

There was one spot on Bog’s autumn that resisted all attempts at removing and that was his family’s annual haunted house.

In theory he liked the haunted house attractions that popped up around Halloween. Cheap, tattered, and gaudily colored with orange and red, like fallen leaves blown in by the chilly wind. Bog’s family’s was no different, made up half of plywood, half of cardboard, completely ready to fall down at any moment. As a kid he adored it.

As an adult he viewed it with a heavy heart.

It meant days of chasing customers in and out, enduring screaming children, making sure that the same number of people who went in also came out, and nursing bruises from people who thought it was funny to ‘fight’ the monsters. That wasn’t even getting into the subject of drunk kids throwing up in the middle of the haunted school section.

It was with scowling melancholy that Bog stretched sticky spiderwebs across corridors and double checked that the timer on the lights flashed them on and off on cue. The setup didn’t take too long, he had a horde of helpers--Steph, Thane, Brutus, Gus--and the end result made him wistfully proud. Shame about all the mundane horrors it was about to bear witness to.

The sun set and customers rose from the depths of somewhere. Probably hell. Bog took his post at the exit, ready to deal with complaints. Being over six-foot tall with a face like a cruel joke helped him in this capacity. Customers forgot their words when he loomed over them in his dreadful costume of choice.

This year he had gone simple, too preoccupied with life and heartbreak the really put himself into it. Some makeup to emphasize his sunken eyes and bony face, an artfully made up bloody wound on his neck, some clawed gloves, a leather jacket thrown on top and he called it good. Or a zombie rocker, anyway.

“Sweetie, we got trouble,” Griselda radioed, “I think this smug jerk is trying to make a move on a girl he followed in.”

“Ugh. Got it.” Bog darted over to one of the secret exits, radioing ahead to Thane, “On my signal shut off the lights.”

“Put loft the tights . . .?” the radio crackled.

“. . . give Steph the radio.”

Slipping through the hidden door, Bog could hear the new group coming up and hid himself behind a cardboard partition. Brutus was already there, dressed as some sort of demon or goblin. “Change of plans, we got a jerk hitting on a woman. I’ll take this batch.”

“. . . hold my hand if you’re scared, darlin’,” a voice twinged with the South approached the hiding spot.

“I’m good. So let go.” A woman said, sounding as if she were on her last straw.

The light was just good enough to see the woman plowing forward, dragging the man hanging off her elbow behind her. He was trying to get handsy, reaching for her shoulder, then her hip, then her waist, each time smacked away. “Now, Steph,” Bog said into the radio, narrowed his eyes to preserve his night vision, and jumped out shining a flashlight in the group’s eyes, doing one of his trademark horror villain laughs. Across the haunted house the actors all joined in with their own sinister giggling and snickering.

The group went into chaos. Bog barely managed to catch the jerk and the woman by the arms, inserting himself between them.

The jerk caught his sleeve and held on tight, obviously blinded. “Look, honey, just cuddle up to me and we’ll make it through just fine.”

“Get off.” The woman tried to shake off Bog’s grip.

“I think that’s my hand,” another woman said, voice shaking. “Whose hands am I holding?”

“I’ve got one,” a man said, sounding pleased. Bog rolled his eyes. Young love. Yuck. But the woman must have assumed it was the other woman holding onto her arm because she stopped trying to shake Bog off.

“Sugar, I know this isn’t the best place for regrets but you’ve made it impossible for me to see you face-to-face,” the jerk persisted.

“I hope something in here eats you, Roland.” the woman hissed.

Not quite, but close enough, Bog smirked. He tapped the radio. “Floor lights.”

From experience Bog knew that light cast from below, especially eerie green and yellow, made his face gruesome enough that makeup was hardly necessary. The lights snapped on just as Bog wrenched the jerk forward so he could leer in his face.

There was a satisfying scream from the jerk.

Leaving the jerk to flounder, Bog grabbed the woman by the shoulders and ushered her out one of the secret passages and into the dim yellow parking lot.

“Get off, get off, get--oh.” The woman looked around. “You aren’t Roland.”

“Nope.”

“Are you another creep?”

“Only professionally. I work here.”

The woman looked around. “Did I just get extracted? Am I in trouble?”

“Not anymore, I hope.”

The woman was small, her hair tussled into a mess, her face painted like a zombie and a fake bite mark on her neck. Bog blinked. She was even wearing a leather jacket and had purple fingernails that must have been two inches long. She looked like a zombie rocker too.

Bog’s heart skipped a beat.

#strange magic #spread the lofe #butterfly bog #human au #the bog king #fiery warrior princess #drabble #my fanfic #possibly to be continued/

[thewillofdeez]

50/50: A Shanks/OC (and Beckman/OC) Romance - Chapter 3: Old Friends and New

Summary: A twenty year journey of friendship, love, and heartache between Shanks and the woman he loves.

Chapter 3 word count: 3071

The next morning, Riley, Shanks, and Beckman gathered the last of the items they needed from Riley’s home into a bag, which Beckman slung across his chest.

“You guys ready?” she asked.

“We are if you are,” Shanks said with a smile. “Let’s do this.”

“And…and you’re sure you still –”

“Oh my God, Riley,” Beckman said, grabbing her face and forcing her to meet his eyes. “Yes. We want you with us.” Beckman pulled her to him and kissed her on the top of her head. “Stop it. Okay?” Riley was still a little teary and unsure from the night before, and must have asked the men a dozen times already if they were really sure. She didn’t think she’d be able to believe them until she was on the ship and thoroughly out to sea. But the reassurance certainly helped.

She smiled and nodded. “Okay. Let’s go. I promise I won’t ask again.”

Shanks and Beckman opened the front door and stepped out, and Riley followed, closing the door behind her and taking a moment to look up at the building that had been her home and workspace for the last time, bidding it a silent goodbye.

“Umm, Riley?” Shanks said. Riley turned around. What appeared to be a good chunk of Isha Island’s population was standing in front of her - her patients, her friends, people she did business with…easily over a hundred people had come to see her off. At the front of the crowd was her old teacher, Dr. Hikaru, now rather aged and bent and well into her retirement. She had been the one to help Riley become a doctor in the first place, and who passed her practice onto her. In a way, it was sort of because of her that Riley was now able to go on this adventure. Riley couldn’t hold back the tears as she went to the old doctor and engulfed her in a hug, allowing it to really sink in that she might never see these people again. It was a bittersweet realization.

Shanks and Beckman stood back and allowed Riley the time to say goodbye to everyone. Some people even came with gifts, and Shanks and Beckman’s arms quickly filled with items - a few bottles of sake and rum, crayon drawings from some of her younger patients, baskets of fruit and dried meat, and more. By the time she had worked her way through the crowd, the two were thoroughly bogged down.

“Bye everyone! I’ll miss you!” She turned and waved to her village one final time as she and her friends crested a hill, and the village slowly sunk out of sight, hundreds of hands waving back at her.

Riley took some items away from the men to lighten their load, and together they made their way to Bill’s house and the shipyard.

Bill greeted them as they approached, waving enthusiastically. He brought Riley in for a bone-crushing hug - the man sometimes forgot how big he was, but Riley couldn’t complain. This was going to be the last time she’d see him for some time, after all, if ever. Together, they loaded the last of the items onto the ship. On the deck, wind whipping through her hair, Riley couldn’t help but be a little nervous. Not only had she never been out to sea, but she didn’t really know much about sailing, her boat in town being quite simplistic compared to a full-sized ship. Bill, Shanks, and Beckman had walked her though how to handle the ropes and steer, and she’d been reading up on the subject as well, but this was going to be her first time actually putting what she’d learned into practice. Not only that, but this ship was far larger than she had ever expected, and it was, for the moment, just the three of them. It was doable, but it would be difficult.

“Bill, thank you for everything,” Shanks said, embracing the larger man.

“We could never repay you for this,” added Beckman.

“We can and we will,” Shanks responded with a sly grin, “When we get some treasure under our belts.”

Bill laughed. “No need, truly. It’s been a joy! I wish I had workers like you around here more often. You boys take care of Riley, you hear?”

“We will!” said Beckman with a smile and a fond look at their new crewmate. “We’ll keep her safe.”

Finally, it was Riley’s turn to say goodbye. Bill brought her into a hug, this one gentler. He then held her out in front of him at arm’s length. “Your family would be so proud of you,” he said softly, then tilted his head in thought. “Perhaps not for the piracy part, but in general.” Riley laughed, trying to hold back more tears - she’d done more than enough of that in the last 24 hours, thank you. “Everything you went through, everything you’ve accomplished as a doctor…and your journey is only just beginning. You’re gonna do great, kid.”

“Love you, Bill.” Riley said, rubbing an eye with her hand. “Thank you.” One more embrace and he released her, stepping down the gangplank and back onto land.

Shanks and Riley lifted the gangplank as Beckman worked on unfurling the sails, then made his way to the helm. They waved goodbye to Bill and his family and team one last time, and the ship was off. When the course was set and the sails filled with wind, Riley made her way to the stern and leaned on the railing, watching as Isha Island became nothing more than an ever-shrinking spot in the distance. Shanks joined her, resting his crossed arms on the railing. They shared a smile, before resuming their watch on the speck of land in the distance. 

When the island was no longer visible, Riley spoke. “So, Captain, what’s the plan?”

“Welp, Phase I is to find people for the rest of the senior officer roles. I’ve got a vice captain and a doctor, but we need at a minimum a navigator, a sniper, a cook, a musician, a shipwright, and a helmsman. After that, we flesh out the rest of the crew. You’ll have a medical team of your own, eventually. And from there, we’ll see where it goes. We’ll build up our reputations, get our names out there, get stronger, maybe cause some trouble for the World Government.” He shot her a wink. “You’re gonna look great on a wanted poster.”

“And the One Piece?” Riley asked, smirking.

Shanks barked out a laugh. “We’ll get there in time. Officers first.”

Over the next half a year, Shanks, along with Beckman and Riley, began to assemble their officers.

The first person they added to their crew was an enormous teenager named Lucky Roux. He’d helped the trio out of a scuffle elsewhere in the South Blue. He and Shanks got to talking, Shanks learned the man was a line cook by trade with dreams of being a chef, and suddenly Shanks was helping him make that dream a reality aboard their ship.

In the East Blue, along the Gecko Islands archipelago, they found Yasopp, a sniper. Riley was surprised to learn that Shanks had met the man before and he had previously turned down an invitation to join Shanks’s crew. But as she and Beckman knew, Shanks was, if nothing else, persistent. This time when Shanks asked, Yasopp said yes at the insistence of his wife. Riley watched as he bid her and his young son goodbye to join the crew. Yasopp was also the one to name Shanks’s crew the Red Hair Pirates, and created the first version of their jolly roger, painting it on the mainsail: a skull and crossbones with a mop of crimson red hair.

Elsewhere in the East Blue, they met a young man named Limejuice, an amateur shipwright who left his father’s company to join the crew.

In the North Blue they met Building Snake, a navigator who had washed ashore a rocky, deserted island when he was shipwrecked, his entire crew presumed dead. He had initially planned to come with them only until he could reach another island, but it was only a matter of time before he agreed to become a permanent fixture of the crew.

In the West Blue, the Red Hair Pirates came across a musician called Bonk Punch. It was because of Riley, actually, that he joined the crew. Bonk had a pet monkey named Monster, who was only a few weeks old at the time. In a village that had been ravaged by pirates, Riley had gotten to work doing damage control, tending to the injured while the rest of the crew drove the other pirates out.

“Please,” Riley heard a voice as a tall figure emerged from the settling dust. “I know you’re not a veterinarian, but…please help him.” In his large hands was a tiny monkey with a gash across its chest bleeding profusely.

Riley nodded at the man, taking the monkey from him. Logically there were humans who might have needed her immediate assistance more, but she couldn’t say no to the big man and his small companion. She patched up Monster, and when he was back to full health, it took no convincing from her and Shanks to have them join the crew. When Monster grew up, Shanks was very insistent on him being considered an officer of the ship in his own right, and not just Bonk’s pet. He was, after all, a very smart monkey.

And on the Grand Line, the crew met Gab, their helmsman, an enormous man with intimidating looks but the kindest heart of perhaps all of them. Gab had been working under duress for a much crueler pirate crew, and when the Red Hair Pirates encountered them, engaging them in battle and eventually sinking their ship, Gab was quick to escape and join them.

What Shanks had said to Riley when they first met remained true - Shanks wanted kind people on his team, and all of the assembled officers met that description. Which wasn’t to say they weren’t capable of fighting, or even killing - they were, and they did when they had to. But as a crew, their goal wasn’t to cause chaos, instill fear in the average person, or get copious amounts of gold at the expense of others. It was to live freely, and to help where they could.

With the senior officers assembled, Phase II began. The Red Hair Pirates had already begun climbing the ranks of formidable pirate crews, with each member having a wanted poster boasting a decently-sized bounty (except for Riley's – as the sole non-combatant member of the crew, she was only worth 20,000, but she was determined to get that number up). Riley proudly displayed them in the mess hall every time a new one came out. They had been written about in the papers numerous times, taken on Marines both on land and at sea, and had a unique reputation: The World Government hated them, of course. Many other pirate crews hated them. But on average, while they were initially met with fear and loathing on every new island they visited, they always seemed to befriend the average person along the way. 

It took another year after that, but eventually they were able to say that the Red Hair Pirates were complete, with ten senior officers (including Monster) and 49 pirates working under them, plus Shanks, totaling 60 pirates. Shanks and Beckman had no trouble recruiting crew members - by this point, they’d developed enough of a reputation that they were worried they’d eventually have to start turning good people away.

True to his word, Shanks did provide Riley with her own medical team - working under her were a pair of brothers from Fishman Island named Dirk and Dane. They were young, but had good hearts and were eager to learn.

Shanks, Riley found herself musing one day, was an excellent captain. He was a natural for the role - brave, charismatic, a strategic thinker, and he cared deeply about every member of his crew. He kept a list in his quarters of everyone’s birthdays and insisted on celebrating every single one, was always happy to spend time with even the lowest-ranked people on the crew, treating them as if they were a member of his inner circle, and was very good at making sure everyone knew how much he appreciated them. It was the kind of family-building on a pirate ship that, as far as Riley knew, only people like Whitebeard had ever really achieved.

For her part, Riley was happy. Though it wasn't always easy being the only woman amongst fifty-nine men (and oh how she longed for the day when another girl was willing to join the crew), not a single man aboard ever gave her any hassle, and she had a friendly, playful relationship with most of them. She had their respect both as a senior officer, and as a doctor. Which wasn’t to say they couldn’t be kind of crude, boisterous, and gross - they were still men, and pirates at that - but she never once felt intimidated or endangered around them, which was more than she could say about some men she’d met at bars. If anything, the rest of the crew had a tendency to be annoyingly overprotective of her - her job was to be the crew’s doctor, and in order for her to be able to do her job in the midst of battle, the rest of the crew would act as her protector so she could work on the injured. In doing so, however, her protectors often ended up being injured themselves.

And that was the only thing Riley didn’t like about life on the Gold Dragon. Every other member of the crew was a fighter in some respect. Shanks with his sword, Beckman with his rifle, and both of them with their growing Haki. Axes, guns, staffs, slingshots, knives, and even just feet and fists - every other member of the Red Hair Pirates knew how to fight in some way, and they all worked together to help each other get stronger and share their knowledge. Hell, even Dirk and Dane knew a good bit of Fishman Karate and were able to hold their own in battle when they weren’t assisting Riley. None of them needed Devil Fruits to be a formidable crew, they were powerful on their own merits.

And that just left Riley, the weakest, the one who didn’t know how to fight, whose strength was limited, and who felt powerless about it. The one who had to rely on everyone else for her own safety. In the early days with the crew it was a minor annoyance to her, but as more and more years passed it increasingly became something she hated.

After a difficult and almost devastating battle with a fleet of Marines led by a Vice Admiral, Riley and her team had just finished fixing up the crew. In the process of defending her, Beckman had gotten a bullet to the back, just barely missing a kidney, Yassop got a minor concussion, and Gab had been stabbed. As she treated their wounds, the men still carried smiles on their faces, despite the pain. She knew that they didn’t mind looking out for her and getting hurt or killed in the process, but she minded.

When the last patient left her office, Riley made her way to the upper deck to get some fresh air. Looking out over the sea and lost in thought, she almost didn’t notice when Shanks came up beside her.

"Berry for your thoughts?" He said, grabbing her attention. Riley looked at him, then back to the sea.

"The guys got their asses kicked today," she said quietly.

"Eh, we win some, we lose some," Shanks replied with a shrug. "There were no casualties, and I consider that a win in itself. Just means we gotta get stronger."

"Shanks…” Riley began, unsure of how to continue. How would he react? She had known Shanks for several years at this point, but a request like this, from subordinate to captain, was uncharted territory. And she knew that of all the people on the crew, Shanks felt perhaps the most protective of her. She looked up to meet his gaze. “I want to get stronger too. I want to learn how to fight."

Shanks almost let out a laugh, but the look on her face stopped him. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” she replied, echoing the words he had spoken to her a long time ago.

Shanks sighed. "Riley, you don't need to learn how to fight. You have fifty-nine men who would die for you without question."

"See, that's the thing," she shot back, "I don't want anyone to die for me. Beck got shot defending me, Shanks, the bullet missed his kidney by less than an inch. If it had been any worse I don't know if I could save him without getting him to a hospital. I hate seeing you guys get beaten up taking care of me."

"None of us mind, Riley, we–"

"It doesn't matter if you don't mind. I mind. I want to be able to defend myself, and you, and everyone else on this ship. I want to be able to hold my own with the rest of the crew. Please."

Shanks looked at her, and could see the desperation in her eyes. She'd make a good fighter, sure. She was lithe, and fast, and with some work he was positive she could effectively wield any number of weapons. But allowing her to fight meant allowing her to be in danger, more so than she already was, anyway. He couldn't risk that.

"The answer is no, Riley. I'm sorry, I won’t sign off on this."

"Shanks…"

"Your safety is my priority, Rye. I'm not gonna allow you to be in any more danger than you already are." With that, he turned and walked away, hoping it would be the last he'd hear of the matter.

For Riley's part, she could be as stubborn and persistent as her captain. She didn't stop bringing it up every so often, careful not to push him, but making sure he knew how she felt. If she had to out-stubborn Shanks, it would be hard, but she'd have to try.

Previous - Chapter 2: Conditions and Compromise

Next - Chapter 4: Rescue and Reconciliation

#akagami no shanks #akagami no shanks x reader #red haired shanks #red hair pirates #benn beckman #benn beckman x reader

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Edge of Seventeen - Chapter Six.

Huge thanks to everyone who is regularly reading and offering commentary! You’re all lovely people! :)

Previous chapters - One  Two  Three  Four  Five

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,654

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Angel always hated when he forgot to draw the bedroom curtains at night, the streaming light disturbing his slumber, his sleeping off of the outlaw life and all the excesses that came with it. Except for one particular morning, when he awoke to see the sun lighting Bella so beautifully, it was an image he knew would be burned into his brain forever. Still, he took a picture of her, because she looked so perfect, curled up, as beautiful as she was adorable.  

He knew she’d want to see it, too, because usually, Bella looked feral when she slept, hair dishevelled, sleep talking, hissing; she was more sleeping funny than sleeping beauty. He’d nearly died laughing the week previously when she’d announced ‘there’s a chip shop over there! I’m driving the orange Beetle, there’s no bread rolls in Paris.’ She too had found it hilarious, the bread rolls thing swiftly becoming an in joke, Angel receiving a text a few days on, a picture of the aforementioned baked item with the text ‘NONE IN PARIS!’ accompanying it, cracking him up all over again.  

Lying there, he watched her sleep for a while before getting up and taking a shower, returning to find her beginning to stir.  

“Morning sleepy.” He leaned to kiss her, Bella rubbing her eyes and murmuring as she kissed him softly, stretching.  

“Blah, don’t kiss me! You’re all lovely and fresh, and I’m still grotty. Bog monster realness over here,” she complained, Angel snorting with laughter.  

“Nope,” he hummed, kissing her forehead. “No bog monster, just my beautiful girl. See, look. I have evidence.” He reached for his phone, showing her the picture.

Taking it, she sat up a little, focusing. “Oh! Look at me, I did a pretty sleep!”

He laughed softly. “You did do a pretty sleep. Are you awake now, or dropping off again?”  

“Hmmmm,” she pondered, handing his phone back and moving to cuddle against him. “Can I stay here on the chest until I make up my mind?”

She killed him with her cute, Angel kissing her hair, twirling a curl around his finger. “You’d better.” he chuckled, his fingers lifting the cropped Aerosmith t shirt she had on, stroking her back as her nails circled at his nipple, Bella clearing her throat and having a little cough before making a nervous noise.  

“Oh no. Oh, I think we have an issue, or at least I do.” Her eyes widened, feeling a little spread of warm between her legs.

“What?”

“I think my angry monthly guest just turned up. Oh no, I hope I didn’t puddle the sheets!” Angel moved, lifting her legs and checking. “Nah, but your undies weren’t so lucky. Come on.” Getting off the bed, he picked her up, carrying her to the bathroom.  

“No! What if I bleed on you?” Bella cried, embarrassed. She’d never gotten her period right there next to a boyfriend before, Angel snorting as he placed her down on the toilet.  

“Well, you didn’t,” he began, glancing at himself. “And if you did, it’s just a little blood. I ain’t gonna freak out. Just so you know, too, I’m totally down for shower sex if you need me to make you cum loads and ease your cramps.” He smiled, leaving her to get herself sorted out, Bella sitting there wondering how the hell she’d gotten so lucky. Her last boyfriend had shut her down completely when she’d mentioned to him that she had period cramps, telling her it was disgusting, and he didn’t want to hear about it. Angel? He just accepted it as something that happened without fuss.  

“You want pancakes, babe?” he called, as she was rinsing her underwear.  

“Please!”  

“Blueberry or chocolate?”

She was thoughtful for all of two seconds. “Both?”

“On it.”  

Another amazing thing about Angel? Damn, the man could cook. He made them enchiladas for dinner the night before, and they were unlike any others she’d ever eaten. ‘Veefe ar amafin!’ she’d muffled through a mouthful of cheese laden chicken and peppers, her tongue tingling from the smoky spices. Once she’d showered and cleaned her teeth, she went back into the bedroom, pulling on her bra and a pair of his grey sweats, which she had to turn up several times at the waist and legs, so they didn’t bury her completely, padding out to find him in the kitchen, passing her a plate.  

“I love you,” she cooed, taking it, kissing his thick shoulder.  

“Love you too.” He turned off the stove, picking up the syrup and moving to the table with her, smiling when he saw she was in his sweats. Some guys got irritated by their girlfriend stealing their clothes, but he loved it. He liked watching her make herself at home. “So, any thoughts over what you want to do today? I don’t mind, we can stay here and chill if your womb of doom is being too much of a bitch.”  

She snorted with laughter at hearing that, her womb of doom. “I’ll take some ibuprofen once I’ve eaten, so that should help with the doom situation,” she began, taking a sip of orange juice. “After that, there is somewhere I’d like to go. There’s a photography exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Art I’d love to go and see, but if you don’t want another long ride out there on top of taking me home tomorrow then that’s cool, we can just find something to do down here.”

He adored that about her, that she was so considerate of him as sole license carrier in the relationship, Bella still only learning to drive at that point and still freaking out about it all ‘being the wrong way around’, since she’d previously taken her driving lessons on British roads, of course. “Yeah, of course we can. Who’s the photographer?”

Bella sat and informed him all about the work of Frieda Sanchez, a young photographer from Los Angeles, who travelled the entire state to photograph urban landscapes, some with models posed, some with regular people, some without. Mostly, though, she was making a name for herself for her work she did with the homeless, using half of the money from her sales to give back to the community, a community she’d been part of for a few rough years in her teens. Bella thought she was fascinating, as did Angel too, by the time she was finished speaking of her and showing him some of her shots on Instagram.  

After getting ready, Bella emerged from the bathroom, Angel taking one look at her and shaking his head.  

“What? Did I smudge my eyes? Oh, bollocks! I knew I didn’t wait long enough for the liquid liner to dry before I put my lashes on,” she panicked, Angel getting up.

“No, no, it ain’t that. It’s just, most chicks just wanna be comfy and casual when they’ve got their period, and you? Look at you, still all glam, all sexy, rock n’ roll princess. Damn, I’m a lucky bastard.” She was wearing skin-tight black jeans, a little red velour cropped top with lots of fringe hanging from the bottom, a pair of skyscraper heeled leopard print boots that were more like stilts, and her makeup and hair immaculate.

Two hours later, and they were walking hand in hand around the museum, viewing the photographs in person, Bella studying them carefully, taking her notebook from her bag, scribbling things down.  

“Inspired?” Angel asked quietly, his eyes flitting away from a picture of a homeless woman laughing with joy as she sat beside a fountain.  

“Absolutely!” she replied enthusiastically, continuing her notes before placing the book back in her bag and returning her focus to the pictures. The way Frieda had captured the vibrancy in her subjects, she found it so touching, her favourite the series Angel had just viewed, the homeless woman by the fountain. The one that touched her most was a selfie style shot, Frieda holding the woman close as they both beamed, Bella touched by the fact that although the woman had so little, not even a home to call her own, she seemed so bright and happy.  

It was clear that the artist saw her subjects as people, real people, with emotions, with stories, some of which were included in the notes below the pictures, and it was this keen interest that showed through in her work. As he looked over each exhibit, Angel kept one eye on Bella, smiling to himself as he witnessed the notebook being brought out again, loving how there was no limit to where she found her own artistic inspiration.  

It seemed they were the cause of someone else’s inspiration, too, standing outside of the museum, basking in each other’s affection as they tried to decide what to do next, being approached by a face they recognised instantly.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you guys. Frieda Sanchez.” She offered her hand forth, Bella gaping, bouncing excitedly on her heels.  

“Oh my god! It’s you! We just saw your exhibit, it was so bloody good!” she squeaked, Angel smiling at her enthusiasm.

“Thank you so much!” she replied graciously. “Yes, I saw you both looking around, and I hoped I’d catch you before you left. Would you mind if I took a couple of pictures of you? You guys are such a gorgeous couple, you’re both too good an opportunity to pass up. If you give me your email, I’ll send you the pictures I take, too.”  

They instantly agreed, Frida moving back and telling them to just act as they had been, to forget she was there. After taking a few shots, she thanked them, posing for a selfie with them that Bella took and getting her email before leaving them in peace, Angel finally being the one to make a decision over their next destination, and taking her for a burger. Of course, she chose one almost the size of her own face, getting into a huge ketchupy, mustardy mess while she ate it, and gave not one single damn.  

God, he loved her.

When Bella received the email from Frida a day later, she squeaked with excitement, viewing the pictures, falling in love with all of them. One stood out particularly though, them just gazing at one another, foreheads and noses touching, Bella’s hands rested either side of his neck, one of his around her waist, the other gripping her bum. It was candid and beautiful, and it showed clearly just how in love with one another they were.  

Hightailing it out of the lunchroom, she ran down to the art studio, where the large-scale printer could be found, along with the lovely lecturer who she knew would let her use it.  

“Professor Mackie? Can I please do a print?”  

The teacher, with her head of cascading, silver curls turned in her seat, smiling warmly. She liked Bella, often stopping by the music labs since that was where her fellow professor and husband worked, hanging around to listen to her sing. “Sure, Bella. Let's take a look.” Bella handed her phone over. “Oh, that’s a beauty! What a handsome couple you guys make! If you ever have enough, can I borrow him? I’ll have him back to you, bathed and fed in about a... week?”

Her wink cracked Bella up more than her words. Elizabeth Mackie was such a fun woman, never losing her zesty spirit, even at sixty-three years old. Locating a cable, she plugged in Bella’s phone to the computer and moved the image across, setting it up for A3 and sending it to the printer. One gorgeous black and white printout and a trip to buy a frame on the way home later, and Bella had a perfect surprise gift for Angel.  

“What are you trying to hide there?” he asked as she walked into his house two days later, after getting there under her own steam. He did wonder, why she said she didn’t need collecting from the station and told him she was getting a cab.  

“Open it!”  

Taking the large gift, he sat down, tearing the paper from it, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, baby! That’s sweet as fuck, look at that! Damn, we’re good looking!” He smiled, taking in all the little details of the picture, knowing it was swiftly going to become his favourite thing hanging on the wall there in the lounge. “Thank you, I love it.” He turned, kissing her before locating a hammer and a picture hook, of which he knew he had somewhere in the kitchen junk drawer.  

With a little help from her, he had it hanging up on the wall just above the TV in about ten minutes, standing back a little to view it.  

It was perfect. Just like them.  

“Right, I’m gonna get out of these frigging jeans and into your sweats. Bloody womb is on fire!” she announced, Angel snorting with laughter.  

“Alright, baby girl. You wanna do anything tonight, go out, or just be low key and get a pizza?”  

She immediately resurfaced from the bedroom, pointing at the drawer where he kept the takeout menus. “The square one, with the thingies and the things!”

“One square pizza, with chicken and olives for the crazy British girl.” He was one hundred percent fluent in Bella Thorpe at that point, usually knowing exactly what she meant when referencing thingies and things across a multitude of situations.  

Two pizzas, a couple of bottles of beer and one movie later, and she was content. Well... almost.  

“I’m so fucking horny!”  

Angel side eyed her, pausing from rubbing her feet, as he knew he’d have to after she’d decided to wear boots with six-inch heels all day. “Shower?”  

“Yeah, although I didn’t want to get my hair wet again,” she complained lightly.  

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he muttered, earning a foot in the thigh.  

“Oi! I’m not bitching, it’s perfectly valid.”  

He scoffed lightly. “Well, if you want it! Unless we put a towel down.”

She looked horrified at that. “Oh no, can’t. It’s still like the elevator doors opening in The Shining down there!”

He winced. “Yeah, thanks for the visual, baby.” He thought on it a little more. “Unless we use the sponge method?”

Bella paused from sipping her beer. “The flippin’ what?”

“Sponge method,” he repeated. “It’s how women who do porn still work while they have their period, they just shove a bit of clean sponge up there and it catches the blood.”

“Do you even have a brand-new sponge?”  

“Yep,” he confirmed gesturing in the direction of the bathroom. “There’s one in the cabinet.” He watched her as the cogs turned in her brain. “What are you waiting for?”

“I need to contemplate. I have to consider,” she spoke, finishing her beer.  

“If you go wash up all fresh before you put it up there, I’ll go down on you, too?”  

She was out of her seat so fast, she almost tripped over the coffee table, Angel guffawing at her. She located the sponge, cut a third of it off, and did what she had to do. Fifteen minutes later, and she was lying on his bed, his head between her legs, his tongue feeling amazing as it beat across her sensitive clit.  

“So, there’s really nothing coming out?” she checked with him. Again.

He sighed a little, raising an eyebrow. “Nope, nothing. Well, you’re really wet, but the sponge seems to be doing what it’s supposed to be doing. Just lie back, relax, it’s all good.” He had her out of her head with ecstasy before long, Bella finding both her pain and raging desire sated in equal measures, thinking to herself that she’d definitely try this again in the future. Well, so long as the sponge held up to Angel’s usual brand of sexual carnage.

Sitting up, he pushed her legs forward, her knees touching her chest, her puffy slit opened to him, the head of his erection swiping her thickened folds. He took a few moments to tease, stroking her with his cock before pushing within, sharply drawing in breath as her plush sheathed him, her wetness bathing his shaft in a hot, needy clasp.  

He viewed her intently, the way her mouth fell open and her perfect little tits began to heave, her helpless gasps filling his ears as his big cock bottomed out repeatedly, her reaction a feast for his eyes. The sight of himself entering and retreating her was mesmerising, gazing at the way his slippery shaft glided so effortlessly into her. He could feel her fluttering around him already, the sensation threatening to pull him under, make him mindless, drag him into careless abandon.  

“You’re gonna ask me if there’s any blood, aren’t you?”  

She crinkled her nose, smiling shyly. “Is there?”

“Not even a drop.” It felt a little strange, the tip of his cock hitting against the sponge, but not unpleasant, and certainly not in a way that would make him stop. Oh no. Only one thing would lead to that.  

“Where are you... oh. That’s where you’re going,” she purred, Angel moving to wrap his mouth around her folds again, delighting her with a very hungry suck. He groaned, all grit and gravel, his mouth full of sweet tasting, petal soft flesh, his deep brown eyes blown with near crippling lust.  

The press of his tongue over her hard little bud had bliss skittering through her, shuddering against his face as her legs tensed, enjoying it too much, if such a thing was possible, Angel moving to kneel before her once more, sinking back inside her. Her pounded her voraciously, every last inch of his girthy hardness, evoking her helpless wails, the lewd noises of their sex filling the air.  

A bonfire of lust roared up her spine, chased by fervid thrusts, feeling as if her insides were about to explode into glorious glimmers, Angel relentless, until he wasn’t.  

“You bloody bastard of a tease!” she growled, yanking his hair in her fists with a playful tug, Angel winking at her, looking smug before once again, taking a mouthful of her wet folds. “Come on, big sexy. Show me a little mercy?”  

“I am. I could go and sit on the couch and leave you in here by yourself. That’d be worse, wouldn’t it?”

She grumbled in frustration “I see the point you’re making. Still, it doesn’t lead to me getting what I want, which is to feel you spear me with that gorgeous, big cock.”  

“You’ll get it eventually, once my tongue is done. After all, my favourite thing to have in my mouth is you.” Teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue, the light little licks had heat misting her veins, panting hard, her empty core fluttering around nothing with the injustice of not being filled by him. Such was his need to simply fuck her without pause, he gave into that need quite quickly, spearing her fluidly, fucking her in absolute frenzy until she shattered for him, spent and breathless, shuddering beneath him as he filled her with his own thick ropes of release.

“How’s your cramps?”

She grinned. “What cramps?”  

“Ahhh, job done.” He looked pleased with himself, lying on his back and feeling all relaxed and dreamy, Bella going to the bathroom to retrieve the piece of sponge.  

“Angel?” she called after five minutes.

“’Sup?”

“Erm. I need some help. It’s stuck.”  

Oh shit.  

“Give it a few minutes. All your muscles are probably still all contracted and shit.” He had a point, as ineloquently delivered as it was, Bella sitting on the toilet and waiting, bearing down a little. Ten minutes later after a little root around, and she still couldn’t grasp it.  

“Baby? It’s still stuck!”  

Angel closed his eyes momentarily, trying not to laugh. “Jesus Christ.” Getting up, he headed into the bathroom, finding a very pink cheeked Bella sitting there. “Alright, get in the shower so you don’t drip all over the floor.”  

What followed was perhaps the most mortifying hilarity she’d ever experienced.  

“Can you feel it?” she asked, Angel trying to locate it, his fingers burrowed deep.

“Yeah, but I can’t quite get at it. Shit, it’s wedged up there good. I need tweezers.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re not putting those up there!” she cried.  

“Kitchen tongs?”

“Angel!”

“What? They have silicone grip! They’re soft!”

“You are not putting tongs up my fanny! And there we are, a hundred points to me for sentences I never thought I’d ever say!” she snorted, hand over her mouth as she cracked up, Angel much the same, still trying to pull the edge of the sponge down enough to grip it.  

“Alright, I’ll have to take you to the ER, then.”

Her scream of protest was immediate, and loud. “No fucking way. I can’t! The embarrassment!”

He exploded with laughter at that point, managing to finally grasp it between his fingers, yanking it out, his hand a bloodied state. “Well, looks like we’re taking a shower after all.” They both burst into hysterics, unable to stop as they laughed so hard, no sound came out.  

That’s how relationships were; you took the good with the gross. It also gave them another in joke to die laughing about all over again.  

“Hey, is there a sponge anywhere? I gotta clean my bike,” Gilly asked, coming into the clubhouse a couple of days later, Angel blowing out a mouthful of beer as he laughed, Bella at his side in a similar state. “What?”  

“Nothing.” They both chorused, looking at each other and dying all over again. Gilly never did find out why the mention of a sponge had sent them into hysterics, and never again did Bella ever use one for blood catching purposes. Shower sex was just fine, she decided.  

#angel reyes #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes smut #angel reyes imagine #angel reyes x ofc #angel reyes fanfic #angel reyes fic #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfiction #mayans mc smut #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fic

[randomfoggytiger]

X-Files Collector's Edition: It's a Funny, Funny World in MSR Land

Not all is doom and gloom for Mulder and Scully; in fact, things can get downright knee-slapping. Scully catching Mulder in all his quirks (in his office on holiday, Bigfoot compilation tapes, and cranberry bog spiders) and Mulder seeing Scully unguarded (loopy or caught out on eating all the office chocolates) are fics worth reading.

Loose chronological order below~

@mldrgrl's  (Ao3) Wise Up

""Scully opened her eyes and stared blankly at the woman standing above her.  She sat up slowly with the nurse’s help and then Mulder crouched down and put a hand on her knee.  Her right cheek was puffed up, full of cotton swabs that poked out of the corner of his mouth. The size of her pupils caught him off guard, so dilated her eyes almost looked black.

“Muller,” Scully murmured.  “My mowf ish mishing.”

“Your mouth is missing?""

Set sometime after the Skinman name drop and the Lazarus Bowl movie disaster, Mulder takes care of a loopy Scully after her wisdom tooth removal surgery-- many hilarious moments are had, including "who's Queequeg?", prodding her mouth constantly, and Mulder trying to just get Scully to bed.

Jamie Greco's Truth or Dare

""...Now, who goes first?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Beauty before age."

"Ouch.""

Scully is a taskmaster to Mulder during their Truth or Dare game while on a stakeout.

Juliettt's Verdict

""She swivelled in her chair to meet Mulder's eyes. He gazed at her for a moment and then lifted his eyebrows and nodded slightly. She flashed him a smile and turned back to the agent standing hopefully in the hallway.

"Okay, Halle. Come on in."

A wide grin broke over the agent's face and he swung the door open.

The next few moments were a flurry of activity as men and women dressed in suits poured into the room and took up positions around the small television set up on the light table.""

Agents from the upper floors swarm the basement to catch the OJ Simpson trial verdict. Even Skinner joins.

Dawn/sunrise83 (Ao3, Gossamer) Trivia Pursuits (Ao3)

""You know? Mulder, this has been missing for two years. It's the best one I've ever had; I turned my apartment upside down looking for it. The one I replaced it with cost twice as much and works half as well."

"Sorry, Scully. I intended to give it back, but I kept forgetting."

"What were you doing with it in the first place?"

"Remember when I broke my arm falling from that fire escape?""

Mulder is bored on a stakeout and Truths or Dares (without the Dare) Scully into confessing an embarrassing Skinner dream. But she gets extra delight from finding out he'd been beaten up by Winnie the Pooh. Much sad and sappy anecdotes are shared as well.

Pattie's

President's Day Ambush

""The best thing about this day in the office was that Scully wouldn't be shaking her head wondering why he was going through all those "outrageous claims and delusional, hysterical people mesmerized by science fiction." He thought after all these years and everything she had seen even under the microscope she would stop the remarks. Especially her "concern" that he was obsessed with "things that could easily be explained possibly by science, and if not in the present, some day when science became even more advanced." Finally, some time to be there and do what he had missed doing these past few months. Sometimes, he even did this on Saturdays.""

Scully drags Mulder out of the office, refusing to let himself sniggle out of his mandated holiday.

Mulder's Penance

""I have been regressed by a controversial therapist, bound and gagged, subjected to horrible experiments in Tunguska, taken to the far corners of the Earth and even slugged by someone who looked amazingly like my partner during a wild ride in the Bermuda Triangle, transported to the past.

Why is it that right now, as I shampoo the carpet of my car for the twentieth time, I feel I am truly in Hell itself?""

Mulder forgot to escort Scully to a wedding, and so gets obligated to a kid's birthday party instead. Much food poisoning and misery has both of them running for the hills.

Vice Verses 01

""Let's see how many vices I have. And since I have nothing else to do since Scully is visiting her brother and sister-in-law, and nothing new has crossed my desk, I may as well take stock. I'm sure Scully has taken them all into account and memorized them in that beautifully packaged brain of hers anyway. I'd better get this down on paper. Just to see what I can dig up. Might come in handy for my New Year's Resolutions.""

Mulder decides to write his quirks down. This will not end well.

Vice Verses Encountered

""Maybe she won't find it. She has the file. Good. She shoves the file drawer closed and she's turning to walk toward me with that case file. She's on her way and... Something just fell out of that folder, and I recognize it. I stand and begin to walk over to her... "I'll get that, Scully!" She can't see it. She can't. I have my pride.

"Relax. I'll get it. If you've got a headache, you sure don't need to bend down and make it worse." She's smiling and I am now dreading her reading that piece of paper.""

Scully tortures Mulder over his list for a bit until he threatens her with the dirt he has on her.

Skinner Meets Vice Verses

""Well, this was just too good to pass up, and the occasion called for a sit down. So, Skinner read away sitting in Mulder's chair.

"Good thing I don't answer to that cigarette smoking buzzard," he thought. "Mulder actually admitting his vices? Sure MUST have been a slow day."

As he read the heading, he started to chuckle.""

A bored Skinman and an incriminating list by Mulder are two combinations that poor old Spooky could only hope was a nightmare.

CSM Reads Vice Verses

""At this time of night, no one would be here. Besides, he knew that Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were both at home. It was time to see what the dear boy and his partner had been up to lately, without Skinner's help this time. That would prove somewhat harmful to Skinner later, but then it was business as usual for the Cigarette Smoking Man, as he had become known to Mulder and Scully.

He had no problem unlocking the office door. Again, "Access". The desk had actually been dusted! "Don't tell me you're getting domestic on me, boy. Maybe the cleaning staff took the opportunity since your desk is clear." Usually, there were files, pencils, 'post-it' notes and sunflower seed shells scattered over the top of the desk.""

The ultimate indignity, even if CSM won't do anything with Mulder's professions of inadequacies.

The Day Mulder Put Bill in His Place

""Boys? Are you being good?" I shouted, trying so hard not to giggle and wet myself.

"Yeah!" they shouted in unison.

Mulder added, "Just giving your brother a history lesson."

"Creative history!" Bill called back.""

AU-- Mulder and Scully have a family, the support of the FBI, and friends for Thanksgiving... and that, of course, isn't enough for big brother Bill. All ends swimmingly between the two guys.

veryygirlfriendfoxmulder/sohmer's Unnamed Florida Man fic (Alt.)

""Mulder shakes his head, snorting. “You mean to tell me that there are multiple men in Florida performing the same bizarre crimes? That the man who tried to rob the brother’s CVS with a water nozzle is a different person from the one who killed their husband with a squirrel?""

Mulder in convinced in the entity that is Florida Man. Scully remains unconvinced and incredulous.

@spookyscullies's (WBM) Scully finds one of Mulder's "tapes"

""The way his eyes had twinkled and the quick spread of his grin when she mentioned the loss of her keys made her suspicious.

His closing statement on the subject was “it’s our next X File, Scully”, to which she replied only with a playful glare. 

Nevertheless, here she was, fifteen minutes later, absolutely clueless to where her keys may have gone. Another realm? Maybe in Mulder’s world, but scientifically impossible in her own. They had to be here somewhere, but where?""

Mulder's tapes are more egregious than Scully thought-- it's a Bigfoot dance video.

Cornerofmadness's Just Another Night in a Cemetery

""I’m not digging up a grave, Mulder,” she protested. “And what does this have to do with disappearing pigs?”

“They can project their spirit self as a pig to drain others until they have managed the entire self-cannibalism.” He dug a river rock the size of her fist out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here. I’ll dig. You keep the light on the grave.”

He made it sound so easy but it wasn’t of course. It took him well over an hour of back-breaking work to move the soft earth off the vault only there wasn’t one. Whoever this was had opted for a more green burial, just a coffin in earth and that meant no embalming. By now she should be able to smell the person but she couldn’t. The sounds of chewing had stopped but that only made her more nervous.""

Scully is, once again, surprised that Mulder deduced that magical pigs are a sign of a German, shroud-eating vampire. He gives her the honor or stuffing a rock in its mouth.

The Meet Up

""Do you know why Mulder called us here?” Frohike asked as he and the rest of the Lone Gunmen caught up with Dana in the hallway to Mulder’s apartment.

“Alien invasion?” Langly’s eyes glinted. “Wendigos in Central Park? The Green-clawed beast in Evansville?”

“It could be the Grassman in Gallipolis,” Frohike added.

Dana didn’t know how they kept all that nonsense in their heads or more importantly why. She guessed it was like medical school and memorizing all the muscles of the body. Only it was a lot more useless than knowing the origin and insertions of the sternocleidomastoid. Mulder and the Gunmen would argue that point.

“I’m more interested in why we had to pick up a bucket of hot wings and Doritos.” Beyers hefted a grocery bag.""

Scully and TLG are invited impromptu-style to Mulder's for breadsticks and football. They all shrug and join good-naturedly.

@starbuck09256's (Ao3) Trick or treat?

""Mulder steps beside me and his glowing flashlight shines into a distant hallway that he surely doesn’t intend for us to go down. But then he grins that grin, the one that turns my rational and reasonable senses to mush and causes me to follow him into the darkness and search out its’ secrets. 

“Mulder, this doesn’t look structurally sound, at all” but his back is facing me and he turns and makes that face the one that dares me to back down and I can’t I can’t not go after him, not follow him.""

Scully is both amused and very NOT amused by Mulder's hijinks in a faux haunted house. Both are horrified that the rat was real.

syn's Halloween Confection (Gossamer)

""Yes, I do have a confession, Mulder," said Scully, logging off her computer and looking up.

Mulder crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk. "I'll bet you do."

"I confess that last night I made an amazing discovery."

"What? That Special Dark isn't as bad as you remembered it to be?"

"No, Mulder. Last night, as I worked late in the office, I discovered that aliens *do* exist," she said calmly.

Mulder blinked. "Excuse me?""

The missing chocolate is definitely not Scully's fault; in fact, she was witness to little outer space creatures fly in under her nose and steal them. Mulder listens to her proclaim her innocence with increasing amusement.

Ten's (Gossamer) Scully Gets Fed Up With Being the Ditch Witch

""Well?"

"Well..." He shrugged, turning off the heater, pulling his suit jacket and trenchcoat back on as she began angrily zinging it back and forth on the chain, "How do you feel about seeing what sort of meals they do here?"

Scully let go of her sign of faith. "Good idea." She came up beside him and took her other hand out of her pocket as he opened the door. Click!

"HEY!" Mulder jerked his arm away - well, as far as he could get. They were handcuffed together.

Her smile was triumphant, cat-like. "Not this time, Mulder.""

Sometime S3-4 Scully is NOT getting left behind by Mulder-- she straight up cuffs herself to him, forcing him to meet Marita with a plus one. She keeps them both interlocked through his mission; but, unfortunately for them both, she loses the key when the guns are pulled out to prevent the duo from breaking and entering a building. Skinner doesn't even want to know.

S3-4/INTP given tip by Marita/ISTJ cuffs herself to him to prevent ditch/break into building still cuffed/his badge caught bullet/ENTJ unamused to bail them from prison/ISTJ sneaked evidence into blouse/not ditching-- Gossamer | Story: "Scully Gets Fed Up With Being the Ditch Witch" by Ten 

myssbrokethefall's Unnamed Cranberry Bog Spiders

""She rolls her eyes, flicks a few more spiders off her, toddler-marches out of there after him with her dignity mostly intact, thanks the farmers for their time, takes their cranberry-jelly samples that they were given by the farmers who ... weren’t sure what the polite thing was, and lets Mulder explain emphatically to her in the car about how this lead is a dead end and it has NOTHING to do with the spiders, it’s just, he’s tired of being jerked around by these know-nothing sources, Scully, why do they want to keep the truth from him UGH WHAT IS IN MY HAIR oh it’s a leaf UGGHHH LET’S JUST GO STRAIGHT TO THE AIRPORT SCULLY, EVEN THOUGH OUR FLIGHT ISN’T TIL 7:30, I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS CASE."" 

Mulder NOPES out of a case involving cranberry bog spiders; and misses the bog monster while at the ren faire with Scully.

Ebonbird's

Cooking With Mulder 01 - Nuking With Mulder

""Cool, hunh?" Mulder said, proud of the look of disgust on her face.

"This is so, so---"

"Evocative of a fatter, less-culturally aware America?"

"Girly." Scully supplied, as she jumped down to the floor with an incriminating package in her hand. "What are you doing with five cartons of pink coconut covered marshmallow puffs in your cupboard?"

"Would you believe getting in touch with my feminine side?"

Scully snorted.""

Scully is horrified that Mulder thinks dessert is a microwaved Hostess dessert... but even more so that it tastes too delicious.

Cooking With Mulder 02 - Trifling Hero

""Whining a most masculine and understated whine, Mulder banged his heel against the coffee table edge until he shucked the remaining shoe off and away from him. Like its fellow, it fell to the rug with a dull thud (which was more like a sharp thwap, actually).

Mulder, content to wiggle all ten of his toes, sat there for several long moments, wiggling his toes.

As he sat, he realized that he could sit like that, wiggling and or wriggling his toes, for a very long time.""

Mulder wants Scully to admire his cool and casual couch slouch so much he invites her over. She brings ice cream to aid their culinary Poptarts.

Linda61's Buzz

""Walking towards Mulder's apartment, number 42, she suddenly heard a horrible, frightening scream. And that scream came from Mulder's apartment. Doors flew open, heads popped out, wondering what was going on. Some rude remarks were made by his long suffering neighbors.

"Oh no, not again", someone muttered, rolling their eyes. And then the doors slammed closed again.""

Scully races to Mulder's apartment after she hears his scream-- neighbors are highly unimpressed.

AUs

Ten's

A Chip Off the Old Fox

""I hurry for the door and undo the locks and open it to reveal that Mulder looks even worse in the flesh. "Hi," he manages quietly, shuffling past me, his head nearly slumped against his chest.

Langly is staring at his red-rimmed eyes and hair that is sticking out like the Statue of Liberty's crown. "...what happened - you get robbed? Or jumped by Scully as you headed out the front door, wanting a different kind of stick-up?"

Mulder stares at him vaguely, as if trying to place him, then a light goes on in his brain. "Danny's teething again."

"So you didn't get much sleep last night?" I ask.

"Tuesday," Mulder says with all seriousness. "I'm pretty sure I got ten minutes solid sleep on Tuesday. That was good."

Today's Friday.""

Mulder and Scully are new parents in the throes of their son's first round of teething. TLG greatly pity zombie Mulder during their guy game night; but are accidentally roped into sitter care after Scully drops the baby for an emergency.

The Joys of Boys

""THUD! THUMP! SLAM!

Of course, who needed an alarm clock with six boys in the house? And by the sound of things, they were all up and out of the game room and sitting room. In the kitchen... Which was right below the main bedroom.

He could only see the back of his wife's head, but he could hear her eyes snap open.""

Mulder is babysitting his rambunctious kids and nephews solo-- and gets injured because he's accident prone. Scully's panic dissipates when she's told that the boys are holding an unused diaper to his head as a "band aid."

Enjoy!

#txf #xf fanfic #x-files #fic #Collector's Edition #mine #It's a Funny Funny World in MSR Land #Pattie #sohmer #veryygirlfriendfoxmulder #spookyscullies #Cornerofmadness #Jamie Greco #starbuck09256 #mldrgrl #syn #Ten #myssbrokethefall #Ebonbird #Linda61

[mejomonster]

So I started Tomb of the Sea again:

Ok so. I went in fresh instead of "craving" more of a specific dmbj thing and I think it made me much more open to it

I actually love how it opens a ton. Li Cu's life is given to us and it's a hot fucking mess. He and one of his only friends are 2/3 who failed the college entrance exam. His dad is so nightmarish he's got claustrophobia (and learned how to Pick Locks which I'm sure will be useful later). He skips class and is glad his mom ran and I wish he could too ;-;

His "best" friend Su Wan stalks girls with cameras so lmao he Ain't A Good kid, but he is a Rich Kid and puts up with Li Cu since they got a special "wtf are we doing" energy so at least Li Cu's got A friend. Questionable friend. But Su Wan seems open to helping friends and warm despite some Yikes immaturity levels and Yikes choices so li cu can you just run away to live with him?

The girl friend Shen Qiong? I forgot her name sorry you know who I mean. Now with fresh eyes, I really like the 2 bogs "liking her' and the little rivalry about it. That Li Cu seems to like her in the sense of Sincerely caring maybe deeper than Su Wan. But on the other hand Su Wan definitely wants to kiss her more lmao. The 3 of them scream friends since childhood and I picture them as sora riku Kairi now (but who is who I'm not sure). The Little friends with a crush inside the friendgroup plot feels so NICELY like a different genre - like Go Ahead or something that's realism slice of life so parents are potentially abusive or life's fucking Heavy sometimes, but they're still TEENS who care most about avoiding punishment and talking to crushes and being silly alone with friends. It's a taste of what "genre' I guess Li Cu's life would've been if he never intersected the tomb raiders. A dark heavy realism piece like The Bond (starring Bai Yu). But with that human simple joy of friends/found family in the bright spots.

On that note: they paint a picture of how grungy and miserable Li Cu's negative aspects of life are and that works SO WELL. Wu Xies life before tomb raiding? We get the sense Maybe his parents were sometimes absent, and definitely coddled him and picked a life path NOT like the Wu family's and tried to push him. And the whole San Shu abandonment/codependency thing wu xie developed ToT. But overall wu xies family had good money, sent him to a good college, he was perfectly smart, could get his own business, he had friends (although his penchant for tombs means he transitioned to more killer/criminal types over time lol). He had a very nice easygoing civilian life before things went to shit when San shu left him. He craved Excitement, knowledge, danger, curiosity. But he wasn't running from anything and his life would not have been "worse" had he never went into tomb raiding (he'd lack his loved ones who are tomb raiders of course but u know what I mean - he wouldn't know he was missing those friendships). His biggest pain if he'd kept to civilian life (and enjoyed it - but he didnt) would've been his fucking uncle San abandoning him and his pain at not going to look for him. That'd be mostly it though. But LI CU? Even a person kidnapping him is preferable to the 24 hours he goes through in the first ep.

Li Cus apartment window faces a fucking wall, he's got claustrophobia and his dad locks him in, his college prospects are dead in the water, his best friend/crush is going off to college (more on her later), his friends still around keep getting into fights so he's beat up at like 12 midnight with them, his teacher keeps calling his dad increasing the abuse from that, he's broke, his moms gone and he clearly loves her so he's missing her. He IS the kind of protagonist who'd want to leave for any New Life. He loves his friends but if they're taken he'd have NO reason to remain, even with his friends he'd likely leave his dad if given Any decent opportunity like a job with money. Unlike Wu Xie, Li Cu doesn't leave for adventure or trying to find a loved one (San shu), Li Cu is instead trapped and it TAKES absolutely batshit events to "free" him which just put him in a new trap of kidnapping. It's just Very Cool to me to see the contrast.

And to END the ep with Wu Xie saying his name, revealing he's the kidnapper and the spies are his. The stabber who harmed Li Cu was HIS guy. I love the flip from wu xie usually being painted as the shiny kindhearted (somewhere in there) adventurous young man, to this shady cruel (in Li Cu's opinion the source of EVEN WORSE than his ordinary life) man who echoes San shu. It must've been fun to set that up.

The girl. Sheng Qiong?? OK I'm just curious if in another Novel it mentions she ALEEADY went tomb raiding. Or something. It seems Iike she went with wu xie (or other tomb raiders) people while on "vacation travelling" then maybe stole their magic tentacle monster box and. Who the Fuck knows why she gave it to Li Cu... either she hoped to hide it with him, or she intentionally wanted to hurt him (I assume she just wanted to hide it). But yeah she seems to know WAY more about the tomb side of shit. I'm curious if we'll find out more.

TENTACLE MONSTERS WHAT DID I SAY. I still LOVE this shows opening. I love the body horror of the mini version jumping into li cu. I love how genuinely SCARY tomb of the sea is compared to some other dmbj seasons. It looks good, the action looks good, the horror looks good and LANDS <3

The pacing is good so far thank fuck (I'll drift away if pacing tanks tbh)

Ep 1 is Li Cu's no good very bad day THEN when you thought it couldn't get worse it turns out it's just a Normal day for him, and then spies come in so it's Action Adventure now instead of teen slice of life realism, THEN a tentacle monster shows up jumps into him and its HORROR then the guy fucking STABS HIM AND THEN WANG MENG KIDNAPS HIM (go you wang meng you were very intimidating and <3 love u I hope u get paid more. Love the show implying wang meng is so hot he makes doctors forget their oaths). Like... it sure does ESCALATE into a terrifying nightmare esque situation and I love thattttt

#tots #lb #tomb of the sea #dmbj