Back on My Feet!

My lovelies,

It’s been a rough couple months (I shan’t bore you with the description of my job and health struggles), but kkolmakov is back on her feet! And presenting Wren+Raven!

It’s become evident to me some time ago that – at least for now – it doesn’t seem that I’m going to be writing and drawing anything other than Wren and John in all their many disguises!

Remember how it all started?

Yeah, kinda like that 😀

And now you can find some ongoing webserials on my Wattpad and two new books on Kindle! In the next few days I’m also planning to post more of my drawings on my DeviantArt (I’ve been neglecting the art side of my creativity, but I’m hoping to rectify it.)

If you want to keep track on my (hopefully recovering) creativity, here’s the link to my freshly created newsletter: http://eepurl.com/dH2XSj  Through it, I’ll be keeping in touch with my readers regarding the Amazon publishing schedule and any other news. Please, sign up!

And finally, my Patreon is up and running again – with plenty of new goodies! Have a peek and consider supporting yours truly!

Alright, gotta dash! Thorin and Wren in Light Room are waiting for me 😉

Love you!

K.

 

 

The New Book and Other Pleasantries

Hello!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it, my lovelies? Life has been truly hectic, but fun; but if you stuck by, and are still here, here’s what’s happening in kkolmakovland 😀

  1. Hammer Up! is out!

I know, right? Shocking! Somehow amidst the new job; and the online childcare courses I’m taking; and the Comic-Con I had a table at; and the everyday life that shouldn’t be abandoned (Stop glaring at me, Laundry Pile! I’ll get to you, when I get to you!)… I released the second book!

It’s available here on Amazon… or alternatively, if you trust me (I swear you can, but you’d have to take my word for it 😛 ) you can send $25 to my PayPal and get a SIGNED copy into your mailbox. Just don’t forget to send the address where Hammer Up! should be shipped. You can contact me through my Writer’s Facebook page.

If you contributed into the Kickstarter campaign for Hammer Up! (it’s sad it didn’t work out, but it was loads of fun to try!) you know that there’s a print.

If you want it, it’s yours with the book for additional $5.

Those of you who already sent some funds that way, your books and prints will be sent out next week!

2. My new job is AWESOME! I’m now working in a childcare centre in a room with 16 three- to five-year olds – and it’s the best I’ve ever felt at work! Who knew after years of uni teaching; interpreting; translating; working in a bakery; and tutoring, that I belong in childcare?!

And the best part is that the schedule – early rise, and done at 5 p.m. – is quite perfect for writing, and drawing, and still being a good mum!

I will of course have to cut down some of my projects. Let’s face it, when I just started I had quite unrealistic expectations; but most of my stuff will stay. Here’s what’s happening:

A. Wattpad: several webserials are ongoing – and going strong! You can see the update schedule on the left of my Wattpad page. Jack in the Box is almost complete; and I’m still pondering which of the hundred ideas swarming in my head will take it’s Thursday slot 😀 Let me know if you have a favourite among those I mentioned before.

B. Art-ing is happening, and will go to DeviantArt, and Etsy, and you can see it on my Instagram.

C. I’m still planning to write some FF. The Four Corners of Middle Earth is the story I want to continue writing; and perhaps some others will get some attention 😉

Also, I’m planning to watch Thor: Ragnarok next week, and we all know what large amounts of Loki do to me 😉

D. I’m planning to revamp my Patreon page in the next few days, so feel free to support me 😉

E. My next big project is turning Blind Carnival (remember this one? she writes erotic novels; he’s boring in bed? 😀 ) into… a book? a webserial on Wattpad? something completely new? I don’t know, but let me know if you do!

That’s all, folks!

I’ll go write a new chapter for Second Time Around. Hogwarts Thorin and Wren need me! 😀

Here’s a photo of me from the Comic-Con if you missed it 😀

 

Live Well and Prosper || Chapter 20. Happy Ever After

From the author to my readers:

Here it is, my lovelies – the final chapter. Three years, ninety four chapter, four companion pieces; more than 150K words; the very first modern pairing; the hottest smut; the biggest heartbreak. The longest journey; the favourite characters.

It started as a one-shot based on a prompt ‘camping’ on fanfiction.net. It went on hiatus. It has been moved from FF to my blog. It could have ended twice since then. It had had a different wedding in it; and then the protagonists had to part their ways – because I’ve grown and learnt in the years it took to write it; and I just couldn’t do it to my dear Wrennie. She grew up as well, into Dr. Leary, and not Mrs. Thorington. She changed from the woman who finds herself accidentally pregnant; into a woman who offers her wonderful, progressive, feminist husband to have a child. It could have ended on a melancholic but gingerly hopeful note – with her walking away from their relationship, and then perhaps giving it another chance – but it turned out there were still people reading the story…

And you made it all possible, my dear readers! You guided, supported, asked questions, mused, disapproved, and sympathized. And you gave Wrennie and Dr. T their happily ever after.

And I will never forget it. Thank you.

Katya

P. S. I always thought that giving the soundtrack to one’s writing is a cheap trick, but since it’s my last chance…

The songs that travelled with me through the whole story:

“If I Didn’t Know Better” Nashville for sex and dance; first proposed by RagdollPrincess on FF. There was no dance scene in the charity auction chapter, but I could just see them in my head, and feel the warmth of a touch of a hand.

“As Cold As It Gets” Patty Griffin a song that caught my attention as a background music to a Thorin fanvideo, and that travelled with me from my first Middle Earth stories into this modern AU. When it was time to crank up drama in the story, Patty was in my earphones.

“Closest I Get” Katie Hertz the sound of Wren’s heart and Wren’s love for John.

And when the story gained the second life, after Wren walked out on John: “Slow” Leonard Cohen. Sometimes, we all deserve the second chance.

***

{From now on “Official Town Business” will be take this webserial’s place and will be updated on Saturdays. I hope you might consider reading/following the story.}

A/N: Leave me a goodbye comment, my dear reader. I want to remember you forever.

Six years later…

{Companion piece “Triple Trouble”}

Ten minutes into the drive all four men of your life are asleep; and you and Unna are left to think your deep feminine thoughts alone. Judging by a foot constantly digging into your ribs, your six month old fetus of a daughter is busy planning her Olympic athlete career. You’re pondering that blasted article you’re supposed to submit to a certain peer reviewed journal. Given a choice you’d rather shovel fish guts. The second pregnancy – which eventually will be thrice less productive than the first one – is much more difficult for you as a scientist. All you want these days is to curl in an armchair with a good book – something by Tolkien preferably – and a cuppa; and damn the articles, experiments, and grants!

John stirs on his seat, and mumbles something in his sleep. Poor duckie, he hasn’t had proper kip in the last four years. Funny enough, he’d been suffering from insomnia since he was a teen, and he’s still taking it worse than you. Maybe, it’s because less time passed for you between the mad uni years – survived on caffeine and refined sugar – and taking care of three babies. Or maybe, it’s just because you’re a woman, and thus, generally more of a badarse.

Unna inside settles on punching your bladder with an elbow; and now you have to choose between suffering and squirming; and making a stop at the nearest garage – and risking at least one of the boys waking up – most likely Othin, of course.

You sigh and slowly drive off the motorway, following a sign pointing at the nearest loo. You park, and gently touch John’s shoulder. His eyes fly open. Panic readily slashes into the blue irises. OK, you’re exaggerating – it’s just mild terror. In the habit still left from the days when a hiccup of one baby in one room could wake up the other two in the other room, he silently mouths, ‘What?’

“I’ll be right back,” you mouth in return, and point through the window at the washroom sign. He nods.

You carefully climb out of the Rover, and half close the door. The smack will wake up at least two; and just a lock clicking is enough for Othin.

In the queue to get some water and crisps, you’re lazily studying your reflection in a fridge door. Couple years ago you started cutting your hair very short, and this morning you forgot to brush it. It’s standing on your head in a very peculiar way. You consider quickly buying a tacky brush with Frozen characters that you see on the counter and trying to rein the daft orange semi-curls. You are after all going to a wedding.

It’s Thea’s wedding, as shocking as it sounds. Jimmy had finally ‘worn her out’ – his words, not yours. It’s been as long for them as you and John have been together. Together-ish. Just like the two of you, Thea and Jimmy had their ups and downs; but while for you it’s been a rollercoaster, those two have been in a bloody blender. They seem to break up and make up every month. But hey, who are you to judge? You’ve dumped poor Dr. Sexy couple weeks before the wedding. You bet there will be a dramatic falling apart just after the honeymoon is over – and perhaps, another wedding right away. Or a couple.

Killian and Lan are coming too. Thea has become their NGBFF, and they are her ‘run-to household when Jimmy’s once again fallen from grace.’ They call her ‘our practice baby.’ Altogether, clearly there’s a harmonious arrangement there.

You still see a lot of her, but mostly when you have ‘you time’ away from your family. Babies terrify – and honestly speaking, disgust – Thea. Six-month old Thomas spitting up on her best Dior coat didn’t help the case. Quite often you and Thea are joined by Candice – now Candice Dwalinson. Her son is two now; and the three of you go out, dance, and drink – except you, of course – away from all that manky testosterone.

Well, since we’re going through the list of your closest relatives and friends, Phil gets an honourable mention as well. The poor sod is in the middle of his divorce. His American viper has caught him cheating, and will now sue his arse off. According to Killian – the two of you are insufferable gossips, and couldn’t care less – she hasn’t been exactly the picture of marital faithfulness, but the plonker got caught first. Worse so, it was a drunk party shag. With three chicks. There has been a sex tape in the making involved. He’s in deep shite.

You take your bag and head to the car. Predictably, there’re voices inside.

“Giraffe!” Dain’s yelling, pointing at the piece of paper in John’s hand.

“Cow!” Othin offers another option.

You climb in and look at the back seat.

“Da can’t draw,” Thomas offers you an explanation. Apparently, your old man decided that drawing a deformed looking animal and letting the boys guess what it was must be the most engaging activity.

You look at the drawing and snort.

“It’s a dog, isn’t it?” you join the game, and get the very John Thorington, Roger Moore style eyebrow. “Cat?” you try again, and he theatrically crumples the paper.

There’s a protesting shout from Dain. He’s in the collecting stage, ahead of his brothers – everything has to go on the wall. Especially anything that has been touched, breathed at, or looked at by their father. Not that Dr. John Crispin Thorington ever needed an ego boost, but he has three avid fans. For them, he’s god. You expect this next one will just join the club. You bet they absorb this adoration towards him through the amniotic fluid.

Dain receives the smoothed out masterpiece; and he pressed it to his chest. Thomas is eyeing it with jealousy, but he’s too much of a Thorington to beg. Othin is already distracted by a dog outside.

John turns on Octonauts for them. They have a ration of an hour of ‘screen time’ a day, and they immediately grow quiet, fully absorbed in the adventures of Peso the Penguin and the Spook Fish. You’ve seen – sometimes with one eye, another peering into your laptop – about six hundred times. You properly hate the bloody Spook Fish. 

When they’re watching telly, only a live T-Rex barging in could make them hear or see anything around them.

You start the car, and then John’s hot hand lies on your knee. You press your lips to hide a smile. It might still be an affectionate gesture, and not a hint on shag. Nope, it is definitely a hint on shag – he’s stroking your skin with his thumb.

“What is it, Dr. Thorington?” you ask in a nonchalant tone.

“Why does it have to be something, Dr. Leary?” He mimics the intonation. “It’s my wife’s knee. I’m allowed to touch it if it’s not interrupting her immediate activity.”

“Uh-huh,” you draw out. “And the fact that there has been none of… a certain unmentionable activity in our house for fifteen days has nothing to do with this.”

“Sixteen, but who’s counting,” he answers, and the palm shifts higher. “And you fell asleep despite our ‘plans’ twice in the last week.”

“Well, at least I haven’t fallen asleep mid-process,” you snort, and he chuckles.

“No, we aren’t that bad yet.” You know his shoulders are shaking in his full body laugh. “But I’m serious, Leary. We have three months of life left. Let’s live it in full.” He then yawns, which gains him a quick sardonic glare from you.

“May I remind you that in most cases it’s you who loses consciousness before anything can start?” you point out. “I did try to poke you on Tuesday. You were nonresponsive. And I had a new… outfit on.”

“Oh? Damn it.” He emits a theatrical groan. You decide to take mercy.

“It’s in my bag right now.” You bet he’s just preened up.

“What colour is it?” he asks in a tone of a boy inquiring about a toy car under a Christmas tree.

You decide it might be a nice new game.

“Remember that day you came back from Japan for the first time?” A pleased hum tells you he remembers. “The same red. And it’s two items.”

“Two items? Hm…” He pretends to ponder it. “What else can you tell me?”

“There’s a bow.” He has a mild bow kink. There’s a low rumble in the throat.

“Any buttons?”

“A lacing.”

“You’re spoiling me, Leary.” His voice is dropping lower.

“I’m only returning the favour.” You quickly cover his hand, and intertwine your fingers. “I feel properly spoiled on everyday basis.”

***

The boys are placed in a guest bedroom in Jimmy’s parents house; and you two are in the next one. You’re closing the door between the rooms, when his fingers wrap around your upper arm, and he pulls you in.

You press into him, as much as your stomach allows; and ogle the sexy smile playing on his lips.

He makes a step backwards; and you follow. He leans to a bedside table, and pushes a button on the radio. You Don’t Own Me by Dusty Springfield starts playing, and you burst into laughter. He clearly has prepared, while you were tucking the boys in.

“Interesting choice,” you murmur, and he theatrically picks up your hand in an invitation to a dance.

“There was either this, or Dylan. Jimmy’s parents still aren’t over Woodstock.”

“Oh, so your generation then?” you ask impishly.

“Don’t push it, Leary. I’m still capable of throwing you over my knee…” He wiggles his eyebrows. “That is if I don’t fall asleep standing up.”

You laugh, and the two of you start dancing.

Dancing is one of the things that he does best. Oh wait, that would be all things requiring physical coordination! Bollocks, whom are you kidding? He’s basically 87% of a perfect man. Alright, maybe 92%. You’re biased, though. You’re madly in love with the bloke.

You move closer, and hide your face in his chest. He wraps his arms around you; and you breathe in the cologne, and the familiar, endlessly dear smell of his skin, fresh and spicy.

You two dance a lot. It’s your thing. Other things are ‘your thing’ too – reading the paper together; taking the boys to book shops; buying each other house plants; his magnificent back rubs, and the acupressure you’re certified in and that is the only thing that helps with his migraines. But dancing is special – it’s intimate and raw and vulnerable and open. It’s talking without words; it’s sex in clothes – not that they’re always present during dancing; or stay on for long.

Suddenly, you feel your eyes prickle, and a few seconds later you sniffle. By then you two are just rocking side to side holding each other tightly.

“Alright, Leary?” he asks, and moves away slightly, to look into your face.

You give him a teary smile.

“I am… happy.” You sniffle again, and the following little laugh from you is somewhat shaky. “I might be soppy from sleep deprivation.”

He guffaws.

“We could go to bed,” he offers; and you decide that it just won’t do.

You pop open the top button on his shirt.

“We could. Or we can enjoy the life in full.”

You lick your lips, and open two more buttons. Oh hello, chest! Look, Wren’s fully awake now! You place a slow, open mouthed kiss on the pectoral muscle, and give it a small bite. The chest rises in a sharp inhale. You tread the fingers of your right hand into the thick chest hair. There’s a lot of salt in this pepper now. Everything about the man makes you so randy – but fucking hell, the chest is pure magic!

You tilt your head and murmur, “I just think that if we don’t do something nasty on the Bofursons carpet, giving my knees and your arse proper rug burns… we’ll end up shagging tomorrow in some random place, once we can’t hold it back anymore… And then we will get caught…” The shirt is now on the floor, and you’re working on the belt. “And people will say, ‘Aren’t they too old for this? Look, she’s already preggers, and it’s still not enough for them…’”

He’s cupped the back of your head, and he leans in and catches your ear between his teeth.

“How about some carpet now, and then a quickie in the Bofursons’ pantry tomorrow?” he whispers, and hooks the finger of the other hand on the collar of your tee. The long nose brushes on the muscle between your neck and the shoulder, and your head spins.

“Should I go change in that new set?” you ask. You’re breathy, and your legs are wobbly – he’s kissing your neck just the right way.

“Nah.” He actually says ‘nah’ – in that posh voice of his, and you momentarily get distracted from your bosom heaving and giggle. “Keep it for when we’re old and disinterested in shag.”

“That will never happen,” you say solemnly. “You’re too lush.”

“Well, and if it does…” He kneels in front of you, and is unbuttoning your trousers. “Then we can buy a sleeping bag, unroll it on the bedroom floor, and reenact you crawling into my tent to ravish me shamelessly.”

“That never happened!” you protest loudly. That’s not the first time this conversation is taking place. “I legitimately thought there was something in the dark out to get me.”

“Poppycock!” He pops the ‘p’ and emphasizes the second half of the word. Cheeky bastard. And yes, of course you’re thinking about his cock at the moment. You’re intimately familiar. “You barged in to lure me in your web with your sexy PJ bottoms and your scratched ankle.”

“And wellies…” you pant out. He’s pulling down your knickers, and his tongue has just brushed at your right hipbone. “I had wellies on…”

“A definite turn on,” he purrs, and the tips of his fingers brush between your legs.

“Perv…” you breathe out.

“Beautiful…” he murmurs.

He’s kissing, and stroking, and undressing; and you push your fingers in the silky, heavy curls at the back of his head. Your body feels weightless and fluid and cherished. His wonderful hands caress your hips, and he starts leaning back. You’re even smaller this time with Unna, and you can still move very easily. He lies back, you crawl on top. Between the two of you, you have one shirt, one bra, and one sock left on.

You press your hands in the Bofursons’ carpet on two sides of his head, lean down, and look into his eyes.

“Dr. Thorington.” You smile widely; and the crows feet run into the corner of his mesmerizing cerulean eyes.

“Yes, love?”

THE END

Live Well and Prosper || Chapter 18. Wren, Ties, and Questions

Author’s Note:

Just a reminder that I’ve started a new webserial since this one is coming to a conclusion; and you can find it here. I was going to start updating it after Dr. T is over and once a week on Saturdays – but I’ve already posted three chapters. I can’t seem to be able to stay away from it! Give it a read 🙂 

Also, the easiest way to keep track of my updates (I’m mostly writing here and on Wattpad) these days, is to follow/like my professional Facebook page.

Cheers,

Katya

The two of you enter the flat, and you head to the bathroom to take out your contact lenses. You aren’t taking your terribly uncomfortable stilettos off, because you have plans. Big plans. On the way you yell ‘Don’t you dare touching that jacket’ over your shoulder. You want to unwrap your gift yourself. The response to this is a guffaw and ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

And then he yells, “Can I loosen the tie at least?”

“Hells yeah!” is your enthusiastic response. You pull the damn plastic pieces out of your eyes, quickly put drops in, and give yourself a look over. Maybe, loose hair on the shoulders would be better. You pull the pins out and ruffle the curls. Your eyes are shiny, and the cheeks are flushed.

You step into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa, one arm along the top of the back, legs planted widely. The blood red ribbon of the bow tie around his neck, ends hanging along the panels of the starched shirt – yum! The man is worthy of a harlequin novel cover – and all yours!  

“Hello,” you purr, and he smirks lopsidedly. From the hungry look he throws to you head to toe, your skin tingles. You slowly walk up to him, and then give a twirl in front of him.

“You’re beautiful…” He smiles to you, love and lust mixed in equal proportions – just like you fancy it; and you pick up the skirt and climb on his lap. You straddle him, and his left hand slowly lies on your knee and slides higher, along the thigh.

You pick up the tie and start wrapping it around your hand, making sure it slides slowly around his neck, under the collar. There’s a hardly audible hiss of the silk on the broadcloth.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, and you lean in and brush your lips to the corner of his mouth.

“Not yet,” you whisper, and feel the corner curl up under your lips; the whiskers scratch at your skin.

You move your lips, hardly touching him, to his ear, and place a small kiss on the lobe, and then on the warm neck, where you can feel his pulse beating quickly.

You then straighten up; and a delicious idea comes. You take the ends of the tie, and then lean in, and place it over his eyes. A throaty chuckle burst out of him.

The ribbon isn’t too wide, but it’s the gesture that counts. He will keep his eyes closed. You loosely tie it at the back of his head, and start on the buttons of the waistcoat and the shirt. Not too much, just to give you one of your favourite views.

His second hand is now stroking your thigh as well, but he’s quite passive – just as you hoped. You run the tips of your fingers on his sternum, where the coarse chest hair is the thickest.

The belt buckle clicks, and you slowly open the zipper. To reach, you move back, squirming a bit, and his hips jump up. Someone is in anticipation.

You push your hand down his pants, and gently stroke the smooth, silky skin. The familiar length and width, your hand encircling it, the hardness, and the twitch it gives when you caress the ridge with your thumb – all of it sends sweet shivers through your body, and muscles clench between your legs.

You pick up his chin with your curled index finger and make him lift his face. His soft lips part slightly, but he’s still letting you fully control what’s happening.

You finally kiss him, you can’t hold it back anymore; and you feel him lift his shoulders off the sofa. His lips and teeth are moving greedily; and you press into him, your right arm wrapping around his neck. And then you lift your hips, and lead him inside with your left hand, deftly moving your knickers aside. There isn’t much, just a narrow strip of lace; and it springs from under your middle finger you used to shift it. You move, and the lace predictably rubs him at the base. He exhales a low coarse moan into your mouth.

Still holding tightly to his neck, you move your left hand behind you, on his knee – and start rocking your hips, lifting and slightly twisting.

You’re losing control and the clear understanding of what’s happening, sensations flooding you. You let your body take what it wants. Muscles clench around him; your back is arching; and you cry out with each dip.

His hands were kneading your buttocks; and then they shift, and he grabs your hips, his thumbs on your hipbones. The rougher you move, the tighter the grasp of his hands. You feel your climax approaching and you know he’s close too – he now can’t help but start pulling you into him, pushing into you deeper. Harsh exhales fall from his lips; and you jerk; and twisting your body you grab the back of the sofa with both your hands. The angle changes, he growls. For a few seconds you greedily watch his face – the pleasure, the hunger, mindless greed – and then you cum, and squeeze your eyes; and he joins you, his hips buckle, and your feel his cum hit your walls inside. You force yourself to open your eyes, you want to see – he’s so very beautiful at that moment!

And then he jerks off the tie, and the large hot palm grabs the back of your head. He pulls you into a kiss, and you moan.

A few seconds later sanity seem to come back to both of you, and you softly laugh into his lips.

“I want a bath…” you whisper, and he tenderly kisses your cheekbone and your temple, making you squint in pleasure.

***

While he’s filling the tub, you quickly take off the make up. You both changed into robes, and he pats your buttock through the silk. You stick your tongue at him in the mirror.

He sits down on the edge of the bath, and you can feel his gaze on your back. You turn to him and smile.

“I have a mad question to you,” he draws out, and you hum encouraging him to continue, wiping off your mascara. “Dea congratulated me. And couple other people at the party as well. So… Are you by chance pregnant?”

You straighten up and look at him. He lifts one finger. “And before you say anything, I did say it was a mad question. Because I in no way suspect that you knew and told Dea before me. I just thought maybe she saw something at the party, and then started blabbering to people…”

“I’m not,” you answer, and step to him. “She’s apparently been hinting on it for a while. Killian mentioned she’d asked him if he thought I was. But I haven’t seen her, since… before we broke up.”

“Oh…” That’s a hell of an ‘oh.’ Call Wrennie barmy, but that’s a disappointed ‘oh.’ A very, very disappointed ‘oh.’

“I’m on a pill, John,” you remind him, and cup his jaw, making him look up at you. “You do know that, right?” He does. So, this reaction is a bit… confusing?

“Well, they aren’t 100% reliable,” he answers. So, definitely disappointed.

He wraps his arms around your middle, and pulls you closer. He pushes his nose in the opening of your robe, and nuzzles between your tits.

“Why do you think she did it?” you ask, and he sighs, tickling your skin with his warm breath.

“To piss me off. To humiliate you. It’s an intrusion into privacy, and she’s a big fan. People would ask, and you and I would have to react to it. Whichever way it goes, whatever you actually think about it…” He kisses your sternum. “It would still be unpleasant.”

“That’s mean,” you mutter, and he slightly turns and kisses the inside of your right breast.

“It is. I can talk to her about it.”

You thread your fingers in his hair. The silver and the ebony run between your fingers, and you feel love, and tenderness. You feel safe, and loved, and… home.

“Or we can make the rumours true,” you say, and he freezes. You feel him take a careful breath in, and then he lifts his face to you. Emotions splash in his brilliant cerulean eyes.

“I mean, it’s nine months. We can plan it accordingly; and I can organize my studies around it. I’d have to work less of course, but I do need to balance my life and work anyroad, and…”

His arms tighten around you, and he’s still staring at you.

“That is of course if…” you start asking.

“I’m in,” he breathes out, interrupting you.

“Yeah?” You bite into your bottom lip, and he grins widely.

“Oh yeah…”

The two of you laugh, and then he shifts, and pulls, and topples the two of you into the tub. He’s careful, one arm around you, another pressed into the opposite side of the tub; but you theatrically squeal, as if terrified.

“I’m in my robe, your plonker!” you holler, and start snorting and spitting water that got into your mouth.

He’s laughs, and kisses you; and you two move, and arrange limbs, snogging, and running hands over each other. Neither can stop grinning.

Live Well and Proper || Chapter 17. Wren Repeats Herself

Author’s Note:

At the moment it seems that there will be five more chapters (including two one-shots about the kiddies previously posted in Medical Cabinet) before this saga is finally over, and Wrennie and her Dr. Sexy will say goodbye to you, and disappear into their happily ever after. I’m a bit sad, but it’s light sadness.

I’m less sad than I expected, since last night a new idea for a webserial came to me! I conjure my plots and characters in the strangest of circumstances, but I have to say, I’ve never had a story come to me in a dream!

Nonetheless, here it is: Official Town Business. Give it a read, and let me know what you think! If you approve, it’ll be updated on Saturday, just as Dr T Series is right now, and you can see it in the menu on the top of the blog.

After a short amicable chat with Elvig, you make couple rounds, mingling and being the ace young professional you are – making connections, smiling to the very important people, charming their pants off. But not literally, of course – although the glimpse of your own very important person, in that perfectly cut jacket quite often directs your thoughts to this one specific pair of pants, and immediately down into your gutter. You quite fancy him in jammies, or nothing at all; but a bit of occasional formal shirt and black trousers are just the treat your libido can’t say ‘no’ to!

The next part is toasts. Thrandon pops up, and drones some sort of a string of banalities. If he wanted to let the guests know he isn’t that chuffed with the union, he made just the right amount of effort to show – clearly, zilch of preparation went into his speech; and the lazy haughty expression on his face speaks volumes. People clap; a few exchange confused looks. Lan kisses Killian. It’s the theatrical Hollywood kiss, with dipping the partner backwards, and lots of tongue. You giggle into the upper arm of your Dr. Sexy.

“I’m next,” John whispers to you, and you lift an eyebrow questioningly. You’d expect Dea to be the ‘father of the bride.’ “Killian asked for me.” John gives you a meaningful look, and you smile to him.

John’s speech is touching, loving, funny, and… just perfect. He shows support, happiness for his nephew, warmth, understanding, and finishes it up with a small anecdote from Killian’s childhood. Dea isn’t featured. People laugh, people sigh; couple peeps discreetly wipe tears.

“All I can say…” He lifts his flute, and smiles to Killian and Lan. He’s especially gorgeous at the moment, and you swallow a knot in your throat, from how lucky you feel, how much you love him, and how happy you feel. “Congratulations for finding each other, and I’m sure the two of you will be perfectly happy! After all neither of you will have to suffer like my partner.” He salutes you with his glass, and you laugh. “All the love and happiness in the world to Lan and Killian!”

The crowd cheers; Dea and Thrandon look like they’re smiling through toothache. Another Hollywood snog from the happy couple follows; and you get a soft kiss on the cheek. You pat his waistcoat converted tummy; and you two smile to each other.

***

An hour later, there’s dancing, and excessive drinking; and it’s obvious the crowd has thinned out, only the young and the strong left behind. You dance with both betrothed; and then sneak away onto the balcony for some fresh air. And some Dr. Sexy, judging by how he caught you looking at him and then pointing at the balcony with your eyes –  and nodded. The poor ducky can’t dance due to his ‘human pyramid-ing,’ but you think you two will snog a bit on the balcony, then maybe one slow dance – you basically dancing around him, not that bad either – and then you’ll go home. There’re enough enthusiastic guests here; and you can always blame John’s ‘early to bed due to old age’ routine.

You step outside, and drop your head back. The sky is pearly grey; and the night is wonderfully balmy. You still could use some skin to skin contact – for warmth purposes, of course – but otherwise you’re comfortable and pleasantly tingly from the excitement of the event, and for how lovely the two plonkers look together.

Fingertips slowly brush at your bare back, between the shoulder blades, and goosebumps run down your spine. You smile and slowly turn around. And meet the cold blue eyes of Elliot Thrandon.

“Miss Leary.” He smiles to you, his eyes unfocused, his grin totally arsed up. Yeah, he’s been poached like a pear.

“Mr. Thrandon.”

That was creepy. And disgusting. You now feel like starting to wiggle trying to wipe your back with a napkin. But you aren’t going to start a fuss just for that – for Lan and Killian’s sake. But one more thing…

He steps closer to you and looks down at you. Oi, mate, personal space!

“You look ravishing tonight, Wren.” He lifts his hand, clearly planning to pick up a curl near your cheek.

“Seriously?” You give him a sarcastic look. “What makes you think you can approach me like this?”

“I just thought you might be done with Thorington by now.”

You emit a short disbelieving laugh.

“Even if, say, I were done, and even in the mood to leave this place with someone else; and even if that someone were you… you still can’t touch me without my consent. It’s as simple as that.”

“Oh, the feminist rubbish,” he theatrically groans and takes a sip from his glass.

You decide the conversation is over, and start walking by him. He grabs your upper arm, and you give him an astonished stare. Really? You mean, really?!

You kneed him in the bollocks then, couple years ago, for exactly this bloody thing! If then he thought you were a chavvy bint, with no one to protect you and to back you up if the things went pearshaped – you’re the leading specialist in the Rivendell Institute right now! And you have signed a lovely pre-nap by the way – John insisted, mostly to facilitate you inheriting everything of his, in case of his death. If anything, you’d be able to pay off any charges of bodily harm, if Thrandon sues you, after he manages to straighten up.

“Let me go, Mr. Thrandon. I don’t want to hurt you,” you say calmly, and he smiles one of his wide barmy smiles. Is he on drugs as well?

“I love how feisty you are, Wren. But trust me, most women eventually choose me over Thorington.”

“Then you have scanned quite a narrow sample group,” you answer, and pull at your arm. He has three seconds to let you go: three, two, one…

Not only he doesn’t let you go, he starts leaning down to you. You can’t believe the pillock! Does he think he’s James Bond, and you will change your allegiances like Pussy Galore, after a glorious snog from him?

“I fancy the new classy you, Wren. But I bet the hungry ambitious girl is still under there, and she knows I’m a much more promising choice than Thorington.”

You jerk your arm out of his grasp.

“Both of us choose to refuse your generous offer, Mr. Thrandon.” You lift your chin and leave the balcony.

In the door you see John, and he opens his mouth to ask, his eyes darting between you and Thrandon; but you wrap your arm around his waist, turn him, and he obediently follows you.

“You got this?” he asks with a chuckle.

“I got this,” you answer with a confident nod.

***

You do end up kneeing Thrandon. You truly tried not to! It would be just bad taste! And repetitive! But the wanker asked for it!

While you were enjoying your slow dance with – or more precisely – around your wonderful husband, Thradon fell into the room; had more booze; and when John goes to pick up your coats, you overhear the blonde bastard and the Japanese.

The thing is you’ve learnt the language – as much as one can learn Japanese without living in the country for a decade. You started learning it when you were hoping to get your first Yamataki grant, and continued studying ever since. And then John – who speaks it as fluently as a Westerner can – helped you a bit. And yes, you two have turned it into a fun sex game. What didn’t you?

So, you can understand what Thrandon’s telling the Japanese about you. And about your relationship with John. And apparently about how little you charge for a night.

Luckily they’re in a secluded corner, sort of behind a nice ice center piece. You walk up, knee the wanker, and give the astonished looking Japanese a bow. You know you’re doing it right. You tested it on John. Formal, polite, perfectly executed – he had you against the wall after that.

O isogashī tokoro, shitsure shimashita.” You give them another bow, and happily bouncing go to pick up your dessert for tonight, who’s waiting you near a cab.

“What did you do, minx?” he asks, wrapping your coat around your shoulders, and kissing your cheek.

“I practised a bit of Japanese,” you answer with a smile. He hums.

“Shall we continue the lesson at home?” he asks, and you brush your hand to his chest, and then claw at it a bit.

“Yes, we shall, anata.” He laughs, and in the cab you press into him.

“John, could you do me a favour?” You press your cheek to his chest.

“Of course.”

“Could you rub my back between the shoulder blades, please?” You feel his hand snake under your coat, and the scorching familiar palm lies on your skin.

“I’m not sure it’s favour to you,” he whispers in your ear, and you feel the helix flame up. “I’m quite enjoying it too.”

“Well, let’s consider it an aperitif then.”

He catches your mouth, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

The Winds of Change for K. Kolmakov

So, here we are. Yours truly, widely known in immensely narrow circles as kkolmakov, and you, my beloved readers.

I have to say, I have rewritten this post about a dozen times by now… And yet I find it difficult to put what I need to say into the right words.

I feel as if I reached some sort of a tipping point in my writing (and drawing as well, but it’s a bit of a different matter). I started three years ago, with a small drabble on fanfiction.net. So much has happened since then! I know at least one of you has been with me on this journey from day one; and just for that I’ll be forever grateful for that day on the plane when I typed my first 300 words. (My dearest J., I’m of course talking about you!)

I learnt; I grew; I found friends, and lost friends. I saw the world more clearly, and I love it more, and am scared of it more. I know myself better now (and I can’t say it made my life easier.)

But enough rambling.

A few days ago I arrived to the realisation that it’s time for change. Very few of you know my personal circumstances, but in simple terms, I have been fortunate enough to be able to take some time off work since May 2016 and dedicate myself to writing and drawing. This luxury will end in May 2017, and by then I need to either find a job; or become a published author, actually paid royalties, and/or an artist with constant income.

In no way I find I’ve wasted these past months. I wrote fanfiction as much as I wanted; I wrote the YA fantasy novel (which I’m currently looking into publishing); I put “Hammer Up!” to Amazon Kindle Scout. I wrote on JukePop (a bit more about it later); and Wattpad. I’ve almost finished Dr T Series here, on the blog (a project that has spanned over all my writing years). I drew; I sold my art on the Central Canada Comic-Con; and Etsy; I opened a Society6 shop. I experimented with pastels, ink, and polymer clay.

But it’s time to accept that:

1. The Hobbit fandom has shrunk. I hardly get any reviews for my recent stories. Except for you, my few loyal readers, who are generous and forgiving enough to give a chance to all my random endeavours! And even wander from platform to platform with me! (Words can’t express how much I appreciate and love you – each and every one of you!)

I doubt I will ever write for any other fandom as much and as wholeheartedly as i did for this one. I’m a monogamous creature. I will never have any other King.

2. Fanfiction, Wattpad, JukePop, DeviantArt, and Instagram don’t pay bills, as rewarding and fulfilling as they are emotionally and mentally.

3. I don’t want a boring office/kitchen job. I know I’ll be restless and miserable if I am not allowed to spend 8 hours a day with my keyboard and/or brushes.

Which altogether adds up to the dire need to restructure my creative life.

So, here are my plans for the nearest months. A lot of the following requires your advice/suggestions/votes. Please, let me know in the comments!

{A} Regarding fanfiction:

I’m planing to slowly cut down the number of stories I write. Most of those that still get some readership (such as “Letters to Your Heart,” “Old Wounds;” and all those smaller ones such as “Here Be Dragons”) will be completed, but much depends on the readers. I’m expecting to leave “Four Corners of Middle Earth” as my last Hobbit/LotR fanfic going post-May.

If there’s some specific story that you’re dying to see finished, or kept ‘alive,’ let me know.

{B} I’m planning to finish Dr T Series. At the moment, I anticipate about 5 chapters left in the last part, tying loose ends, and sending Wrennie and Dr. Sexy into their well-deserved happily ever after, with the triplets and Unna, sparkles and unicorns, etc., etc.

I still want to continue writing a modern romance/erotica webserial with weekly updates; and I think “Jack in the Box” on Wattpad will be the one.

I have couple of other ideas that I’ve been considering, such as that “May to December” one I’ve mentioned before with the professor-student scenario, with a reversed age difference, where Wren is 42 and divorced, and John is her student. Couple other ideas are also rattling in my barmy noggin. The question is: where would you prefer reading it (if you’re still interested in reading my musings, of course) – here on the blog? On Wattpad?

{C} The previous question brings me to the matter of JukePop and Inkitt. I’m leaving “Blind Carnival” sitting on JukePop for now. Several of you were immensely kind to say that you’d buy another of my books (you can’t imagine how flattered I feel when I read such wonderfully kind comments!), but for now “Blind Carnival” will have to wait.

Meanwhile, “Better Than One” (the one with the Canadian farmer lacking any ability to communicate verbally – remember this one?) is currently being moved to Inkitt (click on the word for the link). I’m still trying to figure it out, but so far I know that they’re running a romance book contest there. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know. I think if the book gets posted, there’s a limited number of free copies, and after that people are supposed to pay. I’ll keep you posted so that you can grab yours.

{D} I’m currently in correspondence with Winnipeg Police forces gathering info for that whodunnit for Etsy with my illustrations. As soon as I have my research done, I’ll start on the chapters. Again, I’ll keep you posted.

{E} I’m planning to continue drawing. My creepy ink drawings will go to Society6; they seem to fit well on tees, mugs, and phone cases. My colourful watercolours and clay figurines will be available on Etsy.

{F} I’m currently working on a picture book titled “Miraculous Mira” – of course, with a few familiar faces among its characters (you can find out more about it on my Instagram.) Hopefully, I’ll manage to publish it.

So, these are my plans.

I sincerely think that writing doesn’t happen just to the writer. It’s our shared experience, and I am grateful for each one of you, for your being in my life, and those interaction we had. And so, I truly want to continue being your writer. If you still want Wren/Olivia/Etta/Gemma and John/Darius/Thorin in your life, and Mira as well, and just a bit of kkolmakov, let me know. We’ll move together to Wattpad; or Etsy; I’d love to see you among my followers on Facebook, or Instagram. And then one day, when I’m in your town/county/province/country signing my bestseller (pfft, as if!) you’ll stop by and say, ‘Hey, I used to be so-and-so, your follower on fanfiction;’ and that’s when you’ll see kkolmakov frantically shaking your hand and tearing up.

Cheers, my lovelies.

kk

Hammer Up! is Up

Come to Amazon Kindle Scout and vote for my story Hammer Up!

VOTE HERE!!!

Summary: To win the right to choose her husband, Aphrodite has to endure ten days in the company of Hephaestus, the fallen god of smithery. Except, everything about Heph freaks her out: he wears dirty clothes; he limps; his sacred animal is an ass. Meanwhile, he thinks she’s a slag, and nothing but the means to an end.

Do you want to learn the Greek myths the hot way? Surprisingly accurate mythology, Cockney speaking gods, and frisky erotica are mixed in this story full of humour and romance.

After 30 days, if the book gets published, you get a FREE copy!

Live Well and Prosper || Chapter 13. Wrennie Hears an Answer

Author’s Note:

Chapter 13 after Friday 13. Are you worried, my lovelies? 😉

He takes off his glasses, and gives you a long calm look.

“No, I am not.”

You nod, sit down in your favourite armchair, and fold your hands on the lap.

He watches you in silence for a few seconds; and then he puts the book and the glasses on the side table and sits up in a swift forceful movement.

“You do believe me, Wren, right?” he asks in a low voice.

You nod again.

“I do.”

“But..?”

You sigh.

“But now that we’re talking about it… And I hadn’t thought of it before… But it sounds like you’d expected this conversation.” You lift your eyes to his face. It’s pointless really. Not even a Jedi can read his emotions when Dr. John Crispin Thorington is intent on hiding them.

“I didn’t expect it. I was aware of its possibility.” His pointed level tone makes it bloody worse – about ten hundred times worse. “Wren, I didn’t know if you’d even noticed…”

“Noticed that your TA has a crush on you? It’s quite obvious.” Now you also sound emotionless, but your tone is more dull than his levelled cautious one.

“You seemed oblivious.”

“I hid it well,” you answer quickly, and then something painfully spasms in your right temple.

“Wren, I’m sure you know that nothing happened…”

Does he notice that he uses this mind-control voodoo on people? ‘I’m sure that you know…’ and ‘you do believe me…’ Fucking relationship Darren Brown.

You take a slow breath in, and close your eyes. The headache is rapidly spilling all over your head.

“John, I… I noticed Eva. I just didn’t know what you were feeling…”

“Flattered,” he interrupts you. Judging by the speed of the answer, he’s losing his composure. Funny, he’s just said he’d been preparing for this conversation. What’s throwing him off? “Wren, I was egotistic, and self-centered, and enjoyed attentions from a young woman. It was unfair towards both of you…”

You lift your hand stopping his clearly rehearsed speech. You somehow find it hard to speak. It might be the migraine. Or maybe, you’re just so fucking tired.

“I had a conversation with Eva, two weeks ago,” he says. “I tried to… discourage her from her behaviour.” His voice is growing emotional. “I might have been too subtle, but if you think I need to discuss it again with her, to make it clear to her…”

“It’s none of my business, John,” you interrupt this time. “You two are adults, and how you handle it, it’s up to you. Both of you… But you hurt me.” You stop and rub your temples. It takes two purposeful exhales to start talking again. “No, I’m wrong. Not you… It. It hurt me. The months of doubting, and worrying, and…”

“If I had known it bothered you – and for so long, Wren! – I would have put an end to her ridiculous flirting right away.” He’s raising his voice, and leans ahead, and makes a forceful gesture with his hand.

“You didn’t have to. You weren’t obliged to… It was just difficult. With my studies, and work, and never spending time together… And constantly feeling guilty about it…”

“Wren, we talked about it. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You’re building your career, and we’re both in it. It’s important for both of us.” More Darren Brown shite. Really, John?

“We haven’t talked about it.” You sound disinterested. You aren’t. You’re just knackered. “I remember you mentioning it once…”

“It is ‘we talked about it’ from a male’s perspective,” he jokes, but his eyes aren’t laughing. “Wren, you have nothing to worry about. Neither about our marriage, nor about Eva.”

You nod again.

“Wren, you’re pale, you look as if you’re in pain. And I recognise the apathy and the silence.” You look at him in confusion. “You had the same face when you came to break up with me.” Ah, so that’s what got his knickers in a twist. “I’ve learnt to accept that there’s always a storm brewing in your mind – but can we talk, please?”

“John, I’m not… questioning our relationship.” You search for words. “I’m happy we are… good, and that you feel good about… us.”

“I do,” he confirms readily.

“Good. And I was probably just… tired, and paranoid, and you did take her home that one time…” He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him interrupt. “John, really, everything is fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine,” he answers slowly. “It might be my turn to be paranoid, but, Wrennie, what’s going on?”

“I want to… take a break. My exams are done in two weeks, and after that… I’d like some time off. Maybe, even before it.”

He’s silent, and you wonder how to explain it to him. There’re so many ways he can take it wrong. The fact that he’s not roaring and blazing his eyes at you is a good sign.

“A break? You want a break… from our marriage?” Here we go. That’s the first of many wrong ideas he can get.

“No, John, it’s… not that.” You rub your face with your hands. “I just need… silence. Around me, and… inside. I know it seems all wrong to you, since the whole aggro started because we hardly saw each other but… I need to be away. To be alone… And then I’ll be back, and everything will be back to normal.”

He’s thinking it over.

“I just can’t think about it anymore,” you continue. “I can’t talk about it anymore.”

“I wasn’t aware my alleged inappropriate relationship with my TA was a public knowledge,” he grits through his teeth.

“There were rumours,” you tell him. He surely isn’t that naive. “There’re always rumours, and you knobbing a long-legged student of yours is the best one the university staff can hope for.” Wow, that was a fucking epitome of bitchiness. It was so bitchy that he cringed. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

He shakes his head. “You aren’t supposed to be apologising here…” he starts, but you just don’t want to go there.

“John, please. We were talking… about me staying away for a bit. I… I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Trust?” he repeats. “That’s an odd angle you have there, Wren.”

“John, I love you,” you say in an even tone. “I value our marriage. But I’m tired. I have nothing… nothing left inside. I can’t… be in a relationship right now. I need to get through my exams, and that’s all I have energy for. And then I want to sleep, and…” Your voice breaks. “And nothing, really. I can’t even think of anything else to do.” Your throat spasms, you’re close to tears. But crying right now would be as much as an emotional blackmail, and that’s not what you want in your marriage.

You want – and need – two adults to talk, to discuss, and to understand each other.

“I’m properly confused right now, Wren…” he draws out. “But I’m trying, yeah?”

He covers his mouth with his hand – that’s his typical frustrated gesture. You let him think it over. Or maybe you just have no energy to talk, or even just move.

“Alright, what do you want to do?” Here we go. He sorted the info into neat boxes in his noggin, and now he’s strategizing, and he’s ready for action. That’s what made him successful. the cunning, the ruthlessness, the calculative mind. You just hope he’s currently playing for the same team as you.

“I’d like to stay in a hotel for the next two weeks.” A second ago you didn’t have an answer to this question, but it’s suddenly all clear to you. “And after that I’d like to have a week, or two in some B’n’B.”

“Alright. Do we talk on the phone then? Emails? Will you let me know how long you’re staying away?” he’s pressing, but you give him a look, and he back off. Literally. He leans back on the sofa, and it’s easier to breathe right away.

“I’ll email you after the exams, and… no, probably no telephone rings.” He nods, more to his own thoughts than to what you said.

“When are you leaving?” That’s another question you didn’t know you had an immediate certain answer to.

“Now. I’ll pack a bag, and will ring up Savoy, or something.” Another nod follows.

You decide you need to leave while it’s all seemingly peaceful and quiet, and you get up.

“One question, Wren.” He looked up at you, his eyes of astonishing bright colour. “Are you sure you aren’t just punishing me?”

You give him a long look – and then you shake your head.

“I have nothing to punish you for, John. You didn’t do anything wrong. If I were you, I’d talk to Eva, and apologise to her, because you led her on, and let her… hope. But me… I have nothing to blame you for.”

You head to the bedroom, to get a suitcase and some clothes from the walk-in wardrobe, and then you stop and look at him.

“And thank you. For understanding,” you say softly.

“I don’t understand, Wren. But I’ll do anything possible not to arse up our marriage. You say you need time away, you get it.” He swallows, his throat bobs. “But don’t think that I’m happy about it.”

“It would be alarming if you did,” you attempt to joke, but it falls flat.

You leave the room. It takes surprisingly long to figure out what you might need. You wander the wardrobe, pick up clothes, put them back. John stays somewhere in the other end of the flat. You have a total brain glitch in the bathroom, staring at your bottles and jars. Eventually you decide that a few pairs of clean knickers and socks, denim, and tees, are all you need. It’s not like you can’t come back here at any moment to take more stuff.

“I rang up couple hotels, and there are options,” John’s voice comes from the bedroom, and you stick you head out. He’s standing in the door frame, quite obviously giving you space. “Do you want to hear them, or do you want to call them yourself? I don’t want you to feel like I’m intruding.” He sounds unemotional, keeping himself in check, but you detect no sarcasm in his tone.

“I perfectly trust your expertise in hotels.” And this joke pathetically flops down just as the previous one.

“I say you need to rent a furnished flat for four weeks,” he answers, and stretches a hand with a list of phone numbers to you. “I have an agent who can set you up immediately, it might be a bit more dear, but we can afford it.” He gives you a joyless smile.

You walk up to him and take the paper.

You can smell his aftershave, and you can feel the warmth coming from his body. And then you realise that you want to hug him. And kiss him. And make love to him. But if you touch him, even just brush your hand to his sleeved arm – you won’t leave. You’ll change your mind. And you need to leave. Otherwise you’ll break. The pain and the emptiness you feel right now will stay inside, forever, and rot, and slowly kill you. As overdramatic as it sounds.

You nod gratefully and go back to the wardrobe. You can hear him leave and turn on music in the living room. It’s On the Level by Cohen.

Live Well and Prosper || Chapter 11. Wrennie and a Pub

The two of you spend Christmas in the Alps. Both of you can only spare three days for the hols, but it goes truly brilliantly. There’s a fireplace in the chateau; you eat, shag, and chat. He reads you books; you tell him of your childhood. It’s as sincere and as real as it gets.

You even go skiing. Once. He endeavours to teach you; you’re pathetic. The two of you laugh, and topple over into the snow. His bright blue eyes – like a husky dog, as if outlined with black – are shining. You lean in and kiss him.

The nights are as amazing as they ever are, and feel new and exciting. After the skiing, you complain that everything hurts. You get a massage – and three orgasms.

You wake up in the morning, and you just can’t get enough of him. He’s guffawing, insincerely battering your hands away, whining that he’s an old man with a weak heart. The two of you shag against the wall, and then again and again – and then there’s a breakfast, and you go back to bed. Soon, it’s hard to separate cuddling and reading – and it is Khayyam after all – from sex. You’re straddling him, and your hips are moving in the rhythm with the ten century old poetry. And then afterwards, he’s nodding off, his cheek pressed to your buttock, his head heavily pressing your pelvis into the sheets, and you close your eyes, feeling the acute and definite happiness.

***

When you’re back home, there’s so much to do that you even stay at Lan and Killian’s couple nights. They live closer to the lab.

And then one evening you’re chewing Thai takeaway, and John makes that funny throaty noise of his. It means he remembered something he needs to tell you. You snort. This ever growing feeling of knowing him well, and loving it – is ace.

“What?” he asks, and you give him a wide grin.

“Go ahead. What is it?” you say and encourage him with a wave of chopsticks.

“You know me too well, and it’s discouraging,” he answers with a smirk, and you snort again. “Graham has a favour to ask, and I said I’d inquire.”

“Oh?”

“His Canadian gyno is lonely,” John announces, and you know he’s paused to let you appreciate the statement.

“He should put it on a t-shirt.” You giggle. “Does he want me to take her for a walk?”

He nods, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m the worst possible option here,” you remind John. “I’m introverted, constantly busy, and alcohol intolerant. I assume I’m not expected to take her to an art gallery? After those time I’ve seen her, she doesn’t strike me as an artsy type.”

“He meant a pub,” John answers with a chuckle. “And you should take Martin.”

Ah, Thea. That makes sense. Thea can organise a satisfying night out for the Pope.

“OK, I’ll ask her.”

“Thank you.” The two of you chew for a while, and then he yawns. “Can we go to bed early today? We’re having this cocktail party tomorrow, another book signing of another professor whose dull work no one will read…”

You pretend to be very busy grinding a baby corn with your teeth, while in reality you’re trying to unclench your suddenly spasmed jaw. Another party that you’re hearing about in passing; and for some reason feel like you’re being politely excluded out of? Is Wrennie mental? Aye, she is. Should she be? Hm… Eventually, you jerkily nod, and he leaves for the kitchen to get some water. You’re staring at his plate.

***

It takes you three weeks to find an evening when Thea and yourself can finally introduce Candice, the Canadian gyno, to the joys of a pub bender.

She shows up, all perky and bouncy, in a jolly pink jumper. Her blonde curls look almost unnaturally golden, shiny, and even. They remind you of cup-a-noodle, or buttercream in Mary Berry’s Victoria sandwich.

There’s a small moment of awkwardness, and then she offers to buy the first round.

You’re still on yours second virgin Pina Colada – and you do know how pathetic this drink sounds – when the ladies switch from lager to ‘something with a kick,’ as Candice puts it. Somehow a kick in Candice’s understanding gets best delivered by rum. Thea doesn’t mind at all.

Candice gets arsed up astonishingly quickly. And chatty, she gets very chatty.

“God, girls, you’re awesome!” she hollers, and her arms lie on your and Thea’s shoulders. “So awesome… I’m so glad we went out together. It really sucks here, without my girlfriends…” She gives you a shaky smile. “I had friends I went to med school with, and we would always get drinks on Friday, and I miss it, you know? So good to be here with you.”

Thea gives you a sardonic look from under a hiked up eyebrow. She had as much as Candice, but Thea Martin is a hard chicka. For her, it’s just an appetizer.

“So, what is it that you do, Thea?” Candice asks, and starts waving her right hand in the air, trying to catch the attention of the waiter. Her left hand is still tightly gripping your shoulder.

“I’m dabbling,” Thea give her usual answer.

“A what?” Candice blinks her large blue eyes.

“She’s good at a lot of things,” you explain. “She tries different things. She sings too. Like a siren.” You salute Thea with your glass, and she winks to you.

“Oh wow! We should go to karaoke next time then.” Candice takes a deep breath in, her lovely round tits rise in the tight jumper. “I’m rather OK myself. Have the right apparatus, you know?” She laughs and pats her cleavage. You believe her. She’s short, curvy, and all and all delicious. Graham is a lucky duck.

“I’m in computer science right now,” Thea explains lazily. “But I won’t last. It’s dull.”

“Wow, looks and the brains, all in one package!” Candice throws an admiring look over Thea. “You’re so cool! You both are!” she rushes to reassure you, and you laugh at her eagerness. “No, no, no, I’m serious!” Her words are a bit slurred. She’s as bladdered as a poached pear. “You, Wren! You’re a genius! Graham told me, and my Graham knows what he’s saying, you know?” Her round pretty face gets all loved-up, and Thea shakes her head and topples another shot of rum into her throat.

“Thank you, Candice, that’s very nice of both of you,” you answer, your voice shaking of laughter. You’re properly in the dark how to respond to this exuberant friendliness.

“I mean, with your studies, and your work… And you’re a fucking pixie, Wren!” She gestures an inch away from your nose, and you shy away. “I mean, the eyes and the cheekbones. You’re like an elf, or something.” Did you just hear a hiccup? “And your head is… Just wow. You deserve the best, Wren. All the best! And you too, Thea. Do you have a guy? Does he treat you well?” the Canadian asks in a strict tone, and Thea barks a throaty laugh.

“Chicka, you should ask whether I treat him well. I’m the bad one here.” She gives Candice a salacious wink.

“Good, very good! Let’s drink for it!” Candice finally catches a waiter – by a sleeve no less; and orders three shots, apparently having already forgotten you don’t need one.

“Men need to be kept under control, you know? Not all of them are as nice as my Graham.” She shakes her finger somewhere in the space between you and Thea. “And we deserve all the best, right? Especially you, Wren, you need to take it under control, you know?” She focuses her peepers on you. “I mean, it’s your man, after all, you can’t let that slut just steal him. You need to fight for him!”

You know how they say ‘like a bucket of cold water?’ That’s exactly how it feels. Scorching wave all over your skin, first like a burn, and then cold; then pain, in all joints, and full petrification. You have trouble breathing, and the glass starts shaking in your hand frozen mid air.

“I mean…” Candice continues, so clearly full of good intentions. And we all know where that sodding good intention pavement leads. “I’d just go and pull her hair out. Kick her skinny ass! Tell her to keep her hands off him. I get it, you guys might things differently here.” She lifts her hands in a defensive gesture. “Maybe you can talk to him too – but I say, what can a guy decide, right? They think with their dick, and this one is clearly a goner. I mean they left that book signing party together, and Graham agrees that she’s got her claws in him…”

Thea’s drink falls on the table, and rushes across the table, and pours onto Candice’s lap. The Canadian swears loudly and jumps off her chair.

“Oh shite, sorry, darling.” Thea starts pushing napkins into Candice’s hands.

“It’s OK,” Candice laughs. “I guess, you’re a bit tipsy too, heh?” She gives Thea a wide grin, and Thea nods.

“To be honest, I think I’ve had enough.” Thea’s as smooth as ever. “How about we call it a night, Candice?”

“Only if you promise me we’ll do it again soon.” She wraps her arm around Thea’s waist, she wouldn’t reach Thea’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Definitely.” Thea gives her a brilliant smile. “I’ll get you a cab, love. You’ll be here, Wren?” She throws you a quick look, and you’re still in the same pose as before, your eyes on the slowly expanding puddle of lager on the table. You give a short nod, and the two of them disappear.

“Be right back.” Thea’s whisper is the last thing you hear.

You don’t notice how time passes, and suddenly Thea plops back on her chair in front of you.

“What the fuck is going on, Leary?”

Live Well and Prosper || Chapter 10. Wrennie and a Wake Up Call

It all starts with a dream. Well, maybe it doesn’t start with it, but the dream is definitely what puts this aggro somewhere in the top layers of your consciousness – somewhere underneath your studies , which take up 90% of your time, and your chi, or mojo, or whatever it is that keeps you going on three hours of sleep, irregular solids, and a gallon of coffee a day.

Do you know that kind of dream when you suddenly see someone you know in a completely different light? It happens to most. As an example, you can see shagging someone in a dream whom you’ve never even considered as a potential partner, and then you look at them in a completely new light.

Well, it isn’t that kind of dream. It’s more of what happened to Mendeleev with his periodic table, which he had already figured it out subconsciously, and then in a dream it came to him, all nice and neat.

The dream is vague, and tangled, and when you wake up with a jerk and a loud inhale that you can even hear yourself, you remember only one image.

John’s sitting at his desk, in his office, behind that mahogany desk he put in his office in uni. You’ve opened the door and stepped in. His knees are widespread, and Eva is kneeling in front of him. His head is dropped back, on the leather back of his swivel chair, and his right hand is on her head. You know this gesture. You’ve felt that relaxed heavy hand on the back of your head hundreds of times. You can see the black of her jacket, and the heels of her shoes, and the red soles. Her head is moving rhythmically.

You’re sitting in your bedroom, trying to shake off the sensation of some disgusting slime as if coating your insides this. It’s dark, and smells nice in the room. There’s a firtree branches arrangement on the shelf.

You look at John. He’s sleeping in his usual manner, on his stomach, nose squished to the side, bent arm under his pillow. You try to get rid of the image of his half-closed eyes, and parted lips, and the pleasure written on his face – and you can’t.

You roll off the bed, go to the kitchen, and greedily drink a glass of water.

You don’t need a shrink to understand what’s happening here. You two have been living together for almost a year; you’ve been married only a few months less – and almost from the very beginning he’s been somewhere at the bottom of your life priorities. You’ve been getting your degree; you’ve published a paper; you work. He agrees, and supports everything you do. You feel a bit guilty, but you always push it at the back of your mind.

And she took a lint off his jacket in front of you once.

It’s daft, and you’d like to say that it’s not that you’ve seen it in a couple of mystery shows, for some reason mostly in the costume ones. But such is indeed the ridiculous explanation for your current nerves. A woman takes a lint off a man’s clothing, and the clever arse sleuth immediately susses out they shag.

You came to his office then. She was leaving, laughing; and he was laughing inside; and she opened the door, and he jumped out of his chair and quickly came up to the door to greet you. You were focused on his gorgeous blue eyes, and then she called his name, and handed him a pile of some papers. And then she took something small and white off the lapel of his jacket. He was looking at you. And then she turned and left, and he pulled you into a kiss.

You know tomorrow it will all seem fucking stupid, but right now on the cold floor of your kitchen, an empty glass in your hand, you’re shaking.

They go to dos together. He sees her four days a week. And she wants him. It’s not because 87% of people who met him want him. You can see it in her eyes. You’ve just been ignoring it.

And it’s none of your fucking business. Say, she has a crush on him. It’s her right. Say, he has a crush on her. He has every reason. You’re never around; she’s hot as fuck. She admires and wants him. He’s a man of flesh and blood. And…

The glass hits the floor and shatters. You look down. It only broke in three pieces, but there are probably shards. You’ve just dramatically dropped a glass like in a cheap Septic melodrama. You dropped a glass because you so easily imagined how it’s totally happening. And it makes sense.

And you properly don’t know what to do now.

***

Act Two of this drama titled Wren at Loss is Eva getting arsed up at a faculty Christmas party.

You go with John for once. You’re knackered as always, and you hate the tight dress, and the uncomfortable shoes, and the mascara eating at your eyeballs; but you’re keeping a good face, and smile, and mingle. It goes well. You have a few empty conversations, and couple of somewhat meaningful discussions of your paper. You drink water; you laugh at other people’s jokes.

John and you look good together. The height difference, the contrasting hair colours, his tie matching the pattern on your dress – the two of you have mastered public appearances. You also sincerely enjoy being in each other’s company, and it shows. His arm is around you, considerately, but oh so telling; and the two of you sneak a kiss from time to time.

You are politely nodding, listening to the droning of yet another of John’s venerable colleagues, when you hear a loud shrieky laugh from another end of the room. You peek and see Eva hanging in the arms of some middle-aged lady. At the moment, your husband’s TA is reminding you of those inflatable men near car dealerships in American films. She’s long, and thin, and unstable on her feet, her arms are moving frantically, and her mouth with bright red lipstick is half open.

“Is she alright?” you ask John, and he throws a look at her.

“I think I should go look after her.” He excuses himself, and you see him cross the room. She jerks and immediately moves onto him, in all her black and tight dominatrix glory. His arm goes around her waist, and he’s saying something comforting to the lady who’s fretting around Eva. He then pulls his mobile out of his pocket, and you assume he’s calling a cab.

“Well, that’s unfortunate…” Professor Murphy in front of you mumbles, and you smile to him politely. You hope you do look like Kate Middleton right now. Poise and elegance, Wrennie. Nothing’s happening; nothing’s happening; we are all going to pretend nothing is happening.

“Well, I’m sure Eva is just overtired. All the pressure of our scientific field…” You express dignified understanding on your face.

“Of course, of course…” Murphy mumbles, and the two of you go back to your previous discussion.

In a few minutes later your mobile beeps, and you see a text from John who informs you that he took Eva home in a cab, and that he’ll see you at your place. He doesn’t unnecessarily explain that Eva lives alone, or that he’s worried about her elderly mother seeing her like that – because giving you a reason why he decided to escort his bladdered TA to her place would mean that it’s something out of the ordinary, right? This way it looks as if he’s just being courteous, and you aren’t supposed to question it.

You are.

When you come home after quickly escaping the party, he’s already there. He’s taken off his jacket, and is sitting in the living room with a book.

He lifts his eyes at you over the page, and smiles.

“That was jolly fortunate. At least we didn’t have to stay to hear them sing,” he jokes.

You’re staring at him. You are torn between A. climbing on his lap, jerking the sides of that shirt open, and fucking him into the sofa. Rocking his world, and probably living marks all over his lush body. To remind him – and yourself – that he’s yours.

Or B. Not touching him at all, because you’re terrified to catch her perfume on him. You don’t mean that it would be there, because he shagged her just now, in her flat, really quickly. Nausea rises. You’ve just imagined how he dropped her on the bed, she was half conscious but readily spread her legs, and he just unbuckled his trousers, and maybe he flipped her on her stomach, and bunched up her narrow skirt. He was done quickly – otherwise how would he be home already? – and just zipped up, and left. You close your eyes.

Even if he didn’t – doesn’t – shag her, he as much as carried her to the cab. He will smell like her right now.

“Wren?”

Your eyes fly open. One of his eyebrows is hiked up. You two shag after parties. It’s a thing. You love him in white shirts. Opening the shirt, button after button, slowly, down to the stomach, and then placing a row of small kisses to his pectoral muscles, and a playful bite, or two, and the look on his face, his eyes shiny, and loving, and randy…

He expects you to jump him now. No, he doesn’t expect – he hopes. If you say you’re tired, he’ll smile softly and understandingly. And the two of you will prepare for bed, and you’ll fall asleep in his arms.

You pick up the straps of your dress, shimmy your shoulders, and let the fabric drop around your waist. You then quickly open the zipper on your arse, and the dress falls on the floor. You’ve calculated this move before the party. There’s a black lacy bra, tiny knickers – and stockings.

“I want to go to a shower now,” you say keeping your eyes locked. He licks his lips. “You first.”

He jumps off the sofa, the book lands on the carpet with a soft thud – and he’s walking backwards to the bathroom, his eyes roaming your body. The black trousers are tenting on his very jolly cock.

“Shower, Thorington,” you repeat, and he salutes, with a wide grin, and turns around, and disappears inside the bathroom. You hear the shower door bang, and the water runs.

You exhale sharply and follow him.