It's not like you to be out at this hour. Where are you?
Clumsy was right.
He knows his time is limited. His strength will wear out if he pushes on to his apartment, but he has few other options.
By time he’s made it to Jill’s street, the choice is made for him.
He’s half blind when he gets to the front step of her building, one palm clamped over his temple and the other preoccupied with steadying himself against the walls, blood dripping into his eyes. He shoulders his way through the front doors and stumbles through the lobby, leaving a trail of droplets behind him. In the elevator, he sags against the mirror, watching the numbers go up, blinking listlessly.
The steps to her door are agonizing slow, and twice he veers to the side, the world lurching under his unsteady feet. Her doorframe is a convenient place to rest, the sound of his body thumping against it preceding a curt knock.
If she doesn’t answer, he’ll understand.
He knows his time is limited. His strength will wear out if he pushes on to his apartment, but he has few other options.
By time he’s made it to Jill’s street, the choice is made for him.
He’s half blind when he gets to the front step of her building, one palm clamped over his temple and the other preoccupied with steadying himself against the walls, blood dripping into his eyes. He shoulders his way through the front doors and stumbles through the lobby, leaving a trail of droplets behind him. In the elevator, he sags against the mirror, watching the numbers go up, blinking listlessly.
The steps to her door are agonizing slow, and twice he veers to the side, the world lurching under his unsteady feet. Her doorframe is a convenient place to rest, the sound of his body thumping against it preceding a curt knock.
If she doesn’t answer, he’ll understand.
The thump at her door in the dead of night scares the breath right out of her. She'd been up, though planning to sleep after a few more pages of the book she'd been reading for the evening. For a moment, she thinks she imagined the sound. But when she sits upright in bed, she finds herself swinging her legs out from under the covers and flipping the light on in the dining room before cautiously opening the door.
She does not expect to see the man that broke her heart.
Before sharp words can even form in her mind she sees the blood, wet and bright and far too much. And just like that, the collapse of their relationship is cast aside. Reflexively, she reaches for him, to help get him through the door.
"Clive, what's happened?" She asks, and the nearest seat is at the dining room table. "Easy. Sit here."
She does not expect to see the man that broke her heart.
Before sharp words can even form in her mind she sees the blood, wet and bright and far too much. And just like that, the collapse of their relationship is cast aside. Reflexively, she reaches for him, to help get him through the door.
"Clive, what's happened?" She asks, and the nearest seat is at the dining room table. "Easy. Sit here."
Jill,
I hope you're well.
I have a proposition for you. Would you be available to meet me at some point this week?
No need to bring Torgal.
Respectfully,
Clive
I hope you're well.
I have a proposition for you. Would you be available to meet me at some point this week?
No need to bring Torgal.
Respectfully,
Clive
[ A gift for Jill has been left under the Winter Festival tree at P and Dion's cottage. It's wrapped simply in a shiny blue bag with white tissue paper sticking out the top. Inside, carefully wrapped in paper to protect it, is a large snow globe. Each time it's shaken the scene within changes, showing a nostalgic scene for the wielder's childhood. The replicas aren't exact, no memory is perfect, but the scenes are always pleasant at best and never worse than bittersweet.
The note attached reads: ]
Happy Solstice, Jill. Thank you for everything.
Dion
The note attached reads: ]
Happy Solstice, Jill. Thank you for everything.
Dion
[It's so thoughtful Jill almost cries. And that's before she gives it a little experimental shake and reveals a scene surprisingly lacking Joshua or Clive. It's of when she first got to hold Torgal, the little ball of fur immediately squirming to try and lick her face.
It's why, upon seeing Dion, she throws her arms around him in a happy hug. Hope he's sitting.]
It's why, upon seeing Dion, she throws her arms around him in a happy hug. Hope he's sitting.]
[Jill will find a package arrive to her house with her name on it. Inside is a thigh blade and holster along with a small note.]
It took a bit of saving up, but considering what you told me, I'd rest easier knowing my new friend had a little extra protection even when she's wearing a beautiful dress.
Keep yourself safe.
-Thancred
It took a bit of saving up, but considering what you told me, I'd rest easier knowing my new friend had a little extra protection even when she's wearing a beautiful dress.
Keep yourself safe.
-Thancred
[It's no gunblade, but she'll take it. She's touched that he remembered, and that he cared enough to save up when he really didn't have to do so. So, she makes sure to message him as soon as she's opened her gift:]
Thank you, Thancred. I will.
You must allow me to treat you to a meal or coffee. Or both, if you have the time.
Thank you, Thancred. I will.
You must allow me to treat you to a meal or coffee. Or both, if you have the time.
[The folded fabric square Jill receives is more doily than handkerchief. Embroidered at one corner is the phrase 'You're alright, I guess' in incredibly embellished script. Not only is the script surrounded by stitched gardenias, but the cloth itself is wrapped around a small bouquet, just a handful of them.
Poked through two of the lace loops are a pair of handcuff shaped earrings.]
Poked through two of the lace loops are a pair of handcuff shaped earrings.]
[Not too long after the delivery reaches Jill, Astarion will receive a video message.
There's a glimpse of the underside of Jill's jaw before the view is that of her bedroom. All white linen and soft sunlight, but she moves closer to a frame on the wall over her desk. Before it sits the bouquet in a vase, and once close enough, it's obvious Jill thought his embroidery delightful enough to frame and hang where she'll often see it.
There's a soft laugh before she ends the video.]
There's a glimpse of the underside of Jill's jaw before the view is that of her bedroom. All white linen and soft sunlight, but she moves closer to a frame on the wall over her desk. Before it sits the bouquet in a vase, and once close enough, it's obvious Jill thought his embroidery delightful enough to frame and hang where she'll often see it.
There's a soft laugh before she ends the video.]
Clive doesn’t ease up on his hold on Jill until he hears the door lock behind her departing friends. Even then, he keeps hold of her, his cheek against her head. He sighs as silence overtakes the house.
“Well,” he says. “That isn’t how I expected the evening to go.”
“Well,” he says. “That isn’t how I expected the evening to go.”
“I know this isn’t usual, for us,” he says, by way of an apology. He’s nervous. Most couldn’t tell, at least — his resting expression is as tight-knit as ever, and he’s never been one for cold feet, anyhow. But it’s there, at the very least in the way he walks Jill up the front steps of the unmarked old house nestled on the fringe of the pleasure district, as though moving fast enough might prevent them being seen.
He holds the door open for her. The lobby has dimmed lighting, dark wood and sumptuous velvet upholsteries. The clerk at the desk is partially hidden by a privacy screen, and is tending to another guest. They must wait. The framed portraits lining the walls are of men and women in various states of dress, but all of them gaze at the viewer with heat in their eyes. Clive does not look at them.
Clive looks to Jill, tensely gauging her reaction.
He adds: “If you don’t like it, we can leave.”
The loudest thought in her head is about how Clive knows of this place at all. He's nervous, she can tell, and so that saves him from an interrogation. This feels naughty. She looks from portrait to portrait, quiet until her gaze falls to Clive.
"What, exactly, are we meant to do here?" She asks, and she whispers because it feels like she's not supposed to be loud. Not out here, at any rate. He brought her here as a surprise, as something he thought she'd enjoy--she doesn't look ready to turn heel and leave, curiosity winning, but she does make sure her hand his firmly in his.
"What, exactly, are we meant to do here?" She asks, and she whispers because it feels like she's not supposed to be loud. Not out here, at any rate. He brought her here as a surprise, as something he thought she'd enjoy--she doesn't look ready to turn heel and leave, curiosity winning, but she does make sure her hand his firmly in his.
[ The video is not of Dion himself, but of his BEASTFORCE jacket, laid out on the dining room table. The inside has been impressively improved upon, given a dragonscale pattern as well as a few minor alterations and repairs. Dion's fingers reach into the camera frame, tracing over the lining. His voice is fond. ]
Are you responsible for this?
Are you responsible for this?
Clive meanders behind Jill. In one hand he carries no fewer than four shopping bags, all jostling together with every step, the colourful strings wound round his fingers. In his other hand is a drink, comically large, halfway drained, and he sucks at it between relatively unhelpful statements directed at whatever clothes Jill holds up: Is that too big? Would he wear that? He does not know. He is not good at clothes, as a habitual wearer of whatever is given to him. Some bodies are made to be adorned, but not his: it is, at best, a fleshly thing to throw at whatever threatens him or his until it cannot move anymore. It doesn’t matter. The thrum of the mall drones out any higher thought.
Clive Rosfield was not made for the mall, yet he persists. He wonders, not for the first time, when Joshua will be done spending time with Dion. He does not wonder why he feels restless about it.
“Do you want some?” he says, offering Jill the drink, straw pointed forward.
Clive Rosfield was not made for the mall, yet he persists. He wonders, not for the first time, when Joshua will be done spending time with Dion. He does not wonder why he feels restless about it.
“Do you want some?” he says, offering Jill the drink, straw pointed forward.
While Astarion's new endeavor will certainly provide some clothes for Joshua, Jill is determined he have a decent wardrobe. Things to sleep in. Things to wear when the sun threatens to cook them. Things to wear when the temperature inevitably drops, and winter comes again. What if they go out for a nice meal? He should have a variety of shirts, in different cuts, to see what he likes best. A new belt to cinch in his new pants in case she got the size wrong, not to mention undergarments...
"Oh?" Jill's snapped out of her thoughts when presented with the straw. She smiles in the next moment, leaning in to taste it. The cold is wonderful with the heat outside, but the flavor has her scrunching her nose with a small laugh once she swallows. "Ah, that's tart!"
Maybe it's a little exaggerated, but she's been doing her best to keep Clive's spirits up. She can afford to be foolish for his sake.
"Oh?" Jill's snapped out of her thoughts when presented with the straw. She smiles in the next moment, leaning in to taste it. The cold is wonderful with the heat outside, but the flavor has her scrunching her nose with a small laugh once she swallows. "Ah, that's tart!"
Maybe it's a little exaggerated, but she's been doing her best to keep Clive's spirits up. She can afford to be foolish for his sake.
Despite a rocky start, it’s been easy to sink into this new routine: the one where he’s happy, immersed in a life he never thought he’d have. He wants to savour every minute, whatever it may be, isolated from the world beyond this neon city.
When Joshua heads out, he doesn’t think twice. The moment the door closes and just enough time has passed that his brother wouldn’t double back to pick up a forgotten item, Clive ventures from the couch to the kitchen. He sidles up behind Jill and his thoughts feel bold even before he reaches around her with his other hand to take the knife, stilling her chopping. With his other hand he pinches the bow-tail of her apron and tugs it loose, head bent just enough to nose at her temple, the sweep of her hair behind her ear.
“This can wait,” he says. “Come lounge with me.”
When Joshua heads out, he doesn’t think twice. The moment the door closes and just enough time has passed that his brother wouldn’t double back to pick up a forgotten item, Clive ventures from the couch to the kitchen. He sidles up behind Jill and his thoughts feel bold even before he reaches around her with his other hand to take the knife, stilling her chopping. With his other hand he pinches the bow-tail of her apron and tugs it loose, head bent just enough to nose at her temple, the sweep of her hair behind her ear.
“This can wait,” he says. “Come lounge with me.”
While Joshua's arrival does draw attention to the cracks in the foundation of Clive, Jill must admit he's seemed happier. There is tension, there is a weight, but she thinks it's been good for him to have Joshua once more. With time, she knows he'll find his courage to approach the things pulling on his heart.
She's already breathing out a laugh when he slips behind her. The cucumber she's slicing can wait, she supposes--and she tips her head back enough to catch Clive's eyes with a warm smile.
"I'm convinced."
She holds onto moments like these like they might once more disappear.
She's already breathing out a laugh when he slips behind her. The cucumber she's slicing can wait, she supposes--and she tips her head back enough to catch Clive's eyes with a warm smile.
"I'm convinced."
She holds onto moments like these like they might once more disappear.
It's late.
It's usually late when Clive gets home, and it's unfortunately becoming typical once more for him to return through the basement entrance. As he always does, he listens for movement upstairs before creeping up there himself to poke his head in Joshua's room and check that his baby brother is safely asleep there. As he tries to resist doing but seldom achieves: he pokes his head into Jill's room, too. He lingers there in the doorway to make sure her bed really is empty, and it puts a frown on his face and a lump in the back of his throat.
He creeps back downstairs and pads quietly through the main floor, checking the living room, the kitchen, the back porch. Nothing. He checks the front door. Locked. He ventures back outside, into the alley, and he checks the garage. No bike.
Clive sighs.
It's not supposed to be his business, but here he is, concerned anyway.
"Who is treating you well tonight, Jill?" he asks the dark, empty street.
It's usually late when Clive gets home, and it's unfortunately becoming typical once more for him to return through the basement entrance. As he always does, he listens for movement upstairs before creeping up there himself to poke his head in Joshua's room and check that his baby brother is safely asleep there. As he tries to resist doing but seldom achieves: he pokes his head into Jill's room, too. He lingers there in the doorway to make sure her bed really is empty, and it puts a frown on his face and a lump in the back of his throat.
He creeps back downstairs and pads quietly through the main floor, checking the living room, the kitchen, the back porch. Nothing. He checks the front door. Locked. He ventures back outside, into the alley, and he checks the garage. No bike.
Clive sighs.
It's not supposed to be his business, but here he is, concerned anyway.
"Who is treating you well tonight, Jill?" he asks the dark, empty street.
No one is treating Jill well tonight, including the road.
She wishes the bike made less noise as she pulls up to the house, stopping in the driveway to gingerly climb off. No garage tonight. She knows if the engine itself hasn't woken up Joshua or Clive, the garage will with its whirring and creaking. She still hopes there's a chance neither will be up. Or if they are, they'll leave her be. She's too tired to argue or explain or do anything but look miserable.
It's a poor mood that wasn't helped by a mistake she can't even recall, and she's upset with herself for it, because it's just one more thing. The drive was to help clear her mind, but all it did was set her thoughts swirling around her head. Dion. Clive. Joshua. That awful night and her terrible choices and how alone she feels despite having the ones she loves near.
She barely minded the traffic signals as she weaved through the city, but she thought herself practiced enough to instinctively stop at a red light. She doesn't remember seeing it. All she remembers is the sting of her hip and elbow and her bike on its side some feet away and some angry soul berating her from a car about splattering her.
She's a reckless fool. Some miserable part of her wonders and so what? if it had been worse than skinned limbs that will ache in the morning. Fool. Already, as she stiffly walks up to the porch and opens the front door, she has to make an attempt to move normally. She was lucky. Her clothes, not so much. Her white blouse is stained with black and red from elbow to wrist, and the light wash jeans have a similar streak of black on the same side, right at the hip. Tomorrow, she will have to see if her bike's nice new paint needs to be touched up.
If she can walk.
For now, she just wants to creep up the stairs to her room and soak in a bath.
She wishes the bike made less noise as she pulls up to the house, stopping in the driveway to gingerly climb off. No garage tonight. She knows if the engine itself hasn't woken up Joshua or Clive, the garage will with its whirring and creaking. She still hopes there's a chance neither will be up. Or if they are, they'll leave her be. She's too tired to argue or explain or do anything but look miserable.
It's a poor mood that wasn't helped by a mistake she can't even recall, and she's upset with herself for it, because it's just one more thing. The drive was to help clear her mind, but all it did was set her thoughts swirling around her head. Dion. Clive. Joshua. That awful night and her terrible choices and how alone she feels despite having the ones she loves near.
She barely minded the traffic signals as she weaved through the city, but she thought herself practiced enough to instinctively stop at a red light. She doesn't remember seeing it. All she remembers is the sting of her hip and elbow and her bike on its side some feet away and some angry soul berating her from a car about splattering her.
She's a reckless fool. Some miserable part of her wonders and so what? if it had been worse than skinned limbs that will ache in the morning. Fool. Already, as she stiffly walks up to the porch and opens the front door, she has to make an attempt to move normally. She was lucky. Her clothes, not so much. Her white blouse is stained with black and red from elbow to wrist, and the light wash jeans have a similar streak of black on the same side, right at the hip. Tomorrow, she will have to see if her bike's nice new paint needs to be touched up.
If she can walk.
For now, she just wants to creep up the stairs to her room and soak in a bath.
lol that’s the stupidest fucking typo I love phone tagging
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rosarianoath
- 2024-07-28 18:36 (UTC) - ExpandPlans on Thursday evening. He’d told her so she’d keep her schedule clear, and to make arrangements around Joshua having his own plans, in the name of not missing a family dinner. He hadn’t told her where, or what kind of food, or what to wear, but he figures it should be casual. This is dating, or so his rough understanding of it tells him: you spend time together, get to know each other, keep chaste and low-pressure. All things sorely needed for them right now, if he’s being honest, and he’s very much trying to be.
He tromps halfway up the stairs, just far enough that he can see in her bedroom doorway, so he doesn’t have to yell. He just calls: “Should I call a car, if you’re nearly ready?”
He’s picked a little place on the pier. It should be plenty casual. And safe, right? No tension.
He tromps halfway up the stairs, just far enough that he can see in her bedroom doorway, so he doesn’t have to yell. He just calls: “Should I call a car, if you’re nearly ready?”
He’s picked a little place on the pier. It should be plenty casual. And safe, right? No tension.
Jill's putting in the last few pins into her hair, pinning braids to the back of her skull to keep all that hair from sticking to the back of her neck. It's so hot these days that, even if she has no idea where they're going, she knows she'll sweat herself mad if she doesn't make an effort to tame all of that length.
"I'm almost done," she tells him. "Go ahead."
Her voice is calm despite feeling oddly nervous. She agonized over what to wear--setting on something casual, but not too much. She doesn't want him to think she doesn't care about this date of theirs. It's a cute dress, light blue and airy, exposing her shoulders and stopping right above her knee. Friendly. Casual. Prepared for a good time. Rebuilding trust.
She leans over to peer at him through the doorway.
"Do I get to know where we're going?"
"I'm almost done," she tells him. "Go ahead."
Her voice is calm despite feeling oddly nervous. She agonized over what to wear--setting on something casual, but not too much. She doesn't want him to think she doesn't care about this date of theirs. It's a cute dress, light blue and airy, exposing her shoulders and stopping right above her knee. Friendly. Casual. Prepared for a good time. Rebuilding trust.
She leans over to peer at him through the doorway.
"Do I get to know where we're going?"
text | un: fangs | a day or two after Jill no showed sewing club :(
blooddrive
2024-08-05 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)
[If one were to look, Astarion is actually standing outside her home -- well, across the street, to be fair -- looking up at her window. Rather than call to her, or try to throw something to get her attention, however, he pulls out his overly clunky communications unit and pecks out:]
You know it's frightfully boring, sitting on the edge of the park by myself.
You know it's frightfully boring, sitting on the edge of the park by myself.
[A text, at four in the morning, when she's sure not to see it right away:]
I'm going to leave a letter for you. I tell you this because I do not want you to be frightened of it, but I am sorry if it leaves you saddened or uncomfortable just the same.
[A handwritten note on both sides of a single piece of paper, folded neatly once and quietly left on Jill's bedside table, undated:]
I'm going to leave a letter for you. I tell you this because I do not want you to be frightened of it, but I am sorry if it leaves you saddened or uncomfortable just the same.
[A handwritten note on both sides of a single piece of paper, folded neatly once and quietly left on Jill's bedside table, undated:]
Jill,
It took me a long time to work up the courage to write this. I still do not know if I have the heart to send it, but I know my writing hand will fare better than my voice, despite how rarely I take up the pen. I hope you'll forgive me.
Reuniting with you in 873 was the end of a dark chapter of my life, but it was hardly a reunion with the light. When Cid led me back to the Hideaway, I felt little different from when I was taken by the Imperials thirteen years prior. No one ever needed to chain me because I accepted whatever punishment they laid upon my head — the only crown I was ever worthy of.
But there was you. When we were under a looming blade, I grasped you. I wanted to die holding the only living thing I cared for. But the more time I had to reckon with my new reality, the more my hands shook at the thought of touching you again. Cid fed you water & massaged your throat until you swallowed. Goetz lifted you so tenderly. Much as I wanted to, I could not help. I walked so many miles just watching your feet dangling from the litter, swaying with every step.
We found ourselves at the Hideaway, you in fragile health, I a cornered animal, fearful & ready to bare teeth. They put you to bed. I was sure Tarja would see right through me if I begged to stay with you. I couldn’t have. I was so ashamed that I considered my presence an infliction upon you, a death knell for what lingered of your life. A life I'd almost taken, my own still completely undeserved. What right did I have to sit at your bedside? But Cid never suffered idle bodies, so I did not have much choice & was sent out straight away.
I cannot make sense of my thoughts at the time. My memory seems to have slipped away from me, leaving me with only little moments, white hot & terrible, twists of blades I didn't know were stuck in my body. I cannot recall what happened first. But we did travel a little while you recovered. Cid & Gav & I. I felt very unwelcome despite their best efforts. Too far gone from kindness. But I saw bits of the world that were not battlefields or barracks or the myriad of poorly places Imperials keep the enslaved, & I was traveling with Torgal. We crossed a bridge. It was high above a chasm, the rocks below so far I could not tell you the true size of them. I felt I was captive to people who were ambivalent to how much I craved punishment. They wanted me to make something of myself, but I had no way left to serve but a revenge that seemed beyond my grasp. I thought to throw myself on the rocks, dash my skull into parts, spill my blood into the river. I thought it might be a relief.
Torgal whined & it called away my attention. Even then I could have made him bear witness to it & felt no consequence, but you were at the Hideaway, still. I felt shamed to even consider doing that to you, & I thought I'd like to see you again.
I am almost at the end of this paper & my hand has begun to cramp. But I thought you should know: there has never been a time in my entire life, no matter how dark, where I haven't wanted to see you again.
With love,
Clive
[Clive will find a letter folded on his bed. The paper is very cute.]
That you felt the need to write to me at all gives me heart. I appreciate this more than you know. For the longest time I felt my spoken words to be weaker than what my hand could write. They seemed stronger on paper. I understand how quickly the heart can pound when putting down words in a place where they can live forever. I do think there is much merit in this, and so I will happily read whatever you wish to share with me, Clive. Thank you for leaving your letter. I am glad you did.
You write of the very first time you saved me. When you walked through that door, I was almost certain I was dead, my suffering over, and I had finally found you in the afterlife. Unmistakably you, but so many years older than you were the night of Phoenix Gate. I was not dead, but given a second chance and a purpose. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering what became of you. Then you told me, and I could feel how much you hurt. I knew the wounds were deep. I only wished to support you and ease the pain as much as I could. That is still my wish but we have no Phoenix Gate to journey to, no ruins to explore, no truth to discover. We only have one another and our efforts to rebuild our foundations stronger than they were.
We need not discuss our letters in person if you find it uncomfortable. I will respect that and not be the first to bring them up. Of course to hear of your pain saddens me, but I knew it was there because I recognized what I felt was so often there in your eyes. I would relieve the weight of your heavy heart in any way I can. I have always wished to hear not only your thoughts, but your feelings as well. They matter to me. I love you.
Yours always,
Jill
[Once more, a handwritten note left on Jill's bedside table, undated:]
Jill,
I wanted to write to you again but I cannot decide what is more mortifying. To imagine you reading this at all? To imagine you thinking ill of me for being unable to respond to your thoughtful reply? To delve into my own thoughts? But I must try.
I have never been good at letters, have I? In my solar there is a box of old letters I've kept & I've reread them from time to time when I feel poorly, but I cannot say there is a soul in the Hideaway who knows what my handwriting looks like. It's terrible. I think every tutor I've ever had would switch me across the palms if they saw. I am sad to think about it.
I do not like being in one of these fierce moods where all I wish to do is wallow, but they come upon me all the time now, in a way they haven't since I was first freed. One night, when you were still under Tarja's care, I found myself in one & unable to sleep. I was upset at having a bed, in particular that a bed had been spared for me when so many others could have used it. In the company of people who had taken great pains to make me feel welcome & cared for, I thought it would be ungrateful to sleep on the floor instead. How can a man be so miserable when he has escaped much worse? Cid set me right, of course, telling me off for making it so complicated & setting me right to work. What was said between us did not matter so much that he sat & listened to me at all.
Do you miss Cid? I knew him so briefly that it feels foolish to care so deeply, but he changed the course of my life so firmly that any other path I could have walked was cut away entirely. I wonder what he would think of me now, & if it would make him cross to see what a mess I've made of Valisthea, all for nothing, & brought that pain & suffering to this place. I would hope not but I cannot help but believe if he was the one smacking me upside the head I'd quit wallowing & make things right. I loved him fiercely for the time I knew him.
Yours,
Clive
Edited 2024-08-23 02:41 (UTC)
[Again, left on his bed:]
Clive,
There is no need for you to assume the worst. That you bring yourself to write to me is enough. I understand that it is difficult for you, and so I have no need for a response to my reply. An embrace tells me all I need to know. I hope we are both learning more about you through these letters. After all this time, there's still more to uncover. I see that as a good thing. I want to know every part of you, Clive. Even the parts you wish to protect me from, for you shouldn't feel the need to carry anything alone.
That said, my replies may be delayed as I must interpret your handwriting.
(I jest. Did I make you smile? My heart flutters whenever I manage to make you laugh. I would not have been able to keep a straight face in person. Your handwriting is perfectly adequate, but I will gladly tutor you if it robs you of sleep.)
I also miss Cid. He would enjoy my joke, I think. I wish he and I had more opportunities to speak with one another. There was much I was still uncomfortable to speak of to you, let alone him. I owe him my life as much as I owe it to you. Much like you, he inspired me. He gave me a purpose that was more than slaughter. I would sometimes pray that he watched over us, and knew that we would carry on his legacy and keep Mid out of too much trouble. Both daunting tasks.
I wish he was here with us now You're right--he would make sense of our troubles. I believe he loved you, too. He believed in you, and he was not wrong in that. He would be proud of you. I know you must already be denying that in your head, frowning as you read my words, but it is the truth. You have accomplished so much, and there is still more yet to do. My faith has not always been strong, especially here, but if anything I believe in you. I have found myself in dark places, but I am determined to regain my hope in Valisthea.
You are very quick to think Joshua, myself, or Cid would think ill of you. Joshua does not. I do not. Cid would not. Again, I know you do not want to hear that because you do not believe it to be true. You are very much like Cid, and not because you took on his name and his cause. You are both remarkable and unique men that put their entire being into what they do. I admire that. I have always admired you.
If ever you are in a mood and wish to wallow with the comfort of company, you are welcome to come to me. Come into my bed and I will wrap my arms around you as you try to find rest. I would like to offer you that much. We need not talk if you do not wish to speak of your troubles, but I will always listen. I wish to be better at listening with you.
Love,
Jill
Clive descends the stairs from their room with a piece of fabric in one hand. It is not a lot of fabric, both because it is light and not particularly expansive. He finds Jill in the living room and holds it up like a dead fish.
Athletic shorts, it seems.
“No,” he says, flatly.
Athletic shorts, it seems.
“No,” he says, flatly.
Edited 2024-10-06 18:58 (UTC)
He's been sweating buckets since the moment he woke up.
He's fine, of course. He always runs hot, so it's nothing to be concerned about. But he doesn't even make it to noon before he monopolizes the couch for a nap, and when he's awake, the scratchy feeling in his throat is annoying enough that it's tricky to ignore. He tries anyway. He shuffles to the back window and looks out at the garden: the over-long lawn, the spring flowers that need to be planted, beds to mulch, and the new tree that apparently needs to be staked. Jill wants it done this weekend. He just groans and shuffles around the house, t-shirt clinging to his sticky skin, until he finds her upstairs.
"Do we really need to garden today?" he asks, followed by the first disgusting, wet cough.
He's fine, of course. He always runs hot, so it's nothing to be concerned about. But he doesn't even make it to noon before he monopolizes the couch for a nap, and when he's awake, the scratchy feeling in his throat is annoying enough that it's tricky to ignore. He tries anyway. He shuffles to the back window and looks out at the garden: the over-long lawn, the spring flowers that need to be planted, beds to mulch, and the new tree that apparently needs to be staked. Jill wants it done this weekend. He just groans and shuffles around the house, t-shirt clinging to his sticky skin, until he finds her upstairs.
"Do we really need to garden today?" he asks, followed by the first disgusting, wet cough.
A day of housekeeping (a thing she deeply enjoys, mind you) has kept her busy. Clive had looked a little sweaty, she had noted in the morning, but she opens the windows before heading outside to groom Torgal. The floors don't appreciate his sharp claws. Then she's back inside, taking stock of the pantry. Clive's only tasks are to handle the garden, and it's early yet, so when she finds him taking a nap she simply lets him be and heads upstairs to change the bedding and gather things to take down to the basement.
She's just putting the last pillow back on the bed when he appears. The sight of him makes her frown. It's not unlike him to put off work.
The cough makes her brow furrow.
"Clive," she says, stepping around the bed to approach him. "Are you ill?"
She's just putting the last pillow back on the bed when he appears. The sight of him makes her frown. It's not unlike him to put off work.
The cough makes her brow furrow.
"Clive," she says, stepping around the bed to approach him. "Are you ill?"
Clive is sober. Really. Please hold your skepticism, even as he pulls out his house key and skitters the tip off the brass plate three times before he gets in it, even as he chuckles under his breath as he enters the house and fumbles to get his jacket off when one sleeve is bunched up to his elbow. He misses the hook and lets the jacket crumple quietly to the floor, and he follows the well-worn path up the stairs to their bedroom. The lights are off. He can’t wait to crawl in with her. He slips into the bathroom first to take a leak and brush his teeth, and then he shucks off his shirt in the dark.
He bonks his elbow off the door and guffaws under his breath again.
He has to be quiet. He can’t wake Jill.
He bonks his elbow off the door and guffaws under his breath again.
He has to be quiet. He can’t wake Jill.
He likes to keep Jill company while she does laundry, and in his mind, there is little better than a Saturday like this: his body slouched into the couch, knees splayed lazily, Star Trek on the television, and Jill cuddled into his side, her hand in his sweatpants.
“I like when they visit other planets,” he says, idly running a hand up her side, eyes fixed on the screen. “Sometimes there are interesting beasts…”
Like the one on screen right now, which is clearly a hound in a costume.
“I like when they visit other planets,” he says, idly running a hand up her side, eyes fixed on the screen. “Sometimes there are interesting beasts…”
Like the one on screen right now, which is clearly a hound in a costume.
Jill can understand why he likes this show, though it's not really her cup of tea. But he likes these lazy afternoons with little too do but tend to their home and one another.
"How cute," she says, more interested in fondling him than the screen. "Nothing too fearsome, I hope..."
"How cute," she says, more interested in fondling him than the screen. "Nothing too fearsome, I hope..."
my (34M) girlfriend (31F) bent my dick during sex and now it hurts
rosarianoath
2025-01-21 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
She is beautiful.
He looks up at her, pupils blown out, lips parted as his eyes rove over the underside of her tits. Her thighs bracket his hips and he grips her so he can guide her weight down onto his cock –– but it doesn't last. He makes a soft sound of surprise as she gathers his wrists and brings them up to pin them to his chest.
"Let me help," he protests, but Founder, at least it'd still be good to just look up at her and the bounce of her tits as she rides him.
He looks up at her, pupils blown out, lips parted as his eyes rove over the underside of her tits. Her thighs bracket his hips and he grips her so he can guide her weight down onto his cock –– but it doesn't last. He makes a soft sound of surprise as she gathers his wrists and brings them up to pin them to his chest.
"Let me help," he protests, but Founder, at least it'd still be good to just look up at her and the bounce of her tits as she rides him.
"I don't need your help," she says with a huff of breath and a smile as she moves against him. He's handsome, wanting and eager beneath her. She's so wet. It makes it all the easier to move quickly, knees just managing to press into the mattress, and after a moment she manages to find a steady rhythm as she bounces on his dick.
It's great until one bounce is a little too high, and he slips out of her just as she comes down. The entirety of her weight hits his erection.
It's great until one bounce is a little too high, and he slips out of her just as she comes down. The entirety of her weight hits his erection.
He’d found the old coupons in the back corner of the dresser downstairs, forgotten since he’d moved in last winter. They were in a box, crumpled with takeout receipts and a chain of long-expired condoms and a half-finished bag of sour cherry candies, each one as hard as a rock. He’d held them up to the light, squinting at the tiny white text declaring they were still valid, mercifully, for another six months. Good enough.
He makes enough to feed and house the four of them, but every bit counts.
Satisfied, Clive tromps back up the stairs, coupon folded and tucked into his back pocket. He fetches Jill –– “ready?” –– and off they go, into a cab across town. He doesn’t make eye-contact with the driver as he gets out, rounds the car, and then opens the other door for Jill. It’s not anyone’s business what they buy, he assures himself.
“I don’t know why this is more embarrassing than the club,” he murmurs, offering his hand to help her out.
He makes enough to feed and house the four of them, but every bit counts.
Satisfied, Clive tromps back up the stairs, coupon folded and tucked into his back pocket. He fetches Jill –– “ready?” –– and off they go, into a cab across town. He doesn’t make eye-contact with the driver as he gets out, rounds the car, and then opens the other door for Jill. It’s not anyone’s business what they buy, he assures himself.
“I don’t know why this is more embarrassing than the club,” he murmurs, offering his hand to help her out.
"It really shouldn't be," Jill agrees with a tiny, gleeful giggle as she takes Clive's arm. It's another new thing in a city where such shops are rather normal. And while she never thought she'd be here with Clive, she never imagined herself going to the clubs, either. Life is full of surprises.
"As long as we don't encounter Joshua or Dion, we're simply..." Well, now she's made herself worry, and she scrunches her nose before glancing up and down the street. "Nevermind. Let's go, Clive."
Before they're seen.
"As long as we don't encounter Joshua or Dion, we're simply..." Well, now she's made herself worry, and she scrunches her nose before glancing up and down the street. "Nevermind. Let's go, Clive."
Before they're seen.
The picture comes through with no preamble, no fanfare, no warning. It’s just there, a message notification and an image. The camera points down at a penis at half mast, and the angle is such that it looks like it is sprouting, disembodied, from an anemone of dark pubic hair. The flash is on, the skin blown out, the background almost dark enough to hide the top of a bare foot. Maybe it’s a kitchen, maybe a bathroom? Maybe that’s a shirt discarded on the floor. There’s nothing really going on, but it’s all a little much.
No comment follows. That’s it.
No comment follows. That’s it.
Jill is sitting on a patio, sipping a hot latte. She's chatting with Dion, her phone face down on the table. When Dion excuses himself to the restroom, her phone buzzes. As she takes a sip of her drink, she picks up her phone, swiping, expecting to see a text from Clive. Perhaps he's asking when she'll be home, or if she'll grab something from the store, or maybe he forgot she rearranged the pantry and can't find his snacks. Instead, it's a picture.
Skin? Jill squints for half a moment, trying to register what she's looking at. Clive. Clive's...?
Clive's cock! The suddenly clarity is like ice water on the back of her neck, and she gasps, sucking up foam that goes down the wrong pipe, a trembling hand hurriedly trying to stuff her phone into her coat pocket because she is surrounded by people and that was a terribly unflattering picture of a very nice cock.
By the time Dion returns, Jill's dabbing at the frothed milk she's spilled on herself, face red. He kindly assures her it's just a little spill and hardly shows. For another half hour, Jill tries to pay attention to her friend and not think about what she saw, but she can see it every time she closes her eyes.
Jill doesn't respond by text. She can't. Dion sees her home, and she steps in through the front door and glances to the kitchen. Did he take it there? She can't even tell.
"Clive? Are you upstairs?"
Skin? Jill squints for half a moment, trying to register what she's looking at. Clive. Clive's...?
Clive's cock! The suddenly clarity is like ice water on the back of her neck, and she gasps, sucking up foam that goes down the wrong pipe, a trembling hand hurriedly trying to stuff her phone into her coat pocket because she is surrounded by people and that was a terribly unflattering picture of a very nice cock.
By the time Dion returns, Jill's dabbing at the frothed milk she's spilled on herself, face red. He kindly assures her it's just a little spill and hardly shows. For another half hour, Jill tries to pay attention to her friend and not think about what she saw, but she can see it every time she closes her eyes.
Jill doesn't respond by text. She can't. Dion sees her home, and she steps in through the front door and glances to the kitchen. Did he take it there? She can't even tell.
"Clive? Are you upstairs?"
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