[Action/NSFW?] The Lettish Rose
Sick. Tired. Sick and tired of the tired and the sick. They'd claimed it was food poisoning, some bad sushi or slightly under-cooked pork or poultry. Raivis had claimed (between dry-heaves) they knew absolutely nothing about what they were doing because modern medicine was- in his humble opinion- still no more than a means to lay siege to his paltry, rather pathetic paychecks.
The hospital had given him a slew of prescriptions and Raivis had returned the favor by dumping the lot of it in his medicine cabinet, buying holistic cures en mass and fending off emails from family whilst periodically regurgitating more than a quarter of his internal organs for two endless, endless weeks.
Day three of clear health was a welcome departure from his unwittingly close friend the rubbish bin, relatively normal (barring the heaps upon heaps of bills in Gilbert's back office and the spiteful amount of menial tasks left on his desk at the practice) thus Raivis, at it's end, was relaxed enough to collapse to the soothing strains of Berlioz and divulge in the guiltiest of pleasures-
Purple prose.
Yet despite being captivated by Antoine's teasing of his feisty Scottish duchess (decently endowed, wide about the waist), he'd begun to drift between pages 305 and 306 and the words on the page seemed to condense into a much simpler strip of writing:
'I wish my life were like this'.
He woke hours later to raucous knocking on his front door, rolling out of bed haphazardly garbed and fully peeved for a rigor mortis-esque shamble to tell whoever it was that was bothering him prior to work to kindly 'burn in hell'.
In a relatively passive aggressive manner, as per standard. "Ahh, L-labrit, I'm very sorry bu-"
"Raivis Galante."
It was a (very handsome) man.
On a horse. Trampling his welcome mat.
A (n extremely attractive, shirtless, rippling muscled blonde haired, clean shaven) man leaping (oh so nimbly) from his horse to seize the hand frozen mid-tract for the door knob in an automatic effort to slam it closed. "Raivis, at last... I've searched for so long. Forever and a day! Two days! Four! No more! Would you really shut me out after all this time? Wh-"
"E-excuse me?"
"--en I've dreamed of seeing your beautiful-"
"...Who are-?"
"-violet eyes this close? To hold you-" The fist that would have attempted a blow to Mister Perfect (stranger)'s jaw was snatched away, tugged firmly -yet with surprising delicacy- to bring the trembling young man tumbling into hard, bare abdominals. "And feel your heart beating with mine. I heard it- crying for me- and I could sta'y away no longer. Can you feel it, my love?"
It was the shock. Must have been the shock but even with a palm now free and available for slapping, as a large, warm hand slid smooth, reverent, beneath his shirt so as to lay flat above the thunder in his chest (stop, stopstopstop) he couldn't bring himself to push the obviously mentally imbalanced (terribly pretty) fellow back. "Sir, if you don't let me go, I'm going to call the police."
"Come, gorgeous. Let us ride into the sunset of your bedroom to consummate our blessed union."
"Ah- no? Sir, I'm Latvian. I don't jooh my god."
Apparently this was translated favorably as consent to be lifted bodily from the ground.
He wished he could have pummeled the crazy bastard strolling through his home without invitation (crossing the threshold with Raivis bridal style as though he were a woman); a suplex maybe. Or an elbow to the (chiseled) jaw were he not clutched so tightly. Would have cursed aloud in Latvian -because like hell he was going to be abducted again- but for the lips sliding over his and the tongue (tongue) stilling his objections.
Raivis wasn't entirely aware of the precise instant the first article of his own clothing had vanished or of when the narration in his mind had switched from the usual torrent of panicked, sarcastic quips to detailed descriptions of 'straining, flaming rods', 'swords and sheaths' and 'heated flesh, flushed crimson with want'. Guilt, fear, rage, distress. A physiological response was all that rose from the fingertips tracing his thighs, and really, really Raivis knew he should have said something. Anything.
Eventually, he did. Panting into his pillow, check repeatedly pressed into fabric until skin burned, as electricity rushed his spine three pure, high notes sprang from his twice bitten, many times kissed, throat:
"Fabio!"
The hospital had given him a slew of prescriptions and Raivis had returned the favor by dumping the lot of it in his medicine cabinet, buying holistic cures en mass and fending off emails from family whilst periodically regurgitating more than a quarter of his internal organs for two endless, endless weeks.
Day three of clear health was a welcome departure from his unwittingly close friend the rubbish bin, relatively normal (barring the heaps upon heaps of bills in Gilbert's back office and the spiteful amount of menial tasks left on his desk at the practice) thus Raivis, at it's end, was relaxed enough to collapse to the soothing strains of Berlioz and divulge in the guiltiest of pleasures-
Purple prose.
Yet despite being captivated by Antoine's teasing of his feisty Scottish duchess (decently endowed, wide about the waist), he'd begun to drift between pages 305 and 306 and the words on the page seemed to condense into a much simpler strip of writing:
'I wish my life were like this'.
He woke hours later to raucous knocking on his front door, rolling out of bed haphazardly garbed and fully peeved for a rigor mortis-esque shamble to tell whoever it was that was bothering him prior to work to kindly 'burn in hell'.
In a relatively passive aggressive manner, as per standard. "Ahh, L-labrit, I'm very sorry bu-"
"Raivis Galante."
It was a (very handsome) man.
On a horse. Trampling his welcome mat.
A (n extremely attractive, shirtless, rippling muscled blonde haired, clean shaven) man leaping (oh so nimbly) from his horse to seize the hand frozen mid-tract for the door knob in an automatic effort to slam it closed. "Raivis, at last... I've searched for so long. Forever and a day! Two days! Four! No more! Would you really shut me out after all this time? Wh-"
"E-excuse me?"
"--en I've dreamed of seeing your beautiful-"
"...Who are-?"
"-violet eyes this close? To hold you-" The fist that would have attempted a blow to Mister Perfect (stranger)'s jaw was snatched away, tugged firmly -yet with surprising delicacy- to bring the trembling young man tumbling into hard, bare abdominals. "And feel your heart beating with mine. I heard it- crying for me- and I could sta'y away no longer. Can you feel it, my love?"
It was the shock. Must have been the shock but even with a palm now free and available for slapping, as a large, warm hand slid smooth, reverent, beneath his shirt so as to lay flat above the thunder in his chest (stop, stopstopstop) he couldn't bring himself to push the obviously mentally imbalanced (terribly pretty) fellow back. "Sir, if you don't let me go, I'm going to call the police."
"Come, gorgeous. Let us ride into the sunset of your bedroom to consummate our blessed union."
"Ah- no? Sir, I'm Latvian. I don't jooh my god."
Apparently this was translated favorably as consent to be lifted bodily from the ground.
He wished he could have pummeled the crazy bastard strolling through his home without invitation (crossing the threshold with Raivis bridal style as though he were a woman); a suplex maybe. Or an elbow to the (chiseled) jaw were he not clutched so tightly. Would have cursed aloud in Latvian -because like hell he was going to be abducted again- but for the lips sliding over his and the tongue (tongue) stilling his objections.
Raivis wasn't entirely aware of the precise instant the first article of his own clothing had vanished or of when the narration in his mind had switched from the usual torrent of panicked, sarcastic quips to detailed descriptions of 'straining, flaming rods', 'swords and sheaths' and 'heated flesh, flushed crimson with want'. Guilt, fear, rage, distress. A physiological response was all that rose from the fingertips tracing his thighs, and really, really Raivis knew he should have said something. Anything.
Eventually, he did. Panting into his pillow, check repeatedly pressed into fabric until skin burned, as electricity rushed his spine three pure, high notes sprang from his twice bitten, many times kissed, throat:
"Fabio!"