FICTION: iconic conetl, rated b for blowjob jokes

[xihe]

ICONIC CONETL | 11 SWEEPS / 23 YEARS OLD

derevnya | 1,171 words

You’re starting to think that Vadaya’s infected you with a fucking virus, because Alexar’s built like a brick shithouse, and you’re not entirely sure you mind. He’s been kneading bread for the past five minutes. There’s not supposed to be anything attractive about that.

You’re not some sort of bread-enthralled deviant! It’s not like that. It’s just - it’s more than a little impossible to deny there isn’t something attractive about the level of attention he’s showing to it. And the tight shirt isn’t hurting things, either. You’re supposed to be cutting things, but instead you’ve been lounging in the air, watching the smooth pull of his shoulders rolling as he works.

Inviting him to a cooking class had been a lark! Bakers like cooking. It only made sense. You hadn’t expected him to offer to drop by your hive, instead, but of course you’d taken him up on it. Vadaya’s ruined your tastes, evidently, because there’s nothing about how solidly square that Alexar is that should appeal to you. The man’s a fucking triangle, all hard muscles and soft planes in turn, with downhooked horns, and hair that brushes his shoulders, and nothing, nothing at all that so much as reminds you of Steamy, or Gelato, or even fucking Dysseu: nobody that your gaze’s ever lingered on, even in passing, except Vadaya.

And now, apparently, fucking Alexar.

It’s a tragedy! If he was a little curvier, you could sling an arm around his waist and draw him in close. If he was a little more slender, then you could work with that. This is the first time that you’ve ever had a fellow follow up your date with the announcement he’s gotten back with his matesprit, but you’ve dealt with dozens of trolls a great more committed than Alexar fucking Spigot.

Unfortunately, none of them have been twice your size, and over six inches taller. As far as your usual strategies go, you’re having to improvise.

Though, if you’re being fair, it’s not like you’re having to do anything. Alexar’s not exactly a prize in himself. He’s fun, and he’s sweet, but you didn’t have an eye on keeping him around at first. Why would you? He’s not your type. He’s so very aggressively not your type - he’s not even highblooded, poor thing, and he’s a flatscan to boot.

You’ve never had much interest in that sort of person. They’re like cullbait: defenseless and soft and sad, in all the wrong kind of ways.

But if this is a competition, now, between you and some fellow you’ve never met.. well, the fact Alexar’s not a prize in himself doesn’t mean much.

All that matters is that you’ve never met a prize you haven’t taken.

“Are y’ even watchin’?” Alexar accuses you. He looks up from the bread, finally, lips curling into a smile. As far as these things go, it’s a nice mouth! Full lips. Nice shape. It looks better when they’re curled up in that lopsided smirk, dimpling his cheeks and pushing the bottoms of his eyes up. “Or,” he says, stretching out the word, “did y’ go ‘n fall asleep on me? World t’ ID. Bread’s almos’ done, sleepin’ beauty -”

He’s not a prize! But when you curl your lip at him and huff, rolling over mid-air, he laughs. It’s loud, and it’s brash, and it’s just as drawling as his speech, and it shouldn’t be charming. It is, though. He laughs, the sound echoing, those fucking dimples in his cheeks, and..

Oh, you hate the way you brighten.

(He’s not your type, either, but that hasn’t stopped you from taking him back home, has it?)

“I didn’t fall asleep, prettypear! I was just thinking, that’s all. You’re making an awful mess, you know that?” You grin back at him, and for the first time, you almost wish you had ears mobile enough to pin back. You don’t know how to look charming, rather than just intimidating. It’s not something you’d ever thought twice about; you’d slunk back hive dressed in blood and bruises, and all Steamy had ever done was get upset on your behalf. You could’ve culled someone in front of any of your paramours, and they wouldn’t have blinked an eye.

But she and Raphae had been indigo.

Alexar’s a jadeblood, and he’s a flatscan to boot. You could cull him in a thousand different ways! You’d taken him out to a culling fest, for heaven’s sake, just to show it off, before you’d given any thought on ever seeing him again. And he hadn’t flinched, but you don’t want him cowering like Dysseu or Lu. There’s no gratification in that.

But maybe you don’t need ears to set him at ease, because he doesn’t seem intimidated by you, for all that he should be. He just snorts, amused, as he looks himself up and down. “Am I?” he says, all guileless doubt, and for all that you should be irritated, all you do is  click your tongue, straightening up from your roll as you set your feet neatly on the ground.

“You’re covered in flour! It’s a mess.”

“Really? Hh. Y'know, ’s what th’ apron’s for?”

“You’ve got it all over you,” you complain. “It’s a mess, darling. Here -”

His t-shirt is awfully tight. And it dips just dreadfully low, collarbone clear and exposed, the top of his chest highlighted - but you’re carefully not paying attention to that. No, he has a matesprit, and being obvious isn’t how you’ve ever won anything.

You have to be subtle.

And that’s why you make a show of sighing, like this is all some great burden, before you carefully, meticulously wet your lips. Alexar’s watching you as your tongue slides across them, slow and pointed. Of course he’s watching you, but it’s easy enough to pretend you’re not watching him through your lashes as you take a second pass.

Or as you slide your thumb across your bottom lip, forefinger positioned to brace it and draw emphasis to them, just in case he’s blind. Then you step in, balancing one hand against his shoulder as you lean forward and drag your thumb across his collar. The flour smudge comes off, just like that. Of course it does. It was barely there in the first place! And his skin’s so /cold/ under your hands, icy enough that it reminds you almost of Vadaya’s.

“I don’t know if you’re making bread, or dusting my kitchen,” you sniff. “But there! One spot off.” He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and you tsk, tilting your head up to look at him. Your hand’s still on his shoulder, a single finger braced on the bare expanse of his neck.

When you curl your lip, you feel his pulse jump. “But,” you say, bright, stepping back, pressing your hand against your chest, “I guess it’ll just have to do. Try to be more careful, dearheart! And, now - what were you saying about the bread?”