#phaenonsmoons

@phaenonsmoons / fluff starters

And Thancred is anything but shy; this field, though, is something he's often a little more careful with navigating. But while the first kiss was a playful thing, a thing that could be excused away if pulled away from with the excuse of having too much drink or being overly familiar, the invitation for more certainly ignites something else.

He's not a tall or big man by most standards: not short, either, but perfectly average, which helps him in so many ways when blending in. But right here, the difference between them is stark. Here in this shadowed alcove where conversation dripped into more personal — and them more intimate — positions.

Tongue briefly touches his lower lip, pale lashes dropped over darkened eyes. " If I want? " His voice is —— gruff, at the edges. A strained and tight coarseness at the back of his throat, collected bearing frayed at the edges just slightly. " I'd like to think we both want. "

he's someone who sleeps in the most ungodly uncomfortable positions possible. he can nap pretty much anywhere: on the ground, in a tree, on a stone-hard bench, in a pile of pillows. leaned against a companion.

often these days he sleeps restlessly at night. if with another person he will gladly cleave to their side and bury his face in their neck. he likes something to hold, whether it be a pillow or a person or his bag or something — the firm pressure of something against his chest alleviates some anxiety.

Oof. The obvious answer here is Carl and to an extent Mongo. She's grown to be very self sufficient and is extremely strong and has growing independence, but —— Carl is, essentially, her entire world, and Mongo is essentially her child. She's someone who gained sentience in a hellish dungeon world and has been fighting for her life alongside one person since the first moment she was aware enough to talk, and Carl is her person. If he died, or if Mongo died, she would spiral hard.

And, being also a cat, spiraling hard could mean some wildly destructive things.

James Holden has never really considered himself to be a leader of men, but he's never really been a follower, either. Hell, that's why he's out here, isn't it? Discharged from the Earth Navy for refusing orders that went against his moral code, for assaulting his ranking officer. So many years tossed to the side in that moment, so many years of military prep to end up out there on an ice hauler.

It was honest work. Good work. Dull, dangerous work, and for the first years his bones and muscle ached from the light thrust gravity, but he settled into it. It's easy to keep your head down when the only orders are where to go, what piece to carve, where to take it.

But then their world turned upside down, and is still turning upside down, and their little bare-bones crew is only barely holding together.

The Roci doesn't feel like theirs, not really. It's too sleek, too new, feels like a warhorse in a plowman's hands. Alex loves it. Holden does too, but god, she stands out like a star going nova.

To Amos, though, his mouth presses together, and he doubts. He doesn't know Amos as well as Naomi does — ah, Naomi, who he butts heads with as often as not in current days — and he knows Amos trusts her far more than he. He doesn't mind it; Naomi gets Amos in ways that Holden can't wrap his head around (yet), but this is his crew and what else is there to do but worry? ( A lot; his implant itches, and he resists the urge to rub at it. It's bothersome, bit it keeps him alive. )

A rare moment of respite in these days of chasing down primals and unrooting corruption —— they aren't strangers as they were in those earliest days when Minfillia bid him to keep an eye on this promising pugilist but not to intervene much unless necessary, but they're all still learning each other, and all has gone to plan thus far.

( Even if he can't shake the unease settled deep in his gut that he can't quite shake; the Archon has long learned to listen to those feelings. It's part of why he's still alive. )