#brocaderose

How, how on earth had he forgotten to lock the door? Not just that, had he even remembered to close the blasted thing? His heart all but stopped in his chest, years for careful hiding behind his cassocks and a wall of excuses all undone in a single moment. He yanked his robe over his shoulders, covering as much skin as possible as quickly as possible, but from the bishop's expression, it was far too late.

Father Trois swallowed hard, willing his hands not to shake as they tied the robe. And yet, even that could not completely hide the ink decorating his body with blasphemous motifs, nor the gold piercing his skin.

"Y-Your most holy, I beg of you, it's not how it looks, if you would only allow me to explain-"  His voice wavered. Trois was desperate, scared. This had never happened before, and that wasn't by accident.

“Not how it looks?” His gaze narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I am not the only one who does not appreciate being lied to.” The bishop’s eyes lifted upward for a second before coming back down to stare at the younger priest.

        It isn’t as if Lip’s never heard that line before.  Friends, family, even the occasional client - all have claimed to love Lip Hennessy, at some point, for some reason.

        But it still feels like a curse when he hears Trois say it, the way it always does when he can’t tune it out.  At least it isn’t raining, the character in the comedy says, just before the sky opens.  He tries not to overthink it, tries not to get hung up on the sudden sick feeling in his gut.  Trois doesn’t mean anything by it, he thinks.  He’s just drunk, just a little too excited.  Hell, Lip isn’t exactly sober, either.  He’s barely into his second drink, but he’s a lightweight at the best of times and a pint down from work last night.

        They’ll both forget this by morning, he’s sure.  No point in getting twisted up about it in the meantime, right?  It takes a moment, but Lip laughs.

Plans for dinner with Trois have been surprisingly easy to make. Though Job hasn’t much in his repertoire in terms of spicy foods, he can, by all means, make one mean chili con carne; paired with a side of white rice and corn pudding, and with peach cobbler for dessert, Job begins preparations with the hopes that this modest meal is able to convey his gratitude for Trois’ hospitality. 

They hadn’t even known each other until a week ago and, though this wouldn’t be the first-ever instance in which Job has been offered a place to crash despite being a complete stranger, this does nothing to dampen his appreciation or cool the warmth which spread through his chest at the notion that kindness such as this is still very much alive. Sure, Trois’ place may be small, and riddled with all sorts of oddities (some of which, admittedly, send a chill down Job’s spine whenever he inspects them, which he does his best to avoid) - but a roof over his head and a place to lay his long limbs at night, even if it is just a couch all too small for the likes of him, is still very much something to give thanks for, especially when it’s rent-free. Above all, however, Job appreciates the company this sort of arrangement entails, never having to spend a night alone - and Trois’ is a kind, very interesting company, indeed. Job would be lying if he didn’t admit that the bulges in either side of Trois’ forehead and the darkness of his eyes intimidate him at first - but then, Job’s never quite been one to judge a book by its cover. He dare say he’s never met anyone quite like Trois before - and suppose that’s saying something, with how long Job has been on the road and all the different folks he’s met along the years.

Though the meal doesn’t take very long to prepare, it does require some time to cook; the cobbler is the most time-consuming of the dishes, and Job has ample opportunity to give it all the attention and care that it needs while the chili simmers for a good hour on the stove. By the time he beckons Trois to the kitchen and begins to set their dinner on the table, his own stomach grumbles with great protest at the long waiting period. Each of them gets a large bowlful of chili, a hefty serving of rice and a generous slice of corn pudding as the room fills with the scent of peaches, the cobbles still baking in the oven.

There was only one answer to the question, the soft jingle of chains against the bedframe reminding him once again just how trapped he was. He did his best to shrug back his curtain of hair as he nodded, eyes glassy when they met Attigo's.

"Of course not monsieur, I'd made a promise to you, afterall. A promise to be good for you.." But good god had it been hard, it was a wonder he could still talk. That damn toy kept him so full, pressing even deeper whenever he made an attempt to sit up. He'd long since soaked through the thin underwear he wore, so close but never close enough.

~

Attigo gave him a half mouthed smirk. “Good pet.” He purred as he walked around the other side of the bed to get a better look. “You’ve made a mess though.” Despite his previous praise, this came off sounding playfully annoyed.

He leaned over his nightstand and pulled out a cigar. Immediately cutting it and lighting it. He took a long drag and then released the smoke with a heavy exhale, pouring it out above their heads.

Sherlock’s arm wrapped around Trois, covering him with half of the blanket as he sat by his side.

“It’ll take a while.”

4 Relationship Headcanons!

1. One of their main outings are to art galleries or different museums - zen always takes longer than Trois ever expects, but he doesn’t mind too much. 

2. If the modded man didn’t cause enough of a fuss, he’s paired with a floating omnic monk - as such, they usually plan their outings to where it’s rude to stare or cause commotions, just to spare the headache. 

3. They’re both experimenting with giving zenyatta tatoos.

Send “©” for VFK factposting;

mosquitoes HATE this guy. they don’t bother with him. his blood is probably just mojito mix.

Raserei looked over the crowd, feeling eyes on him and his companion. A Qunari and an Elf, oh the scandal of this poor human gathering. But he was the Inquisitor, so most would keep their mouths shut at least while in ear shot. But Raserei wasn’t a noble, he was barely civil if you asked some. So Trois was suggested to him. The elf was wise to way of the Game and how nobles of Orlais, so a great person to have with him to make sure he didn’t cause a scene at best or an international incident at worst. 

“Right, well so far so good,” he whispered to Trois, “I think only one noble has shat themselves.” 

Thankfully since this was such a formal gathering, at least as far as nobles were concerned, Raserei was permitted to wear his finer furs and avvar clothing that they saved for special occasions like weddings or funerals. The hides were smooth and embroidered with various runes and designs. And for once his clothing didn’t look to be covered in a sort of paint that was common to see on his other attire.