selcouth - unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful - if you're taking promote from the unusual words list!
set in the future.
[content warnings: implied/referenced past noncon, discussions of consent, self-pressuring into intimacy]
-
It's the stutter of a breath.
Easy to miss. Even easier to ignore.
He’s not sure what happens, what changes, what shifts. But something trips a trigger in the Rube Goldberg machine of his brain. A marble hits a spring, a domino spins a gear. And it only takes a split second of a split second for Josiah’s hands to feel a little softer, for his scent to smell a little more like faded cologne, for his hair to be a little longer and a little more curled.
So perfect, darling boy.
The taste of chocolate and salted caramel.
And then his breath stutters against Josiah’s mouth like an engine stalling.
Cass closes his eyes slightly tighter and tries to win the moment back, tries to ignore the squeezing around his lungs. He shifts his knees further up the couch cushions so their hips will settle together more completely.
He knows – he knows, he knows, he knows – that with the right amount of focus, the tension in him will fade. Just needs to make it through the overture; the main event will be muscle memory.
The skipped heartbeat could just be excitement. The tightened grip could just be lust.
Josiah seems to know that it isn’t.
Cass feels a hand flat on his chest as Josiah gives him a gentle push back. Cassius follows where he’s guided. Puppet on a string. One domino following the next. The movement puts space between them so he can see Josiah’s face. Or, more accurately, so Josiah can see his.
Josiah’s frowning just a little, “You okay? Need a minute?”
“No, I’m fine,” Cass says, too quick, the panicked breath of a laugh dancing on the end of his words. “I’m fine, we can keep going.”
He smiles and leans back in, barely brushing lips to lips before Josiah’s pushing him back again.
“Or we can stop,” Josiah insists, eyes equal parts hard and concerned, palm flat and warm against Cass’ chest. “It’s okay.”
Cass feels his heart skip another beat. His stomach drop. He’s fucked up. He’s done it wrong. Shown his hand. Taken a misstep. “No, I’m fine, I’m… I don’t need to stop.”
“Cass...”
“No, I don’t- I don’t want to stop,” he whispers. “Please.”
Josiah lets the next kiss happen. Cass can feel the passivity of it, open and receptive but no push behind it, no tug. An open sea instead of a current. An ellipsis between thoughts. An unfinished circuit.
Cassius pulls back just barely, lips brushing the stubble on Josiah’s jaw. He takes a shaky breath. And then a second. Josiah’s hand trails a line down his spine, the other still flat against Cass’ sternum.
“What happens if we stop?” Cassius whispers.
The pause is small. The words are thoughtful and chosen.“We do something else. Watch TV. Go cook dinner. Whatever you want.”
Cassius exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut.
The time he takes as the words sit on the tip of his tongue, burning his lips, could be a handful of seconds. It could be a hundred years. He whispers them so carefully, he’s almost sure the air around him will break. “I want to stop.”
A part of him waits for the debasing sigh, the hard look, the grip to his wrist or on his hip, the cutting comment, the laugh that says ‘did you really think-’
But all that comes is-
“So... Netflix?”
And it’s so sweet. It’s so normal and easy and so, so sweet that Cass laughs. He laughs and then he sobs and he collapses forward, face buried in Josiah’s shoulder.
The tears are instant. The breaths are heaving. The crying feels endless and is long over due.
Josiah holds him. Doesn’t complain about the weight of him on his lap or the way tears and snot soak the shoulder of his t-shirt.
“I’ve got you, honey.”
It takes a little while for the crying to stop but when Cass slides off Josiah’s lap and onto the couch beside him, pulled close and tucked down beneath his arm. He puts his head on Josiah’s chest, they put on the glass blowing show that Josiah’s been watching, their fingers interlock, the splotch on Josiah’s shirt dries.
It’s a little while of being held before Cass’ heart rate settles. Before his shoulders relax. Before the itch that he should be soothing, fixing, placating eases. Replaced instead with the sensation of being soothed
Josiah’s the first one of them to speak, an episode before the season finale, when he picks up the remote and points it in the direction of the prompt that’s come up on the TV. “We still watching?”
And with someone else those words could be you still moping?, with someone else they could be are you over it yet?, with someone else it could be I’m bored now, time to play. But that’s not what Josiah’s asking.
Cass nods, “Yes please.”
And he cuddles in closer and Josiah holds him a little tighter and somewhere in Cass’ head another domino falls. But this time it doesn’t hit the old switch.
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ooooohh scintila and whoever you like for the prompts!
Hey there friend! Thank you so much for the prompt! I’m going to do this one for Henry during his final recovery because I’ve been brainstorming and I gave myself feelings. Enjoy!
scintila (n); a tiny, brilliant flash; a small thing; a barely visible trait
Noah Hawkins was a patient man -- patient in life and patient as a doctor -- and he had seen plenty of people worse off than Henry Fitzgerald. Even as the twenty year old curled in an armchair snarled and sneered at him, Dr. Hawkins could see the cracks. He could see the fissures in the hard, well-used mask the young man used as a shield.
Henry had gone silent for the first fifteen minutes of their session. It was his first in over five months and Caleb Garcia had booked a double session as a just in case. He had a feeling Henry would clam up or fight him, would curl up furious and stubborn and refuse to give an inch.
In short, Noah Hawkins was not surprised.
“How much time is left?” Henry muttered bitterly.
“An hour and a half,” Noah replied easily. He gave the young man an easy smile, halfway between comforting and encouraging. His notebook and pen sat willfully forgotten on the coffee table between them.
Henry rolled his eyes and slouched, cursing lightly under his breath. He looked worse for wear, worse than when Noah had been him itching and chaffing while working a bartending shift. Caleb had driven him, mentioned quietly that Henry was hungover. He’d been sneaking drinks again since agreeing to restarting therapy a little under a week earlier.
“What was that, Henry?” Noah asked, crossing and recrossing his legs.
“Nothing,” Henry spat.
“How have you been?”
“You already asked that.”
Noah shrugged. “I’m asking again. I might be overstepping here, but you look like you’ve been sick.”
“Sick. Sure,” Henry said. He crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “I’m not sick. But Caleb ratted me out again, didn’t he?”
Noah nodded. “He’s worried about you, same as June.”
“If you’re trying to guilt me, it’s not working.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel anything, Henry,” Noah said calmly. “I’m just curious what has changed in you since we last spoke. You were standoffish but seemed interested in talking, but you seem more closed off. Did something happen to change your perspective?”
Henry stared at him. His blue eyes were sad and lonely looking -- a child lost in a store long after their parents had walked out. Noah went quiet, settling in to wait again. He could see the cracks widening, the faintest glimmer of wanting and trust underneath the stiff, stubborn irritation. Henry needed to talk, very clearly wanted to, but still could not. Noah had seen it before, many times before. All it took was patience, letting the patient come to their own conclusion.
Henry’s lower lip quivered. He turned away, tightening his arms defensively over his chest. “Carter and I had a fight... two nights ago.”
“What about?”
“The drinking...” Henry muttered. “I think... I think I broke up with him.” If possible, he curled in further on himself, the sadness in him cresting. He wiped away any trace with the back of his sweatshirt sleeve. “I told him I was coming back to see you and he said he was glad, but that he still was upset about me ... using him. And I snapped. And it fell apart. And I told him he should just leave because he shouldn’t want me anymore, and...”
Noah nodded, making sure Henry knew he was listening. “And then?”
“He walked out...” Henry whispered, despondent. He blinked hard a few times. “He didn’t say anything. He just. He just left. I didn’t want him to, but... he won’t talk to me now. Or he isn’t. I don’t know.”
“What did you do?”
“I found a bottle.”
“What kind?”
“Something orangey and warm... Caleb missed it when he cleaned out my room.” Henry huffed. He wiped his nose again. “I think I have to destroy everything I touch, even if its good for me. Even if its the best thing I’ve had ever. I have to tear it apart. Just to prove I’m the piece of shit I know I am.”
Noah Hawkins nodded and told him to talk more on that. He didn’t reach for his notebook or his pen. Henry started talking, slowly but surely; each sentence grudging but sliding out eventually.
This time will be different. -- for the five sentence fics!
Charmeine observes the unconscious angel on the ground with a look of faint disapproval. He was so close. With a sigh, he lets the silvery substance pooling in his hand pour into the no-longer-shattered memory capsule. Once it's sealed, it goes back into the compartment in the wall, sealed as if it was never there in the first place.
With that finished, he kneels next to his trainee, awakening him with a touch and purring, "Why, hello, Zuriel." This time. This time, he'll be perfect.
hi Athena! i'm excited for book 3 of honor bound, do you know if it will be released as a physical copy in addition to the kindle version? i have the first two physically and i'd love to keep expanding their space on my bookshelf 😍
Hey there! That’s so awesome, thank you for all the support!! The physical copy is going to be released the same day as the Kindle version on April 16!
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Favorite line friday: He takes their hand, rubbing a thumb over the slightly paler line on their ring finger where a promise used to sit. --wildfaewrites
ahhhhh I absolutely adore the phrasing of ‘where a promise used to sit’, that’s absolutely gorgeous and so much more evocative than just saying there’s a missing ring! genius use of prose!
Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like) !!! --wildfaewhump
@wildfaewhump
ok let me just really quickly skim through my whole document real quick....
idk I like a lot of bits in the first chapter. the moment fletcher steps out and buck can see they’re holding a gun. when fletcher is trying to question/intimidate buck and they trail his own knife up his throat. the “I think this guy’s a survivor. I bet he could walk all the way back to the house on that leg.”
I also liked the “From now on I’ll just be mean. That way you won’t be confused.” bit from the last update. That statement paired with Buck being able to feel Fletcher leaning over him onto the bed but refusing to look at them. I was going for chilling. I got a couple of comments on it and they were “that’s get on your knees and beg shit” and “I want to punch Fletcher” so lol
I asked my friend this because I had forgotten everything I had ever written upon receiving this ask, and she said she liked the convo later in that chapter where Fletcher was like “It’s not going to be that bad all the time,” and I actually like that part, too. Especially in juxtaposition to the above quote.
