A/N: gross self indulgent drabble with jonah in the pov of one of his many flings and also a revamp of one of my less used ocs. i like this a little better among my current writing exercise pieces -- He doesn’t seem to know what he does to you. How his skin feels on yours. The smile always ready to curl at the corners of his mouth. He keeps himself well groomed, supple and smelling fresh like the shampoo he uses. And of course, his clothing. He always takes great care to frame his hips, his legs, his shoulders, the back of his neck. He chooses the colors he wears carefully– black makes his skin stand out. Pink makes him look soft, vulnerable– and it works wonders. He smiles when he sees you. The same expression he always seems to have on. He automatically wraps his arms around yours while carrying a conversation with another bar goer before waving to them as they walk away. And then, he pulls you gently out the door– to your car. You lay down on the backseat. He’s too tall to straddle you, but it doesn’t stop him from trying– sliding his body against yours as he grinds against you. He’s done this a million times but the feeling is the same as the first time he’s ever done it. Back then, you were drinking alone in a bar, five or six beers sitting next to you and you were too drunk to make it home. He saw you, sat next to you and started chatting you up and you were too drunk to give a fuck at that point. And too distracted by the little ways he’d make contact– whether it was sitting a little too close or the faintest of touches as he reached across the bar counter. His hand on your thigh. Somehow yours found its way to his, and you noticed he didn’t push you away. One thing led to another and you were fucking in your apartment, driven home by taxi. Now he brings your awareness back to the forefront of your mind. He’s doing that coy thing with his mouth again, biting a little in such a way that makes you want to bite it for him. You pull his head down on top of yours and press his mouth against yours and he fills it with soft, pleasant noises that go straight to your dick. He’s too cute and you can’t stop yourself anymore– not unless he says no. But the never does. He keeps smiling, as if he didn’t know how to stop in the first place. “Ruben,” he whispers. Your name. “I wanna fuck.” You tell him you’re both in a parking lot. During business hours. “Then let’s get out of here.” You take him back home where he’s half undressed by the time he gets through your door. The pink sweater that hung loosely on his body gets tossed to the side to make room for your roaming hands on his waist. He puts his arms around you and does that thing with his eyes again that makes you want to kiss between them over and over and he wraps his arms around your neck again and whispers dirty things against your lips and it makes you growl in response, dragging down his too-tight jeans and pulling them off him and you can’t do it fast enough because you want him now and you get down and take him into your mouth and he inhales sharply and the sound he makes when you hallow your cheeks you swear is divine. It isn’t long until he’s weak at the knees and you’re hard as a fucking rock, him tumbling onto the bed, onto your unfolded sheets and crumpled blankets and you swear he looks so good against them, naked like that. He’s still smiling, and this time you’re hovering over him and smiling back until you lean down and kiss his head, a rubbing his cheek a little with your stubble, and he complains that you’re scratching him and you tell him that you love him right then and there. That’s when the smile disappears. Your heart feels like it stops for a full minute before you realize only a few seconds pass. He’s looking away and his expression is only barely readable. You ask him if you did something wrong. “No,” he says. “No, you didn’t.” You say he’s a liar. He doesn’t reply right away. “There’s… there’s nothing wrong with you,” he says. “It’s…” It’s? You echo. “It’s just that you barely know me.” You can’t say anything to this because despite all the times you’ve fucked and all the times he’s spent late nights at your place and in your arms, it feels like, after all this time, he’s no closer to you than the day you met. He looks at the the same way he does anyone else– with the same eyes that make you feel like he’s only ever been looking at you. You’ve been jealous. Plenty of times. He knows this too– although you try to control it, it shows on his thighs and wrists, in the nail marks you leave that last until morning. Doesn’t look like there’ll be a morning after now. Jonah sits up and you let him and he doesn’t look at you anymore. He’s no longer smiling, just standing up and fetching his clothes and you’re dumbfounded, sitting on the edge of your bed, naked, with a dying boner. “You should get dressed,” he says, “unless you’re gonna…” You ask him if he’s leaving. You realize a few moments too late that the question’s pointless. “Do you want me to stay?” You ask him what he thinks and he smiles just a little. “I can’t. Sorry.” Why? “I… I shouldn’t be messing around with you like this. It’s unfair to you.” You tell him if you didn’t want it, you would’ve kicked him out of bed the first time around. That gets a laugh out of him, but it feels hollow. You don’t think it was that funny either. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, huh?” He pulls on his jeans again. You ask him to stay when he gets to the third button and he stops and walks over to you. There’s an expression on his face you’ve never seen before and it’s unbearable to see him look so sad and so unlike himself and then he cups your face in his both his hands and kisses you, long and deep, the way you think lovers would kiss and for a moment you forget everything that just happened, his tongue pushing away your thoughts. But it soon, too, is over. And he pulls away, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and picks up his sweater next to your door. “Please don’t call me again.” He leaves without putting it on.
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Kaj sweeps away the crumbs from his shirt with the delicacy of an artist, Rafar thinks. In truth, it seemed that anything he did was wrought with such a gracefulness that one might assume he was royalty, at first glance. The only things to betray him were the very clothes he wore on his back— tattered, off-white, and worn from months of continuous travel. As Kaj always said, it never did him any good to waste money on new things if they were not broken. Rafar was sure he'd wear those rags until they quite literally began to fall off his body.
Clapping his hands together, Kaj stands, stretching in satisfaction. "The bread was good today, don't you think? I thought the poppy seed was a nice touch." Rafar is still sitting down at the table as he watches. He only takes a sip from his canteen, eyes diverted— now zigzagging through the marketplace crowds as they pass by en masse. Kaj catches this, smiles a little, before leaning down to block his line of sight. "Hello. You're deep in thought today." There's no avoiding those eyes of his, golden and sun-flecked. It's almost embarrassing how much Rafar likes them. And to think that Kaj could be oblivious to it all seemed to be the most impossible thing. How could someone so wise for his years be so completely oblivious? And yet, maybe it was yet another reason why Rafar could not bear to leave after months together. In retrospect, it was silly. He merely agreed to escort him from Arkaios to the next town over, in order to ensure the young man's safety would not be compromised enroute— and yet, here he was, months later and miles away from his guard post at the palace. In truth, he was a deserter. He trained his entire life to assume a position of importance as a palace guard. All those hours toiling under the desert sun, skin nearly blistering with the heat, with water barrels propped against his back— solid and heavy. The burns underneath his feet from every step in the sand. And the endless meditation— priests chanting in harmony as Rafar would bite back his howls of pain, each crack of the whip demanding the same thing: clear your mind. breathe. rinse and repeat. All that, thrown away on a whim as soon as he saw him walk alone, hungry and tired, past the palace gates. "Are you thinking about the palace again?" Kaj asks, tilting his head to the side. "You know… I never did insist you come with me. That was entirely of your own volition." Rafar plugs his canteen. No matter what he did, Kaj could read him like an open book. "No, I am not thinking of that, thank you very much." "Well, you must certainly be thinking about something important. You had that look in your eyes again." "That look?" Rafar asks. "You look like a lizard when you think too much." "A lizard?" "A lizard." Rafar looks absolutely unamused as he crosses his arms and reclines against the table. "Care to explain how I resemble a lizard?" Kaj taps his nose a few times with his index finger. "When lizards sit very still, they look like statues. Always wearing that serious expression on their faces." "Lizards can't make any other faces." "Yes, and so they always look serious. Like you." What a curious feeling. Rafar came to know it intimately— indignation, embarrassment, exasperation, adoration —all astir underneath his careful decorum. He would always turn away, make some show of annoyance, then Kaj would always laugh as if he knew that his companion secretly enjoyed his constant teasing. And he would not be wrong— Rafar did indeed turn away, and Kaj's gentle laugh caught his ears like a string of bells in the wind. It seemed as if Rafar's fate was inevitable: he was to fall madly, deeply in love. The clock struck twelve. Lilya Diallo listened to the bells chime, counting the seconds between each one. One, two, three, ring. One, two, three. She loved the bells. When she heard them, she could imagine the fireplace she and her sister gathered around in their childhood. The blistering cold under the tent. Huddling under blankets with what little clothing they had. And telling stories.
Her sister loved to tell stories, she remembered. Stories crafted with the delicate artistry of a weaver, each thread a sentence and each sentence a world in which magic lived, thrived, and flourished. Places where their kind roamed free without fear. Where people danced upon staircases of water, walked cinder roads and their every breath spoke of life. In Koel, things were different. They lived in the outskirts before, in the slums that evaded the clergy’s watchful eye. But further inland, things changed— structures sprung out of the permafrost like trees, pointing their jagged edges towards the sky, as if threatening it to never fall apart. They seemed to lean forward, over her when she walked the streets. It reminded her of how the clergy looked when she was small— tall men, pale as death, dressed in long black robes. She hated Koel with all her heart. She hated the footsteps of soldiers, the sound of cavalry making their rounds. The silence. The occasional cry. She hated the ground on which their king walked, each step damning the dirt beneath it. And oh, how she hated the king. “Lilya,” said the king. “The towels, for god’s sake?” She bowed her head. “Forgive me, my lord. I will fetch them immediately.” She left the room, heart drumming quietly in her chest. They prepared for this day extensively. Working her up the ranks through a series of strings pulled taut. And how little the king knew how few allies he truly had— the entire council had their eyes on her and she knew they were waiting. They waited years for this. Decades. Far too long. In the service room, they were already prepared. Another maid nodded to her in greeting, leaning in close as Lilya entered. “It’s between the folds. You’ll feel it,” she whispered. Lilya nodded. She ran her fingers underneath the first towel, running the scenario through her head. He could retaliate. She was agile, but not strong— and the king could easily overpower her. She imagined straddling his corpse, panting, with blood spattered on her dress and on the pearlescent tiles. It would be a death sentence regardless. She didn’t care. She was ready. She held her breath as she walked down the halls, back to the baths where the king reclined against the edge of the pool. The room was hot; moisture hit her face as she opened the door, the smell of salts and lavender flowing around her. She took off her shoes, stepping into the shallow layer of water that washed the floor, then walked towards the king. Slowly. Deliberately. Her hands trembled, one holding the towels, the other hidden— tucked between them. The king opened one eye, glancing at her before closing it again. “You look pale, Lilya.” “Felt a bit faint earlier, m'lord. I promise you it is nothing to worry about.” “That’s what I like to hear. Now, please, would you?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning. “Here.” She pulled her maid stool over, placing the towels in her lap as she sat behind the king. With a gentle touch, she caressed his neck, let her hand slide down to his neck, then shoulders. She kneaded the muscle there, tightly knotted, and felt the tension melt slowly. The king relaxed, closing his eyes once again. And oh so quietly, Lilya drew her knife. There was no struggle. The king choked. Lilya pushed his head down into the water. Blood blossomed underneath the king’s body. She dropped her knife and stood. Stepped back. And ran. |
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