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thetravelerwrites · 5 years

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Dumont (Part 2) Lemon

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Female Elf Ranger/Male Tiefling Barbarian Additional Tags: Exophilia, Tiefling, Elf, Kobold, Half Elf, Human, Rogue, Bard, Barbarian, Ranger, Mage, Wizard, D&D, Dungeons & Dragons, Sex, Third Person Perspective Words: 2242

Another commission for @ocsmutpocalypse. Dumont and the party stop in a town to rest, and Kharis makes an important decision. Please reblog and leave feedback!

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Sanoh, Rupert, Norman, and Dumont traveled together down the road to the next town, hoping to find paying work, while Kharis lay on Dumont’s back, eyes closed and arms behind her head as if sunbathing. He was walking on all fours as he often liked to do, and his back was so broad that she had no worry of falling off. She seemed to enjoy this mode of travel quite a lot and did it whenever the weather allowed.

“Why do you do that?” Sanoh asked. “You treat Dumont like a horse and it’s weird.”

“He likes it,” Kharis said, rolling on her stomach and scratching gently at the base of his spine. “Don’t you, bubba?”

“I do like it,” He replied. “It’s nice to have you close by.”

“Aww, my big boy,” Kharis said, laying her cheek on his back. “So sweet to me.”

Sanoh snorted and shook her reptilian head. Rupert smirked at her and took her hand.

They came to a crossroads that had a signpost and stopped.

“Ah, good,” Rupert said. “Dumont, can you read the post? We’re going to Vasenville. Which way should be go?”

Dumont had spent most of his life living with a guardian who couldn’t read, therefore he’d never learned how to read himself. Rupert had been spending time with Dumont and was teaching him a number of things, including reading. Dumont was a very quick study, much to Rupert’s surprise. It was easy to underestimate Dumont’s intelligence based on his size and monstrous looks. paired with the fact that he’d had little to no education before meeting the group.

Dumont’s unblinking eyes looked at the post carefully for a moment, after which he said confidently, “left.”

“Good! Very good!” Rupert said, clapping a hand on Dumont’s upper arm, which was thicker than Rupert’s entire body. “Left we go!”

Dutifully, Dumont led the way toward Valenville.

Dumont tended to get a lot of funny looks when he went to different towns. He was a tiefling, but he was born… not quite right. He was far too large for his kind, nearly twice the height and width of even the tallest and burliest of tieflings. The bone of his lower jaw was exposed, and his eyes were large and bulging with no eyelids to cover them. He brick red, had no hair on his body, and his horns took up all of his scalp with blood-red veins running along them.

He was an unsettling person to look upon if you weren’t used to him, and it had drawn the ire of some of the towns they had gone to. His traveling companions were quick to jump to his defense, and Kharis was a force to be reckoned with when she was angry, but Dumont understood better than they did. His guardian, the priest of the church where he was raised, always kept him hidden and out of sight, not for a lack of love for Dumont, but for fear of what others would do to him if they found him.

He was lucky that the first people he met after his foster father’s death were kind. It would have been easy for a less than scrupulous person to use his innocence and naivete to enslave him.

As usual, he got a lot of stares as he lumbered through town with Kharis sitting across his shoulders, a leg dangling from either side of his head and a hand on each of his horns to steady herself. She narrowed her eyes and hissed at people who gawked at Dumont, and that was usually enough to force most people to avert their gaze.

Another problem Dumont had in most towns was that the inns they stayed in often weren’t large enough to accommodate him. Many times he couldn’t even get through the front door, so he ended up having to stay in the cellar, stables, or out in the back behind the building. in those cases, Rupert and Norman would set up a tent for Dumont to curl up in.

Thankfully, the stables were empty of horses and open for free shelter for those who couldn’t pay for an inn. Dumont laid out his large leather bedroll on the straw and settle himself for the evening as the others made their way toward the tavern. Kharis promised to return with his dinner.

He missed his friends when he had to sleep away from them, but it wasn’t much different than sleeping in the bell tower of the church, so he didn’t mind it so much. Still, he was lonely.

After an hour, Kharis appeared with a large jug of mead and a platter of food, mostly de-boned meats and bread. He had no lips to chew properly, so he had to tear his food with his claws, chomp it once or twice with his large, sharp teeth, and then swallow it whole.

“Here you go,” She said, sitting with him. She looked around at the stable stall and sighed. “I’m sorry you’re reduced to sleeping in pen like an animal.”

“I don’t mind,” Dumont replied. “It’s free and plenty large enough for me, at least.”

“Well, I mind,” Kharis said venomously. “It’s demeaning. One day, I promise to take you to a place where you’ll fit through every door.”

“Is it like a church or a cathedral?” He asked.

She chuckled mirthlessly. “It might as well be, except the only god they really pray to is politics.” She looked off into the middle distance. “Maybe I shouldn’t take you there after all.”

“Would I embarrass you there?” Dumont asked. He often wondered if she found the attention he drew uncomfortable. He certainly did. After spending his entire life in the shadows, the sudden swarm of gawkers everywhere he went was disconcerting to him. He felt like the constant spotlight on him was a detriment to her journey.

“Absolutely not!” She said sharply. “If anything, they would embarrass me in front of you, the pompous twits, not the other way ‘round. And if they had a word to say about you, they’d be dealing with me.”

“Well, you are scarier than me,” Dumont said, laughing a little.

“Damn right, I am,” Kharis said, jutting her chin up.

“It would be nice to go to a place where I fit into proper buildings and things, though,” Dumont agreed.

Kharis looked him up and down, a coy smirk on her face. “I can think of a couple of places you fit very well,” She said suggestively.

Dumont often didn’t understand the context of people’s tones, like sarcasm or seduction, so when Kharis said things like this, it often confused him.

“Where is that?” He asked guilelessly, but when she began to unlace her bodice and untie her pants, and he whispered, “oh.”

“Hungry?” She asked him as she stripped down.

“For you, always,” He said.

She pulled the stall doors closed and walked to the opposite wall. “I want to ride your shoulders like I did this afternoon, only in reverse. Want to try?”

He nodded his head and came close, picking her up under her thighs and pushing her up against the wall, pinning her there and throwing her legs over his shoulders. His long, long tongue came out and pressed itself against her outer lips, massaging up one side and down another. Over the two months they had been together, she had taught him many techniques she enjoyed, and he used them to great effect. His immense strength and eagerness to please also worked greatly in his favor.

“Mmm,” She mewled, breathing heavily. Her hips moved of their own accord, and her lips swelled and heated as her arousal grew. She gripped his horns as he circled the bud with his tongue without actually touching it, stretching the pleasure and denial out as long as possible. Dumont had learned to tell when she was enjoying it and when she began to find it frustrating, and as soon as he felt that anxious tension in her body, he flicked the tip of his tongue against the pearl, making her hiss sharply.

He growled lowly, vibrating his tongue against her, the tip of it teasing her entrance as the broad part of it contracted against her clit, rubbing it up and down. Her entire pelvic area was sandwiched between his jaws. Her fingernails raked the back of his shoulders and across his neck.

“Inside,” She gasped, and Dumont obliged, thrusting his tongue into her roughly, quick and hard. She cried out, bracing against the wall hard. He held her hips fast in his grip so that she couldn’t escape and ravished her with his tongue. She was now making a lot of noise and he was a little concerned she would draw concerned passersby.

Finally, her orgasm crested and ebbed and she sighed in satisfaction, her eyes closed. He pulled her down from the wall, turned her over on her stomach, and pulled her hips toward him as be began unlacing his trousers.

“Yes,” She breathed. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Dumont lined himself up, saliva from his jaws dripping on her buttocks as he leaned over her, he pressed himself into her dripping wet entrance. She whimpered over and over as he slowly slid as far inside as he could reach before causing her pain and pulled back out again. He started slow, but quickly gained pace as time went on.

“Oh, fuck,” She said through gritted teeth.

He bent over her body and grabbed her by her waist, lifting her up so that she was flush with his body. She reached back and grabbed his horns, howling with pleasure and he slammed into her. He knew she loved the feeling of being held up by him like she weighed nothing more than a ragdoll while still being in complete control at the same time. She was always in control.

A door opened someone outside of the stall, and a voice called, “Is everyone all right in here? I heard screaming--”

“Fuck off, asshole, I’m getting laid!” Kharis shouted at the intruder, and the door shut again quickly. “Don’t stop,” She ordered Dumont. He was happy to obey.

He could feel the now familiar wall of ecstasy welling up in him, slamming into his body, reaching from his head to his toes, his body locking up, and he roared, spilling into her repeatedly. Under his hand, he could feel her belly swell slightly from the amount of his seed pushing its way inside.

As she lay under Dumont, boneless and gasping, and he rolled to the side to prevent crushing her, they heard the door open cautiously again.

“Are you sure--”

“FUCK OFF!” Kharis yelled, and the door slammed shut.

“You don’t have to snap at the poor man,” Dumont wheezed. “He genuinely thought you were being hurt. He was doing a good thing.”

“He was interrupting my play time,” Kharis said, unmoved. “He deserved to be chided.”

“I’m afraid we may have terrified him,” Dumont said. “He may never come into this stable again.”

“Good. Let him think it’s haunted.” Kharis got up, wiped herself down with a spare cloth in her pack and lay on Dumont’s chest, fully naked. “You know, I have thought about it a lot.”

“About what?” He asked, confused. “Haunted stables?”

“No!” Kharis said, slapping his chest playfully. He jumped, like he always did to make her laugh, though it didn’t hurt at all. “About bringing you to that place I told you about. I sort of left without saying anything to anyone, so I should probably check in so they don’t think I’m dead.”

“Why did you leave?” Dumont asked. “You don’t talk much about your family. Were they cruel to you?”

“No, not cruel, but we… were weren’t much of a family, really. I’m closer to you and the party than I’ve ever been to them, and I’ve known you all less than six months.” She lay her head on him and sighed. “I think we do love each other, just not the way normal families do. I don’t know if that’s a product of our station, or if we’re just not predisposed to familial bonds, or what. It’s just the way it’s always been.”

“That sounds sad,” Dumont said.

“Yeah,” She agreed. “I suppose it is a little sad. But I do miss them. I should go back, and I’d like you to come with me. The others, too. What do you think?”

“I’ll go wherever you ask,” Dumont said. “I’m with you.”

“Aww,” She hugged him, or tried to, since her arms had no chance of making the full circle around him. “You’re so sweet.” She sat up on him, straddling him, with her hands braced on his chest, looking down at him with a shrewd expression.

“What’s the matter?” He asked.

“If… if I told you I had lied about some things, would you be angry?” She asked tentatively.

“It depends,” He said, cocking his head curiously at her. “What things?”

“Well… My name isn’t Kharis, for starters.”

“Oh. What is it?”

“It’s… Enania. Enania Enjor.”

“That’s very pretty,” Dumont said.

“Thank you,” She said, laughing nervously. “But that’s not all.”

“Tell me, then,” He said. “Don’t be afraid.”

She smiled softly. “Well… I’m not a ranger. Well, I am, but I’m something else, too. Something I was before I became a ranger.”

“Which is?”

She winced. “A princess.”

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missmarquin · 5 years

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The Perfect Brew (For the Perfect Future)

I’m a goob, and totally forgot to post this here when I posted it for Day 2 of Sylvix Week. @sylvix-week

...

A brew is only as good as the company it's shared with. Oneshot, AU. Day 2 of Sylvix Week. Read on Ao3 for better quality!

....

Sylvain isn’t a coffee person, but the tiny cafe is the perfect spot to hide.

He has to hand it to the woman-- Margrita Alpazar of House Rowe was a force of nature. If he’s going to be shackled to a woman and forced to bear children with her… well, he can appreciate someone with a decent backbone.

The problem with Lady Alpazar though, is that she has too much of a backbone, and that she’s just too damn assertive. It’s why his mother adores the woman, and why Sylvain still cringes at the mere mention of her.

He ducks past the wide wooden door, flattening himself against the limestone wall of the interior. He doesn’t risk looking to see if she’s passed him up, but he still waits a long moment, holding his breath.

Really, he’d wait for hours if it will throw her off his trail. And surely she isn’t about to follow him all the way to Low Street. She has standards.

Sylvain can’t stop the grimace that slides across his face. Who’s he kidding. She’s actually followed him to far worse places before, and he wasn’t even thinking about that one time at the brothel.

That was when he learned Lady Rowe packed a punch. Literally.

The cafe smells nice at least-- if you like coffee. Porcelain cups and plates clatter as customers enjoy their daily brew. He’s more of a tea person, really, but he can appreciate the bitter taste and biting aroma, and--

He turns into the business proper, only to find a shorter, quite aggressive looking man staring right back at him. His linen shirt is old and off-white, and his apron is stained with coffee grounds. He balances a tray on one hand easily, holding a steaming coffee kettle in the other. Inky, dark hair hangs in his face, the longer bits tied haphazardly in the back.

He looks Sylvain up and down, taking in his appearance. Sylvain’s dressed in his finery, due to his meeting with his betrothed, and he sticks out like a sore thumb. And while it isn’t the slums… well, he wasn’t on High Street either.

Sylvain already has an excuse on the edge of his silver tongue, when the other man speaks.

“Not black,” he says curtly. Sylvain blinks. Well of course he wasn’t, was the man blind-- “You’re the type to mask the taste, so sugar and cream. More so the former than the latter. And then you’d likely ruin a good brew with a bit of chocolate.” A pause, as he adjusts the tray against his shoulder. “There’s a table in the back. At least take a seat and fucking order something, if you’re keen on camping here.”

Oh.

Well, Sylvain isn’t dumb, but he’s slow on the intake sometimes. “Do you have any tea?” is his response, and he can tell by the man’s immediate scowl that it was absolutely the wrong thing to ask.

“You’ll find your pansy water on High Street.” He must see Sylvain’s wince, because then the man scowls with a tsk. “Just find a seat. I’ll bring you something.”

Sylvain dumbly does what he asks, and the man is gone before he can think much else of it. He tucks away to the back corner, tucking himself into a too-small chair, and clasping his hands awkwardly. He risks a glance towards the entrance door, but they don’t fling open.

He’s apparently lost his tail, thank the fucking Goddess.

Eventually, the sour-faced barista finds his way over to the table. He drops a tray loudly onto the surface, followed by an old coffee mug and plate, and then a very small glass pitcher. “This isn’t my most popular brew, but you might not hate it.” He lifts the cup, pouring the contents of the pitcher into it. “Something about fruity notes, and hints of cocoa. Honestly, the merchant bored me with the details. Dark Roasts are for the weak-blooded.”

It’s pretty much all gibberish to him, but Sylvain reaches for the cup when the dour man holds it out.

“Dark Roast, right,” he repeats.

The other man sneers, but waits. Sylvain realizes he’s waiting on him. He lifts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip.

He’s never really liked coffee, but holy shit, this brew is something else. He takes another sip. And then another, and it must show on his face, because the next time he looks at the barista, his scowl has been replaced by a smug smirk.

“This is uh--”

“Yeah, I was right it seems.”

Sylvain swallows another sip.

“Who are you hiding from?” the man asks, and Sylvain is caught off guard.

He places the cup down, thumbing over the handle and replies, “My future wife.”

The barista winces in what looks like solidarity. Then he motions to the coffee. “It’s on the house.”

Before Sylvain can refuse though, the man is gone and assisting another table. He looks down at the dark drink. He never drinks this stuff black but-- He lifts the cup carefully, sipping at it.

It’s the best fucking coffee he’s ever had.

…

Sylvain wants to go back the next day, but holds himself back. He blames it on paperwork and a generalized I’m working. Margrita manages to corner him again, but only to pout about their missed date the day before. She doesn’t seem angry that he slipped from her presence though-- only mildly amused-- and she smirks as she tries to reschedule. Sylvain hedges around the idea, but eventually agrees to sharing a cup of tea when he finds the time.

Which, if he can help it, will be never.

Still, there’s something about the cafe that tugs at him. Or rather, someone.

It takes three days for him to finally cave and pick his way back to Low Street. He tells his mother that he just needs a walk. He tells Margrita that he’s out playing cards with the boys. He narrowly escapes his Father’s assigned guards (babysitters), but manages to sneak away.

The cafe smells sharp with the scent of coffee beans, and he takes a deep breath. Yeah, he’s still not used to it, but it’s growing on him, this coffee thing. He slides towards the same table as before. He looks around, trying to--

Ah, there he is.

The barista is… wearing the same shirt as yesterday-- he can see the coffee stains from where he sat. He looks tired, bags cut deep under his eyes, but his hair is sleek and brushed out. Today it was braided and thrown over his shoulder.

Sylvain watches as the man pours a cup out for a guest. The woman in question says something with a flirty smile, and the man scowls, biting back a clipped remark. Sylvain hums at that. Interesting.

And then the man is at his table, that scowl directed right at him. “Got lost on your way to High Street again?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

Sylvain leans back in his chair. “I’d have to be going to High Street for that to happen. Instead, I spent nearly two hours trying to find this place again.” There’s a pause, and then, “I mean the coffee is good and the place is decent enough. But then again… the help?” He motions to the dark-haired man himself and his coffee dusted apron. “Leaves a little to be desired.”

The barista scoffs, his lips twitching in annoyance. He leaves, but then comes back, this time with a cup and pot. “Medium Roast this time,” he says shortly. “Imported beans from Brigid, roasted with orange peels. My least popular brew that I offer. I don’t know why, but maybe that smart mouth of yours might be the only that will enjoy it.”

He practically slams the cup down on the table, and whisks away to grab the ticket. He slaps that on the table as well, before flitting off across the room. He doesn’t come back.

Sylvain’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice that he’s been charged double at first.

And when he does, he happily pays it.

…

Sylvain’s hates that particular brew, but he goes back every single day that week.

The barista scowls everytime, his lips twitching exasperation as he takes in his high-class finery. Yeah, Sylvain doesn’t really belong there, but he doesn’t really care. Every single day, that same terrible brew is dropped before him, chipped cup and mismatched plate accompanying it.

Sylvain always finishes it, despite the bitter and acrid taste.

Four days later, he asks another barista who the owner is, and she nudges her head to the side. Towards the man with the awful disposition.

Oh. No wonder he’s pissed.

Still, Sylvain learns his name that day. It’s Felix.

…

“What’s your favorite brew,” Sylvain asks one day. He prefers the counter to the table, he’s realized, because it allows him to bother Felix. And honestly, it’s a miracle the man hasn’t kicked him out yet.

The cafe isn’t as full as usual, but perhaps it’s because it’s later in the day. He’s been at it for a month by this point, spending every afternoon with his favorite prickly friend.

Felix doesn’t scowl at him anymore, not much at least. The look’s been replaced with a constant mask of disdain and eye-rolling. Sylvain considers it a victory, even if he doesn’t quite know what he wants from the man.

Felix pauses, mid pour, the stream of coffee cutting off abruptly. Dark Roast again, this time grown in Almyra. Something, something, lemons and thyme. Pairs well with fruit scones, whatever that means. “That’s not for you to know,” he says, resuming his task.

Once the cup is full, he slides it over the countertop.

“You wound me, Felix,” he whines.

“Hugo,” the other man snaps. Sylvain smirks at him, before sipping at his cup.

This one isn’t bad. This one is decent, and it’s one that he would drink again. He adds it to his mental list.

“Say Felix,” he drawls, ignoring the requested what-he-assumes-to-be last name, “Teach me how to brew a good cup? Margrita complained about what I made the other day, and I can’t bear to see her frown like that again.”

Felix pauses again, his face unreadable, but then he tsks. “Idiot.”

It isn’t a no though, nor does he correct him when he calls him by name.

…

“So this is where you spend your afternoons.” Margrita hums lightly, as she looks around. Her arm is slung through his own and she clings to his side, like butter on bread. Sylvain doesn’t like it, but frankly, he’s too exhausted to fight her off. So he leaves her be. For the moment, she’s behaving. “It’s cute.”

Sylvain nearly warns her about that particular word, but Felix is already there before he can.

“Cute,” he practically spits. His glances follows the entire length of both of them, no doubt scowling at their velvets and jewels. “It’s bad enough he gets lost everyday, now you too?”

Margrita’s eyebrows raise at such speech, but her lips quirk in amusement.

“Don’t mind my friend,” Sylvain sighs, patting her arm gently. “Felix thinks that cute ruins the image he’s actually going for.”

“Then what is he going for?” she asks.

“Robust,” is Felix’s answer, and the woman cackles in response. Robust, like a good brew, he’d once told Sylvain. Felix lips twitch downwards as he points at her. “I don’t like her,” he says to Sylvain, before turning on his heel and wheeling around the edge of the counter.

Who does? Sylvain thinks, but when he looks at Margrita, she’s watching him carefully, not Felix.

“Some friend.” She doesn’t look angry though, her eyes narrowed with an amused brightness. Really, she isn’t as bad as she could be, he supposes. And with her tanned skin and bright green eyes, she’s cute to boot.

To bad she isn’t Fe--

It’s like water has been dumped over him, and he shoves that thought away as soon as it comes. “He’s still getting used to the idea,” Sylvain finally says, but his tone is a little more subdued than his normally cheerful self.

But Margrita laughs, and he smiles back thinly, leading her over to his favorite table in the back.

The brew that is brought to them is a medium roast. Felix says something about the coastal region of the Adrestian Empire, cherries and something called cascara.

Sylvain imagines that it probably tastes good, considering the pleased hum from Margrita across him. But as Felix pours out a second cup, Sylvain watches how his eyelashes flutter when he blinks, and the delicate ripple of his forearms, visible where he’s rolled up his sleeves.

He swallows thickly around the lump forming in his throat.

Felix slides the cup towards him, across the table. And when they meet gazes, his scowl relaxes into a smile.

When Sylvain sips the coffee, all he tastes is ash.

…

It’s been a year since Sylvain came to the realization that he loves Felix.

At first it was a quiet little thing. Sylvain would pick up on the small details that he wouldn’t notice before-- the stray strands that escape his various up-dos and how silky they look. The way that he scowls in mock anger, but let’s out a little tsk of amusement.

But as time passes, that feeling grows.

They aren’t at the cafe this time. Felix has surpassed friendship into something else. Companion? Confidant? Whatever it was, Sylvain’s household doesn’t ask questions when they see the dour-faced man slinking through the hallways.

Sylvain loves it. He also hates it.

They sit on a bench in the garden. Even though they’re alone, Felix is still on high alert. Sylvain’s since learned that he’s a veteran who fought in the Holy War, always on edge. He’s swapped his sword for coffee beans, and has tricked himself into living a simpler life. Sylvain wishes he could do that same, just disappear himself and be free.

“I’m going back home,” is the first thing Sylvain says.

Felix, who’s already pulling out a water kettle, pauses. It’s barely there, the grief on his face, but Sylvain sees it. He wants to see it, he realizes, he--

Actually, he doesn’t, because that’s going to make this a hell of a lot harder.

“My father is sick, and it’s about time that I take over my lands,” he finishes. The words sound lame in his mouth.

“Duty,” Felix says quietly. He’s never really confirmed it, but Sylvain has figured that he’s high born. Felix just reads well bred, when you look hard enough. Again, there’s that green-eyed jealousy, bursting in his chest. Felix was lucky enough to escape wherever it was, that he came from.

“Yeah, crests you know. Can’t be a Gautier, and not give a shit, right?” His tone is as bitter as that one medium roast that Sylvain really fucking hates. His friend reserves that brew for when he’s angry at him.

Felix hums, but doesn’t respond. He sets out two cups, followed by glass press and plunger. There’s a quick snap of his fingers and then a small flame, before lighting the kindling under the pot. He’s not good with fire, but he manages well enough with this.

And then he pulls out a tin that Sylvain doesn’t recognize. Old and dented, the green paint flicking off. It’s not from the cafe stock. “I’m sorry about the Lady Alpazar.”

Ah, right.

There was an argument, and then some words, and Sylvain might have said something that he severely regrets. Something, something, I love him. She hadn’t gotten angry, instead he had just sighed in resignation. And then a smile. And then a pat on the cheek, followed by a kiss to the forehead.

Really, he regrets it because there isn’t a woman in the world as understanding as the Lady Alpazar, and if he’s going to have to marry someone that isn’t Felix, she was definitely his top choice.

Except that she isn’t a choice anymore.

“Yeah, me too.”

Felix watches him for a moment, before opening the tin and spooning out a liberal amount of ground coffee. He must have done that bit before arriving. They sit in silence as the coffee brews, and it doesn’t smell like anything he’s ever tasted.

“I don’t want to, you know,” he says finally. “I don’t want to go back--” He paused, knuckles tightening. “There’s nothing for me there,” he finishes weakly. He’s entering dangerous territory.

Felix pours the coffee. Sylvain reaches for it, and Felix’s hand lingers for too long, before pulling away. “A good friend once said that a brew is only as good as the company it’s shared in.”

Sylvain chuckles darkly. “No wonder everything I drink tastes like shit.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Felix immediately responds. His voice is quiet, but it’s sincere.

Sylvain sips his cup, and it is bullshit. He laughs again. “Figures this would be the best fucking cup you’ve evermade me.”

Felix hums at that. “You once asked about my favorite brew,” he says.

“That’s not for you to know.” They’re repeated words, but ones that he remembers well.

“Pecans, Maple and Vanilla, with enough caffeine to fuel an army. I don’t think I’ve ever given you a blonde roast, but here you are.”

“Figures.”

“I…” But Felix hesitates, worrying his own cup between his hands. “I’ll miss you,” he finally admits. “When you leave.” Oh, the fucking dramatic irony. Sylvain can’t help but laugh, and Felix huffs at that. “Is that funny to you--”

“No it’s not,” Sylvain says quietly. “It’s tragic.”

Felix turns to him, his brow furrowing into a cute little wrinkles and-- Sylvain sighs.

But Felix knows how to read him. “What happened between the two of you?” he asks gently.

“We had a fight.”

“Did she not want to go back with you? Gautier lands are quite unforgiving.”

“I told her that I didn’t love her.”

Felix blinks at that. “Was that a secret? It’s not as if she loves you, and she doesn’t strike me as stupid--”

“I told her that I love someone else.”

Felix’s mouth snaps shut. “Well, not what a lady wants to hear.”

“Not usually, no.”

Felix sips at his mug. “She must have been angry.”

“She told me to go for it.”

“What?”

Suddenly, the coffee seems cold in his hands. “Yeah, hence the fight.”

Felix tips his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “The woman gives you a pass, and you argue over it? How stupid are you?”

“It’s pretty complicated.”

Felix hmphs at that. “There’s very little complicated about you, Sylvain.” But then his expression falls tender. “Will you?” he asks hesitantly.

“Will I what?”

“Go for it?”

Sylvain is quiet for a long minute, rubbing his fingertip along the edge of his cup. Watching the garden and how the sunlight filtered through the trees around them. He’s about to make a mistake. He’s about to throw caution into the wind, and quite possibly fuck up his entire life. He turns to Felix, who looks back in curiosity.

He reaches out suddenly, pressing his fingers against the high arch of Felix’s cheekbones. He’s prepared for the man to pull away, but he doesn’t. “There aren’t any coffee shops in Gautier,” he finally says.

“Sylvain--”

“I’ve come to enjoy it a lot. Coffee, I mean, but it’s not really the drink that I like. What was it you said earlier? The brew is only as good as the company its shared with?”

“Sylvain.” Felix’s voice pitches high and breathy.

Sylvain moves to grasp his chin gently. “Would you come with me? Up North?”

“Idiot.” Felix reaches out, gripping onto Sylvain’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

But he doesn’t say no. He’s red, and embarrassed, and he drops the cup of coffee in his lap. It clatters to the ground, cracking. And he still hasn’t said no.

Sylvain smiles, before leaning in.

Felix meets him halfway.

#sylvixweek2019 #sylvix #sylvixfanfiction #fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #sylvain jose gautier #felix/sylvain #felix hugo fraldarius #fanfiction

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moocha-muses · 6 years

Text

I May Have a Tiny Crush

Or, The Full Story of How Don Lothario and Darren Dreamer Ended Up Smooching.

(Frankly I don’t know if I can see these two settling down into domestic bliss together, but life’s short and I want to sail on every ship I can.)

Cassandra Goth was beautiful. Cheekbones like a pair of stilettos carved from some fine, dark warm marble, flushed with life. That mobile mouth, twisting instantly from a sullen frown to a distracted smile. Dark honey eyes and the untamed curls of an Italian shepherdess. Flashing. Remote. Untouchable. Moocha should have painted her, a slender nymph in a scrap of white silk.

He should have painted her.

She was beautiful as she stood there sobbing, mascara streaking down her cheeks, angry bunched fists ruining the expense lines of her wedding dress.

Don Lothario had muttered, “I’m sorry, Cass,” and left her standing up there alone. What kind of way was that for a man to end a relationship? Darren would have walked barefoot over broken glass to be the man standing with her under that wedding arch, and Lothario had just thrown it all away.

…

It would probably be the wrong moment to tell Cassandra that he loved her.

Don was seriously considering leaving town. If it wasn’t for all the work he’d put into establishing himself at Pleasantview General, he’d have packed his bags two weeks ago.

Half the damn town had been at his non-wedding, and the other half had heard about it, and the consensus was clear - they were two sides to this fiasco and they were all on Cassandra’s. Would it have been better if he’d just gone through with it when every cell in his brain was screaming at him to run? Cassandra Goth didn’t want a man to be married out of a sense of obligation, did she? She’d see that eventually.

Hopefully sooner than later.

Don had given up a huge fortune and the woman (okay, fine, one of the women) he loved just so that she’d have a real chance at happiness with someone else. He was practically a saint.

pasta, pasta, which brand do I like again?

He snorted. Okay, maybe a nomination to sainthood was a bit much too ask. But he didn’t deserve a complete shunning, either.

Even Kaylynn wasn’t return his calls. Too busy with her new girlfriend - Don still couldn’t believe the Pleasants had planned that seduction as a couple. He wondered if Cassandra would have ever been up for planning a fling with the maid.

are fresh peas really that much better than frozen? maybe worth trying

Nina was always happy to see him, but she was happy to see plenty of other people too. Don had wasn’t more than that. It was selfish, but he wanted to be the most important person in someone’s life. He wanted to settle down. It was why he had proposed.

So why had he left her, then? Because, Don reminded himself firmly, because he was in love with different three women and in that moment, he had realized he hadn’t cared which one of them was standing under that arch.

tomatoes? this one feels nice and ripe

Cassie deserved better.

She deserved someone who loved her like - “Afternoon, Dreamer.”

Darren Dreamer actually glared at him, which was a laugh. Don wouldn’t have expected a guy as passive as Dreamer to do anything more more cutting than pretend he was deaf.

Don cleared his throat.

“Do you need something?” Dreamer snarled.

“You’re standing in front the lemons,” Don said mildly.

Dreamer stalked off towards the bread in a huff. Don shook his head. Don barely knew the guy, but everyone knew Dreamer had been carrying a torch for Cassandra (well, everyone except for Cassandra, who was the most single-minded woman Don had ever met. She just hadn’t noticed other guys once she’d started dating him. It had been flattering - at least, until he’d gotten to really know her.)

(He had still enjoyed it.)

how do you check lemons? Do you smell them?

If Dreamer was so in love with Cassandra he should be fucking grateful they had broken up. Now at least he had a chance.

Don shrugged.

There was no helping some people.

what else was in the meat sauce recipe? I knew I should have written it down

Models were the flakiest damn species on the planet. Darren dropped the phone down on the receiver and swore. Heather sat on the sofa looking beautiful, bored, and totally at ease wearing nothing but Darren’s spare bathrobe.

He was going to have to put off painting and he would still have to pay Heather half her rate just for showing up and drinking his coffee.

Darren drummed irritably against the phone table, trying to decide if he could pose Heather solo and at least get a start on the sketches. Work on her back, maybe. He glanced idly out the window.

Don Lothario was jogging past outside.

The artistic soul was strong in Darren. In that moment, Don Lothario was no longer the bastard who had broken the heart of the woman Darren loved. He was just a very good specimen of the male sex, tall and lean with slightly unruly dark hair and warm brown skin.

Darren shot out the front door.

“Lothario! Hey, uh, Dr. Lothario. Are you free right now?”

* * *

“You want me to what?”

“My male model canceled on me at the last minute,” Darren explained, “but I need to paint right now, while the image is still in my head. You’re a little old but you’ve got good muscle. Good flesh tones. Beautiful eyes. Green like Heather’s, which is too bad, but … you’ll do. I’ll pay you, of course. What do you have on under those track pants? You’re comfortable with nudity, aren’t you? You are a doctor.”

Don considered the phrase, ‘No fucking way,’ but he swallowed it. He considered. “You must really be desperate.” Don glanced over at the cute little co-ed on the couch. He could imagine worse company. And Darren Dreamer would probably be on his best behavior. “I guess I could help you out, Dreamer. For art’s sake.”

“Go ahead and strip then,” Darren said, shining with relief.

“I won’t even charge you. It’s not like I can’t spare the time. I’m newly single, remember?”

The shot missed. Darren was arguing with his other muse.

“You want me to work with a total stranger? What if he’s a creep?”

“Mr. Lothario, sorry, Dr. Lothario isn’t a creep, Heather. Would I ask a creep to model with you?”

“You don’t have to keep calling me doctor.”

“I want hazard pay,” Heather said firmly.

“Fine, I’ll give you your overtime rates. But that’s just for today. Don’t think this is a permanent raise. Now get that robe off so I can make sure your bruises haven’t smeared.”

“Yessir!”

Don began pulling his pants down.

“Let me retouch the one on your thigh. Okay, Lothario, Heather’s going to be strangling you. It’s a easy pose for a beginner because you can just lie there.” He smudged something purple onto Heather’s smooth white thigh. Don needed to either stop watching or put his pants back on.

“You’ll be lying prone on the floor, she’ll be crouching over you, hands around your neck. Heather can do the heavy lifting on expressions, so don’t worry about that. I want a 50s look, so I’ll need to put something in your hair … ”

* * *

“Look, I get it,“ said Heather, "but I’m not flattered or interested.” She gave Don a second look and shrugged. “Not at the moment, anyway. Just try and think of me as a piece of furniture.” She shot Darren a look. “This is why I like working with Jimmy. He knows how to act professional.”

Darren frowned at Don. “No, don’t look embarrassed,” he admonished. “That’s not even close to the expression I want. The erections’s good, though. He’s supposed to be egging you on, so … Can you … ”

“Darren, if he touches me with that thing I am out.”

“I’m doing my best,” Don said. He sounded mortified.

“Hold it,” Darren said. “Let me just finish that part of the sketch - and mix some paint samples. I want to capture that color.”

“Artists!” Heather groaned, all her exasperation rolled up into one ball. Don looked like he understood.

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this again.”

Don was sitting on the counter in Darren’s kitchen in just his underwear, letting the other man comb pomade into his hair.

“I really appreciate it,” Darren said. “But I’m guessing you’re here more for the lovely Miss Huffington than for art.”

Don stiffened. Heather? The lovely, luscious girl in the other room? He hadn’t even thought of her when Dreamer had phoned him up and demanded he come back for a second sitting.

Don would have expected him to beg. He wouldn’t have guessed a man who still hadn’t tried making a play for Cassandra to have so much …

Passion.

Cassandra’s consuming, singled-minded interest in every new hypothesis, the way she’d stop at nothing to teach it to everyone else …

The way Nina threw herself headfirst into everything, no safety nets, no restraint . . .

Darren’s total absorption in his own work, death and blind to everything but the vision in his head…

Don liked passion.

He shook his head to clear it. “Don’t move,” Darren said gently. He put a hand on Don’s jaw to steady him. His skin was warm and dry. “You’ve got such thick hair,” Darren muttered. His eyes were far away. “ I should’ve have painted you in bed, mussed from sleep, stretched out against the sheets with the sunlight filtering down - no, moonlight - moonlight dappling over your skin-”

Had Dreamer’s voice always been that … husky?

Heather’s right, Don thought. He shifted just a little on the counter. I need to learn to control myself. Or at least keep it in my pants.

“There’s no way I can bend my arm like that.”

“Are you saying you aren’t flexible enough?” Darren shook his head and tsked. “I knew I should have stuck to younger models.”

“Oh, I’m plenty flexible, old man-”

“I just bet you are,” Darren muttered.

“You should try yoga,” Heather chimed in from underneath him.

“I do yoga.”

“What, seriously?”

“Even if I could get into the pose,” Don went on, ignoring her, “I’d probably strain myself holding it. Don’t they teach you anything about basic anatomy at art school?”

“All right, Doctor. What do you suggest?”

“Well, if you really want to have that fold of sheet visible, then I could …”

“You’ve got some paint on your cheek.”

“Where?”

“Hold on, I’ll get it.”

remember to breathe

…

he’s a flirt. he flirts with everyone.

There still weren’t many people in Pleasantview who would invite Don Lothario out for a drink. He definitely hadn’t expected Darren Dreamer to ever be one of them.

“Well, you won’t let me pay you for modeling.” Darren got Marylena’s attention and ordered them both beers. He asked Don about an upcoming surgery he had mentioned the other day. Don got very eloquent about the use of internal splints to fix spine reticulation.

Darren divided his attention between Don and a sketch he was making on a cocktail napkin.

“What are you drawing?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the shape of your eyebrows right.”

Don snorted. “Should I keep my face still? Are my many medical exploits distracting you?”

“No, I like watching them move.” He made a few small strokes with his pen. "Actually, can you hold right there?”

Don didn’t know why he listened. He had no idea why he was doing a lot of things, lately. He watched Darren drawing quick sketches of his brow, his nose, his mouth …

“One of your models asked me out.”

Darren jerked to attention. “Heather? She didn’t break up with her girlfriend, did she?”

“Not Heather. Tiffany. The one with the obvious trust-fund. What’s she doing slumming as an artist’s model, anyway?”

“You’ll have to ask her on your date,” Darren said. He crumpled the cocktail napkin he’d been sketching on into a ball and started tearing small pieces off it. “Better take her someplace nice.”

Don sipped his beer. “I let her down gently. She’s a little young for me,” he said. He glanced carefully at the man on the next barstool. “What about you?”

Darren looked up. His own eyebrows rose. “Are you asking me out to dinner?”

Don choked on his beer. He coughed. “Have you ever gone out with one of your models?”

Darren snorted. “Of course not. If you’re too old for them, what does that make a fossil like me?”

Those girls aren’t that much younger than Cassandra, Don thought. You aren’t that much older than me. And the edge of both those thoughts stung.

Darren ordered them another round of beers. “Isn’t this supposed to be a good season for stargazing?”

Don perked up instantly. “It really is! See, the orbit of the moons …“

It was the fourth time he’d agreed to pose.

Darren didn’t know why Don kept agreeing. He didn’t even know why he kept asking. He liked young models. He liked the quality of their skin, the vulnerability of youth.

It was the difference between a sapling and a tree that had grown into, well, solidity. Maturity. That whole self-contained universe that trees get to be when they grow up.

No, that made it sound like he was starting to prefer older models.

darleen would have said i was finally growing up

Don said posing left him free to do nothing but think. That was what he liked about it. “Gives a chance to read through patient reports and new medical journals in my head.”

just a little blue there so the brown is more brown

cerulean? no, cobalt

Darren wanted to split his head open, pull out everything going on behind Don’s bright green eyes and set it against the deliberate sensuality of the pose.

He wanted to capture the passions, the dichotomy, the muscle and skin and mind of the man in front of him…

He wanted to capture the man …

He wanted . . .

* * *

Posing left Don free to look.

Darren Dreamer was absented-minded. He was terrified of spiders. He had the worst pollen allergy Don had ever seen. Ever surface in his house was covered in books and he was constantly picking one up (usually right in the middle of a conversation, sometimes when he was the one doing the talking) reading a few paragraphs, and putting it right back down. He lived completely off leftovers from meals his kid had cooked.

But put a paintbrush in his hands, or an idea into his head, and the man was transformed. Don had gotten addicted to watching him, mercurial, transfixed, enraptured, inspired, muttering to himself about color and light.

And he really could paint.

And when he was painting him, he looked at Don like he was most fascinating thing anyone had ever seen. Like he was an object, but a beautiful object. A treasured object. Something that existed just on Darren’s whim. It was almost a challenge.

Lots of people had been attracted to Don, and most of them had bothered hiding the fact, but no one had ever looked at him like Darren Dreamer looked at him.

And the spider thing was actually kind of cute.

“Don’t move your head.”

“What?”

“You’re moving your head again. The wrapper’s going to fall. Hold still.“

"Yeah, all right.”

“I don’t see why you can’t hold still,” said Darren, a man Don had never seen sit still for more than about 10 seconds at a time. He surged forward in his usual impatient way and began messing with Don’s hair. He tucked the condom wrapper back into position where it could resume imitating a laurel leaf. Then he took a possessive hold on Don’s head and began twitching it back and forth. “We’re losing the light,” he complained. “There’s a certain light I want to paint you in. If I could just paint you properly-,” his finger skated over Don’s jaw, “-you’re too good for Dionysus, you’re-”

Don kissed him. His lips brushed against the corner of the other man’s mouth. He wondered which of them was more surprised.

Darren murmured, “What are you-”

his voice is fucking sexy

“I-” Don You - you reminded me of Cassandra.“ Wrong thing to say. Maybe the wrongest thing anyone had ever said.

Darren shoved Don right up against the wall and glared at him more intensely than he had ever glared over Cassandra. "You’re not getting out of this that easily, Lothario.”

And he kissed Don right back.

“If we’re going to do this,” Darren growled, “The only name you’re going to say is mine.”

#ts2 #the sims 2 #simfic #i may have a tiny crush #pleasantview #darrendreamer #don lothario #the whole thing one post

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firstjustgoin · 7 years

Text

A Character Not My Own

1. Start with a character. One that doesn’t look or talk or act in any way like you. A character you’re afraid can’t speak for you, but maybe that’s a good thing.

The first thing I notice about Frances are her knees. They kind of remind me of mine, all scuffed up and bulging, like the bone’s gone and outgrown the skin hugging it. I like how she doesn’t cry like the other kids I sometimes see around here, maybe that means she’s been around the block a few times or that she’s “precocious” like Noni sometimes tells me I am. After she says this, Noni usually gets this far-off look in her eyes, like she’s trying to spy on another timezone, or figure out what Jayla’s doing locked in her room all the time. I told Noni once that I thought Jayla was doing angel dust and she slapped me so hard across the face, I still carry the sting with me like a pain echo.

I don’t even really know what angel dust is, maybe something you find under the church pews after everyone’s gone.

After she slaps me, I usually let my face bunch up real tight at the center like I’ve swallowed a lemon whole and even though I can’t really cry all that much anymore, I make it look like I will. She’ll stroke my face with her rough fingers and whisper, “You’re still good, my love. You’ll always be good” or something else I can’t quite catch in between these deep, heavy sighs that seem to rise up from the very center of her body.

I’m nearly thirteen now, so it’s not like I’m a full child anymore. I’ve been around the block too, or at least this block and I know that Noni’s love isn’t something I can lose like the lunch money she gives me on Fridays. Wherever I end up after I finish school and save up enough money, Noni’s love is going to follow me around like an echo too.

When I see Frances, she’s sitting alone in the far corner of the visitor’s lobby, and I wonder if she has someone like Noni, always following her around. She looks about my age, but she’s reading a book the same size as her whole middle. I squint real hard and try to see the name of the book, but either my eyesight’s getting worse or Ms. Raciti wasn’t lying when she said that if you didn’t read all summer you’d forget how. I tried to explain to her that I would be a bit busy this summer and I didn’t have anybody who could drive the fifteen miles one way to get to the public library in the town over. Ms. Raciti didn’t seem real impressed by my sob story and just shoved a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows into my hands before I can say another word.

I heard some kids talking later that the dog dies at the end, so instead of reading it, I’m using it to prop up my fan when the July heat gets too heavy even for me.

I think for a second about going up and asking her what she’s reading, but even then I don’t know how I’d keep up a conversation for long. The only thing I’ve really ever liked reading was an old baseball history book my dad left lying around sometimes. I actually learned how to read using that book, picking it up while my dad was napping on the couch or out on a beer run. B-a-all. B-a-a-att. H-i-it. I’d sound out the words bit by bit, the letters falling out of my mouth slowly like thick, homemade honey. “She’s so precocious,” I’d hear Noni say before knowing what that word meant. It made Noni proud that I was so curious about the world, but it made dad angry. I knew he loved me and all that, but he always thought that caring too much about education and school and whatnot was just setting yourself up for a life of disappointment.

“You can go to school all you want, but when you end up right back here, you’re just gonna wish you didn’t have all that stuff sitting around in your brain, taking up space.” I heard once Noni and dad talking about his school days and it sounded like he was quite the precocious kid too. Nothing those smarts ever did for him but make him want to drink more beer.

Sometimes I hear kids whispering in school about my dad and I want to march up to them and set the record straight. Did you know he won a county-wide math competition when he was in middle school? Did you? But I don’t say that because I know what they’ll say next. His toothy photo used to be pinned up in one of the school hallways next to a placard that said, Vernon County Math Olympiad – First Place. They took it down awhile back.

Right about when I’m gathering my courage to go over and talk to girl across the room, a parade of people pour through the door.

“Frances!” An older woman wearing a long purple dress says when she spots her, “You trying to get yourself in trouble here? You know they don’t let any kids in here, ‘specially now that it’s getting dark out so early.” The woman is right; there is no more light streaming through the small strip of window, as if the sun has been swallowed up in the last 10 minutes by night.

“I’m just reading, Aunty,” Frances says without even lifting her eyes from the page. Two tiny boys, couldn’t be older than three waddle up and start pulling against Frances’s shorts. Two more women come in behind them, both dressed up in those light blue pajamas I saw once when I had to go to the hospital for strep throat.

One of the women, who doesn’t look too much older than Jayla plops down next to Frances and nuzzles her head into Frances’s neck. I can’t help but stare. I’ve never seen a grown woman treat a girl like that. I don’t know why, but it makes me want to cry.

In all of the hubbub of the last few seconds, I forgot that Noni’s still sitting next to me, legs crossed at the ankles, flipping through a copy of Good Housekeeping. She’s always reading magazines like that, with headlines like “How to Make Your House a Little More Country” and “Fifteen Front Porch Ideas Perfect for a Lazy Summer Day.” Sometimes she giggles and says to nobody, “Fools living in their tiny houses like it’s a damn fashion statement. Move to Vernon County and you don’t have to pay money to live in a tiny house.”

“Sharon Parker?” The man behind the counter calls through the noise, his eyes glued to a tiny black-and-white TV projecting muffled voices into the room.

The woman with her head on Frances’s shoulder pops up. “Yes, I’m here. My family’s all here.”

“It’s getting late tonight,” the man says, in between sips of what could be coffee or rum. I’ve never been good at telling the difference from far away. “You and your daughter can just go tonight.”

The older woman in the purple dress stands up and says, her voice louder than before, “Sir, we’ve come all this way. We can’t just pop in for a few? Promise we won’t be holding anybody up.”

“I’m sorry but that just won’t be possible,” the security guard says, still not looking up from his cup.“But sir,” she begins to walk towards him. “I’ve got my whole family here, it won’t take any longer than just two people.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there.” Suddenly the man behind the counter is sitting up straight, hands moving behind the desk to a place I can’t see. “I’ve said that this woman and her daughter can enter. Now you need to go back outside or sit quiet in the chairs out here.”

Noni’s drops her Good Housekeeping and I watch her knuckles get white against the side of the chair. For a second it feels like my eyes are in clouds because I can’t tell what all this sudden pressure is in the room. The man’s got his eyes locked on the woman in the purple dress while everyone else hovers around them like bees stuck in place.

The woman stops walking and raises her hands up for a second before saying, “I got it, sir, no need for any of that nonsense. I’ll sit right here with the rest of them.” The woman grabs France’s hand and pulls her toward the sign in counter, her mouth a flat line like Noni sometimes gets when I break a dish or run too far outside for too long.

I catch Frances’s eye as she walks by me, her fingers woven tightly in what I now know is her mother’s hand. She smiles for a second, then turns away and even though I’ve spent most of my life in the world she’s about to enter, I can’t help but wonder what world she’s come from and why I can’t seem to understand it at all.

▲

Noni lets me sleep in the next morning and I wake up with my room filled with smoke and the smell of burning bread. Unlike most grandmas, or at least the ones I’ve read about in books, Noni can’t cook to save her life, a sentence she says regularly to avoid cooking altogether.

“Oh honey, you know I can’t cook to save my life. Why don’t you make us your special recipe for dinner?” And I’ll smile real proud and walk over to the kitchen with my head held high to cook us some of my famous tuna fish sandwiches, extra mayo extra mustard.

“You have to tell me your secret ingredient,” Noni’ll say but I’ll put an invisible key up to my closed lips while my eyes sparkle with a secret I’ll never tell.

Cumin.

It’s dad’s old recipe. I remember sitting on the kitchen counter when I was real small, my toes painted neon green and feet swinging off the edge while I watched dad stir up a batch of tuna salad.

His voice lowered to a whisper, like every time he was doing something super secret that he didn’t want Noni to find out about. “Now watch closely, Ari,” he said and he curved one finger in to tell me to inch towards him. “This is the most important part. The part no recipe’s ever gonna show you.”

I watched like I was watching the last inning of the World Series or last scene of one of those Soaps Noni watches back to back as she falls asleep on the couch.

He put his finger to his lips and took a pinch of some brown spice I’d never seen before from a little ceramic bowl on the counter.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice rising with curiosity.

“Now what did I just tell you, girl,” Dad growled and every hair on the back of my neck stood up straight like it was taking roll call. “This is our secret. Nobody else has gotta know. You understand?” I nodded solemnly without speaking to show him I meant business.

“Great. This right here is a spice called cumin. It’s a beautiful spice, about as powerful as a wave when it comes to cooking. One pinch of this and you’re, boom” He made a bat swinging motion with both his arms, “golden.”

“Cumin, got it,” I said like I was repeating back the entry code to a secret hideaway.

No, before I put in my pinch of Cumin to my tuna salad, I make a quick bat swinging motion with my arms, like I’m hitting a home run. Something I did a few times last season, even though dad wasn’t here to see it. As I ran from third base to home, I swore I saw his thick, dark hair turning and tossing in the late fall breeze. But he wasn’t there. I’m old enough now to know that he won’t ever be.

When I bring out my tuna fish sandwiches, cut into perfect triangles with carrots lining the edges, Noni’s wide smile, beaming with pride, turns south and tears begin to fall from the wrinkled corners of her eyes.

“What did I do? Did I use too much bread?” I ask as I slide the plate in front of her, my face filled with a hot shame.

“No, no, sweetheart,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face to hide the thick tears from her cheeks. “It’s not you. The sandwiches are just lovely. It’s just when I see you come out of that kitchen with our food like that I just can’t help but think ––” Her voice trails off, like she’s slowly disappearing into a tunnel.

“About dad?” I offer, knowing that she hates it when I bring him up. “Yes. And no. Just about how fast you’ve had to grow up. How much a little adult you’re becoming.” My smile returns. I collect moments of praise in a scrapbook in my mind. Every time a teacher or guidance counselor or any adult really comments on how mature I am, how I carry myself so well, I walk a few inches taller for the rest of the day like I’m walking in invisible high heels I see Jayla wearing when she sneaks out at night.

“Bone Apple-tite!” I say, my voice full of the kind of dignity I hear from food show hosts on TV.

Noni’s laugh fills the room and I can hear Jayla turn her music with the heavy drums up louder and louder. We eat our sandwiches with our pinkies out like the adults we are.

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The next time I see Frances is a couple weeks later during a one of those heavy mid-summer rainstorms where Noni drives five miles an hour down the road, and we can only see as far as our headlights. I love how the whole town gets swallowed up in the rain, how we could be anywhere in the world when we’re in our creaky pick-up truck crawling down the road.

It’s raining so hard Noni almost cancels our visit; even though she knows it’s the only thing that will get me screaming louder than Jayla’s music. It’s been a week since she’s let me visit on account of the truck needing to go to the mechanic and a hell of a week dealing with office folks, of whoever it is that Noni is talking to with when I’m watching cartoons in the living room. I hear her voice get real squealy until it doesn’t even sound like her and a lot of now you listen to me sir and for the love of God, but I press the volume up on the TV and let the fake sound effects of anvils and falling pianos fill the room.

So when we wake up in the morning and windows are all fogged up and I can hear the plop, plop, plop of the rainwater falling through the cracks in the ceiling into a pan on the floor, I march right into Noni’s room while she’s still in her nightgown and demand to be driven and if she won’t do it, maybe I’ll ask Jayla to do it instead. It takes a minute of screaming, but Noni knows what’s good for her and she knows she can’t afford to lose her only granddaughters just because she’s afraid of a little water.

With our hair stuck to our face and bodies dripping, we stumble into the waiting room, just as cold and gray as always. When I see Frances curled up in the same chair in the corner of the room, I have to stop myself from just running over and saying hi. This isn’t recess on the playground; I’m not looking for the last player for game of foursquare.

I slouch down in my seat next to Noni as she tries to pat us both dry with handkerchief she has in her soaking wet purse. I try to push her away but she’s a grandma and has a few tricks under her sleeve. My face is red and I want so badly to look as calm and in control as Frances does, with her feet tucked under her and another thick book in her lap.

I think she notices me staring at her, because she closes her book and sits up straight, her dark eyes not even blinking as they look at me.

“Hey,” she says and I almost jump because I didn’t expect her voice to sound so low and serious, like a radio show host.

“Hey,” I say back and stand up wincing as my wet thighs stick to the plastic chair tops.

We stand face-to-face, her a few inches taller than me. I stick out my hand like I’ve seen adults do so many times and say, “Hi. I’m Arianna. You can call me Ari, if you want.”

She grasps my hand, her fingers thin and bony and says, “I’m Frances. You can call me Frances.”

We stare at each other for another few seconds, not sure what to say next. It’s not the first time I’ve seen another kid here, usually playing a handheld video game at maximum volume or slurping some bright purple or blue drink out of a plastic can. Frances is the first kid who seems like she might also be called precocious by her grandmother. I want her to know that I’m precocious too.

The real problem, I’m realizing in this moment standing here in this nearly empty room, is that there’s nowhere really to go from here. We can ask each other the basic questions –– the ones I always hear adults exchanging lazily in line at the grocery story or bank. So what do you do? How’s your sister doing? How long have you lived around here? But all of these questions are always asked when it seems like you don’t really care what their answer is. I want to know Frances –– there’s something about her stormy eyes and thick books and bulging knees that makes me even more fascinated by her than I am by the guest on the morning talk shows I watch with their blinding white smiles and transformation stories.

She is braver than I am. “Who are you visiting?” she asks without moving her eyes from mine.

“My dad,” I say, “You?”

“Me too. So what did he do?”

No one has ever asked me this before. I assumed it wasn’t “dinner table conversation” like my grandma always says about politics and religion and parents in prison. I think about getting mad and brushing her off but I don’t. Instead I say in a quiet voice so Noni won’t hear, “He killed somebody.” I want to ask her her what her dad did but I just feel like running miles in the opposite direction.

“Forever?” She asks and I just nod and without having to ask I know that her dad’s going to be here forever too.

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