Sören got some more work done on the painting of Karen on Snúður's first night home, while Mark played his acoustic guitar - again, a series of covers. And at last, Sören decided it was as good as it was going to get.
In the afterglow of their lovemaking that night, with Mark holding Sören close, Snúður on one side of them and Huan on the other, Sören started thinking about Seth again, all the nasty things Seth had said about his art, his hobbies. Mark noticed Sören looking pensive and stroked his curls, kissed the top of Sören's head. "What's wrong, puppy?"
Sören loved it when Mark called him that. There were a lot of things bothering Sören at the moment, but Sören went with the one that was easiest to discuss - for some measure of "easiest" - since he didn't want to bring up the dream he had, or reincarnation just yet.
"Thinking about the shit Seth used to say about my work." Sören sighed. "You know me, I'm a perfectionist with my art. If there's a hundred people and ninety-nine of them like what I did and one person doesn't, I'm going to be focusing on that one person who doesn't, my brain picking it apart, analyzing to death, wondering what I'm doing wrong."
"Sören, from everything you've told me about Seth, he sounds like his opinion doesn't matter, period. You know what else I think? I think he was jealous that you could make awesome things and he can't. He's just some office drone who thinks he's a lot smarter than he actually is. I still don't know how you ended up with that idiot."
"OK, but I mean... in general, I worry about the finished product not being good enough. Never being good enough. I still have the compulsion to make art and put it out there anyway, but -"
Mark sighed. "Yeah. Sören, let me give you a heartfelt piece of advice, one creative person to another. In the words of your boy Jay-Z, 'Fuck critics, they can kiss my whole asshole.'"
Sören howled. He doubled over, wheezing, tearing up. "Maglor... did you just... quote... Jay-Z."
"I got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one. Biatch."
Sören lost it, gigglesnorting, laughing so hard his sides cramped, tears blinding him. He couldn't remember ever laughing so hard in his life, tickled by the surreality of the ancient Macalaurë Fëanorion quoting Jay-Z. "Mark. Ow. Ow."
Mark grinned, pleased with himself. He rocked Sören a little, pet him some more, kissed the top of his head. When Sören calmed down, Mark went on, "OK. Now seriously... people are entitled to dislike things for whatever reason - such as having no goddamn taste - and you are entitled to disregard their opinion and do what you want anyway. I get it that your brain nitpicks that one piece of criticism versus ninety-nine people saying it's great. But clearly, you're still doing what you do anyway, and you have to allow yourself that. Give yourself permission to not give a fuck. As perfectionistic as my Ada was, and as damaging as his own father's criticism was, he gave no fucks whatsoever. He made what he wanted, he did what he wanted. No apologies, no compromise. In the end, yes, he went mad, and in your lifetime I can see how beaten down you are, what people have said and done to you. But I truly feel that part of your own journey of recovery needs to involve letting yourself give, if not zero fucks, fewer fucks than you currently do. You can't let the fear of 'what if someone doesn't like this' stifle your creative urges. That's not just insulting to your own gifts and the beautiful art you create, it's an insult to creativity itself. It's an insult to the Song, and it's an insult to the Flame... an insult to my father's memory. Your fire deserves to burn, Sören. Let it shine, don't worry about what others think. You can't please everybody. Nor should you. That's not the point of creating. It's always nice when other people appreciate and compliment what we do, of course it is... but ultimately it's about expressing a piece of the Song, manifesting it. That need unites humans across cultures, across creeds. It's even one thing humans and Elves have in common - or at least the Noldor, anyway. When you resist the urge to snuff that fire and just let it burn, it resists the darkness, the emptiness, the Void. It bears witness to the Song."
Sören had chills. He had a tight ache in his chest, loving Mark even more for his words, for his depth, the experience lived behind those words, the magic in him.
Sören kissed Mark - the only response he could properly make, as caught up in emotion as he was. The passion smouldered, ready to catch fire again.
But it was already late at night, and Mark looked at the clock and gave Sören a gentle, sweet kiss, patting him. "We've got school in the morning, babe, we need to get some sleep."
Sören pouted, but he knew Mark was right. Mark's arms tightened around him, and Sören drew Mark's flood of hair around him like a blanket as he snuggled in. Then there was that feeling of starlight wrapping around him, easing away the tension and the trouble, a soft nest of stardust that pulled him in, his body and mind shimmering into the darkness.
_
On Thursday morning Sören went to campus with Dooku, so Mark could bring Huan to training in Lebanon. This was just as well, as Sören felt even more unsettled by last night's dream than the one he had previously.
He also felt defiant, taking Mark's words to heart. His art was a living "fuck you".
So while Sören was originally going to give the painting to Karen for Christmas, he decided he'd surprise her and give it to her now. And indeed, it felt rather like he was supposed to.
Despite Sören's feeling of defiance and devil-may-care with bringing the painting to give to Karen today, he still felt a slight hesitation, and waited until the end of the day to bring it out, wrapped up.
"I, ah. I made you something," Sören said, feeling bashful.
"Oh?" Karen smiled as she took the wrapped canvas. She unwrapped it, and then when she saw the finished painting, her jaw dropped. She blinked, looking as if she was in shock.
Karen kept looking at the canvas, and at Sören, and back to the canvas, and back at Sören, and there was a look on her face like disbelief. She covered her gaping mouth, but her eyes were still wide and she took a couple steps back.
Oh god. Oh no. She doesn't like it. Of course she doesn't, it's stupid, I'm a huge dork...
Karen's eyes closed for a moment and her arms wrapped around the painting and she said quickly, "Thank you, Sören, that was very thoughtful of you." She opened her eyes and they were full of tears. "Excuse me, I have to go." She ran out of the classroom, carrying the painting with her.
"Oh great, I fucking creeped her out, too." Sören facepalmed and started smacking himself in the forehead. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Idiot. She hates me now..."
Sören was in a foul mood on the way back home, and thought about canceling his date with Mark. But then when he cried on his bed he drifted off to sleep, and when he woke up it was close to the time Mark would be picking him up.
Sören brought Snúður over to Mark's house in the cat carrier - Mark had bought some cat supplies for his own house when Sören came to visit. Sören was quiet on the way to Mark's house and Mark kept looking at him. When they turning onto Mark's street, Mark finally asked, "Babe, what's wrong?"
Sören sighed. "I gave the painting to Karen."
"Oh?"
"She doesn't like it."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Did she say she doesn't like it, or..."
Sören bristled. "She didn't say it in as many words but her reaction was really weird. She had a strange look on her face and she got, well, teary and then she ran off."
"That doesn't mean she doesn't like it. Sometimes when people are genuinely touched by things, really nice things, they don't know how to handle it, they may not deal with emotions well... it's been my experience that the British have that whole 'stiff upper lip' thing going on..."
"You mean like Nico?" Sören snorted.
"Yes, exactly like that."
Sören shrugged, then. "I don't know, Mark. It just... feels bad."
"Well, I think it's more fair to her, and yourself, to try to not assume that reaction was negative."
Sören shrugged again.
Mark pulled into the driveway and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sören... I wish you wouldn't be so negative about yourself, and your art in particular. I know you have a lot of conditioning from abusers to unlearn, and that recovery process isn't overnight. I know that. But I wish you would value yourself more. It literally hurts to see you like this."
It'll hurt even more if I tell you who I was. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Kanafinwë. Things will never be as they were. Will you still want that, or will it hurt too much? Will it repel you?
Sören knew he still had to tell Mark, eventually. And for a second he thought about telling him now, while they were still in the car in the driveway, just blurting it out, "Hey, I think I was Fëanor."
But now the cat was yowling, not liking to be cooped up in the carrier. So they went inside, Sören let out Snúður, and Mark set to work on dinner, with an awkward silence between them.
Sören was once again feeling overwhelmed by the escalating spookiness of everything and he desperately needed a break. He found himself wandering over to the shelf where Mark's KISS action figures were once again reassembled as they were before Sören put them on the coffee table. Sören gathered the members of KISS into his T-shirt and made his way down the hall to Mark's bedroom.
Over the summer, one of Sören and Mark's trips had been to Build-A-Bear Workshop to get Sören a companion for the stuffed toy he'd had since childhood, a blue bunny named Bláberja that Sören's mamma had made him, and Sören's uncle Einar had ripped apart one night in a fit. Sören kept the pieces together in a pillowcase, not knowing how to sew, and when Mark saw Bláberja he secretly rented a sewing machine and repaired the bunny as a surprise for Sören. To celebrate, Sören got a second bunny, and on impulse, got a unicorn for Mark. Sören had pushed Mark to name his new friend, and when Mark yelled "Hells" in exasperation, Sören decided that was its name.
Mark still had Hells, who was sitting on one of the William-and-Mary dressers, near an interesting-looking black crystal ball that, when Sören saw it out of the corner of his eye, looked for a moment like nebulas were swirling under the glass. Sören wondered about it, if this was one of the palantiri that he'd invented a long time ago. But he'd had more than enough spooky things as of late. So instead, he simply unwrapped the KISS action figures from his shirt and assembled them around Hells. He put Gene Simmons and Ace Frehley on the unicorn's back, as if they were riding him, and the other members of KISS were looking at the palantir as if they were consulting it to see where Hells should take them.
After dinner Sören and Mark curled up together to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, with Sören relieved that despite the awkward silence of earlier, Mark was still warm and affectionate. He relaxed into Mark's cuddles and pettings, and inevitably, the relaxation at his touch gave way to arousal, with sweet, lazy kisses becoming more heated.
Mark got up to go to the bathroom and when Mark was down the hall Sören took his cock out and began to stroke, slow and languid, the plan being for Mark to see him that way when he came back to the living room. But then a couple minutes after he heard the toilet flush and the water running in the sink, he heard a distinct "HELLS" from the direction of the bedroom. Sören couldn't wipe the grin off his face when Mark stepped into the living room, arms folded.
Mark simply made a gesture for Sören to get up and follow him.
As soon as Sören got in the bedroom, Mark yanked Sören's khakis off, shoved him down on the bed, and began to spank his ass over and over again. Sören giggled, moaned, rubbed against the bed like he was in heat, wiggling his ass at Mark provocatively.
"Brat," Mark growled.
"I told you those poor KISS dolls needed a break. It's not my fault that your KISS dolls are trying to plan an escape now. You should have listened to me."
Mark swatted Sören's ass again. Sören moaned, cock throbbing.
"You know," Mark rasped, "that accent of yours is maddeningly adorable and sexy. I can't even be too annoyed with you when you say 'hyoorrrr kees dulls' the way you do." Mark gave a little groan as he spanked Sören again. "Between your naughty innocence... those curls, those eyes, that mouth, your body... and that gorgeous voice... it's almost like you were deliberately fashioned to be irresistible, you tempting little..." Mark spanked Sören again.
The first reaction in Sören's mind was I'm not sure you'd still say this if you knew the truth of what I once was, compared to what I am now. But then a small part of him wondered if, just as there was enough of the Flame in him to defy the Doom and find Maglor again, Fëanor might have somehow shaped the body he would be reborn into, something new but also that would still be aesthetically pleasing to him and his lovers...
It was a nice thought, comforting. Sören hoped it was true. In the meantime, his cock jolted and throbbed urgently with each slap, his hole twitching, aching to be filled, rubbed.
Mark rolled Sören onto his back, yanked off Sören's T-shirt, and then he grabbed the leash and collar and put it on Sören. Mark tied the leash to the bedpost as he got undressed, again going slowly and deliberately, putting on a little show for Sören, who got more worked up watching him, cock leaking precum.
When Mark was naked he joined Sören on the bed and untied the leash, wrapping it around his hand, pulling Sören towards him. "I'm starting to think that you're playing with my action figures on purpose to get punished."
Sören grinned. "Hi Starting To Think That You're Playing With My -"
Mark bit Sören's neck. Sören cried out, cock jolting again. He reached out to grab Mark with a shuddery gasp. Mark licked where he bit, and Sören gave a whimper. Then Mark gave Sören a look, and Sören giggled before he answered. "It's for amusement. It's just that punishment is an added bonus."
"Mhm." Mark kissed Sören hard. "You like being a brat too much, methinks."
"I think you like it too." Sören kissed the tip of Mark's nose. "And in any case you need it. You've been too sad, too serious, for too long." Sören stroked Mark's face, pet his hair. "I like making you laugh." I always did.
Mark's eyes went from fierce to tender, and then back to fierce as he took Sören's face in his hands and kissed him passionately. They both cried out into the kiss as their hard cocks bumped up together. They moaned as cock rubbed cock with each teasing lash of their tongues. Mark reached for the lube and Sören spread his legs as wide as he could. Mark readied them both and then, leash in hand, pulling, he pushed into Sören and gave him another deep, devouring kiss when he was all the way inside.
With Sören's legs on Mark's shoulders, Mark leaning over him, kissing him with fierce hunger, Mark drove into him, showing no mercy. Sören loved it, arms wrapped around him, nails digging into him, hips rocking back at him. He loved not just the sensation of Mark rubbing that sweet spot inside him but that feeling of possession, being consumed, consuming him as well, fire meeting fire.
"Mine," Mark growled, biting Sören's neck, kissing, licking. "Mine. Mine."
"Yours."
Their climax detonated through them violently, making them cry out to the heavens. And still they needed more. Never enough. Sören rolled Mark onto his back and rode him like a bull, Mark tugging the leash, his free hands playing with Sören's piercings, tracing the ink on his skin. After that orgasm they were sweaty enough to shower together, rubbing their cocks together in the shower, Mark teasing them shy of orgasm so they were still hard and unfulfilled when the shower ended. Mark led them back to the bed for a sweet sixty-nine, and then, kissing, tasting each other's seed aroused them enough to still need more. Mark wanted to top from the bottom, letting Sören take him on all fours, with Sören pulling his flood of hair as Mark had pulled the leash.
"I'm yours," Sören rasped as he slammed into Mark, "but you're mine, too."
"God, yes." Mark quivered and let out a husky moan.
"Mine." Sören grabbed Mark's hips harder, fucking faster. "Mine. My own. All of you is mine. Your ass. Your cock. Your mouth. Your eyes. Your music. Your Song." Sören couldn't resist. "Your KISS dolls."
"Hells, Sören..."
Sören leaned down, and pulled Mark up a little, tilting Mark's face so they could kiss. "You belong to me. You don't have to wander alone anymore, Macalaurë."
Mark gave a shuddery sigh, and Sören knew he was overcome with emotion, the same feeling that was overwhelming Sören now, breaking his heart, flooding his eyes. He loved this man so much, with a fierce, scorching love that was more powerful than the Doom upon them. More powerful than anything.
"No more wandering alone," Sören repeated, and for levity, so he didn't completely fall apart, he grinned and purred, "Your KISS dolls are wandering too."
Mark narrowed his eyes and he growled into a kiss. One kiss became another, and another, and soon Sören couldn't make words at all, so close to climax. He reached to play with Mark's cock, wanting his bottom to come first, and he felt Mark trembling just before the telltale gasp and the seed coating his hand. "Sören," Mark cried out. "Sören. Oh god. Sören. Sören, my love, my flame, my fire..."
"Yes." Sören gave in to his own release, spending and spending and spending. "Oh, fuck, yes."
Sören lay on top of him as he drifted. At some point he slipped out, and then he was in Mark's arms, being rocked and pet.
"We should get some sleep," Mark whispered.
"Kay."
Mark kissed Sören's brow. "Sweet dreams, little flame."
That night, Sören managed to get some actual rest, undisturbed.
_
On Friday morning Mark dropped Sören off at home so his cat could go home, and Sören went to school with Dooku as usual. Sören was a bit nervous about seeing Karen again after yesterday, but Dooku looked a bit pensive too, and Sören decided to distract himself from his anxiety about Karen by seeing if he could help his best friend feel better at all.
"You OK, Nico?"
"Oh... yes, I suppose." Dooku nodded. "I just find myself increasingly troubled by the news."
"I see."
"As you know, I was rather a bit of a firebrand back in the 1970s and to some extent in the 1980s as well. It's not that I never stopped caring about civil rights, and politics, but as I've gotten older I've... well... not calmed down, necessarily, but I pick and choose my battles more carefully. I wasn't as concerned about getting arrested when I was in my twenties, as I am now."
"That's understandable." Sören nodded.
"But lately... since the 2016 election..." Dooku's brow furrowed. "It's... alarming, what's happening here."
Sören nodded some more.
"And I'm finding it harder to stay silent." Dooku finally looked at Sören. "I'm going to Portland on Saturday, I'm staying in the city overnight at a hotel. There are some leftist, anti-fascist demonstrations coming up soon that I'm taking part in - my generation owes the younger generation, we created this mess they're in - and on Saturday I'm going to a meeting to start planning for the weekends ahead. I apologize if you wanted to get together then..."
"No, I understand." Sören felt a tight ache in his chest - respect and admiration for his friend, willing to fight for what he believed in.
"For all our talk of wanting a revolution in the 1960s, the 1970s..." Dooku shook his head and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Most of us sold out. We compromised our ideals too much... we didn't fight hard enough. And now here we are, with America looking a lot like how Germany looked just prior to World War II. We did this. I shan't be complacent. I'm an historian, I know history repeats itself unchecked."
For a brief instant Sören thought of Fëanor and Fingolfin trying to start their own revolution against Melkor and the Valar, and how well that worked out for both of them. He suddenly had an icy grip on the pit of his stomach, knowing that the far-right were more active in Portland lately - orcs, the Fëanor part of Sören sneered - and he worried about Dooku getting in trouble, getting hurt, even though Sören knew from what happened with Seth that Dooku was very capable of taking care of himself.
He almost wanted to say, "Don't go," but he knew that he couldn't ask Dooku to not be himself, that Dooku's ideals were what made Dooku Dooku, the man who'd come to his defense and helped him through one of the worst times in his life when Sören had been decidedly unlikable, acting from a place of deep hurt. Dooku had seen the humanity there, and responded with compassion. Ferocity too - he had been a terror to Seth, almost killing him. Sören could see the fire in Dooku's dark eyes - he was angry about what was happening to the world now, he was on a crusade. Sören honored that part of him, cherished it. He hoped it wouldn't cause Dooku problems. I can't lose you.
That thought terrified him, not just the thought of losing Dooku in and of itself, but the realization that he'd be absolutely devastated, desolate, if something happened to Dooku. It was a feeling very close to...
Oh god, I'm in love with him. I can't keep denying it. But nor was he willing to risk everything by saying it aloud.
"I hope the demonstrations go well." Sören swallowed hard. "I'd offer to come with you, but -"
"I'd tell you to stay home if you did." Dooku gave him a stern look. "The fascist groups in Portland... well... I won't say for sure that things will get physical, they won't necessarily, but it's better to be prepared just in case, and as you know, I've taken Krav Maga, I'm in good condition for my age. You have asthma. You're not used to fighting, though I think something like taking up a martial art might be good for building self-esteem -"
Oh here we go again with this shit. "You think I have low self-esteem?"
"Sören Sigurðsson, I know you have low self-esteem and it pains me. You are..." Dooku took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then he swallowed hard and said, "Very dear to me. There is much of value about you, and it bothers me that you don't see it. That you don't see the way..." His voice trailed off.
Sören shrugged. "I've had people tell me I'm crap my whole life."
"Yes. My parents told me something similar. And like you, I was bullied in school. Private schools in England in the 1960s were a special kind of hell. But here we are." Dooku set his jaw, defiant. "We have both accomplished more, done more for this world, than anyone who has spoken ill of us. Even if we had not, we are still worth more than they say we are, because nobody deserves what was inflicted upon us." Dooku's nostrils flared. "Except perhaps that ex of yours."
"God." Sören fought off the wild urge to kiss Dooku on the cheek. You want to do WHAT? Have you lost your damn mind? Sören's face was on fire.
Sören felt the anxiety return when they got to campus. After he'd been in his classroom for a little while, setting up, Karen walked in, wearing a light blue blouse with a darker blue skirt, a blue-and-white scarf, her hair worn loose.
"Hi," Karen said.
"Hi." Sören looked away.
"Um..." Karen came closer. "Sören... I wanted to say thank you, again, for the painting."
"No need to thank me," Sören said, looking down, feeling a little ill. "I can tell you didn't like it."
"Oh god. Oh god Sören no... that wasn't it." Karen reached out to grab his arm then, and Sören found himself looking back over at Karen, whose eyes were too bright.
Sören and Karen sat down. "I loved it," Karen said. "It got me choked up because... well... it hit very close to home for me. First of all, you couldn't possibly have known this, but the swan is my favorite bird."
Sören raised an eyebrow. For a second he half-expected Karen to say she'd been dreaming about the Harry Potter world, and then he had the wild thought of wondering if that world from his dream did exist and they somehow knew each other there, perhaps through that gorgeous Englishman he was with...
Karen went on. "For years I always thought the swan would be my Patronus."
"Oh. That's funny because, you know, your surname is Swanson, I just... thought it fit."
"Perhaps, but not everyone would connect their Patronus with their surname. I would have more reason to avoid it than most people." Karen made a face. When she saw Sören's look of confusion, she explained, "Karen is my middle name. My given name is Bella, I was named for my maternal grandmother Isabella and my paternal great-grandmother Karen. Anyway... I was in law school in 2005, the year the first Twilight book came out, and this guy Anthony in my class started calling me Bella Swan."
Sören tried not to laugh.
"I used to go by Bella but after that I started going by Karen. Anyway, I still love swans. And... the author said the Dementors were based on her struggles with depression," Karen said.
"Oh." Sören blinked. He hadn't been expecting that, even though he'd seen Karen looking sad more than once.
"The last few years have been rather difficult for me," Karen went on. "So seeing a painting of myself battling something from a world where the creator said it was symbolic of depression and other mental health issues..."
"Oh god, Karen, I'm sorry, I -"
"Why are you apologizing?" Karen gave him a stern look. "There's no need to apologize, Sören. It was like... looking at that... you got it."
"I think I do." Sören nodded. "I've been through some shit, and I'm on medication for stuff I'm diagnosed with."
Karen nodded too. "You have that feel about you. People who've endured trauma of some kind can usually sense it in other people."
"You'd think that, but I genuinely didn't know that was why you were reacting to the painting like that. I thought you didn't like it." Sören frowned.
"Oh, Sören." Karen's voice was husky. She put her hand on Sören's arm like he was a dear friend instead of just the professor she was the teaching assistant of. "It wasn't just that the symbolism of it touched me, but... nobody's ever given me a gift like that before, I could tell from just a brief glance at the painting that so much work went into it, hours, all the detail. It felt so lifelike. It was, is, an absolutely gorgeous piece of art. I got a frame for it and hung it up in my flat. It's a reminder to keep fighting." Karen's eyes misted again. "It was incredibly sweet of you, and such a surprise. I didn't know if you could tell I'd been struggling a bit more this week than usual..."
"You're pretty professional," Sören said, and thought to himself and just pretty, period, but didn't say it out loud. "So I couldn't tell consciously. Subconsciously... well..." Sören gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Maybe I'm kind of psychic." He hummed the theme to The X-Files. Karen laughed too. Sören fought back a cringe, thinking of all the weirdness of his life and how that joke wasn't entirely a joke. The urgency he'd felt with giving the painting to Karen yesterday, well...
"Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of something very difficult." Karen looked down. "So getting that painting then, of all days..."
"Oh. Oh."
"And I assume it was a coincidence, you probably don't follow British news sources at all..."
"Uh... no? I mean, I could probably tell you if something's going on with your royal family, but otherwise..." Sören felt a little self-conscious that he wasn't as well-versed in global affairs as Dooku was. He barely knew what was happening in Iceland since he left.
"Mkay." Karen nodded.
"Did you, ah... did you want to talk about it?" Sören raised an eyebrow.
"I don't want to talk about it right now, when our first class starts soon. It's a bit of a fraught topic of conversation for me. I do want to tell you about it, because I think you'll understand, a sympathetic ear would be nice to have, a friend..."
"Of course." Sören gave her a reassuring smile.
"But I need a few days to... work up to talking about it."
"I understand."
Sören felt a bit better now, though now his troubles were no longer that Karen didn't like the painting, but that someone he was coming to care about was in pain. He felt for Karen, wishing there was something he could do to make her happy.
It was a sunny day, which was getting rarer as fall wore on in the Pacific Northwest, and the leaves were even more glorious as October wound down, so Sören suggested Karen take a walk with him on their break. As they walked around campus, admiring the foliage and the way the red, gold, orange contrasted with the evergreens, and that smoky smell of fall leaves on the ground mixed with pines and firs, Sören remembered that the day he'd been in Karen's car he bought bubble solution which he'd put in his satchel and promptly forgotten about. He took it out now and on a whim, an attempt to make Karen smile, he opened the bubble solution, dipped the wand in the bubbles, and blew.
Karen laughed. "Oh my god."
Sören blew bubbles in her direction. Karen began to pop them, but let the last one dance on her finger till it burst on its own.
Sören blew more bubbles, and then, to make them bigger, he simply waved his wand around. Then he yelled out, "Expecto Patronum" as a particularly big bubble came out of the wand. Karen threw her head back and laughed, a genuine laugh where her face lit up, beautiful.
"You're such a big kid, Sören," Karen said.
"Here." Sören handed the bubbles to Karen.
Karen blew some bubbles and Sören chased them, trying to catch them. She giggled as one popped on Sören's nose. She blew another round of bubbles and she asked, "So Sören, you guessed accurately that my Patronus is a swan... what's yours?"
"Phoenix," Sören said without hesitation, remembering the dream where he'd conjured a phoenix Patronus, to dance with his British lover's falcon Patronus... just like the ink on his back. He wondered, feeling crazy, if the man was one of Fëanor's brothers, reborn, and if he was here in this world somewhere. That's ridiculous. But that dream had been so real.
"That makes sense," Karen said, nodding, and blew more bubbles.
"I have it on my back," Sören said. "I designed it."
"Oh, wow." Karen blew more bubbles and handed the bubble bottle back to Sören. As Sören dipped the wand again and blew more bubbles at her, she asked, "Did it hurt?" She facepalmed. "Er. That's a dumb question. Of course needles in your skin hurt..."
"Some hurt worse than others," Sören said. "It wasn't as bad as you might think, but I have a higher pain tolerance than most people." I have Einar to thank for that, he thought to himself bitterly, remembering lashes with a belt that broke his skin and left scars the tattoos covered. "I've got, ah, piercings, too. Under my clothes." And a buttplug. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you that, that's too personal -"
Karen turned pink but she laughed and said, "No, Sören, it's OK. Actually I think that's, ah." Her blush deepened and she looked away, biting her lower lip. She looked back at Sören and crinkled her nose a little, still biting her lower lip. Sören felt his cock wake up a little. "That's pretty cool. I don't think I've personally met anyone with, well." She gestured to him. "I mean, I've been to Portland, I've walked past plenty of people with obvious ink and piercings, what I mean is directly interacting -"
"Já, I knew what you meant." Sören's face was on fire again, his stomach fluttering. God, she is so damn cute. "I'm sorry, really, I... ah... that wasn't professional."
"Sören, I said it was all right." Karen gave him a stern look. "I'd be reporting your arse right now if it wasn't, trust me."
"OK, good." Sören nodded. "Or just, you know, punch me if I'm an arse. I have no brain to mouth filter sometimes and I don't want you to feel unsafe -"
Their eyes met. Karen took the bubble bottle and blew bubbles at him. "I don't," she husked.
Their eyes held, and Sören wanted to say more, but he didn't know what else to say, feeling flustered.
He kept looking at Karen when they got back to class, though he tried not to, wanting to keep things professional, wanting to keep her on that side of feeling safe around him. But by the time classes let out for the day he was feeling randy, made worse by going home with Dooku, who was talking more about that trip to Portland tomorrow and his ideals and values and Sören found that ridiculously attractive about him.
He needed to unleash. Mark was coming over soon to pick up him and the cat, but he was thinking about Karen, finding himself hard. He ended up calling Sharon.
"You want to get together tomorrow?" he asked. "Spend the night, maybe?"
"I'd love that," Sharon said.
Sören felt bold. "You want to come here, mi casa?" He gave a self-deprecating chuckle at his attempt at Spanish. "I've got a new cat and I don't want to leave him alone -"
"OH MY GOD KITTY AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
Sören laughed, and Sharon laughed too. He found that reaction adorable, and enough like his own to relax a little. "Yes, come pet my kitty! And I'll, ah... pet your kitty."
Sharon made a purring noise into the phone.