the journal of r. cooper

repost- tumblr prompt. Joe/Zarrin kiss below the waist

Sun, 16 Dec 2018 03:21:31 GMT

Q: Joe and Zarrin and either 15 (a goodnight kiss) or 19 (a kiss below the waist)

Asked by: vashti-lives

“And so–” Zarrin began, strangely breathless as he pushed up his Joseph’s practical sweater to bare the planes of his stomach. He felt an urge to kiss the warm brown skin on display, and obeyed that urge with careless, distracting hunger. Joseph made a sound, pleased, perhaps impatient. But he arched his back from the bed, offering more of himself for Zarrin’s pleasure.

Zarrin hummed his approval as he pressed a kiss to Joseph’s belly button, his navel, the cut of his hip. Joseph’s jeans got in his way, but it was simple work to ease open the fly and push down the denim.

Joseph gave a long, intense shudder for the puff of Zarrin’s hot breath over his bare, damp skin, and the lean line of his body on Zarrin’s body–partially displayed for him, offered to him–would have made Zarrin shake the world if he hadn’t learned such excellent control.

The power rose, desire like lightning and life from the earth that was his now, but he kept it in his fingertips, at his lips. He held Joseph down with a fraction of his new strength, and Joseph shivered for it and loved him and offered this.

Zarrin recalled at last what had sparked this moment, and dragged his open mouth, the flat of his tongue, across this hidden place on his Joseph that only he was permitted to see. He exhaled warm breath, and dug his hands into Joseph’s thighs.

His voice was smoke. He was giant, Leviathan in love as he kissed and growled in ancient tongues. “And so, my boy is greater than any other. My boy gives this to me,” as he mouthed at the inked sketch of the tattoo Joseph was going to get in this very spot. A treasure beneath his skin for Zarrin alone. “I will give you everything.”

Joseph did not chide him or scold for the promise. He accepted it with the smallest of tremors and the softest of breaths and his hands twined in Zarrin’s hair.

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repost Chico proposes

Sun, 16 Dec 2018 03:15:01 GMT

So due to a cold and depression I was in bed waaay too long this morning, and daydreaming about how Raf getting Chico to move in with him was SUCH A BIG DEAL. Like, it probably took over a year of dating and Chico admitting that Davi could probably use the money from a real tenant for Chico to finally finally “move in.” –All his stuff was there already. He probably had claimed a room for his fabric and sewing machine and everything sometime in the first six months of dating.

And Raf had never lived with anyone in that sense before, and Chico was nervous he would lose himself again, so for like another few months it was very strange before they both finally settled into it and relaxed.

But also, the second Raf got Chico in his house?? For real? You know he bought a ring.

And then Chico’s nerves and their period of adjustment made him realize he should maybe play it cool and wait a little longer.

But a few months of hiding the ring and Chico finds it.

And then is another BIG DEAL. Because whoa would Chico panic. And be delighted. But also panic. Because how long has Raf wanted this and not said??? He’s a big strong Chico, he could have handled this (no he could not). And there is a big of a tempest in a teacup, and they sort of end up in this place where Raf keeps the ring, and it’s kind of unspoken that at some point, Raf is going to actually ask Chico to marry him. And they both know it. But he’s going to wait until Chico seems ready.

Which is great. It’s what Chico wants. Totally. Except… now he’s thinking about being married to Raf and now he sort of… wants it. But Raf isn’t asking, and Chico can’t tell if now Raf is messing with him by not asking,or if he is not getting all the clues Chico is throwing his way–which seems impossible because sweetie baby Chico has his feelings all over his face all the time, and Raf reading Chico’s emotions is like Raf’s second favorite thing in the world. Raf is probably gun shy, because of the last time they talked about it. Which Chico gets.

But also… he wants that ring. He wants it on his finger.

So eventually, with after much frustrated discussion with Davi, he would go out and buy a ring (on a payment plan, he’s not rich but he wants something nice) and oh lord holding a ring and waiting to propose is so nerve-wracking, why didn’t anyone warn him? But he keeps it in his pocket a whole day, and watches Raf teach kids (and he is so GOOD ugh Chico cannot handle it) and then they are alone in the studio at night, and Chico’s in the sewing room.

That’s his strong, safe place.

And Raf comes in to get him for the walk home (home. Chico cannot believe he resisted that idea for so long) and Chico pretends to be sketching because he can’t manage words, but his hands are shaking, so before Raf can ask what’s wrong, he takes out the little box and slides it across the desktop toward him and anyway that was my happy thought this morning you are welcome.

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Repost Wicklow's Odyssey arranged marriage/historical AU

Sun, 16 Dec 2018 03:05:55 GMT

(This is not a story. It's basically just me screaming ideas at people)

But what do people want out of this? Wicklow deliberately taking his place in Rhoades’ bed? Using those precise, foul little Wicklow words to describe what it does to him when his husband touches him? How he thinks about his kisses? How much he can’t think when Rhoades fucks him? How, when he was alone, after the first time, he tried to use his fingers and it wasn’t the same, and he was furious for wanting it so much? Rhoades isn’t a warrior, but he takes Wicklow. Even when he is gentle, he *whispers, in near shame* conquers him.

And Rhoades just. More turned on then he has ever been in his life. IN HIS LIFE.

( Read more... )

Gods, just, he would do anything for this little barbarian. His small, blue-eyed heathen killer. He would vow into his skin, and against his mouth, and Wicklow would bruise him he’d be holding him so tight, although Rhoades isn’t going anywhere. Conquer you? Rhoades is nearly snarling, or is it purring? Wicklow can’t tell anymore, with his blood on fire. You think I’ve conquered you? And he’d promise it again, and again, anything, anything for his husband.

And yeah, Rhoades would be exactly as emotionally compromised by his new husband as his enemies think–only stronger too, because (being Roman-ish) they didn’t anticipate that Rhoades’ devotion to Wicklow would earn the devotion of Wicklow’s people too. –And they probably also assumed Wicklow was a mindless soldier and nothing more.

This is a mistake.

Rhoades knew the traitors will make their move soon, so he made plans. He has to lure them out to destroy them, and that’s risky, but he and Wicklow cannot fight their common enemy (idk, some other country) until they deal with the betrayal among Rhoades’ men. So he spends a (final) night with his husband, and then invents a problem that needs to be dealt with and sends Wicklow away.

His enemies will think him alone, weaker. He stays in his room, letting them think he is pining for his absent husband. Wicklow is his weakness and his enemies know it. He will use that too, and trust that Wicklow is truly gone when they come for him.

Of course, they might just kill him. Rhoades hadn’t mentioned that very likely possibility to anyone.It would make more sense to keep Wicklow close, and find some other way to draw his enemies to him. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t anticipate his crafty little warrior leaving two of his friends behind to ensure Rhoades’ survival. Or that the attempted coup doesn’t net *all* his enemies. Injured, exhausted, but triumphant, Rhoades makes examples of the ones discovered, and then realizes (as each other talks, because let’s not pretend there is no torture here. Like let’s say it’s fairly obvious Wicklow was intended to die along with him, so yeah, there is torture here. I mean, *Rhoades*) that the plan went higher than he wanted to think, and wherever he sent Wicklow, he did it with the last conspirator at Wicklow;s back.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well) would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

Wicklow (and Amelia and Louis, probably) just a) does not need special protection from one traitorous “Roman” dog. And b) is furious when he realizes what Rhoades did, (and also sort of proud, because wow. It did take care of the problem and also his husband is a powerful man).

And just. I need all the wounded but desperate Wicklow going eerily calm when something practical needs to be done. But making himself be sneaky, to think like Rhoades to accomplish this with only the three of them. (Maybe four, like, Mariama, right?) And that thing is to find the enemy’s camp, retake his husband, and then raze the camp to the ground. And then you get berserker mode Wicklow rescuing his soft, clever husband, and the two of them getting like, legendary status. Like love poems and everything.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well) would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

*takes deep breath*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Of course their team is still around. Of course it is! Around and being sneaky and badass.

Maybe Anthony was a soldier who was part of the retinue to bring Wicklow and his friends back to Rhoades to be married? Or maybe we don’t care that much about logic because hey, arranged marriage AU.

God Rhoades face when Wicklow comes charging in, that alone must have launched a thousand songs. So much intensity in one moment, and they’re both trying for decorum because there are bodies everywhere and friends and allies and enemies alike watching…. I doubt they totally manage, because how could they. And it just fuels the legend.

If one was going to do this properly one would have to start with the epic saga of warriors in love. And then go back and explain how it came about. And end with another version at the end.

I’m weak for this shit, for real.

(via vashti-lives)

If you think being around Rhoades hasn’t taught Wicklow the importance of making a good public impression… But, like, fusing them with the ways of his people.

AHHH WAIT Like, it’s too much but like, also perfect for the ‘time’ and ‘place’. Wicklow saving Rhoades, taking the camp, the regular loyal “roman” soldiers appearing too late, Wicklow standing before Rhoades in the center of the camps, fires lighting the dark sky. Bloodied, injured, but on his feet, and then pulling the knife he gave to Rhoades (and found, with blood on it, in the body of one of those who took Rhoades) and returning it to him before Louis or Amelia draws forward the last traitor.

(And how fucked up is it that they would hold eye contact during a summary execution? Aaaah too much Roman history for me, I can tell!) And then later, weirdly, Wicklow should be angry, but he is almost apologetic, cleaned and bandaged and with his husband, accepting each kiss.

Any universe in which Rhoades confuses Wicklow and then gives him all that *pleeeeasurrre*. Aahhh.

Getting little warrior Wicklow in his bed at last and then just bringing him to the edge for a while, and then stopping to kiss him, and then starting all over again, and at this point, it’s less about conquering Wicklow as it is proving to him that Rhoades is his equal in all ways that matter, that Rhoades is his husband, and he wants Wicklow to understand what that means.

…also I just like, dazed, flushed, desperate Wicklow, staring at Rhoades with those bright, pleading eyes, straining up a little for another kiss and frowning until he gets one.

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au repost-a/b/o arthur and bertie thoughts

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 06:11:06 GMT

Alpha Arthur and Omega Bertie, as taken from a chat with @vashti-lives

I am now imagining Bertie like, Of course I’m an omega, darling. I imagine the dragon scent has thrown your senses for a loop.
And Arthur like, but you’re so….
Bertie just, Tut. Don’t be such a traditionalist. An omega protectiveness over their family is just as fierce as an alpha’s, if not moreso.
And Arthur like, I meant… you’re so… um… *blush* dominant. Bertie practically purring at the compliment.
Arthur walks in and smells DIVINE and he’s so… resisting his alpha urge to just take over that house.
And Bertie’s every instinct (as dragon and as an omega and just as a very smart person) is that Arthur is *perfect*

Hilariously, of course, Arthur does start to take over the house almost immediately. All the while trying *not to* because he thinks his new boss is an alpha and will be angry. (The dragon scent is totally throwing off his sense.)
and mmm Just imagine his confusion when Bertie tells him the truth. And he realizes he has been not just taking over that house, but making a den for the omega he wants. He is about to apologize in a fit of red-faced embarrassment, but then Bertie looks right at him and touches his arm (touches him!) and praises it and tells him how suitable he’s made it, and what a clever alpha he is. He knows–he KNOWS–what that would do to any alpha and he is doing it to Arthur, drawing him closer, reeling him in with those eyes and those words and the scent Arthur recognizes now. “Look how clean you’ve made our home. Look how well-defended it is. How safe and protected I am, my pearl of an alpha.”

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repost- the zeki/theo arranged marriage au

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 06:04:07 GMT

Okay so, like, I got an anon, who donated, and made a sort of vague request. (No offense, anon, it’s just that vague prompts are kind of like too specific prompts, in that my mind just sort of… stops.) Anyway, the current political climate, and my mood, would make Tank/Simon too painful to write. And even Zeki/Theo would be a little sad (I mean, they don’t live in our universe, but still, neither of them would be happy.)

So, at someone’s suggestion (ahem) I tried to write a Zeki/Theo vaguely historical but not really arranged marriage AU. Only, well, I can’t even do that right. Anyway. Here you go.

Zeki’s father was insistent that Zeki did not have to consent to the marriage. The alliance with the small northern kingdom would hopefully foster trust between Zeki’s people and the people of the north who had offered them refuge. It was important, Dov had said, but the war leader who would not call himself a king had made it clear this city-state would take anyone who asked for aid, as long as aid was given in return. This marriage was a suggestion only.

Or so they claimed. Stories about the war-leader, Neri, made him out as a murdering beast or a fair and wise ruler depending on who did the telling. But in their weeks camped near the walls of the city, negotiating for farmland and access to the rivers and streams, Zeki hadn’t seen any evidence of Neri’s cruelty. What he had seen were many bands of refugees, like his people, fleeing the tyranny of the southern wolf people. What he had also seen, was that the northerners here were like their southern kin in many ways, with odd behaviors he could not explain.

Like why they would choose him as their spouse, or mate, for one of their own. Zeki’s people had been conquered too long ago for any royalty to remain, and Zeki himself was hardly of pure blood. The signs of his mother’s heritage were in his darker skin and wild hair, and the methods of their magic that he mingled with his.

He was not a powerful wizard either. Perhaps he might have been, if the southern wolves hadn’t driven his people north, leaving him no time for apprenticeship and learning. He was also not a warrior, or handsome. At least, not to his eyes. The rough journey had taken most of the softness from his body, but he verged on too thin, now, and his hair was nothing but untameable dark curls.

But it was Zeki who the offer had been made to. Zeki, who had been approached by a tall, brown skinned northern wolf woman in warrior’s clothing, and her more quiet companion, and told that he and his father were invited to eat with their family that night.

Zeki had been distracted by the woman’s knowing grin, and the utter beauty of the shy man. He hadn’t realized until they were gone that he’d been invited to dine in the great hall where these people had their feasts, or that the woman, and the wolf with her, would be at a table of honor, as if they were nobility.

They had brought his father there to discuss the idea. No one had thought to ask Zeki. They had seated him next to the shy northerner, the one who dressed as a hunter, not a warrior, but who stole honeycakes and left them on Zeki’s plate whenever Zeki was distracted. He was about Zeki’s age, perhaps older, and so handsome Zeki had tripped over his own tongue more than once. The hunter had smiled back, speaking rarely, but in a soft voice when he did, so soft Zeki had to lean in to hear him—at least until the two younger wolves across the table had snickered. Then Zeki had straightened up and done his best not to make a fool of himself in front of anymore pretty northern wolf men.

For all the good it would do him, if he was to be married to one of them anyway.

He had not said yes. He held onto that thought tightly as he waited in Neri’s house, while his father and others talked in low voices in another room. He did not have to say yes. Even if the marriage was likely a noble one, and better than he ever would have done even if he had worked hard to become a powerful wizard. Even if it would help his people. Even if he did not think the marriage would be cruel.

But he had cleaned his finest—least patched—robes before putting them on to come here, and he had tried to brush his hair after a long bath in a cold stream, to be presentable to the northerner who had apparently wanted him enough to ask, or, more likely, had not objected when his parents had suggested the match.

So strange for the northerners to offer Zeki to another man, but they were like the southern wolves, who had odd practices. His own people didn’t condemn it, but he didn’t see how a union with no children would cement any alliance.

“Are you going to say yes?” a soft voice broke through his troubled, tangled thoughts, making Zeki raise his head.

The hunter stood before him, wearing only loose pants despite the weather. His hair was down to his shoulders.

Zeki’s mouth ran dry as his skin flushed with heat, and the hunter took a sharp breath.

Zeki tore his gaze away. Then he quickly looked back. “Should I? Will I—is it a joke?”

“A joke?” The hunter put his head back, and seemed suddenly so much taller than Zeki would ever be. “You believe it’s a—” he frowned as if trying to translate “—a jest, or a lie? You don’t know it’s real?”

“Oh.” Zeki was less reassured by that than he should have been. “So it is real. But then, why me? That’s what I don’t understand. Why me? You’re big and fiercely beautiful—I mean, your people are.” The hunter ducked his head, as shy as Zeki had first thought he was. “Apologies. I speak without thinking sometimes.”

“You are quite pleasing to my eyes as well,” the hunter told him, while facing the wall.

Zeki put a hand over his heart, as if that would stop its hammering. He didn’t know if this was dangerous, but it felt that way, like standing in a storm while lightning crashed around him. The voices from the other room seemed far away, but he recalled the stories of the great hearing of the wolf people, and tried to keep his voice low.

“When I sat next to you, I almost could not be still with how much I wanted to touch you.” Zeki slapped a hand over his mouth, but it didn’t stop the flood of words. “I’ve never wanted to touch anyone else as much as you. I know I shouldn’t say that. I’m sorry. But if I… if I do this, then I shouldn’t ever say it again. And I wanted… I never thought I would find love as my parents had. In the normal course of things, I would have been a scholar, then a wizard, and probably not very wealthy, even with my magic. I probably wouldn’t have married. So I didn’t think… I didn’t think. And now I won’t be able to say these things to you anymore, but I should, don’t you think? A person should get to say what’s in his heart at least once in his lifetime.”

Zeki closed his eyes tight.

“You speak more words than I am used to hearing.” The whisper was close, as if the hunter had moved without making a sound. “Does it pain you say all of that?”

The hunter seemed sad, so Zeki opened his eyes, and looked up into the man’s handsome face, with his gentle gaze and soft mouth and high cheekbones. Zeki could feel the heat from his body, the way he had at the feast. He was even closer now than he had been then. And Zeki could not touch him.

“It is not a pain,” Zeki lied, and a small frown crossed the hunter’s face. “But being near you makes me wish—” too many things to name.

The hunter inhaled deeply, and then his eyes went half-lidded, and he swayed toward Zeki before he caught himself. “I wish for things too,” he confessed, with a quick, darting look toward the room where Zeki’s father was discussing his fate.

Zeki would have to decide. He wet his lips. “Could I… could I kiss you? Now? While I still can?” He’d never kissed anyone before, but he should get to choose who would receive his first.

“You’re asking?” The disbelief in the hunter’s voice would have stung, but then he leaned down, and Zeki’s hands were at his sides of their own volition. His skin was smooth and hot to the touch. His hair brushed Zeki’s cheek, ticklishly soft, and if he paused to put his nose and mouth first to Zeki’s neck before kissing Zeki’s lips, Zeki did not mind.

He shivered for it, and made a small noise that brought the hunter closer. Zeki could wrap his arms around him, and did, and tipped his head back without complaint when the kiss ended, or moved, down the side of his neck, becoming wetter and louder as Zeki panted.

“Will you say yes?” the hunter asked, with a scrape of teeth across Zeki’s skin that had Zeki grabbing fistfuls of his hair to ensure he would do that again. Then the words sank through the warm, delirious fog in Zeki’s mind, and he stopped.

The moment he did, the hunter pulled away with a low, mournful sound.

Zeki was colder without him, and wrapped his arms around his own chest instead. “How can I say yes now? I can’t be husband to a stranger when all I want is you!” He went on, miserably, turning away. “I have met men I wanted to kiss and lie with before, but never this much. That’s probably foolish, to you, isn’t it?”

“Husband?” the hunter finally asked, in a strange tone. “Did they not use the proper word? Do you not know what you’re feeling? Zeki—” Hearing his name for the first time made Zeki face him. “Zeki, you are my mate. If you want to be. If you will have me. We can be married in your people’s way if you wish. But I thought you understood. I thought you were allowing me to woo you.” The hunter took a breath. “You asked to kiss me. Perhaps your kind have rules against that?”

Zeki belatedly turned toward the room where the others were—or so he had thought—discussing his fate. But they were silent now.

“No,” he said faintly, at last. “No rules against that.” Then he blinked. “I don’t know your name.”

The hunter stared at him, possibly offended, or merely confused or worried. Then he shook his head. “I have several. The one that people like you, from foreign places, use, is Theo.” Theo hesitated for another moment, then sniffed the air before continuing. “I can… I can explain mate to you, if you would like that.”

Zeki licked the taste of Theo’s kiss from his lips, while his mind ran in circles. Then he gave one quick, jerky nod. “Yes,” he added, in case Theo hadn’t understood, but Theo was already smiling.

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Tim proposing - repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:52:15 GMT

Q: Can we talk about Tim & Nathaniel getting married?

Asked by: Anonymous

Oh my god. These two idiots. Well. As is the way with beings, they are basically already married. And in Wolf’s Paw, no one would deny Tim the right to see Nathaniel in the hospital or vice versa. In fact the opposite would happen. And it’s not like Tim would need Nathaniel ’ s pension or benefits or anything. So human marriage might not ever seriously cross Nathaniel ’s mind.
But Silas is a tricky sob, so it might occur to Tim as a way to protect Nathaniel. Also this is the town that sheltered humans dying of aids back in the day, and Tim will have heard shocked werewolves talk about how their spouses had been denied rights.
So then it becomes about Tim scheming on how to get Nathaniel to agree to it.
(Dear Tim, just ask. He will literally do anything you ask.) He writes out a speech then tosses it. Makes a presentation. Considers bringing in a lawyer so Nathaniel ’ s righta are seen to. Thinks about what sort of dowry he should offer Nathaniel besides his fortune.
Cuz Tim thinks he has to bribe him. Idiot.
Then in his worse moods, he worries Nathaniel will think this isn’t were enough. (Even though he knows deep down Nathaniel will say yes.) So finally he says it, grumpily, worried, in Nathaniel ’ s office while Nathaniel is doing paperwork.
Hey. Um. You should… we should … no, YOU should uh marry me. Like a human. So I can (jeez why are his palms sweaty?) So I can protect you better. It’s um. You would get like half my money if that helps. I uh. I also (when did Nathaniel ’ s eyes get so fierce?) I also want to marry you. Is that… is that too human?

And Nathaniel with that expression of mingled outrage (fucking Silas Dirus did this to Tim) confusion (didn’t he already agree to marry Tim? He’s pretty sure he did.) And soooo much adoration for his scared little mate, who, because this is Little Wolf, responds to his own fear by narrowing his eyes a moment later and snarling, “You had better marry me, Nathaniel Neri! I am your mate!”

He is so perfect. Nathaniel finally just says, “Yes. When? Now?” And all the tension bleeds out of Little Wolf. And he comes over to plop himself into Nathaniel’s lap (you know, and have a soft breakdown where no one can see.) And outside, Nathaniel’s entire staff is quietly screaming.

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Repost - Zeki babysits

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:30:19 GMT

Okay, these keep going long, and getting a little sad. I’M SORRY. It’s my brain lately.

This is for @vashti-lives who donated, and asked for Theo/Zeki, babysitting.

Theo slid the last tray of cookies into the oven with a satisfied hum, and then surveyed the many racks of cooling sugar cookies around him. He stopped humming, and blinked back to the awareness that he wasn’t in his kitchen, he was in his parents’ house, and he’d gone into their kitchen a while ago to find a snack.

He glanced around guiltily, although his parents had learned over the years to leave him alone while he was baking. It allowed him to focus, while keeping him from wallowing in painful thoughts, or worse, not feeling anything at all.

He stopped before he could search for powdered sugar for icing. Because of course, he didn’t need to wallow now. Zeki was here. His mate was here and wanted him, and had claimed him probably far too early but neither of them could seem to care about it.

Theo blinked down at the dozens of heart-shaped sugar cookies, at the room almost literally overflowing with the power of his full heart, and didn’t have to wonder why he’d gotten distracted enough to bake.

( Read more... )

Since he had a few minutes to wait—and probably some apologies to make to his family for forgetting about them—he poked his head out of the kitchen to look out into the living room. He expected to his parents, and some of his visiting cousins. What he saw was his mate, sitting awkwardly on the couch while two of Theo’s young cousins played on the floor in front of him.

There wasn’t a sound from the rest of the house, as if everyone else had left. He couldn’t tell when they’d be back, or when Zeki had arrived, but he’d clearly been asked to babysit, and for some reason, he’d agreed.

Zeki hadn’t been raised around a lot of relatives or children. That much, Theo knew. He could also tell that Zeki hadn’t been around kids when he’d been in school either, because he staring at the two children in front of him with a blank expression. That was Zeki when he hadn’t worked out what to do about something.

He must feel so unprepared right now, and yet he’d been roped into babysitting anyway. Zeki was… unnerved by Theo’s parents, guilty, around them. They weren’t… well, he had some reason to be. Not guilty—none of that was his fault—but worried about them accepting him. They would in time of course. Zeki’s was Theo’s mate, and more than that, actively trying to prove to them he would protect Theo. But in the meantime, Zeki had probably thought babysitting would impress them.

Theo looked to his cousins. Seven-year-old Lupe’s attention seemed split between the cartoon on TV and Zeki and keeping an eye on her older cousin. Mai was going through some things, or, her mother was, and her father wasn’t around to help, which would probably explain why Mai was currently a wolf. Being upset as a wolf was much easier than being upset as a human. No one made you talk.

Mai’s mood had nothing to do with Zeki, but Zeki probably didn’t know that.

“Are you, um, okay, over there?” he asked Mai, whose ears flicked in his direction, although she didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

Zeki just nodded. “Okay, cool. Um. I know you’re old enough to play outside, or by yourself, and let’s face it, even a young wolf can take care of herself, but let me know if you need anything. Okay? You don’t even have to talk. I’m getting pretty good at figuring out all the were-speak… or at least I think I am.”

“Mai thinks you’re itchy,” Lupe offered. Mai swiped a paw over her nose. Lupe rubbed the sleeve of her Oscar the Grouch T-shirt over her face, although Lupe was only half-wolf, and hadn’t ever shown a hint of shifting that anyone had seen.

“Itchy?” Zeki perked up. “That’s the scent of my magic. It’s uncomfortable at first I know. It’s hard to quantify.”

Lupe exchanged a frown with Mai.

Theo smiled to himself, just a little, for Zeki’s inexperience with talking to children. But Zeki always was quick to learn.

“Oh,” he said, as if correctly interpreting their silence. “Um. I mean that magic smells like a lot of things, but also like nothing else. So a lot of weres find it strange, or unpleasant. But that usually goes away if you’re around it long enough. You get used to it, or I think, maybe you learn to parse it out.”

Lupe put her head in her hands and sighed dramatically. After a moment, she turned toward the TV.

Zeki, unexpectedly, sighed with her. Instead of being relieved, he stared between the two children with that adorable frown of determination on his face. It was similar to how he looked after realizing that if he wanted to tire out a werewolf—sexually—he had to up his game.

Which he had. Very much.

Theo felt himself flushing. Luckily, it was time to check on his cookies, so he did that while he sorted his thoughts out. When he was calmer, he crept back to the corner. He should announce himself, but there was something about the set of Zeki’s shoulders that stopped him. Zeki was up to something.

“Are you guys hungry or anything?” Zeki prompted. “No one made me a list, but I could see what’s in the kitchen. Like my mate, for example, who has forgotten all about me.”

“Never,” Theo breathed, far too softly for Zeki to hear. But since he had gone into the kitchen over an hour ago to get snacks, he could see how Zeki might think it.

“You can cook?” Lupe wondered, voice full of scorn.

Zeki, in purple skinny jeans and a long black cardigan, with rings on every finger and a huge, delicate, fairy-knitted scarf around his neck, made a face as if wounded. “Of course I can. My dad is a chef. I grew up in kitchens.”

Mai’s ears flicked toward him again, but he wasn’t lying. Zeki could cook. He just generally didn’t bother.

Lupe made a doubtful noise. “My mom says you mess around in the kitchen.”

Theo put a hand over his mouth. Zeki, far less shockable than he was, only hummed thoughtfully. “What does she mean by mess around?”

“I don’t know,” Lupe told him, as if this was obvious.

Zeki’s tiny smile was smug. “Well then yes, yes I do mess around in the kitchen.”

“With cousin Theo?” Lupe wondered. Mai tilted her head in Zeki’s direction.

“With Theo, yes.” He was facing down two children, but Zeki raised his chin with proud defiance anyway. He was… well this town had made him defensive about some things.

Lupe shrugged and made a big deal out of staring at the TV. “’Kay. Just make him feel good.”

Theo froze. Weres grew up with a lot more awareness than human children, or fully human children, but Lupe was still eight.

“What?” Zeki cleared his throat. Now he blushed. “What was that?”

“My mom says before we got here that I had to be nice so Theo would feel okay. She always says that when we drive here.” Lupe made it clear this was a burden. Theo frowned a little, although it was nothing to how serious Zeki suddenly was.

“What else does she say?”

“She always says he’s a good place for naps. Which I guess.” Lupe shrugged. “And that if I thought he was sad, I’m supposed to play with him.”

Oh. Theo’s heart felt heavy.

“Did Theo need the cuddles?” Zeki asked softly, knowingly. Theo shook his head, but Lupe looked up.

She responded to Zeki’s serious interest with an adult-like tone. “My brother says his scent is dark sometimes. My mom naps on him too, when we visit. And when they drive out to see us, people hug him a lot. Ooh!” Lupe sat up excitedly. “Even cousin Beautiful Pixy.”

“Cousin Beaut—” Zeki paused. “Do you mean Violet?”

Mai let out a small whuff of amusement.

“No,” Lupe corrected. “Cousin Beautiful Pixy. Violet only sometimes.”

“Right.” Zeki nodded. “My mistake.” He studied the two in front of him, then cleared his throat again. He wasn’t going to let the subject drop, not Zeki. “Theo needed that, huh?”

“I guess.” Lupe glanced to Mai, who sat up on her haunches.

“Mai?” Zeki turned to her. “Theo didn’t smell itchy?

Mai tipped her head to one side. She looked at Lupe. Lupe frowned.

Zeki clucked his tongue. His tone grew lighter. “Did no one tell you Theo was a powerful wizard?” He nodded forcefully in the face of their doubt. “It’s true, he is. That’s why he needed you to help him nap and make him feel better. Magic takes a lot of strength, and he’s so powerful that he lent me his strength while I was… while I was away.” For a moment, Zeki’s smile wasn’t quite real. “I’m a powerful wizard too, you see. That’s why Theo and I were meant to be together. And it’s why I came back. I had to return what he gave me, and make him strong again. But I’m glad you guys were here to help him when I wasn’t.”

Theo’s mate was so beautiful. He was lying, or half-lying, to children who, in a few years, would know he was lying. Mai might be able to tell already. But he was beautiful all the same.

“You’re really a powerful wizard?” Lupe demanded, unconcerned with anything else now. She rubbed her nose—probably mimicking weres she’d seen do that. Mai whuffed again.

Zeki lowered his head to consider them. The light in the room seemed to dim. The wind whistled outside, then rushed past the windows with an impatient howl. For a moment the air smelled of lightning, and then slowly, slowly, Zeki reached over and bopped Lupe on the nose. “Got it,” he called out in delight, and the room was bright and quiet and warm again.

Lupe slapped a hand over her face in horror, then remembered herself and pulled her hand away. “You didn’t take my nose,” she insisted. “That’s not magic, that’s a trick.”

“Oh yeah?” Zeki, unfazed by her doubt, held out his hand. In his palm was one of her barrettes.

Theo hadn’t seen him take it. Neither had either of the children, he guessed, because Lupe gasped and Mai jerked back.

Of course Zeki knew sleight of hand. Of course he did. Non-magical illusions probably amused him.

Lupe screwed up her little face. “That’s still not magic.”

“Nope,” Zeki agreed, smiling and so casually powerful that Theo wanted to pet him. Zeki turned toward Mai. “That’s not magic. But this is.” Theo couldn’t see his face any longer, but he’d seen Zeki concentrating before, felt his stillness and the rising, invisible presence of something his were senses couldn’t identify. It was maddening and frightening for a were to be confronted with that. And awe-inspiring too, once he’d realized Zeki never used it to harm anyone.

Mai’s hackles were raised, but she hadn’t run or back down, or even growled. Her gaze was fixed on Zeki. Theo opened his mouth, although he didn’t know what Zeki planned and if he should interrupt, but then it didn’t matter. Between one second and the next, Zeki was human and bright on the couch, and then a slight, fluffy dark wolf, and then a human again.

Theo took a step backward in astonishment, but Mai flinched, and then shifted in a too-fast blur that probably left her with aching bones.

Lupe cried out in excitement, and Zeki jumped to his feet, already apologizing. “Oh, Merlin’s beard, I did not mean to scare you. It was just an illusion—a real one. I’m so sorry. Here.” He yanked off his cardigan and held it out, with his face turned away and his eyes closed tight. “I’m so sorry, Mai. You can shift back if you want. I forgot that kids don’t have the control like adult weres. Guess I’m not so powerful.”

Theo had never seen an illusion like that, and Zeki was going to claim his magic wasn’t strong?

And oh, but Zeki imagined himself as a beautiful wolf. Little, with fur like his hair, and sharp, crackling energy.

“How did you do that?” Mai and Lupe asked in unison, although Mai’s voice was rough. The sleeves of the cardigan dangled over her hands, but she didn’t get up to go find better clothes.

Zeki opened one eye, then both. He looked over the two of them, and when there was no more shifting or any other signs of trouble, he slowly sank back onto the couch. “Well,” he said nonchalantly, as if his heart wasn’t still racing from accidentally scaring a nine-year-old. “Magic like that takes years of study. If you want to know, you’ll have to work hard.”

Two disgruntled faces answered that.

Zeki waved them off, then leaned down again. “But, if you want to get a feel for natural magic, you should work hard at what you love best. Like Theo does. Then you can see if you’d like to learn other kinds of magic.” The fact that both children seemed uncertain didn’t appear to bother him. “I’ll tell you another secret….” Zeki began to whisper. “Do you know why Theo’s cookies are the best? Because he makes them with magic for you, to make you happy, to make you as happy as you made him. And you know what else? I know he’s been making some for us today, so when you get them, let me know if you can taste the magic.”

“You’re weird,” Mai announced. She had the cardigan tight around her, like a big robe. She was rubbing her nose too. But she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I hear that from wolves a lot.” Zeki shrugged, giving no sign that it hurt for so many weres to reject him, although of course it had.

“Because you aren’t one?” Lupe wondered, scooting a little closer to Zeki. She was… half-were with no signs of being were. Oh, Theo thought again, she was going to feel so alone whenever she was around all her cousins. Like a human in a town of werewolves.

“For a lot of reasons, but we can go with magic, sure.” Zeki answered her seriously, before glancing to Mai. “Also because my pack was just me and my dad, and they didn’t understand that. And I looked different than most of the kids in my school. I was alone a lot. Weres aren’t used to that. They didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe some of them… weren’t nice.” Mai lowered her eyes.

Theo’s mate was kind and smart and wonderful. Theo’s parents were going to be so pleased with him, and grateful they had trusted him with the most precious members of the family.

“But you know who was always nice, even then?” Zeki raised his voice. “Theo. Hmm. He should have been back ages ago. Where is he anyway?”

He possibly hadn’t expected an answer, but both children simultaneously pointed in Theo’s direction. “There,” Lupe announced grandly. “Duh.”

Zeki jumped and swung around to stare at him. His cheeks darkened. “Oh. Hello.” But his slow smile was warm with welcome. “Have you been there the whole time?”

With a clear view of his face, Theo could tell Zeki was tired. That illusion had taken a lot from him, or maybe that was the babysitting.

“Hey,” Theo greeted him, soft and stupidly shy. Sometimes Zeki made him feel that way, he couldn’t help it. “Hold on, okay?” he went on, before Zeki could say anything. Then he ducked back into the kitchen to load a plate with cookies. “They aren’t frosted, sorry,” he said as he handed the plate to Lupe. Lupe, who often mother-henned anyone close to her, related or not, crawled over to Mai to give Mai her share.

Theo kept two cookies for himself, then sat on the couch next to his blushing mate.

“Um, so,” Zeki began, only to stop when Theo kissed his cheek. He slid a questioning look Theo’s way, then sighed and leaned against him. “I’m sorry. I wanted them to know this Theo too, and not just you from before. And you are powerful, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Was that was he was embarrassed about? Theo’s mate was so hard to understand sometimes. He shouldn’t be sad. Theo’s family had been here to help him, the way Zeki was going to be here for Mai and Lupe, and any other Greenleaf or other were who needed him.

“Pack.” Theo buried his nose in Zeki’s hair. “Mate.” Two heart cookies rested on his palm. He held them up until Zeki took one. He made a surprised, sweet sound at his first bite.

The children, already dusted with crumbs, had wide smiles on their faces, although Mai grumbled, “I didn’t taste anything magic,” while Lupe announced smugly, “I did.”

“Look what you’ve done,” Theo warned Zeki quietly, while Mai licked a new cookie in search of the magic taste. She was smiling, and couldn’t seem to stop. They were very happy cookies. “They’re going to want to learn magic now. You’re going to be surrounded by children soon.”

“Everyone should want to learn anything they possibly can about the world,” Zeki responded, with sugar on his breath. He pushed the other cookie at Theo, quietly insistent. “Anyway, I can’t believe we’ve been mated less than a month and you’re talking kids already.” He was teasing, but he was close and warm, and the fast beat of his heart was nothing to the thunder in Theo’s chest at the idea of mate and children and their children. There were always weres in need of homes, and other children too. Zeki might like human children as well, someday.

“Ah, Zeki,” Theo murmured, a little overcome with the rush of instinctual need.

Zeki kissed his cheek.

“Gross,” Lupe declared, and turned to watch TV.

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repost - Hottie Scotty prompt - Cole's pov

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:20:10 GMT

Jess donated to the HRC, and requested some Scott and Cole. Oh, those two. I meant to do a futurefic, but it’s not exactly that. Sorry.

The first time Cole saw Scott Yun, he was at his kitchen sink and looking out the window while he filled his kettle with water. His French press was on the island behind him, along with the bag of beans Cole had yet to grind. Weekend mornings, he liked the ritual of setting out a cup and saucer, preparing the coffee with cream and sugar, and then sitting down in the living room to read while he drank it.

He had tried to sip his coffee at the kitchen table once or twice, but the empty seat across from him wouldn’t let him read in peace. Eric, had he been there, would have been scolding him for not going out, for becoming an old, scared queen who hid his head in his books.

Maybe to escape Eric’s voice, Cole had been thinking of abandoning his weekend morning tradition, perhaps having his coffee at the nicer coffee shop in town.

He was dwelling almost nervously on this idea when movement in the street outside caught his eyes. Joggers sometimes went past, this was nothing new, and yet Cole stopped. Cold water poured over his hand, a misjudgment that startled him, but didn’t distract him for more than a moment.

The jogger wasn’t especially tall, or broad, but every inch of him was muscle. That in itself was nothing. Cole had never been very into gym bunnies or bodybuilders. Too much bulk, not enough brains.

But he stared at this one, even while his mind registered the red athletic shirt and the black basketball shorts that screamed straight. Maybe it was that this one had warm brown skin with gold undertones, and muscles that spoke more of fitness than steroids. Or maybe it was that he was faintly smiling as he ran, which seemed ludicrous. No one enjoyed jogging that much.

But Cole thought, as the man passed his home at an even speed and then continued steadily on his way, that the jogger was just a man, and he was lonely, and there was no other reason for him to catch his eye.

And with that, he’d put the kettle on the stove, and gone to grind his beans.

The first time Cole really saw Scott Yun, the world was spinning with a little too much wine—chardonnay, because he was at that sort of party. He was on a bench in a very nice garden, next to an incredibly beautiful man, which Cole did not think was the wine, because he had seen this man before.

This man, this straight man, who laughed with his bros from the firehouse, and jogged past Cole’s house every weekend on the same, sure path, was beautiful. His body was strong in a way that made Cole’s blood pump faster, and his cheekbones were the sort of sharp perfection that should have put him in magazines.

Or in porn. God knew, it would have been so much easier to find Scott Yun waiting for him on his laptop screen than next to him in real life.

In real life, Scott laughed easily, and the sound was husky and a little shy. His body was warm, and his dress shirt didn’t fit him nearly as well as his T-shirt from the firehouse. He listened, quiet, his expression attentive, and put his hand on Cole’s knee once, when Cole foolishly spoke of Eric.

Cole was too old to be excited by something so innocent. The spike that went through him was more than lust, but he shook it off and drowned the rest of his fears in wine. He told himself, very firmly, that it was desire, and then that it was harmless desire when Scott leaned toward him and smiled wider and watched him with dark-eyed interest.

But he trembled, not with cold, and not with need, and swayed lightly and bumped Scott as they walked. Scott laughed again, and held Cole stay up despite listing to the side himself. Cole was feverish, dizzy and hot this close to someone gutwrenchingly beautiful. He was giddy. He smiled too much and wouldn’t shut up and if he fell, it was wonderful because Scott would catch him.

He thought, look at this beautiful man, he cannot be real. This cannot be real. This was the wine and the loneliness and the scent of flowers at night making Scott into more than he was.

And then Scott begged Cole to kiss him, so he did, and Scott drew him inside and got on his knees, and whatever Scott Yun thought he was, he was exquisite and terrifying, so Cole had done the only thing he could think to do.

He ran.

He wasn’t obsessed with Scott. He wasn’t trying to find him everywhere, not at first. Watching for Scott was a way to avoid running into him.

At least, in the beginning. That’s what Cole insisted to himself, and sometimes to his husband’s amused voice in his ear.

Of course, then Scott wasn’t straight or confused or closeted at all, and hadn’t been. Then he would see Scott with his reusable bags buying health food for himself and sugary treats for his niece and nephew. He’d see Scott pick them up from school, always smiling, always listening. He watched him entertain children at safety fairs with the others from the fire department, and perform first aid more than once, because the fire department was closer than the nearest ambulance service. Scott used his husky, pleasant voice to joke with his coworkers while at the grocery store, and smiled at service workers, and tipped well, and knew everyone’s names.

He was infuriating. And terrifying. And exquisite. And no matter how much he should hate Cole, he always gave Cole a nod, or said hello.

Cole would nod back, and feel extraordinarily stupid for hesitating over his answer.

It wasn’t about watching for Scott as much as it was about watching Scott. Because if Cole had needed to know for certain that he didn’t deserve anyone as remarkable as Scott, he only had to see him, gleaming with perspiration and awash in sparkling morning sunlight, beaming a tired smile at everyone in sight as he walked into the coffee shop, to know that he was a ridiculous coward.

It didn’t stop him from coming to the coffee shop at the same time every week, but it allowed him to stay where he was, and glance at Scott over the top of his book, and feel that terrible stirring in his stomach from a safe and reasonable distance.

Up close, it was difficult to not look at Scott, and notice that when he stared, Scott would always glance away first. Cole burned with aroused jealousy one moment and then smug pleasure that everyone in that bar had seen what he’d seen when he looked at Scott. He was still aroused, body thrumming a little with heat and excitement to have witnessed that, and then to have Scott close. But he was angry, in a strange way, not his usual indignant anger. A low, simmering kind of anger, at everyone, or people he thought were friends, or at himself.

Look at you, he said, giving away everything. Scott turned, and shrugged easily, and went back to his bros, while Cole was struck dumb. If Scott had been less, it might not have happened.

He followed of course, and when he went from watching Scott to seeking him out to watch him, Cole said it again, Look at you, and knew Scott didn’t understand. That was all that saved him.

Which was a dramatic thought, but Cole had never been very good at dealing with his emotions.

The first time Scott Yun looked back at Cole with immeasurable warmth and happiness in his pretty eyes, Cole momentarily forgot his cat’s name. The first time Scott beamed a smile like sunshine at him from across a crowded coffee shop, Cole burnt his tongue on his coffee. When Scott first sat next to him in public, shy and unsure with so many eyes on them, stars had exploded in Cole’s chest. The knots in his stomach unraveled with Scott’s hand over his on top of the bar in the Saratoga. He was too old to feel that way, too weak, but Scott smiled for all of it, too forgiving and strong and beautiful, too smart not to know now what Cole meant.

Look at you, Cole could whisper, and Scott would duck his head or cast his gaze elsewhere, until Cole closed his eyes and said it again. Look at you, in place of what he should be saying.

The last time Cole said it—or, at least the last time Cole said it in place of what he really meant, Scott was laid out beneath him in his bed, wearing only a sheet and the rays of yellow sunlight that seemed to seek him out wherever he went.

Cole gazed down at him, and the tiny, faint frown that meant Scott was worrying, and the gleaming curves of muscle, and the soft give at Scott’s stomach that hadn’t been there a few months before.

Look at you, Cole told him, and Scott had closed his eyes as if in denial.

So Cole ran his hands over him; ran his palms over his chest and his biceps and the sweetness of that stomach that meant so many of Cole’s cookies had been enjoyed, and then said, I love you, in as low and heartfelt a whisper as he could muster.

Scott, this beautiful, terrifying man, opened his eyes wide, and then smiled, and Cole thought it might have been Scott’s smile that had drawn Cole to him all along.

So he smiled back, and then leaned down to kiss him.

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Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:18:49 GMT

rosiea-w replied to your quote:rosiea-w replied to your post:Did I ever tell you…

Oh good grief, honestly you should just write the whole book repeatedly for this and all kinds of other scenarios. Don’t get me wrong your other works are equally good I just love Will and Charlie so much. They are just so perfect for each other

Well Charlie is everyone with a broken heart and Will is everyone who wants to believe in love and I JUST NEED THEM TOGETHER FOREVER AND HAPPY AAAAHHHH.

SADLY TELLING WILL THAT WILL WOULD MAKE SOMEONE A GOOD BOYFRIEND, AND HURT AT HOW PLEASED AND HOPEFUL WILL LOOKS AT THAT, BUT ONLY ENCOURAGING HIM. YEAH, YEAH HOW COULD YOU DO ANYTHING BUT MAKE SOMEONE HAPPY, WILL?

HE SAYS THESE THINGS LIKE THEY’RE NOTHING. (AND CHARLIE ONLY EVER LIES TO SPARE HIS SISTERS’ FEELINGS AND WILL KNOWS IT) AND GOD, WILL CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE AND PUSHES FORWARD TO BURY HIS FACE IN CHARLIE’S SHOULDER. LIKE YOU, CHARLIE? COULD I MAKE YOU HAPPY?

HOW CAN CHARLIE BE SO CONFUSED? HOW CAN HE ANSWER, WILL, YOU ALREADY MAKE ME HAPPY, IN THAT PUZZLED TONE? AS IF HE DOESN’T KNOW. SO WILL RAISES HIS HEAD AND KISSES HIM.

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repost - Mr. Parker's Murder Mysteries

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:16:43 GMT

The silk of the necktie felt–as humans said–absolutely sinful as it slipped through Cal’s fingers. He pushed a loop through and then yanked on one end with a satisfied grin, not bothering to look as he pulled the knot tight, then tighter, then tighter still.

He didn’t have to look–Detective Inspector Brannigan’s gaze was locked onto his hands. Anyway, there were more interesting things than knots in neckties to consider, such as the fact that the tie in question had only moments before been beneath the Inspectors’s starched white collar and knotted neatly and properly at the base of his throat.

His throat was exposed now, a rare enough sight for Cal, without the added pleasure of holding silk warmed by the Inspector’s incredible body heat in his hands.

If Cal had been a werewolf, he would have been able to smell the traces of the Inspector’s skin as well.

But Cal was not a werewolf, so when he finally dragged his gaze from bared skin, it was to be faced with the sparkling, crackling colors of desire, and the fierce, bold blue of the Inspector’s admiration–no, not admiration. Love.

The Inspector–Ray, his Raymond–offered up his precious, pricey necktie to Cal without hesitation when Cal asked, and let Cal perch on the corner of his desk in order to be closer to him when no one else was permitted such an impertinence, and listened as Cal explained how that poor, mistreated human girl could not have tied the proper knots required to lower herself to safety, even though no one else ever listened to fairies. Cal’s Raymond loved him and was in love with him and desired him and admired him, and for several seconds, Cal could not move, could not breathe as he looked at him.

And then Ray’s slightly rough voice broke him from his reverie. “Where did you learn so much about knots, Mr. Parker?”

“Oh.” Cal slipped the knot loose and held the strip of silk out for Ray to take. Ray’s fingers carefully did not touch his. Cal glanced away. “There was this Portuguese sailor I once knew–”

“That’s enough, Mr. Parker.” Ray’s growl shivered down Cal’s spine, and then Ray was gentle, soft as he looped his tie round his neck once again and stared down. The silk was creased. But the red in his shine was about jealousy and longing, not a rumpled tie.

Cal moved forward helplessly, taking the ends of the tie in his hands and drawing the Inspector near.

Ray let him, allowed Cal to give him an elegant knot as the base of his throat, his head tipped back and his eyes nearly closed.

He was werewolf, and that mattered. Eyes closed, head back, throat bare–it mattered. But his hands stayed at his desk, and Cal very carefully did not let his fingertips graze his skin no matter how much he wanted to. He curled the tie around his wrist instead, and Raymond did not object.

“There you are, Ray,” he said, instead of anything he could have said, like, love me, or take me, or you have me, Ray, just please tell me why I can only go this far and no farther.

But perhaps it was in his voice all the same, or his scent, because Ray did not move, except to tremble as Cal tugged ever so faintly on his silken leash.

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repost- AU meet cute for Checking Out Love

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:15:20 GMT

Someone asked for them to “literally bump into each other.”

I have no idea when this was from. 2015 maybe?

“Oh my god.” Jeremy was literally on the ground on his ass. He had fallen onto his ass through sheer force of his own distracted clumsiness and the impact of the solid wall he must have run into. “Oh my god oh my god. Shit.” And that was his coffee on the ground and on his pants and on his books. His expensive-ass fucking textbooks, now covered in the expensive-ass fucking latte he treated himself to after a long, busy day.

A hyphen with ass at the end was his favorite sort of compound. Actually anything with ass at the end was his favorite kind of anything.

He jerked up to his knees and leaned over, using his T-shirt to mop up some of the damage. Of course, he was still wearing his T-shirt and that meant a cold, gross drive home in the evening fog, but whatever. These books cost $300.

“No, no, ducklings. You need to be dry so I can read you.” Jeremy clucked his tongue and then realized in horror that this was the sound his mother had made when he’d been little and she’d wiped rainwater out of his face with her hand. He froze for a moment, and sat back, then realized this was not the time to be reconsidering his life because latte. Seeping into his pants. He was going to smell like souring milk for the rest of the day. That was not good. He’d made a special appointment at the university’s library to go into the basement to look through the old letters and journals from the area the librarians hadn’t officially archived yet. This was not a good impression to make, even by Jeremy’s standard of semi-disastrous first impressions.

“It’s great. No, really. They will absolutely believe that I take excellent care of books and can be trusted with valuable things when they see this,” Jeremy told the books, as well the collection of motion somewhere to the side of him. He was vaguely aware the motion was person-shaped and larger than him, and in some sort of violet-gray color combination his mind was trying to process while also helping him pat his books dry. “The turning into my mother thing, well that is unexpected. Not entirely, they say everyone turns into their parents. That’s anecdotal, but even anecdotal evidence is some sort of evidence. Besides, in a certain respect, we are our parents. Genetically. We’ve got the same sort of muscles in our face, hands, the same body types, with the tendency to move the same way. Add that to environment and it’s only natural we would pick up our parents’ mannerisms.”

He became aware that his words were, in fact, not aimed at his books at all, but rather at the wall he’d bumped into—run nearly full speed into, to be honest—and which had knocked him back on his ass. Which, ow, his ass kind of hurt now that he thought about it. Pavement was hard.

The wall was not a wall, obviously, but rather a person, a tall, sturdy-ish white person with facial hair and a sweater that looked like a cloud. A light purple and gray cloud with large gray buttons up the front, buttoned crookedly. Which Jeremy noticed, because the man, it was a man in that sweater, a handsome man maybe a handful of years older than Jeremy, had knelt down to look, or help. He curled one–large, dry, capable–hand around Jeremy’s wrist and tugged his hand away from the book, then pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his black jeans.

A handkerchief. Jeremy sat back onto his thighs to watch the guy expertly push the excess liquid from the book and then blot the rest with his handkerchief. He did the same to the second book before bending down to blow on the damp, malformed pages.

“They won’t be the same, but they should still be legible once they dry, and resellable, if you needed.”

“Three hundred bucks and I might get twenty for them if I’m lucky,” Jeremy responded, slowly, blinking hard as if he had rain in his eyes although the late afternoon sun was out and glorious. It struck his book-rescuer from the side, making him look not unlike the subject of a Caravaggio painting in a pastel cardigan.

“This was my fault, I’m sorry,” his rescuer continued as he picked up Jeremy now-empty paper cup and then the lid and set them upright on the ground. He glanced up and then seemed to freeze when he saw Jeremy staring at him.

“I bumped into you,” Jeremy clarified, looking over that solid, solid body that he’d run into. “Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t see you.” He licked his lips, but the man looked down at himself, to his sweater maybe, then frowned.

“Anyway,” he said, which was a dismissal, definitely, and Jeremy huffed a little to hear it. “No one inside is going to care that you spilled on your textbooks. Put them in your bag and you’ll be fine.”

“Says you.” Jeremy smoothed a hand over his wet jeans and grimaced. “Do you even know what I’m going to be doing in there? The scraps of old, delicate paper I specially asked to touch?” The guy’s eyes widened behind his hipster glasses. His eyes were kind of a green, made lighter by the black frames of the glasses. This guy had an interesting sense of color. Jeremy was wearing a cheap T-shirt in a strange shade of dull blue but he looked good in it. “These are like, artifacts I’m going to be touching, just for a chance to look at the casual language in old letters between friends, hopefully chance upon some locality-specific expressions. Now I’m a mess because I didn’t see the hot man right in front of me. And do you know who is supposed to be in there to oversee me today? Do you even know?” Jeremy ran his hands through his hair and stuck out his lower lip. “I need more coffee for this. Maybe I can get black and dump in sugar and an ice cube and sneak it….”

He trailed off because that was a serious expression of disapproval on the man’s face.

“You’re right. I can’t be trusted today.” Jeremy sighed again and poked at his books. They wouldn’t dry right inside his book bag, but it would have to do. “Uh, your handkerchief?” he remembered. “You carry one of those? That’s cool. I’d say it’s a hipster affectation, but you actually used it. And oh, it was in your back pocket. Was it hanky code? Now there’s a fascinating language. The language of fashion should be studied as much as oral and written language I think. I don’t know what it means, if it was hanky code. It looks like a plain white hanky, and glasses aside, you don’t look like a hipster. I am willing to believe you genuinely keep and use a handkerchief, and I ruined it.”

Coffee had already turned it brown. Jeremy reached for it. “I can clean it, get it back to you. This is my fault after al….” He trailed off for the second time when he looked up and met the man’s stunned stare. His mouth was open, the lips just parted as if Jeremy had taken his breath away—or freaked him out with all his talking, or angered him with the hanky code thing.

“It was my fault,” the man said again, in a hushed voice like this was a secret. “I stopped to look at the display out front.”

Jeremy angled his head to one side. “You mean the tulips, or the plaque about the sugar barons who donated the money for the building?” He’d read that plaque many times too, usually because of the outraged history major graffiti under the plaque about the crimes of those sugar barons.

The man closed his mouth while continuing to study Jeremy with his mint, maybe sea foam, green eyes. “Both,” he said at last.

Jeremy grinned. “It’s got a different angry fact underneath it every time I come to this building.”

The man might have smiled. His lips ticked up for a moment. “You come here a lot?”

The local history annex building, while still large, was attached to the back end of the huge, huge university library, and didn’t get as much foot traffic.

Jeremy shrugged. “Thesis. And the building is quieter. But today is special.” He leaned in, because why not after they had already made a mess together. “Today I am going to meet the Beast.”

“The Beast?” the guy asked, speaking in the same whisper as Jeremy.

“They called him in specifically to keep an eye on me, and anything I might find,” Jeremy confessed. “I volunteered, um, aggressively, to go through some of the old letters and journals yet to be archived. They asked the infamous librarian from Barrett Library—you’ve never heard of him? Weird. He terrifies the students. Anyway. Either they don’t trust me or they have some legal issues, I’m not sure which one. It might be a toss up. But I can be trusted, I swear. This was an accident.”

The man blinked at him, once, then twice, then glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t want him to think badly of me,” Jeremy finished. “Which is why the milk on my pants is going to suck.”

The guy’s face, which, for a somewhat awkward nerd, was really, really good looking, did a strange thing, as if he didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m sure you can explain,” he said at last. “He can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, he can.” Jeremy nodded, then wrinkled his nose. “But I get it. Those are valuable books in there, and in the Barrett Library. I was just really looking forward to this and I don’t want to get kicked out.”

“Really looking forward to it?” he was asked in a warm, startled tone, but then the guy abruptly scooted back. He picked up Jeremy’s books and handed them over before standing up. He held out one hand—god, he had nice hands, well-constructed and neat—to help Jeremy to his feet.

Maybe it was the old-fashioned sweater or the hanky influencing him, but Jeremy nearly swooned at the gesture. He didn’t want to let go, but made himself, because he was weird and hyper, but not a creep.

The guy offered him a quick smile as he bent back to down to grab the empty cup and toss it in the nearest trash can. “Just wash your hands and you should be fine.”

Jeremy snorted. “Yeah. Uh. I talk a lot. Like a lot. I don’t mind, normally, but I know what kind of first impression I make. But thank you. You’re very nice for a brick wall.”

That got him another long stare, even softly parted lips for a moment, before the man tossed his head and pulled in a breath. “Come on,” he said at last, and threw the ruined handkerchief away.

Jeremy made a small noise for the expense, then, for one of the few times in his life, had the sensation that someone was faster than he was. “Come on?” he repeated, not following at all. He was still holding his wet textbooks.

The man glanced at them, then took them from him and began to walk. “We can dry them better inside, and you don’t want to be late.” Jeremy trailed after him, goggling. It probably wasn’t a good look for him but he couldn’t seem to stop. The man paused again at the doors, where he gestured to a sign. “Drinks are not allowed inside anyway.”

“Right,” Jeremy agreed faintly, only just stopping before he ran into the guy’s back again. “Sorry.” He would do it again, though.

That got him a look over one broad shoulder, as if the man guessed that. “Just be careful.”

“Yes. Of course,” Jeremy repeated blankly, brightly, all kinds of enchanted all of the sudden. “Who are you?”

The made the man turn all the way around. He ducked his head. “Benjamin Barrett. From the Barrett Library,” he added quietly, pointedly, then opened the doors while Jeremy stood there, staring. It was difficult to follow with his foot in his mouth, after all.

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repost -John (and Rennet) and a sort of eventual proposal

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:13:01 GMT

Okay so two people donated and asked for John and Rennet, and I just… sort of blanked under the pressure of two people I guess, so this took a while. What I am going to do it, is post this one and then the other one, and you guys can just have two stories dedicating to both/each of you. :)

So this is for @selenographics and for Amanda on Facebook. And the next one will be too.

Although this is really more of John’s bio than a story.

Despite his fondness for firecrackers and small explosions, John had never thought of himself as a troublemaker. He didn’t cause mischief for the sake of maliciousness, he did it for a reason, even if other people didn’t understand why yet. Although he could admit, sometimes the reactions amused the shit out of him. The world he grew up in a lot of rigid, stupid, pointless rules and he thought someone should test them, bend them, and eventually break them, where necessary.

His teachers had noted it. He had a good mind, and ambition, but no respect, and a disregard for detentions. John was considered unusual, in a way that wasn’t welcomed in a small town.

He’d stood out in the army too, as much as anyone could. He asked questions. He read too much. He apparently insulted people by using words they didn’t know. His COs had also noted that.

He’d never understood why he was singled out, although he’d never minded much either, which might have been why. He was a B student with no money for university and no desire to go to the state college, so he’d joined the army. That wasn’t special.

John even looked unexceptional, a balding white man in a suit, approaching middle age. He had always looked that way, except for the balding part, and hated it as a teenager only to embrace it by twenty-seven. He had never been striking, or handsome, not even in his more physically impressive youth. None of which had ever stopped him from getting laid. Not after school with other scared boys, not in the army, and not afterward.

( Read more... )

Although a lot of that time was a blur to him now—the closeted army days and the slutty era afterward when in college on the GI Bill. He’d been free and aimless and finally found a place full of people like him. His parents had raised him to be his own person, but nonetheless had no idea what to do with him when he’d driven back for a visit and told them he liked men, he’d only ever liked men, and he didn’t see anything wrong with it.

After years in uniform, and the fucked up, ugly reality of service in the name of Reagan and US interests while seeing way too many men like him, boys, really, destroy themselves out of fear of discovery, John had not been inclined to hide that part of himself anymore.

His father had mumbled something about the Greeks. His mother had swallowed her words and told John to clean his plate. They hadn’t talked much since. John had never stopped feeling that wound, but he’d done what they had raised him to do. Been a scholar and a soldier, been his own man, never stopped learning, or fighting. In their way, he thought they were proud.

After that, John read a lot, and drank too much, and held any job that would teach him something. He lived in a shitty apartment on the border of the fairy village and old town Los Cerros, where queer humans had carved out a sort of refuge between outcast beings and elderly, usually poor, Latinos. Fairies liked him. He learned about shine, and glitter, and the dark shivering fear inside every fairy that they had no soul. They danced and fucked and stayed beautiful and hated themselves while the humans like them, the humans they loved, wasted away and died by the dozens, and then hundreds.

In a city the size of theirs, the loss had been shattering. Across the country, the death toll reached the hundreds of thousands by the end of the decade. People scorned, feared, shunned, and left to die by the government John had risked his fucking life for. Running for office to fight for the rights of their small portion of the city had been an act of defiance. He wasn’t in the mood for any more lies, delays, or bullshit, and neither were the outcasts in his district who had voted him into office and then kept him there.

The framed photo of him in Los Cerros City Hall, as he’d been sworn into office, while wearing jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and a feather boa someone had thrown on his shoulders as he marched into the building, was, according to Rennet, the sexiest picture ever taken.

John supposed the younger body and slimmer build had something to do with that, even if he had been losing his hair already by then.

The first year on the council had been difficult. The next year worse as the backlash truly began.

Funny thing about that though. He’d loved it.

The drinking all but stopped. The fucking too, because he’d had no time. John had gotten into actual, physical fights with council members he’d later watched lose their seats, absorbed information and procedure, and with it who was who and what they really wanted no matter what their public posturing—cruising as practical experience for sizing people up.

John sometimes thought that a lifetime of reading and fighting and fucking had prepared him for politics in a way nothing else could have, no offense to poli sci majors. He knew a lot, and what he didn’t know, he could learn quickly. He wasn’t afraid of blood and dirt. He was adaptable. And there was very, very little that shocked him.

He got a nickname, and it stuck. Times changed. He was joined on the council by more women, and people of color. No one lisped at him, to his face at least. He was invited to lots of very full parties out on the bluffs and approached by old school genteel semi-closeted gays, the kind who would consider the fairy village a place to go slumming but now kissed his ass. He wore a suit to work and bought a pretty house in a neighborhood full of respectable citizens who didn’t know what to do with him. He expanded his library, and became more than just the outspoken queer on the city council, which he honestly thought was a shame. He had gotten away with so much when he’d been so consistently underestimated.

He was alone more and more, if he didn’t count colleagues. The queer humans of the village were wary of the limelight or disliked what they viewed the prostitution of politics. The fairies had left him long ago—they admired him, voted for him, but the attention he received made them nervous. They’d seen what happened to one of their kind when on the wrong side of a scandal. John missed them. He missed all of them, human and being. The sex, yes, but his human friends from that time in his life were mostly gone. It was the fairies and the occasional troll who remained, who would live on—who could live on.

And then there was Rennet.

John had a house now, and a busy job, which meant he had to hire people to do things for him he couldn’t manage alone anymore. So he called a number on a card for a handyman, and Rennet had appeared at his doorstep, the strangest combination of clumsy and graceful John had ever seen.

Rennet, with a body for sin, as the expression went, and a sense of humor best described as wicked, and hands that could carve and build like an artist but could also wrap detonator cord around a bundle of dynamite. Someone else, with a more conventional life, might have thought to themselves, I’m going to marry that imp, or, so this is love at first sight. John did not make plans with definite endings because definite outcomes were impossible, but he had watched Rennet move around his house and comment on the things he liked—the books and records, and the things he was certain were going to break or fail—the hinges in the backdoor, the corner of the roof over the garage, and thought how incredible it would be to see Rennet more.

The Incredible Unflappable Mr. Sunshine had no idea what he was in for. Thankfully, no one in his life except for his secretary had been close enough to notice him floundering.

John didn’t make plans, he set goals, and now he had no idea how to achieve them, or even what they were for the longest time. Only that he liked Rennet in his life, and there had to be a way to keep him there somehow.

John wasn’t beautiful. He was an over-forty politician in a small city who lived alone, slept alone, and whose hobby was reading. Rennet was—not too good for him, but too much, too interesting, too different, to want that. He had a punk’s sensibilities but a faint aura of sadness, age that had come with wisdom but the eyes of a killer. He knew random facts that could never be learned in books. A dozen languages could trip off his tongue, in between references to legends that Rennet had known personally. He loved children. Of all the facts about Rennet that would have surprised those who feared him, that was the biggest. Rennet adored children and they loved him enough to spark something in John he hadn’t realized was there. Or maybe he had, but had never once allowed himself to think of it because he couldn’t have it.

It didn’t matter anyway. He was gay, and a workaholic who drank too much coffee, and two men couldn’t get married in his state, and human and being marriages were illegal too, and for a million other reasons, it didn’t matter. But that didn’t stop him from wondering while Rennet allowed small humans to tackle him to the ground and came up grinning.

Rennet absolutely had a soul, but tried to convince the world he didn’t.

I grew up around a lot of other kids, Rennet said once, and then went quiet, the way he only ever did when something reminded him of his childhood.

John had done the math, and made some guesses about Rennet’s past, but he watched and waited and didn’t push. In the meantime, Rennet begged John to fuck him, and ate his food, and cared for his house without charge like it was a pet project, and visited him at work, and never slept the night in John’s bed. He said not a word about what they were to each other, and could go days without contact before he’d reappear, and then smile tensely and disappear again whenever John would attend an event in the fairy village.

None of it made John want him less. Someone who didn’t try for the impossible every day might have given up and ended what they had the first time Rennet flirted with someone else in front of them.

John, in his darker moments, had thought that fighting against impossible odds was too ingrained in him to quit now. But the truth was he’d never been in love before. The truth was Rennet throwing himself with fists and teeth and a lashing tail at a racist drunk in a holding cell with him, or singing in soft French under his breath as he worked, or never, ever sleeping over despite how much John wished he would. The truth was Rennet had been alive for decades before John was even born, and there are years of trauma in him that he won’t talk about, and probably a trail of lost loves and broken hearts in his wake. The truth was, Rennet must have been in love before, and if he wanted to hold John close and brush his teeth next to him in the bathroom in the morning and fall asleep on the couch at his side with the TV on, or hell, even go out to dinner with John, he would have done so.

And he hadn’t.

A lifetime of reading and fighting and fucking hadn’t equipped John for the world of romance. Dating was such an unknown concept that he relied too much on popular media when he asked Rennet out, and it took him months of teasing and banter and fucking to realize that once the sex was over, Rennet was always out the door. He came back. He swaggered into City Hall and John’s office as though he owned the place, and visited John for reasons of his own, only to tiptoe out, without even a stolen kiss, as if fucking hadn’t been his goal at all.

John was known as a miracle worker, but even he couldn’t make someone love him. So he ignored the knowing looks from Margery as he stayed at work longer and longer, and he didn’t allow himself to call Rennet, and when he went to the fairy village and a fairy he’d never met before complimented his shine, John asked him to dinner.

He wouldn’t call it a mistake. He’d prefer tactical maneuver. Or more realistically, throwing a cat among the pigeons.

Or, even more realistically, waving a red flag in front of a stubborn, defiant, childish, irksome, hilarious, sweet, sexy bull, with wings and a penchant for black eyeliner.

Margery had been right. John had been stupid. And Rennet had been scared.

He spent the night on a mattress on the floor, tail slung over John’s hips, his face at the back of John’s neck. He walked into City Hall and came straight to John, like he always did, but this time his red eyes sparkled more than a fairy’s when he looked up. And he said, This human. This human, and no other, to stop John’s heart and replace it with fire and heat and flashes of lit gunpowder. Rennet loved him. Him, an ordinary man with an absorbing job and a tendency to light fires, but only under people who needed to get off their ass and do something. Maybe that was what Rennet liked—loved about him. The fucking was good—great—but there was no fighting, and no need for it and still John couldn’t get enough of him, and Rennet couldn’t seem to stop climbing onto him the moment they were alone. He didn’t want John for anything anyone else had ever wanted him for, and he worried for him like no one ever had, and confessed, in stops and starts, that he’d never stop worrying for John, and why that was.

His reasons were good ones. John could admit that, despite a passing moment of jealousy for the childish crush Rennet had had for someone long dead, who had left him with a burning devotion to bookish and rebellious soldiers.

Honestly, knowing Rennet thought of him that way had robbed him of speech for a while. Rennet had startled out of his reverie, then wriggled closer beside him in their brand new bed. Rennet had purred at him, teasing even while folding John protectively within his wings. Sunshine, don’t you know what you are? Don’t you know what you could do?

He stared at John as if he wasn’t the most remarkable person John had ever met, beautiful and not beautiful, and wicked and caring and the love of John’s life. He loved John, but he thought John was the exceptional one.

So John, who could not and would not hide, looked at him and said what he should have said the day he’d met Rennet, I could marry you.

He could admit to some amusement at the disbelief in Rennet’s expression, the shocked blinking and the utter stillness of his tail. But he hadn’t done it to be funny, or cruel, and when he waited, watching, without speaking, needing to know what Rennet would say before he could do anything else, Rennet gave him a reckless grin that meant John could ask again, ask him seriously, sometime in the future.

It was the most remarkable thing, and he was going to make it happen, and he would test, bend, and then break the laws standing in his way. It was almost as if he’d been born to do it.

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A Charming Forest Spirit and His Bunny repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 05:03:56 GMT

What are you doing?” Ian’s voice came out a little high-pitched when he was aiming for calm. But he thought some alarm was justified. Martin wasn’t accident-prone, but he was clumsy when distracted, and there was no way he wasn’t distracted as hell sitting on the cabin roof and leaning over the edge to hang lights from the eaves.

Martin jerked up, flailed, then shot Ian a pissy look that said that had been Ian’s fault. A second later, residual nerves or something else had him turning a festive shade of red. He considered Ian, then resumed his work with the lights, scooting down to hook them to nails he must have hammered in earlier.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” The wavering note in Martin’s voice took a lot of the sass from the words. “I’m decorating for Christmas.” He didn’t look up.

Ian stared hard and somewhat anxiously at the knitted green hat with pom poms covering Martin’s hair, then glanced around the area in front of his house. An area that had recently begun to look more and more like something that might be called a yard.

It wasn’t domesticated. There was no field of useless grass or picket fence. But the berry brambles were free of spiderwebs and there was a patch of mint in the one spot that got the right sun. Ivy decorated the house but hadn’t been allowed to overtake it, and along the stone path to the door–as there was now a stone path to door– was a sign with Forrester carved out of wood. A friendly hello of a sign, if not a complete smiling welcome.

Ian had a feeling that was only a matter of time.

His fairy tale house, as Martin had once called it, was becoming absolutely charming, and that was before Martin had decided to decorate for Christmas.

The string of lights he was putting up were the simple, old-fashioned giant bulbs from a long time ago, although these were probably some modern energy-saving version, knowing Martin. He’d put more lights in the bushes and even around the front door.

On the door itself was a handmade wreath of green and red holly, tied with a white ribbon that Ian had seen Martin absently twirling around his wrists a few days ago while making decisions in the craft store.

Ian had assumed the ribbon was for presents, or something, and had spent a good hour worrying that Martin would not only expect good, thoughtful Christmas presents, but well-wrapped good, thoughtful Christmas presents, while Martin had picked out twine and new scissors and ribbon and big wire hoop. Then Martin had wanted to go to the hardware store and really, Ian should have known.

“It’s not too much?” Martin fidgeted with the end of the light string. “It’s just some lights, really. I figured Christmas was going to be one of those things you usually only see from the outside, or maybe don’t celebrate as Christmas but maybe as Yule or something?” He peered over, then looped the last bit of cord on the final nail. “So lights and a holly wreath are okay?”

“Do you usually do a lot on Christmas?” Ian asked carefully. He liked to think he was a careful man by nature though Martin assured him he was not. Not at all, babe. Not even a little. Nonetheless, with Martin and the topic of his parents, he had learned to be cautious.

Martin shrugged, then wobbled, and Ian quickly stepped away from his car. But Martin right himself and cleared his throat. “Make her some stuff, watch her ignore it or criticize it. Get high in the bathroom, go home, get drunk. Imagine what my dad is doing without me. Watch A Christmas Story. Pass out.” He shrugged again. “Guess I won’t be doing that this year. So I thought…. You know. I could do what I want. If you want it. It’s your house.”

Ian snorted but wisely held his tongue on that subject. Martin had a lot more than a drawer or a toothbrush in his bathroom. Ian owned different kinds of laundry detergent now. He had two shelves of Martin’s comics and graphic novels in his living room in a bookshelf Martin had built. Martin was in his house and taking it over with far more creeping tenacity than the ivy and Ian could not have been happier.

Except maybe once Martin was safely down off the roof.

“We didn’t really do holiday stuff when I was a kid. For any holiday,” Ian clarified, surprising himself with how hoarse his voice was. He waited a moment. “It looks like a charming forest spirit lives here.”

“A charming forest spirit does live here,” Martin replied smartly, but then took a deep breath. “So you like it? It’s not too much?”

“There isn’t a dying tree in my house, is there?” Ian tried to sound teasing but didn’t think he succeeded.

Martin raised his head. “Of course not,” he said softly. “Not even a plastic one. Not for you. I didn’t do anything inside the house, anyway.”

“Why not?” Ian pouted through his relief at not being subjected to a Christmas tree. “Not even mistletoe? Don’t you love me anymore?”

Wide eyes fixed on him for a moment before Martin huffed. “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

Ian pointedly looked over his house, now a warm, cheery, festive home, with lights in the fogged-up windows and a puffing, pink-cheeked Martin on the roof, like a bunny in two thick jackets and a crookedly knitted hat.

“What do you want to do inside the house?” he asked, then put out a hand. “Wait. Tell me when you are down here and not up there scaring the life out of me.”

Martin’s eyes lit up but he nodded and then made Ian lose his mind as he swung himself down, stretched his legs toward the ground, and looked as if he was going to jump the rest of the way.

The fact that he had probably done exactly that between putting in the nails and getting the lights did not stop Ian from bolting over to catch him.

To be perfectly honest, Ian might have done that anyway. Things were easier with Martin in his arms. Even when Martin crossed his arms and sulked and insisted he would have been fine.

He didn’t insist too hard, anyway. Two jackets or not, he was cold all over. Ian was happy to warm him up.

“So,” Ian started again, carrying Martin toward the door. “What are the plans for inside?”

“Well.” Martin studied him for a few steps, still uncertain about these things, still shy about his ideas. “Nothing big. Some candles and stuff over the fireplace. But I did want to try making fudge in your kitchen if that’s okay.”

“So okay,” Ian answered seriously. “As long as I get some.”

“Dork. Of course you do.” Martin hummed, already relaxing. “Also… are you doing anything Christmas Eve? If you’re not working, we could hang out. I don’t know. It might be nice.”

“I will check the schedule,” Ian promised. “Would Christmas Day do if I have to work the night before?”

“I suppose,” Martin decided, with an air of great sacrifice that he ruined by curling his arms around Ian’s neck. His hands were like ice. Ian would have to think of a way to warm him.

Ian glanced at the wreath before he pushed open the door. “Did you have any of that ribbon left?” he wondered as he stepped inside.

“Ribbon?” Martin lifted his head from Ian’s shoulder. “What for?”

“Plans of my own,” Ian told him, leering, and closed to the door to their house firmly behind them.

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repost Hottie Scotty at Thanksgiving snippet

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:58:13 GMT

Jesse on Facebook donated, and asked for Scott and Cole, with a Psych reference. (It’s been a while since I’ve watched Psych, so sorry if this is weird)

It was the night before the night before Thanksgiving. Scott and Tiny should probably should have been doing something besides drink—or at least been drinking something more fitting with the season.

But Pineapple Cosmos were delicious, and Scott felt like he’d earned an indulgent cocktail with a wedge of pineapple on the rim. Memo, behind the bar, probably disagreed, but Scott had already tipped him extra, so it was fine. It was all fine.

Sure, he was on shift this Thanksgiving, which wasn’t a huge deal in itself. He’d worked it before, Christmas and New Year’s too. But Ang and the kids were driving down to spend it with their parents, and Cole was supposed to go visit his family, which meant even when Scott got off shift the day after, there’d be no one around for him to spend time with.

He’d been alone before. But this felt extra alone, something he was trying to ignore with the help of a few pretty drinks.

Tiny, who had started with beer before tasting a Cosmo and demanding one of his own, and then another, did not seem to be fooled by this. Scott had, after all, shown up at his house earlier and asked if he wanted to go out. And despite the fact that Rhonda had him cleaning in preparation for holiday visitors, she’d frowned and then shooed them out of the house.

“He can always clean tomorrow, with his hangover,” she’d said, evilly, and kissed Scott on the cheek, which she didn’t normally do. He had a feeling he looked sad. Probably because he was sad. And drunk. He was pretty drunk.

He sighed at his phone, and the messages from Cole.

“You gonna answer those any time soon?” Tiny wondered, hiccupping in the middle. “Shit, what is in these girly drinks?”

“Hard alcohol and sugar.” Scott downed the last of his second one, then slid the empty glass onto the bar. He caught Memo’s eye. Memo snorted, but then started making another with a resigned air.

Without looking at Memo, Tiny raised his arm to gesture that he would also like another one. “Tomorrow’s gonna suck.”

Scott agreed, although he resolved to drink some water soon. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing to do. Not cooking anything, so not going to the store. Not that I would. It’s like, a free-for-all before Thanksgiving. Go for a long run, I guess.”

“Told you.” Tiny paused, as if he had to focus to keep from slurring. “Told you, welcome with us. Stick you with Rhonda’s ex-step mother—it’s complicated. Anyway, she’d love ya. Probably play footsie under the table. Also… also wait. Hey. What about loverboy?”

Scott frowned at his phone. “School’s out at noon. Then he’s driving to his parents’ house. It’s chill. It’s fine.”

Tiny noisily sucked on his wedge of pineapple. “That sounds like denali to me.”

“You mean denial,” Scott frowned, after a couple of seconds to ponder.

“No, that’s a river in Egypt.” Tiny reached for their new cocktails, and handed Scott his.

“That’s the Nile.” Scott answered before it occurred to him that Tiny knew that, and was either wasted, or teasing him. This was what happened when Lewis left the station TV on USA all day.

“I’ve heard it both ways.” Tiny shrugged.

Scott gave him an uncertain look, then decided whatever and drank some more. “It is fine. Cole and I aren’t… I couldn’t just ask him to stay in town for me. They’re his family.”

“So what are you telling me, Scotty?” Tiny smacked his lips. “Goddamn, this shit is good. Did you even try asking Cole to stay in town for you? Oh shit!” Tiny sat up. “Does he even know you’re going to be alone this year?” He shook his head at Scott’s silence. “That’s bad. You can’t lie, man. Lying only gets you in trouble. He’s a smart fucker. He’s gonna figure it out.”

“I’m going to tell him.” Scott had more Cosmo, and thought about Cole’s expression when he realized Scott had been avoiding the subject of the holiday, and why. He’d probably realize soon, and be annoyed, or worse, hurt. Scott didn’t even know why he didn’t want to tell him. “He’ll be upset, I think. Or want to cook for me or something.”

He probably wanted to cook for Scott right now. He’d sent messages wondering what Scott was doing tonight, if he was hungry. “It’s not about the food. It’s…” Cole sent another message, slightly worried because Scott wasn’t answering. “It’s… I’m not single now.”

“Aw.” Tiny gave him a one-armed hug that was more of a crushing squeeze. “First big holiday without your boyfriend. Man, we are so good at like emoting and stuff.”

“Fuck off,” Scott grunted. He was grumpy and mean, and either too drunk or not drunk enough. “I never had someone to miss before. I wanted, like, things. Traditions of our own, I guess.”

Tiny nudged him. “Answer him already. Answer him before I have another one of these and you have to carry me home.”

“Straight guys are lightweights,” Scott remarked, as though focusing wasn’t a struggle. “What do I even say?”

“That you gotta work, and you’re going to miss him. Also maybe mention where you are, and that you are drunk, and you want to kiss him like a proud homosexual warrior returning home to his waiting husband.”

“There are so many things wrong with that.” Scott blinked a few times. “Where do I start?”

“Maybe by telling me why you’re this drunk by eight o’clock, or why you haven’t answered my messages.” Cole was always so icily precise. “Or why Romano here has been texting me to, and I quote, ‘Come drag my fine specimen of a boyfriend home’?”

Scott turned to face Cole. “I work on Thanksgiving and I’m going to miss you.” Cole stiffened, then slowly looked Scott over from his head to his feet. “Also I am drunk, and I want to kiss—no, I um, had stupid ideas about stuff, and they were like, fantasies, I know that. But I wanted them, you know? But you’ll be gone, and Ang is gone, and my parents don’t even know you, and I’ll end up playing footsie with Rhonda’s ex-mom and I… I’ll miss you. I drank a lot.”

Cole didn’t move. He was probably processing all of that. It was fine. Scott finished his drink, then put the glass on the bar.

“You aren’t playing footsie with anyone.” Cole was so stern. He crossed his arms. “Secondly, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have made plans. And thirdly—” he came closer “—tell me more about these ideas of yours.”

“Yeah?” Scott tipped his head back.

Cole briefly leaned around him to order a bourbon and a water. The water was apparently for Scott. “Yes,” Cole said, against Scott’s ear, and then stepped back when Scott shivered. He gave Scott a warm look over the top of his glass of bourbon.

“I want to have traditions with you!” Scott blurted, and didn’t know why Cole beamed a smile at him, but he liked it anyway.

“Not getting this drunk every year around this time, I hope,” Cole commented, drifting back into Scott’s space. Scott barely noticed Tiny heaving himself off his barstool and saluting them before heading out. “Because too much alcohol might hinder some of my plans for you. And dinner is waiting, with plenty of leftovers for you to eat before I can feed you properly this weekend.”

Scott tilted his head to Cole’s so he could whisper but still he be heard. “Cole,” he murmured, to watch Cole shiver, “you are so sexy right now.”

Cole was smooth. “And with that, I think it’s time I drag my fine specimen of a boyfriend home.”

Scott was off the barstool without a second thought.

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repost- Play It Again Charlie snippet - The Proposal

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:55:05 GMT

So. This is what happens in my current mood when I try to write cuddles. I swear to you, I just wanted cuddles. Sweet, loving cuddles. But first I got porn (very hot porn too, I might add) and then this. Which is… not even canon.

And yes, as creator I get to decide canon, and even though I wrote this just now, it isn’t at all how I imagined it before tonight, so I am Very Confused. So this is… sort of canon-ish? But not set in stone. (Or maybe)

“I just need a happy ending.” Will was not sobbing. He wasn’t crying. His eyes did sting a little, but it wasn’t like Charlie could see. He was sitting up against the back of the couch, a book in his hands, Will’s head on his thigh, his fingers gently stroking through Will’s hair. The book, which was a paperback but still thick, blocked Charlie’s view of Will’s face.

Which was good. Even though Will was not crying.

But he’d had a shitty day, and he’d come home just wanting something good to distract him, something light and happy and queer as fuck, and no matter how many times he flipped through Netflix for a new, good, happy GLBTQA movie, there was nothing. It was all stuff they had seen, or terrible rom coms, or worse—brilliant but tragic dramas where everyone died.

No one was going to die. Not tonight. But not even the camp factor of a classic Hollywood film with a queer villain was going to get him through this.

He continued flipping through the list, sniffing a little as his choices remained the same.

Charlie paused.

Will stopped madly skimming through the Netflix list.

“Did you say something?” Charlie murmured, his voice gravelly because he’d been reading for hours without saying a word. Will had stormed into the house, intending to make himself a drink so strong it would wipe the memory of his horrible day from his mind, and then seen Charlie in sweatpants and a t-shirt of all things, his reading glasses on, his hair sticking up as if he’d never bothered to comb it this morning, and just sank onto the couch and curled up on his side. Sometimes he thought his head belonged on Charlie’s knee, which was a weird thing to think, but Will thought a lot of weird things.

He was lucky to have this knee. He was in love with Charlie, but he was a little in love with this knee too, and the hand in his hair, even… even the cat cuddled against the backs of his legs. Okay, Will wasn’t in love with Sam, exactly, but this, this moment, this everything. How Charlie’s hand would sometimes still, as if his book got exciting, and then resume sliding through Will’s hair. Charlie loved Will’s hair, and Will loved that he loved it. And sometimes, when Will would shift, or stretch, Charlie would stop reading altogether to scratch softly between his shoulder blades, as if he didn’t want Will to leave. Then when Will settled again, Charlie’s hand would drift back to his hair, to lightly card through it.

Will let out a long breath. “I want a happy ending.”

That made Charlie pull himself from his book for real, at least for a moment. “What?”

And that, right there. Will loved Charlie’s brain and how fast it was, but he could do without how fast it jumped to the worst conclusion. Because he could tell Charlie was thinking Will wasn’t happy, and from there he was going to think Will wasn’t happy with him.

It hadn’t taken long to figure out that pattern, and while Will had done a lot of reading—well, internet searches—about anxiety, it was still a problem.

He moved so he could kiss Charlie’s knee. “Keep petting me.”

Charlie brushed his fingers along the back of Will’s neck, tickling over soft, well-moisturized skin. Will shivered, then kissed Charlie’s knee again. “I want a happy ending, Charlie.”

He could feel Charlie’s hesitation. Charlie closed the book and put it down. “Like… an orgasm?”

Will snorted. “Always, my darling.”

He had a feeling Charlie was frowning in confusion, but he didn’t feel like moving to check. “You stopped petting me,” Will complained mildly, and nearly purred when Charlie began to scratch his back. He arched toward Charlie’s hand and let his arm dangle off the couch. The remote dropped the floor.

“So, you want a happy ending?” Charlie prompted. Maybe it was selfish to demand this much attention when Charlie had been trying to relax too, but it didn’t feel that way. Will imagined Charlie’s handsome, stern face, his attention focused on Will and providing whatever Will needed. Charlie loved doing that.

Will was so gone on this big, handsome lug, honestly. He sighed with dreamy pleasure. Charlie slipped his hand under Will’s shirt to rub circles into his back. Will closed his eyes. “Hmm?”

Charlie paused. “Will,” he said, quietly stern, because this was a painful discussion they’d had early on that remained valid. Sometimes Will forgot to ask for what he wanted, and Charlie couldn’t read minds, and if Will wanted Charlie to not go crazy with worry, he had to be clear and use words that didn’t always come from films. “Happy endings?”

“The movies,” Will told him softly, without opening his eyes. “If they’re happy, and gay, they aren’t any good. And if they’re good, everyone dies. I want a happy ending. I want a big gay happy ending.” That wasn’t exactly true. There were a few movies he loved that weren’t miserable and self-hating or tragic, but they were also older, and that wasn’t what he needed tonight.

“Oh.” Charlie’s answer was a long time coming. Will knew about that now, too. How Charlie had never thought to ask for a happy ending in his life, so of course he’d never questioned movies or TV. He was probably deliberately blind to how many queer people died on TV. He probably hadn’t had queer movies on his Netflix queue before Will, unless it was something artsy—something sad, because that was what Charlie had expected.

“Did you eat today?” Charlie wondered, like, completely out of nowhere.

Will opened his eyes. “This isn’t because I’m hungry. It’s a real problem, and today was shit, and I just… I just….”

“Will.” Charlie pulled his hand out of Will’s shirt and hesitated for a second before placing his hand over the back of Will’s neck. It was too close to how it was during sex for Will not to go still, to let out a breath and shudder and wait for Charlie to take care of him. Charlie was careful. “I’m sorry Hollywood failed you, and keeps failing you.” He said it as if he knew how much Will relied on movies to stay level, and he might; he was so smart. Without warning, he trailed his fingers back through Will’s hair. “But maybe, maybe for now, I can make you dinner.”

“Charlie.” Will wasn’t protesting. His eyes burned, but it was easy to turn and hide his face against Charlie’s knee, and let Charlie keep stroking his hair.

“And you can tell me about your shit day, if you want.” Communication was so important to Charlie, with Charlie. Will nodded, and sniffled, and placed another stupid kiss to Charlie’s knee.

“I know…” Charlie trailed off, then cleared his throat and started again. “I know you’re hungry to see yourself onscreen. But… but for now… can I… can I be your happy ending?”

Will’s throat tightened so much he couldn’t speak for a few seconds. He stared blankly ahead, and then spun around, which startled poor Sam, who leapt away.

Charlie blinked at him, probably just as freaked out as his cat. God, was that more gray in his hair? How could he look tired and hot at the same time? It wasn’t fair. When Will was tired, he just looked tired.

As always, Will’s heart beat a little faster to find Charlie watching him. Charlie was the most amazing, loving person Will had ever met, but he didn’t see himself the way Will did. He didn’t see anything the way Will did. Will loved him anyway. Charlie was the kind of idiot who would ask if he could be Will’s happy ending, but just for now.

“As if I’m not in this for the long haul, Charlie.” Will gave him a distinctly wet, sniffly, sappy smile. “You’ve got me forever, and you’re asking for one night? You big dope.”

“Yeah?” Charlie twitched, as if he wanted to get up, then changed his mind. “Because I have—there’s, in the bedroom, a—you know, last year, when they made it official across the country….” He took a deep breath. “I can’t move when you’re on my leg.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere, so too bad.” Will was definitely crying, but Charlie just wiped his face for him, and then rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“It’s kind of important.”

“This is kind of important.” Will poked him in his stupidly flat stomach. “Really, Charlie? You want to be my happy ending for one night?”

“Or, um, forever.” Charlie glanced wildly around the room before his gaze settled on Will again. He was very, very tense all of the sudden. “If you wanted. There’s… there’s a ring. In the bedroom. But you won’t let me up.”

Will took one, long, deep breath and stared into a handsome, but terrified face.

“I didn’t mean to do it like this.” Charlie scowled. “I don’t even have anything to make you but pre-made pasta.”

“That’s the first meal you ever made for me,” Will pointed out, like an idiot. He blinked. “You… are you… asking me to—” He couldn’t say it. If he was wrong, it would kill him.

But he remembered coming home the day it was legalized nationwide, legalized for people like them, and Charlie stunned on the couch, and Will just laughing and laughing, and he hadn’t realized how much he had needed that until it was out there, on the news, for real.

“Will.” Charlie went all stern and serious, just like that, and Will was focused on him and nothing else in the world. “I’m sorry. Please marry me.”

Will was going to give him such crap later for that “I’m sorry.” That remnant of fucking Mark and the others like him. But for now he closed his eyes tight and let his tears run onto Charlie’s old sweatpants and nodded.

Because he wasn’t stupid, and this man was as close to perfect as it got.

And Will loved him awful.

And now he got to marry him. So he kissed Charlie’s thigh and nodded again so Charlie would understand through all his anxiety, and then he scrambled up to his knees to climb into Charlie’s lap, just so there wouldn’t be any more misunderstandings.

“Yes?” Charlie asked him, as if he honestly was surprised by this, so Will laughed in his face and pressed as close as he could without putting any pressure on Charlie’s hip. “The ring?” Charlie wondered, almost stuttering, which was exactly how he’d reacted the first time Will had worn a collar for him. As if he couldn’t believe anyone would want him that much.

Will sniffed and forced himself to be still so he could look Charlie dead in the eye, just to be sure. Charlie was serious, the way he was when he was the most nervous, and that was enough for Will. If he was dumb enough to propose to Will, then Will was saying yes.

“Fuck the ring,” Will told him, as if he wouldn’t be flashing it to everyone tomorrow. “Kiss me.”

And when Charlie took a breath, relieved, and started to smile with honest, painful joy, and looked as perfect and sexy as a man in sweatpants and messy hair could, Will realized he had done that. He’d done that by saying yes, and given Charlie the ending he’d been afraid to ask for. He was Charlie’s happy ending.

He leaned forward, and gave him a soft kiss, since he’d earned one. “You’re mine, too,” he told him, although Charlie only frowned briefly in confusion. It was okay. Will could explain later. He had a whole lifetime.

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repost - bodyguard au My Man Godric

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:37:16 GMT

Remember (vaguely) that AU where Godric was Bertie’s bodyguard? Ah, and Bertie so fabulous and arty and refined, in his elegant house during the rain. Of course he wants to mope, because by this point he’s completely head over heels for Godric, and Godric is ever the stoic bodyguard and barely even looks at him except for personal safety reasons? Maybe, maybe there had been a point where Bertie had thought differently, maybe he’d thought they’d grown closer. Perhaps there was a moment of stillness where they almost kissed, and then something Bad happened, and Bertie was hurt, and Godric was all business again.

And Bertie… Bertie didn’t react well. He fell (slightly) into old bad habits, and went to a party and didn’t behave, and got drunk, and started to introduce Godric as his love. This is my love, Godric, aka my bodyguard. This is Godric, I adore him and he hates me. And he didn’t mean to, really, But he was in pain, and it only made things worse because Bertie is famous, and now everyone calls Godric his love instead of his bodyguard.

And Godric never denies it. Just stays silent and watchful, near him at all times, retreating with what feels like cruelty whenever someone flirts with Bertie.

But in this moment, no one else is there. They are alone in his restored townhouse on a gray, rainy evening, and Bertie has been ignoring his phone to stay curled up on the couch in front of the fire. Godric is there, in the doorway at first, and then outside the room, and then in again.

Bertie doesn’t mind. Godric is frowning, but that’s better than blank quiet. The rain is steady, and the fire crackles, and when his phone rings again and still goes unanswered, Godric is the one who slips out to get more firewood. He places it on the fire, then steps back.

He’s out of sight, but hardly out of mind. He speaks softly, but then, he almost always does. “Are you all right?” after a while of warmth and peace and Godric.

Bertie doesn’t look for him. He will be just out of Bertie’s sight, somewhere he can watch Bertie without Bertie ever getting to watch him. That doesn’t feel right. Not tonight. Not in this weather.

He normally prefers the spring, but there is something about a windswept fall day to make him shiver and stick to his blankets.

“Godric,” he allows himself to say it because he can’t see Godric’s face. “Godric, my love, won’t you at least sit on the couch with me?”

“If you’re lonely, you could–”

“Godric,” Bertie sighs. “am I never allowed to see you again?”

He sees Godric every day, but that’s not what he means.

“There’s nothing much to see,” Godric answers at last, but steps from the shadows by the door. He glows in the light of the fire, of course he does.

Bertie takes in the sight of him, and smiles, and leans over to pat the other end of the couch. “You’ll be far from me and my wicked gay hands. Safe and sound, and still able to spring into action to save me, if necessary.” Although, Bertie remembered the aftermath of the last incident, after what might have almost been a kiss, and Godric injured and bleeding–for him. “I hope it won’t be necessary.”

“So do I.” It’s a trick of the firelight that makes Godric’s gaze so warm. The intensity however, is naturally Godric’s.

Bertie sighs again. “Please, sit. I promise I won’t cross any boundaries. I merely want a little company.”

“You never lack for company.” Godric’s voice is briefly not-soft. But when Bertie turns his eyes up to meet his, he comes forward, and sits with a frown. “It’s no wonder you’re cold.”

The short press of his big, callused hand on Bertie’s bare foot is startling, but then he tugs Bertie’s blanket over it. “How can someone with as many clothes as you not own socks?”

“I own socks!”Bertie pouts despite himself. “I just… forgot them. I was in a mood. A dramatic, rainy day mood.”

“Your mood seems to have lightened.” Godric comments, too light to be serious.

Bertie takes him seriously anyway. “I wonder why that could be.”

He will not look away first. He has said it many times. Godric is the one who will not acknowledge it, to either accept or refuse.

“Godric, my love,” Bertie can’t not say anything at the pure shock on Godric’s face. “How can you surprised? You? With your eyes that see everything? I have told you. I’ve waited. I told you, over and over, like an idiot, and still you wouldn’t leave, or give me an answer, and now I am a joke who has to force you to sit with me in front of a firepl–”

He stops at the rapid way Godric blinks, the stunned tension in his broad shoulder. His eyes are as intent on Bertie as ever, despite his softly parted lips, but then he glances down. Bertie follows the movement and realizes.that the pleasing, warm weight on his chilled toes is Godric’s hand.

He recalls all at once the light pressure of Godric’s hand at his back to help him in and out of cars, the strength in his arms as he’d carried Bertie to bed after that one disastrous drunken party, the coffee ready to go in the mornings, the suggestions that Bertie stop working and eat, the soft question, just now. The worry.

He can’t stop staring at the hand resting on his foot. Still, it’s a surprise to see his hand come down on top of Godric’s.

How silly of him. Of course Godric would not answer with words.

The laugh is a surprise too. Godric almost yanks his hand away, but Bertie has him and he’s not letting go now.

“How dumb I am.” Bertie laughs a little more. “No wonder you thought I was toying with you. You did, didn’t you?” It feels right to stroke the side of Godric’s hand with his thumb. And because he is Bertie, weird and queer and famous, it feels just as right to twist a little so he can scoot his feet beneath Godric’s thigh.

The sigh that slips out of Godric stops his laughter.

Their hands are still together, something so innocent that Bertie’s friends might laugh to see it.

He thinks perhaps he needs new friends, because this is perfect.

“Godric loves me,” he says, carefully, to try it out, and closes his eyes to listen to the drum of the rain and the spitting fire and the even rhythm of Godric’s breath.

(via sweetfirebird)

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repost- Arthur as a werewolf au

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:28:57 GMT

Like, Arthur getting the job and going home, and flushed and out of it, restless in his skin. And he can’t eat, and he can’t sleep, and he can barely wait to go to bed before he’s touching himself, and that is not a good way to start his new job. He knows that. But the smell of smoke and male and Dr. Jones seems to linger in his clothing and it’s driving him crazy.

And he’d stumble into work the next day, exhausted and yet still twitchy and restless, to find Dr. Jones gone, but he left a list of things to do. And Arthur does them… and then does more… because the house needs to be put in order. It’s not *right* as it is. Something in his den is *wrong* and it’s only halfway through the day that he notices exactly what he is thinking, and on the heels of that he realizes that he keeps going past the couch and the study–the two places downstairs that smell the strongest of Dr. Jones.

His throat locks against a howl. Because this can’t be. It shouldn’t be. Dr. Jones is a dragon! A rich, famous, brilliant dragon! Dragons don’t have mates, do they? And if they did, it wouldn’t be a failed grad student and scrawny little werewolf! Oh god. Oh god. He has to be mistaken, this can’t be what it is! It’s just a crush, or something, or the distracting itch of the house’s magic confusing him.

But then the front door opens, and Dr. Jones comes sweeping in impatiently, obviously searching for Arthur, and when he sees him and his face lights up, a shivery, intense heat pools in Arthur’s stomach, and spreads beneath his skin.

He doesn’t know what his face looks like, if his eyes have gone fierce, but Dr. Jones pauses for a moment before continuing forward, and he clucks his tongue like a mother hen. “Darling, don’t be nervous. I know I’m a dragon, but there’s no need to look like that. I’d never hurt you, at any rate. I thought I made that clear yesterday when I hired you. I like you very much, Arthur.”

Arthur is panicking and Dr. Jones just goes on, “Have you been working all day? Marvelous. You truly were a find. Look how clean it is in here already.”
While Arthur is simultaneously dying and preening at the praise from his mate. “You seemed a touch worried yesterday when you fled–I mean, left before I could offer to feed you. Weres do like food, don’t they? As gifts, I mean. I’ve been hoping I’d get to cook for you, show you part of what I’m capable of giving you, but I thought it best that you have some time to think. Perhaps a task to settle your instin–your nerves. I see you’ve done very well on your own, but I missed you and couldn’t stay away any longer. You didn’t misplace anything, did you?” Dr. Jones is prattling. Probably to help Arthur calm down, and it’s working, although not for the reason he probably thinks. His mate’s smoky voice is light today, soothing, and he’s close enough now for his hazy, herbal scent to fill Arthur’s lungs.

The sight of him, elegant and careless and graceful, with those strong shoulders Arthur had seen bare only yesterday, and the column of his throat exposed as he slowly pulls his cashmere scarf away.

“You’re starting to look peckish, pet. Are you hungry, Arthur? I was thinking of making some dinner–you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No plans for this evening? Perhaps with a boyfriend?”

Arthur twitches at the obvious, so obvious, leading question and shakes his head violently. Because no, no boyfriend. Not one anyway, and definitely not one now.

It is not his imagination that Bertie looks extremely satisfied with that answer. The room, where it doesn’t smell like Arthur’s spiking adrenaline and arousal, is filled with different emotions now; wafts of curiosity and interest, something salty and heavy on his tongue that’s close to lust, and something else, something sharp lurking at the edge of his awareness.

It makes him curl his hands into his palms to stop himself from shifting. It’s not panic this time, but it’s just as embarrassing.

Dr. Jones stops dead, less then five feet from him, and his black eyes gleam in the light. “So you’re staying, then?” he asks, his voice all smoke now, the air still and hot.

Arthur shivers and doesn’t answer–not out loud anyway. He can’t help what his body does.

The sharp scent, hunger, isn’t coming entirely from Dr. Jones. Arthur growls, just once, a short, high sound of warning. He has no idea what to do, but he wants.

And Dr. Jones smiles at his growl, and the floor shakes, and for the barest second, he gives the impression of being much taller, much bigger, than he is.

Arthur wants that too. It’s his, if his instincts are right.

Dr. Jones, when he speaks again, is closer than he was a moment ago. Arthur has to tilt his head back, bare his throat to look at him. “Arthur.” Dr. Jones’s voice is a rumble to crack the foundations of the house.

Dr. Jones bared his throat too, Arthur notices at last, he knows wolves. Arthur remembers the title of one of Dr.Jones’s books–the one on werewolves–and shudders at how obvious he must have been that the dragon knew before he did.

But Dr Jones is closer again, and growing so satisfied that Arthur can hear himself panting as he tries to breathe it all in. Mate-scent, home and lust and need. It can’t be real but Arthur wants, and presses his claws into his palms to keep from grabbing him, from throwing himself at Dr. Jones and whining until Dr. Jones’ teeth are at his throat.

Dr. Jones, so powerful that his scent makes Arthur dizzy, lifts his chin, and it takes everything Arthur has to raise his eyes from the sight of his neck.

But he wants.

Dr. Jones is bright and brilliant and dragon, and dragons don’t let go. If he is Arthur’s mate, then he will never let go. Arthur will never be forgotten. He’ll have a place, and it will be here, with him. And Arthur will be his wolf, his wolf, and he’ll guard him better than any magic.

The whine escapes, high and needy.

“None of that, Arthur, please.” His mate is gentle as he steps forward. He’s hot to the touch, and dangerous, but he curls around Arthur and rumbles when Arthur puts his nose to his skin. He scratches softly at Arthur’s hair. This is Arthur’s mate, and he feels so comfortable Arthur can close his eyes. He can breathe in the scent of him and rest at last.

“Please.” Arthur found human speech again, although he doesn’t know why he chose that word, or why tears are making his eyes sting.

“Of course, darling.” Dr. Jones sounds surprised. “No one in their right mind would reject a treasure such as you. Say it, and I’m yours.”

He’s smiling when Arthur finally lifts his head to look at him.

“Mate,” Arthur dares, holding his breath.

“Treasure,” Dr. Jones answers immediately, without looking away from him. “Arthur.”

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more beings, the next generation - repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:26:13 GMT

GUYS. GUYS. Bertie and Arthur’s second oldest, who is like SUCH AN ARTHUR, and the shy beta werewolf named Ralphie who keeps walking by their house and he DOESN’T KNOW WHY but the dragon’s house smells so flipping good, okay? He just likes it! And then he has to meet this straightforward grad student who is SO. BOSSY. And also just BOSS. And Ralphie is so, so beta, and also like, maybe a junior at most, and that is a DRAGON’S HOUSE, but it only takes him a moment to realize the amazing smell is this intimidating, serious hotass grad student, who is also like, a powerful af wizard, and Ralphie is genuinely TERRIFIED because that is his mate fuck his life.

EDDIE!!! Big brother Eddie who is a bossy, bossy nurturer and is like, yes I’ll take this one. And then he has to convince Ralphie they are Meant To Be and there is a power point and it’s so great.

(via vashti-lives)

OH MY GOD YES. His name is Edmund MacArthur-Jones (yes the MacArthur goes first) and he is a boss ass boss, and he has a MATE. And his werewolf mate is amazing and sweet and sort of shy, and Edmund wants to bite him and leave bruises on him even while kissing him tenderly and softly, and he has some ideas about this and what it means to be the sort of human that would be a werewolf’s mate, but he can’t focus on them now, because even with werewolf instincts behind him, Ralphie doesn’t think he is good enough for Edmund.

What. Is. This. Nonsense?

Obviously Eddie has to prove to them that they are mates and this is a good thing.

And obviously, this involves a Powerpoint presentation.

Eddie is a very thorough boy.

He is so very thorough, he books a classroom and everything. And then when Ralphie says yes suddenly they’re in a very public place and Eddie is like, no it’s fine because he has one parent and several siblings who can smell EVERYTHING and his sense of privacy is uh… not strong. And Ralphie is just like, I demand a door that locks!! How can you be so good at planning and so TERRIBLE at planning at the same time????

And there were photos of a shirtless Eddie that were snuck in by younger siblings when Eddie wasn’t looking. <3

(I feel a little bad rehashing this when you know all of it, but it still makes me laugh and I love it a lot and I feel everyone else deserves to enjoy it.

Also, when we were discussing the fireman and I suggested that he mention something his love interest said several years and then worry he sounds like a weirdo stalker this is an actual thing I worry about all the time because my memory for details is really good. So I’m constantly both worried I sound like a weirdo and also not really sure what other people are likely to remember because I remember everything.)

Eddie, just, like, fine. No sex here. … but I still get to kiss you, right? And… it isn’t like Ralphie would say no. Or want to. But aaahhh it feels so good and why must his mate be great at planning but forget details like LOCKING DOORS? Ralphie was raised in a suburbs okay? He’s not one of those *Wolf’s Paw* werewolves. But um, after a while, he kind of feels like one. Reckless and hungry and protected, because Eddie at least stops to cram a chair under the doorknob, and that will do.

comments

Repost- Arthur and Bertie as parents (aka beings, the next generation)

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:24:34 GMT

orbisonblue:
@sweetfirebird I would like to hear more about Ralphie, if you’re willing.
(My phone won’t let me send you an Ask, for some reason)
Ralphie. Precious stressed out junior Ralphie. I think he wants to be a teacher. Nothing fancy. Sort of a simple werewolf (he thinks) with simple dreams. Maybe a bit lonely without a pack at his chosen college, but he has friends, he’s doing okay. Grades are good. Like sports, but you know beings aren’t allowed on teams with humans. Which is some bullshit, but the weres tend to let it go, since they are capable of accidentally inflicting serious damage. So he studies and he walks a lot, since he is in Madera, and the woods are too far away for a run, and he ends up passing by this one house a lot.
This one house, and sometimes a different part of campus. But he doesn’t think anything of it, even though everyone knows that’s a dragon’s house (and a professor’s house!) and it’s so filled with magic it makes his nose itch. But his walks lead him there, and it’s sort of… calming… to see the house everyday.
Until one day the door opens and an older man, with gray in his blond hair, comes out to ask what he wants. And Ralphie realizes he has been staring at the house for about ten minutes .

“Bertie, that boy has been by our house everyday this week.”

“Bertie, he’s just standing there, rubbing his nose.”

“Bertie are you listening to me? I’m going to go ask what he wants.”

I imagine at this point Arthur is of two minds. Part of him is demanding he go out and defend his family and castle from this random stranger, but his mother hen instincts are on red alert because look how sad and waifish this poor lost wolf is.

aha Parent!Arthur is so confused (omg. Arthur and Joe’s mom. I bet she wins. I bet she wants to feed Arthur soup forever and he lets her) but he has to do something. And Bertie is reading and distracted, and it is going to take him at least twenty minutes to realize what Arthur said. But Arthur trusts the wards, and he trusts his instincts, and he also has seen his kids through several admirers over the years, and he assumes this wolf has a crush on one of his kids.)

Poor Ralphie is so horrified to be caught, but Arthur is so very magnetic and parental and he spends a moment just frozen, weirdly undecided about what to do. He probably would have run away if Eddie hadn’t come out to provide support for his dad.

I don’t think Eddie is tattooed up like Zeki. I don’t think he needs that sort of focus, because he doesn’t do multidisciplinary the way that Zeki does. This earnest, distracted studious figure, with tremendous control (because magic) and a deep appreciation for knowledge, and very little sense of embarrassment. But, he did grow up in a house full of people, with almost no alone time or privacy, so the idea of having a mate–of someone who is for him alone–is the best thing ever.

Not that he knows about that yet, when he goes outside and finds a were apologizing to his dad. Tall, but all weres are. And built (but all weres are) and cute, and he obviously doesn’t know what sort of house he is dealing because he is making all this effort to seem unthreatening to the human in front of him, and yeah, Eddie’s dad is hardly going to be afraid of one werewolf.

Then the werewolf looks up and notices Eddie and sort of freezes for a second, and then blinks and shakes his head and focuses on Arthur again. But a moment later his attention drifts to Eddie as he walks up to meet them. And his apologies die off as he takes a deep breath. He seems to be having trouble focusing. Or maybe that is speaking. His eyes flash a few times, turn ferocious brown gold before returning to brown.

Arthur is calm about it, despite how strange it sounds. But he fostered more than one were. He knows how their instincts can lead them strange places sometimes. “So you find our house’s scent calming? It must be, if you’re willing to get used to the itchy magic smell.”

“It won’t itch once you learn to accept how magic works,” Eddie offers, calmly, like when one of the little ones has a bad dream. He doesn’t know why he’s implying that the werewolf will continue to come around, except that his dad might invite him in. Arthur does that.

“Itch?” The wolf asks, almost comically confused for someone still rubbing his noise. “No. It’s the best scent in the world,” he remarks. Which is a little too polite of him, but Arthur will like the show of manners.

Eddie is very pleased to know the wolf is polite, that he is impressing Arthur., although he doesn’t get a chance to think why. Because the wolf looks at him again and this time his eyes are definitely wolf, as well as wide and amazed, and he says, “You!” in a shocked whisper a moment before he bolts and runs full speed down the street.

Eddie is left standing there, extremely confused and abruptly a little upset for no good reason. “What was that about?” he feels suddenly adrift and more than a little lost. “Do you think he’s okay?” and as soon as he asks that he freaks out a little because what if he’s not okay?

Arthur, next to him, is very quickly putting two and two together. And when they get into the house Bertie is suddenly paying A LOT more attention because his son is upset. Who has upset his son?

(In my head I imagine that some of these kids are adopted out of the foster system, and maybe one or two adopted as babies in a more traditional fashion. After a few kids though their house starts marinating in all the magic happy, secure being children radiate and suddenly it’s a beacon for kids in need of family and safety and more than one being child just kind of, shows up. Usually this ends pretty simply with a trip to child services and an uncomfortable social worker who can’t really argue that they aren’t properly caring for the child.

This is great for the kids in foster care because officials are way more careful to make sure kids aren’t miserable because if they are there’s a good chance Bertie and Arthur will find out about it and be unhappy. Nobody likes it when Bertie and Arthur come in unhappy.

Once though a kid shows up with no clear origin and then Bertie goes on the warpath trying to figure out where this kid is from because if they can’t keep this child Arthur is going to be broken hearted and that is unacceptable. The MacArthur-Jones household is never boring.)

It’s like this magical Cheaper by the Dozen house. And Arthur gets gray hairs, and he worries over all of them, and he LOVES it. (And maybe, with those kind of parents, so fucking in love all the time, the kids grow up with these ideals about love as well and OH GOD OH GOD I TURNED IT INTO INGLESIDE. OH GOD. IT’S ANNE AND GILBERT AT INGLESIDE.

AND NO. NOPE. IT’S THE SAME, BUT NOT WITH WALTER. NOT LIKE THAT.

AND OOOOHHHH THAT MAKES YOU KNOW WHO RILLA OMGGGG)

comments

modern au - wicklows odyssey. Amelia/Pilar - repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:19:52 GMT

sweetfirebird:

@ehonauta so I have been obsessed with modern Amelia/Pilar all day. Because you need them both to be adults, right? But Amelia is very much sexually and romantically innocent. And then I thought, well, college AU. Because obv. But then I worried that was a Check Please influence. Which is random, but I hate my job and my mind wanders sometimes.
Anyway. So. like. Amelia is totally friends with Wicklow and they are nerd hackery types in the AV Club or something. And she wears heavy t-shirts and layers of flannel and short hair and backwards baseball caps unless she is working out or playing softball or something, because she is at school on a sports scholarship, and working out is something that calms her–as long as no one else is around. She came from somehow… maybe not small town… but small enough, with a family that never understood her at all, and she’s been hoping college would be different. She’s a sophomore now, and it’s about the same, although she’s made friends.
She sees things. She wants to experiment and try things, but she’s so self conscious about everything, how she looks and dresses, the fact that shes never even been kissed, that she gets defensive and pissy. Which at least Wicklow never seems to mind.
Only then there is Pilar.
Pilar. Who haaas to be a senior now (although she was a junior the year before, obviously) and she’s curvy and gorgeous and beautiful, and has long black hair that curls against her shoulder when she wears it in a casual ponytail while she does laundry. She plays sports too, women’s lacrosse maybe? And she is known for being brutal when she needs to be. She’s older, and even in a sweatshirt she looks amazing, and when she dresses up Amelia feels like the lowest piece of scum ever to walk the earth.
Somehow, for reasons Amelia doesn’t fully know, Pilar is friends with Wicklow. Not just friends, like best friends. So she is around ALL THE TIME when Amelia is with him, and Amelia hates and loves it, but mostly hates, because she can never think of what to say or where to look, or if she’s staring too much. Her heart beats like crazy, and she gets it. She does. She got it in high school even if she could never say it out loud, but being around Pilar makes her *understand* better than anything else.
Which makes her even more nervous. She’s all nerves and worry and hoping she isn’t too obvious. Some days she thinks she is, she has to be, and those days are terrible, because she wants to hide away in shame. Other days she realizes Pilar would never notice someone like her–virginal, ridiculous, confused about everything–and feels both sad and grateful.
oooh I know you hate Anthony, but really, if this were a novel, I would have jock!Anthony coming into the gym late at night during her alone time workouts, and her being pissed, and them going from ignoring each other, to snarking, to weird friends. Jock!Anthony giving her bro advice!
Anyway. And then. And then I think there should be a drunken party. Hmmmm

Anthony, because of course Anthony meets Wicklow and they hate each other and yet get along like a house on fire because Anthony acts all dumb joke, but he is secret genius, and devious, and has trust issues, so he’s right up Wicklow’s alley. (OH. You know, Wicklow hasn’t met Rhoades yet or least doesn’t really know him, and just has drunken angry hookups whenever he feels the need for sex, but…. anyway. Idea to explore later.) Anthony invites them to some party, and it’s a giant party involving like, several frat houses, and they go because they are nerds, but free booze, right? Even though the frat guys make Amelia a little nervous and make her feel extra out of place. But these aren’t the rowdier houses and the party spills over into smaller drunken gatherings at the house nearby. And Amelia has like… well a lot of beer. And some shots. And I guess her ability to do shots lands her the drunken friendship of some frat guys, And they take her hat, but they give her like, a plastic lei, with a shot glass attached to it. And also a classy pin that says “I like to eat out”, which makes Wicklow make a face and Anthony laugh hysterically.

Then they should drink some more and walk to the next house, while debating going home. Wicklow keeps mentioning some donor to the department or rich guy on some committee who keeps visiting him, and Anthony is STILL drinking somehow, right in the street, until he texts someone and disappears for some drunken booty call. Amelia wishes it was that easy.

They go to the next part, and the house is nicer, and Pilar is there, holding a drink, but not visibly drunk, and Amelia wants her so much. The alcohol can hold her nerves at bay. And she completely forgets that she is wearing that pin, or the lei around her neck, because she is drinking and warm, and Pilar is looking at her and listening to her.

What is she saying? She has no idea what she is saying, but Pilar is smiling this faint, fond little smile, and she’s so beautiful. Amelia is probably staring. Is she staring? And Pilar says something again, something that sounds low, and quiet, and just for them. But the party is loud, so Amelia just smiles back at her, and then Pilar’s hand is on her lei, and Pilar is twisting it so that Amelia has no choice but to come in closer, and tilt her head down, and then Pilar is kissing her.

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Pilar and Amelia musings--repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:14:51 GMT

"wolfatworldsend said: Pilar, if you please! They’re all great, but I’ve missed her."

PILAARRRR. Watching the boys be silly and ridiculous and thinking she is above that, because at least she *knows* what she wants. (Wicklow is her little brother, and she has killed and would die for him, but he has no idea of anything that isn’t his electronic toys or killing people.) So she knits sometimes, or cleans her guns, and watches them. She watches from a distance, up on rooftops, after Amelia is brought in to their team officially. Learns how she fights, and the way she moves. Notices again her confusion about herself, and those who notice her.

Pilar isn’t like Rhoades, but maybe is just a *little* bit like Rhoades, and maybe she makes a ladyfriend or two along the way, and she’s not as obvious as Rhoades about it. But she leaves hints, enough for Amelia to see and guess and know. And blush. And wonder. And glare.

Aaaahhhh imagine a universe where Amelia is all spiky with jealousy and doesn’t even get it, and you could do like, any, version of her getting snarly with everyone, only to avoid Pilar, which will not do. So Pilar might have to hunt her down a little, just to keep her in sight.

And Pilar confuses the ever loving shit out of her with gifts. Leaving scarves on her pillow (oh god like, when she was asleep even? because Amelia is good but Pilar is the best at sneaking up on people.)

Amelia kissing her for the first time maybe? Hesitant and then embarrassed when Pilar smiles. Like it’s a joke. Like *she’s* a joke. And then they have a mission or something, and Pilar is happy but also frustrated, because Amelia won’t come near her.

And then someone should be in danger! Aaaah Pilar could get trapped by herself saving the others, or maybe injured enough that she can’t join them right away, and Amelia (and Wicklow, I’m sure, but maybe he doesn’t find her first) comes to get her, and she is so spiky! and pissed! and dangerous! Pilar is so! smitten! and proud of her!

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repost - au where Charlie is an actual prince

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:10:51 GMT

AU of Play It Again Charlie, in which Charlie is an actual prince.

AU where Charlie is an actual prince, and Will is some low level noble he keeps running into the gardens when he is trying to find a moment to himself, and Will doesn’t know who he is, and says all these outrageous things to make him laugh. And then Will gets an invite to something through a friend, and he sees Charlie and he’s heartbroken because Prince Charlie is never going to be interested in him, not seriously. And he knows he should say something, but the next time he meets him in the garden, he can’t because Charlie doesn’t frown around him, he’s happy around Will, and Will can’t deny him that. So he gets contrary and flighty and Charlie gets frustrated, and they argue for the first time, and Will snaps at him to go back to court and find someone royal to marry instead of torturing him like this, and Charlie realizes Will knows. But before he can think of what to say, Will leaves.

And weeks go by, and he’s not there, and the Prince never smiles anymore.Not real ones. Everyone notices and gossips about it. The Queen Regent (Nana, obviously) insists that he continue to do his duty, while she and Charlie’s sisters search the crowds for the source of Charlie’s unhappiness. And it’s Princess Ann, of course it’s Ann, who finds Will in Charlie’s old favorite spot in the garden, being a mopey Will, and Ann who finds out who Will is and basically forces him to attend some function.

But it’s Charlie who sees Will from across the room and walks up to him and kisses him aaaand anyway. I’ve been writing all day and I’m being an idiot.

Charlie locks eyes with Will and he’s had all these things to say to Will that he never got to say. He loved Will before he ever thought Will knew who he was. That Will telling him to do his duty and go find some proper and stop torturing him has haunted him for weeks. He’d never hurt Will ever. He thinks Will would be amazing with the people of his kingdom in a way Charlie can’t be. Will’s so open and warm (and pretty) everyone will love him. True, Charlie hadn’t thought anything was possible between them, he hadn’t let himself hope, but once he knew Will’s feelings, he wanted to move heaven and earth to make it happen. And he would have. But Will was gone, and must have lied about his last name, because Charlie couldn’t find him.

And then there he is, in the same room with him, and it’s like no one else is there. They move out of Charlie’s way, they always do, but now it’s with an eye toward the nervous honey-haired figure at the entrance, who starts to speak when Charlie gets closer.

“Charlie, don’t be angry. They made me–Oh God, oh fuck, I mean, Your Highness. Because you’re the prince, of course you are. I knew it and I never meant to be stupid or lie to you, I was just fooling myself. Seeing you everyday was–”

And then Charlie puts hands gently to Will’s jaw and tips his head up and kisses him softly on the mouth. And Will gasps a little and grabs his wrists, but just to hold on, So Charlie slides one hand into Will’s hair and kisses him deeper, and Will has no idea what’s happening, but he’s not about to protest.

Will’s eyes slide shut, and his soft little exhale becomes a moan when Charlie pulls him closer. A small moan, but it still makes his eyes fly open, and his cheeks go red as he pulls away. He’s no innocent flower, but he’s never been kissed by the Prince in front of the entire court before either.

Charlie is frowning now. Staring down at him sadly and sternly now that Will is out of his arms, and Will can’t take it, blush or no blush. “Don’t be like that,” he whispers, with a glance around. “If you want me, of course I’ll say yes.”

But Charlie frowns deeper. “Because I’m the prince? I’d never demand that, Will.”

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Will gasps, audience momentarily forgotten. “Not my Charlie–ah. You can forget I said that, if you want. Just. Yes. I’ll be yours, for however long you want me. Please.” His voice gets a little husky just thinking about being with Charlie. His family is nobility, but barely. There’s no shame in being the king’s bedwarmer for him. It might even raise their status. It’s more than he ever hoped for, to be honest.

“For however long?” Charlie has a rough voice Will has never heard before, but it makes him shiver.

“Yes, Charlie,” Will agrees, impatient for more kissing and eventual fucking in the prince’s own bed.

Charlie straightens up, every inch a prince. There’s no sign of his war injury as he takes Will’s hands and leads him across the room, through a parted sea of shocked, startled courtiers, to the dais where the Queen Regent herself sits.

Will hears himself make an embarrassingly squawky sound, before he remembers himself enough to bow, and when he looks up, an old woman is studying him intently.

“This is Will,” Charlie–Prince Charles, first of the House of Howard, introduces him in a voice that nearly gets Will hard, it’s so determined and final. “This is my Will,” he adds a moment later, softer. “If he’ll have me.”

As if a pledge like that in front of the queen isn’t as good as a marriage promise.

Will feel a little faint. But Charlie’s grip is firm and the Queen Regent is amused now, so Will looks up at the fool who has been driving him mad for months, handsome and honorable and worried Will is going to say no.

“You could have had me without all the fuss.”

Charlie doesn’t seem pleased with that, but he does incline his head. “If you truly wanted that, Will, you would have kissed me in the garden.”

He has a point. So Will sucks in a breath and stares at the Regent again. Her eyes are twinkly, just like Charlie’s when he’s about to laugh at something Will’s said. Charlie should laugh more, smile more, and kiss more because fuck, Will was still weak in the knees. But Will had to be sure.

“But you’re the prince. You could–”

“Will,” Charlie cuts him off in that voice, and this time Will flushes all over. He can’t look away.

“You;’re really mad at me for running away, aren’t you?” Will wonders, without really expecting an answer, and then bobs his head once in agreement before he change his mind. “Yes. I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

“Idiot?” One of the Royal Princesses echoes, her tone shocked, as the court gasps, but Will is being drawn forward for another kiss, so he doesn’t much care.

comments

repost of original tumblr posts about wolf! wicklow

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:02:10 GMT

starrla89:

sweetfirebird:
quick bit of more Wolf! Wicklow and Rhoades from a PM with selenographics.
Wolf!Rhoades with Wicklow in a brothel. And he has never gotten to claim his mate. Not really. Not in a way that means anything to anyone but him. Wicklow finally getting it, maybe. Up against that wall, his throat bared, Rhoades splattered with the blood of the man who touched him, eyes glowing. “He scared you, and I couldn’t let him.” As if it’s everything. He knows Wicklow is dangerous. Rhoades knows him. Rhoades knows everything he is capable of, and his fear, and yet Rhoades “couldn’t” allow Wicklow to be even momentarily afraid. He could not. Rhoades, with all his control.
Control slipping in front of him.
And Wicklow hates that, hates seeing Rhoades so worried. Doesn’t like him covered in blood, even if he’s pleased that Rhoades was victorious and ridiculous. Tilting his head farther to the side when that lets Rhoades calm a fraction, and then Rhoades moving closer, sniffing the air around him, and whatever he scents makes him growl. And something in Wicklow makes him growl back, but it’s soft and questioning, worried, and he writhes internally at how weak that makes him, but then he breathes in and it’s pure Rhoades-scent, leather and lust and skin and now blood. Wicklow growls louder and then reaches out to grab Rhoades by his bloodied cravat. But it’s only to smell more of him. Maybe his scent was muted in his library, hidden by books and fire and liquor. Maybe Rhoades hasn’t been this close to him before–hasn’t let himself be–but he needs more and Rhoades lets him.
He’s breathing heavily, his heart is thundering, but he lets Wicklow slip closer and bring his mouth near his skin, and he says that word again, the one to drive Wicklow mad. “Mate.”
FUCKING HELL.

He wants to finally demand what Rhoades means when he says that, but it’s difficult to form words with Rhoades so close and smelling so good. Wicklow wants to tip his face to Rhoades’ throat, so he does, tugging the cravat loose to give himself access. He realizes what he’s done after, but feels a bare second of alarm before he’s distracted again by the heat of Rhoades’ body. He’s leaning closer, baring his neck for Wicklow as if that isn’t dangerous. Even Wicklow, with what little he knows of wolves, is aware of how easy it is to tear a man’s throat out.

But Rhoades swallows and allows Wicklow’s nose to graze his skin, lets his lips part above the throb of his pulse point. And when Wicklow takes a deep breath and releases it in a pained, pleased whine, Rhoades shudders and says the word again.

“Mate?” Wicklow repeats in a confused, muffled growl, as he finds that the skin behind Rhoades’ ear is soft. He thinks he’s shivering, and has been since Rhoades surrounded him and put his back to the wall, or maybe it was when Rhoades slid one hand, carefully, to the wall behind him. Wicklow’s chest is still bare. Rhoades could have touched him.

He frowns a bit as he tracks the scent of Rhoades, growing frustrated when clothing blocks his path. He grunts at Rhoades’ shirt collar and hen pulls on that too. Rhoades makes a high sound, frustrated, but uses words too. “Private, you will be the death of me.”

Private. Wicklow frowns harder for that, and struggles to think when Rhoades’ bare flesh is in sight. His clothing is stained with blood but his skin is clean and smooth, as it should be. No man has let marks there. No man should. Rhoades should never feel pain.

But he whines again when Wicklow’s mouth touches the skin–Wicklow hadn’t meant to, but the scent is a taste now so he does it again.

“Mate?” Wicklow asks again, covered in Rhoades-scent and Rhoades-heat, the sound of his strained breathing and the rush of his blood. His own heart is loud in his ears. He could run, but the rightness of it has him dizzy. Rhoades had not hurt him, not ever. Rhoades will not even touch him, not even with his wolf in his eyes and Wicklow half-dressed in front of him. He is strong and he is safe. He smells of blood and books and soap and when he says that word, Wicklow wants to do this with him, to close his eyes and tilt his head to let Rhoades see his throat.

He pulls back at the thought, despite the rough exhalation from Rhoades and the howling inside him. He pulls back and he thinks, like a man, until he can make the words.

“Am I to call you that too?” he wonders, and looks up.

Rhoades’ eyes are shining in dim light. They are hungry though he is still.

This time Rhoades has no words but Wicklow can read them anyway.

Please.

comments

Valentine's Day ask, Nathaniel pov meeting Tim. repost

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 04:00:27 GMT

Q: Can I take this opportunity to ask for Nathaniel and Tim's meeting from Nathaniel's point of view? Or possibly, to keep with the theme, Valentine's day from his POV?

Asked by: orrla-fairygirl

sweetfirebird

You know, on my old computer that died, I had a version of their meeting from Nathaniel’s pov. Sadness. Basically, Nathaniel is sort of checking out the arriving bus in town because Ray (Ray Ray!) called him and told him to expect trouble in a small package. And Nathaniel, being Nathaniel, was intrigued and protective before he ever met Tim or learned anything about him.

And he was too late to see people getting off the bus, but there is a smell that catches his attention. He’s not really sure why. But he follows it anyway. It’s not like anything else he knows. Not quite ozone and not quite gunpowder, with this residual heat.

He ends up in Robin’s Egg’s cafe, and thinks his empty stomach misled him into thinking it was time to eat, but then he inhales again and that spiky, cordite and sparklers scent hits him again, followed by this heat that isn’t even warm, it more like awareness. His skin is tingling and hot, and he steps forward, vaguely aware that Egg is asking him something, but he can’t hear a word.

There is sugar too, surrounding the new scent. And the residual savory scents of a quick meal. And it’s as he takes another step closer that a figure at the counter turns around and sees him.

Wolf’s eyes, ferocious, starving blue, focus on him. Nathaniel hears a sound, like thunder, but it’s in his ears. Then the wolf, this tiny, starved wolf flings himself from his stool and stands in front of him. He’s breathing hard, panting from his sweet, soft mouth, and he has wide, terrified eyes, and Nathaniel wants to make his fear go away so much it actually hurts.

The wolf is still breathing so hard, and Nathaniel realizes he is too, that he can’t take in enough air because that scent is too much for him. It’s layers of explosions and sparks and terror and wanting, and

–the lust makes his knees weaken. Want-scent curls around him like hands, like that wolf’s pale, slender hands, and Nathaniel needs to bite him, needs to see his bite to know the wolf is okay, that he’s home, that he is safe and Nathaniel will protect him.

He drags in a long breath full of all that temper and fear and fire and hears himself growl, “You.” And realizes he is in the presence of his mate. This little wolf is his mate.

And then of course, on the heels of that (and all his sweetly awed thrilling delight at the idea of meeting his mate, because Nathaniel is a precious baby sometimes) his little wolf mate suddenly cringes away from him and shouts alarming, horrible things at him, and all that lust turns to pure unadulterated terror, and Nathaniel is sick and worried and half a second away from panicking that his mate will leave. He is unprotected and unafraid and he will LEAVE

I really do love Nathaniel. He deserves all that time Tm spends learning how to be gentle and loving. He would bask in it. Every single shy but sincere gesture when no one is looking. (Until that point when Tim forgets to care if people are looking and can see him being soft and vulnerable with his mate. Ah those are the best. Letting Nathaniel take his hand. Or smushing his face into Nathaniel’s arm and sighing dramatically when Nathaniel is taking too long to finish his paperwork and go home.)

comments

repost - Miki and Diego on Valentine's Day

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 03:56:01 GMT

vashti-lives:

@sweetfirebird This isn’t actually on topic for Valentine’s Day but Arthur, accidental king of the PTA is one of my all time favorite things to think about. He wouldn’t mean to, naturally, but there are all these awful snooty moms who look down on everybody who isn’t just like them and it’s just not right– stop laughing Bertie.
(Although thinking about Arthur and Bertie as dads makes me think about their current baby and that makes me think about Miki and Diego, who I’m sure have such cute Valentine’s Day stuff going on.)

Honestly, you’re an older, experienced werewolf who is overjoyed to have found this miracle, this *Miki* in your life. Miki who is wonderful and tastes like heaven and blushes for him and hides his face when he moans in bed. Miki, who is embarrassed to feel Diego’s arm slide around his waist while he works, but also pleased. He smells of dirt and a hundred flowers and a hint of blood from contact with a thorn, and he does not think about a day like Valentine’s Day because he is *Miki*.

But Diego knows. His querido needs attention and care as much any delicate carnivorous plant. He needs gifts and adoration and though he does not know this, those around him do. If Kazimir were here, he would know it too, and silently insist that Diego do his duty.

So he does. He wakes before Miki and nuzzles into his throat to Miki’s startled pleasure. He leads him into the shower, although Miki protests that he’s only going to get dirty. He gets suspicious too, when Diego only washes his soft curls and dries them by hand with a towel.

The suspicion returns to surprise when he is fixed toast, and marmalade, with butter and tea, served on Kazimir’s antique tea things. The sky has barely begun to lighten outside, and Miki is regarding Diego with confusion but is strangely silent.

Diego only nuzzles his throat again, against the door, marking him with his scent and inhaling his sweetness. He runs his hands through his hair until it is thoroughly tousled, and then when he finally makes himself pull away, Miki stops him with a tug at his shirt.

There are stars in his eyes, and his lips are parted, but his tone is so serious.

“I don’t understand,” he says, quietly pleading. Diego *must* kiss him, just there, softly on his mouth.

“I am a husband doing my duty,” he explains, “Because I love you, but my love is not the type to be wooed with cut flowers. Not even on Valentine’s Day.”

The smile is slow to appear, but then it blooms across Miki’s face and makes his eyes crinkle. His hand slides up Diego’s chest to his shoulder, and around his neck. Diego steps closer without another thought.

“Okay,” Miki agrees,breathless and remarkable. “How do I woo you?” But he already knows, as his clever fingers curl into Diego’s hair, and he arches his neck to bare his throat, and Diego’s teeth press, faintly, scarcely there, into his hot, bared skin.

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