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Entry tags:
holiday from real. if we were ever there in the first place.
Fahye Dielle: Story of Thom's life, really. Sometimes he is sex. And sometimes he makes people think he is cute and harmless. And then sometimes he falls in love with his electric blanket.
schiarire: I think that goes in both categories.
Fahye Dielle: He needs a Misc. category, really. Actually from what you say his whole life is a Misc. category, thank you Tamora Pierce.
schiarire: No, no ...
schiarire: It's more like a footnote.
schiarire: *helpfully*
schiarire: OH OH or an "insert here to make plot move"
Fahye Dielle: oh, I see. handy! you should rent him out
Fahye Dielle: .........
Fahye Dielle: yeah, okay, that comment can just sit there
schiarire: Dude, I totally would.
schiarire: I could use the moolah.
schiarire: (Thom: WHAT.)
Fahye Dielle: rent him out to dirty unshaven sleazy canons
Fahye Dielle: for use in plot
schiarire: Me: *sidles up to canons ... * Nothing up my sleeve ...
Fahye Dielle: *look left, look right...open coat...* you wanna buy a plot point?
schiarire: For you, canon, special deal.
schiarire: two fera dollar
Fahye Dielle: Canon: S'pretty enough. Any special skills?
schiarire: Me, helpfully: Nice mouth on this one
Fahye Dielle: Thom: *unhelpfully* I'm harmless, me. And untalented. Keep screwing things up. It's a curse.
Ji: Shut up, you.
schiarire: Ji: See? it's a good liar.
schiarire: Ji: Say hello to the nice canon.
Thom: Bite me.
Fahye Dielle: Ji: You may want to sedate it at first.
schiarire: Ji: Or just placate it. Let it go buy something pretty
Fahye Dielle: Ji: It also comes with five different colours of shirt! Special deal!
Thom: ONLY FIVE?
schiarire: HAHAHAHA
Fahye Dielle: Ji: You see? The more clothing you buy, the more cooperative it will be.
schiarire: Thom: .............. *shuts mouth*
Fahye Dielle: Canon: *inspects teeth*
schiarire: Canon: Bit old, isn't it.
schiarire: Thom: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I KILL YOU SO DEAD
Fahye Dielle: Ji: Step back please, sir, it's going to demonstrate its fighting technique.
schiarire: Ji: ... actually, that may be a bad idea
Fahye Dielle: Ji: *checks the anti-Gift handcuffs*
schiarire: *stuffs money in darth tater*
Fahye Dielle: Thom: mumblemumblegonnacutabitch
schiarire: Canon: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. OH GOD. ENTERTAINMENT VALUE? I will pay you a quarter.
schiarire: Ji: DONE AND DONE
Fahye Dielle: And thus Ji saved up enough to come to Millicon, though at the expense of her character's cooperation
---
Anyway, speaking of Thom and electric blankets. I had to write it because Ji wouldn't. What. All weirdness to be blamed on this frakking heeeeeeeat.
---
It comes with a manual.
Thom likes to think of himself as the kind of person who goes rashly onwards without the succour of mere manuals, but this is in large part because he's not come into contact with them much before. Swords don't need manuals. You just need to know which end is your end and which is the end to poke the enemy with. Not that he'd stoop to something so crass as manual weaponry. Not that he'd call Alanna's skills crass. Moving on.
And his magical books had been useful, of course, but he'd moved through and beyond and around their words with his own initiative guiding the way.
So there's a manual but there's also a plug, and Thom is intelligent enough to realise that electrocuting himself might not rekill him but it will lead to nasty burns and mumbled explanations and - most compellingly - absolutely dreadful hairstyles.
So he reads the manual.
It has settings. One to five. He believes in doing things properly. The blanket is carefully arranged under his sheet and left to work its everday magic whilst he does downstairs and hides in a booth and avoids Raven's bright quick eyes and sips red wine, scowling, paying attention to the feel of the silk whispering against his skin and the slow smoothness of the wine and thinking with an admittedly pathetic single-mindedness about the dial set on five and the cord plugged into the wall. Such a funny thing. Snaking out like air is something that can't transmit power.
He only catches Lucifer's eye when he's at the foot of the stairs, sending out a quick flashing smile that says jealous?
Have fun is written in the line of Lucifer's arm, bent and resting against the wall. It pulls the eye down the bare brown forearm. It looks casual. He knows better.
His feet are soft on the stairs.
~
He thought it would be good and it's better. Better. He lies there and feels the blood flush his cheeks pink pinker pinkest and he probably looks ridiculous but he really doesn't care.
~
After a while he's too hot. But it's not the sun-beating-down too hot and it's not a fire heat it's just..hot. He should turn it off.
Soon.
~
Belatedly, he remembers something about fire danger. Huh. All right then. His finger snakes down sweat-slick and across and flicks the dial off. His hair is sticking to his face.
~
Just before he falls asleep the edge of the blanket under the sheet scrapes his shoulder and it feels like where cloth ends and skin begins and there are arms around him.
~
Two hours later he dreams of purple flames curling like cords like fingers stroking his legs where he lies and it feels so good so good
better
best.
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I did mention it was early, yes?
Also, electric blanket!!! *loves*
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Thursday: Hi. So. Anyway.
Thom: Go away.
Thursday: Well excuse me.
Thom: You're flirting.
Thursday: I am NOT. Well. Maybe a little. What's your problem with me, anyway?
Thom: You're a girl *explains*
Thursday: *reports him to Jurisfiction for misogynistic attitutes unbecoming in a modern young adult fantasy character*
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Thursday: Of course I do. You might say it is my job to know everyone in fiction.
Thom:...fiction? Girls are crazy.
Roger: And you are obviously a fine example of sanity, my boy. Excuse me, miss. I heard of your work with Jane Eyre. Well done, that. I think we should talk about the possibility of engineering me a new ending.
Thursday: That's it. I hereby order you both to report for our next rage management session within Wuthering Heights. I don't care if you're angry. You're obviously quite mad.
Heathcliff: Hullo. I'm Heathcliff. Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male) seventy-two years running.
Jon: Pardon? I should add that to my titles.
Thursday: *absently* Too much in-book competition.
Thom: See? REGIMENT.
Right. I'm done now. :D
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no subject
*whistles*