#promises x and x kisses

[egophiliac]

still ruminating over Lost In the Book With Spooky Skeletons Part 1, so here's a selection of some of my favorite little bits! (...some more loosely paraphrased than others) (I just feel like Idia has no room to criticize in general, okay)

anyway, I'm sure we're just going to have a fun time celebrating Halloween and nothing bad is going to happen whatsoever! :)

[hansoeii]

1941

[hairmetal666]

"I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he declares to all and sundry (Steve and Robin) in Family Video.

Steve laughs, ducks his head, hair a bountiful cascade that doesn't move an inch. He's blushing but it's not, like, a reaction to the sentiment of marriage. Steve knows Eddie is just like that, flirtatious and over-the-top and incapable of not speaking his thoughts as soon as they enter his head.

Robin roles her eyes, goes back to flipping through her magazine, something about cinema, and Eddie swipes his just rented movies off the counter.

"You think I'm joking," he twists so he's facing them, walking backwards to the door. "But I swear it, oh, beloved purveyor of movies and deleter of late fees."

"Yeah, yeah." Steve's face is pinker than before and Eddie recognizes and immediately forces himself to forget how cute it is. "But get out of here before I change my mind."

And Eddie, he loves to push his luck and also has very little filter between his brain and his mouth, so he says, "aw, don't be that way, Stevie, you love me."

Robin looks up, then, mouth a pursed twist as she tries not to laugh. "Gross, Eddie." She throws a Sour Patch at him. "Keep all that mushy stuff to when you two are alone."

It's his turn to blush, fierce and raging, and Steve whirls, squeaking, to whack Robin with a Twizzler.

Eddie points at her. "Rude, Buckley. You know I love you too."

"Again, gross." She sticks out her tongue, tinged blue from the Sour Patch.

"We really need to work on your ability to accept affection," Steve tells her.

She scowls, kicks him, makes Eddie laugh.

"I think that's my cue to leave, children." He says. He, quite literally, bows out of the store, just missing the barrage of candy thrown his way.

---

Three Months Later

Eddie stumbles into the Harrington house, kicking his boots off by the door. Steve's in the kitchen, fussing around the stove. His hair's askew and he's--

"Harrington, are you wearing an apron?" He ignores the kick in his chest at the sight. "You'll make a sweet little housewife one day."

"Shut-up," Steve says without any heat. "Try this."

He brandishes a spoon filled with red sauce in Eddie's direction, and Eddie--heart always on his sleeve--eagerly leans in to taste. He closes his eyes, savors, and it's good, truly. Perfect fresh acidity with just a burst of sweetness.

"It's amazing, baby," he says without thinking. He opens his eyes right in time to see Steve turning back to the sauce, blush high on his cheekbones.

"Thanks. You're making me nervous though, hovering." Steve hip checks him. "Go sit somewhere."

And Eddie does, jumps onto the island--the Harrington's are the kind of people who have an island--and chatters to Steve about his day, about his new campaign, about the new song he's trying to learn.

All the while, he's watching Steve cook, in his apron, with such care and thoughtfulness, with true command. Maybe it's the domesticity of the scene, maybe his raging crush, but he has this flash of the two of them in the future. In their kitchen, Steve cooking dinner, and Eddie's arms are wrapped around his waist, he's pressing kisses to his temple, complimenting all his hard work and--

Steve feeds him a bite of the finished pasta, and it's so good that he groans, full-throated, unembarrassed, and says--he says, "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington."

He laughs, face pink, batting Eddie's shoulder. "Go sit down, man. It's time to eat."

---

Two Months After That

Eddie's working on a new campaign when the storm rolls in, wind rocking the trailer, thunder and lightning crackling in the sky. The power doesn't go out, but only just barely, the flickers making his heart pound for reasons that have nothing to do with weather.

There's a knock on the trailer door, and he opens it to find Steve Harrington standing on the porch, hair plastered to his head, clothes soaked. Robin's bike is propped against one of the awning supports. Familiar panic snaps to life in his gut.

"God, Steve, are you okay? Did something happen? That's Robin's bike, where's the Beamer? Is it--is it Vecna? Is--" He's blabbering can't stop, so he shoves his palm against his lips.

"It's not--not Upside Down stuff." He runs a hand through his soggy hair. "Can I come in, man? I--I want to tell you something."

This snaps Eddie out of his panic, and he's moving aside, saying, "Oh my god, get in here, you're soaked. Let me get towels. Do you want a change of clothes, I can--"

Steve catches him by the elbow and he full stops at the look in those big hazel eyes, fearful and sad and he doesn't know what, but his anxiety amps back up.

"I was with Robin and we were--we were talking, you know? And I told her that I like somebody, like really like them, but it was unexpected and--and--it's a guy. He's a guy but I still like girls? Robin said--she said that I'm probably bisexual. That I like guys and girls and--and everyone, I think."

It sends shockwaves through him, and he hopes it doesn't show, doesn't think it shows, but he's having trouble processing. Steve is bi and he likes someone and--Eddie stuffs down the jealousy that claws at him, knows it's more important that he's here for his friend.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart." He reaches out, slow in case Steve doesn't want to be hugged, but he launches himself into Eddie's arms.

Eddie holds him tight, heedless of his wet clothes, can feel his shoulders shake, and it tears Eddie's heart in two. All he can do is hold Steve and offer comfort, jealousy be damned.

"You're so brave, honey," he says once the tears taper off.

Steve gives a wet chuckle, face still buried against Eddie's neck. "I don't know about that. I think I got snot in your hair."

"It'll wash out." He laughs. "Is now the time to welcome you to the family? Apparently, we're growing exponentially."

"Does the welcome include a cake or something? I could really use cake."

And God, Steve, is so fucking cute, so sweet, so--everything Eddie has always wanted, and he--it's an accident, or at least, thoughtless--he presses a kiss to Steve's temple. More than one.

Steve pulls back fast, and Eddie lets go immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I--that was stupid. You like someone already, and I--"

His words are cut off as Steve kisses him. Steve kisses him? His brain can't process, but he kisses back. Can't not, not with Steve. Like, he doesn't know anything, head empty, but his body is with the program.

They break apart, he's breathing hard. Steve is beautifully flushed, mouth red and swollen. "You like someone," is what Eddie says.

Steve laughs. "I like you, Munson. Fucking crazy about you."

He smiles, so big it hurts, so big it grows into a delight laugh. "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he says.

---

Six Years Later

They're in bed, Saturday morning, rain pattering softly on the window.

Steve places slow kisses against his naked tummy, makes him tremble, shiver with overstimulation.

"Baby," he whines. "Sweetheart."

Steve smiles up at him, something cold pressing against his ribs, then into his hand.

It's a ring, black metal, shiny and iridescent as he turns it in the light. "What--Steve?"

With one last kiss to his hip bone, Steve sits up, slips the ring onto Eddie's finger. "I'm going to marry you one day, Eddie Munson."

[buckxtommy]

favorite spots to kiss <3

[szynkaaa]

Just a gal and her Stone Monkey

this image pose template from here

HC since SWK cane change his size, the same applies for his Azure Dome form. So he can be as big as a mountain, or the size of a big yaoguai, or normal sized (whatever normal sized is for the Stone Monkey)

Much later on:

Slight NSFW under the cut

[natalievoncatte]

Kara had been pacing for hours. With every step she took, the anxiety was worse, and if she didn’t stop soon she was afraid she’d wear a groove in her floor.

Lena had Kryptonite.

Why did Lena have Kryptonite?

Why was Lena gathering the only thing that could hurt her? The best way to kill her?

Fuming, Kara stormed back and forth, rubbing at her arms as her heart raced. She couldn’t imagine Lena ever harming her. They’d had brunch that morning! They’d chatted and gossiped and Kara had laughed at a tiny bit of crème on the tip of Lena’s nose, and her heart had swelled in her chest when she imagined flicking it off with a finger.

(She wondered if her lips would taste like sugar and spice and everything nice)

When Alex had told her, Kara had protested, objected, shouted, and finally Alex had left her alone to “work it out” but told her they had to do something, and soon.

Kara had to know.

Why?

She couldn’t stand it anymore. It was like a full body itch, wriggling beneath her skin from scalp to soles. If she didn’t get an answer she’d lose her mind.

Kara reached for her suit, hanging crisply pressed from the same clothing rack as her work outfits, but stopped, fingers curling around nothing.

She couldn’t do this as Supergirl. Lena would be hostile, defensive, clam up and shut her down. No, this was a job for Kara. That was what she told herself when she shrugged into a cardigan and set off, walking rather than flying across town.

Kara traveled as a human traveled, slowly. Her part of town was vibrant, with music and excitement spilling from hip bars. The tang of booze and the sharp acrid bite of tobacco smoke lashed at her as she passed.

She reached downtown and walked down the street, hugging herself and rubbing at her arms as if against a chill. It was quieter here, the offices and towers empty near midnight. As she passed Noonan’s, she briefly paused to study the chairs as they sat atop the tables and the empty space where she’d once slung lattes and pastries before somehow getting sucked into Cat Grant’s mad world.

She saw her own reflection in the dark glass and adjusted her glasses before moving on.

Lena’s building had doormen and one of them recognized her.

“Miss Danvers?” he said. His name was Todd or Rod or maybe… she didn’t remember. “Miss Luthor isn’t expecting guests.”

“I was just in the neighborhood.”

“It’s a bit late for an evening stroll.”

Nevertheless he stepped inside and returned a moment later, ushering her to the elevator. The light for Lena’s floor was lit. She’d called it up herself.

When the doors opened and Kara stepped out, Lena’s door stood open, spilling light out.

“Kara?” Lena asked softly, “It’s so late. What’s wrong?”

Kara froze, her resolve slipping away as easily as the moisture on her tongue as her mouth went dry. Lena was dressed in silk pajama bottoms and a silk top that left her shoulders bare and a flowing silk robe, all green. Her hair was down and fell over her shoulders in inky waves.

Kara could only stare until Lena’s hand curled around her arm and guided her inside. She closed the door behind them and offered Kara a glass of water.

She drained it.

“Kara, what is it? You look terrified.”

Kara looked at her, really looked at her, hearing Lena’s heart quicken as she did. Lena looked away sharply, a soft pink dusting her pale cheeks.

“Are you alright?”

“I have to ask you a question,” said Kara, “and once I ask it I can’t un-ask it.”

Lena swallowed hard, then went to pour herself a scotch, downing two fingers neat in just three gulps.

“Are you going to ask me about the Kryptonite?”

Kara flinched. Lena looked away from her, turning the glass in her hand, trying to hide the shaking.

“Yes.”

Lena slowly, deliberately placed the glass on the counter and shifted herself onto one of the kitchen stools.

“I should be glad it’s you she sent,” said Lena. “Agent Danvers would probably just shoot me first and ask questions later.”

“She? Sent? What do you mean?”

“Supergirl,” said Lena. “I know you’re at least acquainted. I always wondered how, if she knew you first or your sister.”

“Lena, why do you have Kryptonite? Where did you get it?”

“I made it, actually,” said Lena. “It’s surprisingly simple to synthesize if you know how.”

Kara swallowed, hard.

“As to why I have it,” said Lena, “you might be the only person who will believe me.”

“Go on.”

“I’m testing a method of destroying Kryptonite that renders it inert and harmless. It could also be used to destroy the mineral in large quantities or create a lightweight protective layer in Supergirl’s suit.”

“Does it work?”

“It works.”

“But you haven’t told Supergirl.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Still staring at the glass, Lena turned it on the countertop, the thick base making faint scraping sounds against the marble counter.

“Because she wouldn’t. I think when we first met she was suspicious but then really believed that I was trying to help, but lately she’s been suspicious and distant, and questions everything I do, even after Medusa.”

Kara felt a pang of guilt in your chest.

“You’re right,” Kara sighed. “She would. She has been… she’s been struggling for a while now. Things are more complicated and she was hurt after… you’re right, and she owes you an apology.”

“It’s not like we’re friends,” said Lena. “It’s not like I had brunch with her this morning.”

Kara froze, going very still.

“I’m not an idiot,” Lena said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Think about it. Supergirl’s best friend just happens to be the sister of the deputy director of the D.E.O., who regularly works with Supergirl. Supergirl’s best fiend is who has having coffee with her just when two goons happened to toss me off my own balcony. In the middle of the night. Supergirl’s best friend who is also Superman’s cousin, just like Supergirl is his cousin.”

“I… but I never said I was…”

“You’re Clark’s cousin and Clark is Superman. Lex has known for ten years, Kara. I already knew.”

Kara hugged herself tighter.

“Also,” said Lena, “you flat out told me you can fly on the day we met.”

“Oh,” Kara said softly.

“Oh,” said Lena.

“Were you going to say something?”

“I liked having a best friend. I like Kara.”

“I am Kara.”

Lena looked at her, and she felt herself shrink.

“Do you believe me about the Kryptonite?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“If you wanted to hurt me by now, you would have. Besides, I… I just do.”

“I have never understood why you can be so harsh to me with that stupid suit on and so kind to me the rest of the time.”

Kara looked away, as her lip began to tremble.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lena. I wish I’d told you sooner, after Medusa or after Metallo almost exploded in our faces. I know I’ve been acting differently lately and I’m sorry.”

Kara turned back and saw that Lena was crying, a tear glittering on her cheek. A sharp, cruel pain lanced through her, like a knife parting her flesh from her ribs. She took a halting half step forward, stopped, then closed the distance, lightly resting her hand on Lena’s back. Feeling her body heat beneath the silk was intoxicating, and Kara felt her head spin.

“Did you come here to tell me?” said Lena.

“I came because I was scared, and angry. I’m tired of losing things. Places. People. I was so scared that Alex and James were right and I was being stupid about you.”

Lena snorted. “Oh of course.”

“The first time I ever saw you, I had this feeling, this… I can’t even put it into words. It was like remembering something I’d forgotten I knew. That same day when Clark said you were up to something, I told him off.”

Lena turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Is that feeling why you couldn’t leave me alone?”

“Yes,” Kara whispered.

Lena turned her body on the stool, facing her, and slipped off onto her heels. She stood mere inches from Kara now, looking up at her. With Kara standing in her sneakers and Lena barefoot, the height difference forced Kara to look down at her.

It was unbearable. The softness of her soft pink lips, the elegant rake of her jaw, her chin and throat and collarbones demanding kisses. She was so tiny and vulnerable and soft.

“You’re so damned rash and impulsive and headstrong,” said Lena. “Lex is going to kill you. He already wanted to kill you to spite your cousin, but now it’s worse because he knows. He casually dropped it in conversation and he caught my tell.”

“Your tell?”

Lena’s fingers walked up Kara’s chest and fiddled with her collar, playing with the top button.

“If I can figure out who you are, he can too. He has, I’m sure.”

“Lena,” Kara said.

“I won’t let him hurt you. The Luthors took everything and everyone from me and he can’t have you too!”

Kara froze for a brief moment, going very quiet. She swallowed hard as Lena looked away from her gaze, pointedly staring into her chest.

“Tell me they’re wrong,” Kara whispered.

“I would never hurt you.”

“Lex isn’t going to do anything to me,” said Kara.

She had, almost without realizing, slid her arm around Lena’s waist and now Lena was a soft weight pressed to her chest, heart fluttering between them like a tiny bird. Kara touched Lena’s jaw and gently tilted her face up as their eyes met.

“Kara Danvers believes in you, Lena.”

“I’m scared, Kara. He knows how I feel.”

“How do you feel?”

“For someone with fifty different types of vision, you can be incredibly blind.”

“I know how I feel,” said Kara. “You’re more than a friend to me, Lena. I can be more to you if you want me to be.”

Lena darted up and pressed a soft kiss to Kara’s lips and she was momentarily stunned, too stunned to even kiss her back until instinct took over and she pulled Lena even closer, molding their bodies together. When Lena moaned into her mouth, Kara could swear she could feel her soul briefly leave her body.

“You know, I’ve never properly thanked you for those heroic rescues,” Lena husked, her voice like a silk scarf flowering over Kara’s skin.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

one morning you cling to satoru’s back and sleepily plead for him not to leave for work and he feels closer to killing the higher ups than ever before

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills Part 5

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

Read on AO3

CW: Hand feeding, praise, kink negotiations, discussion of power exchange dynamics, kissing (FINALLY)

When you reach for the cardboard box on the edge of the table, he catches both of your wrists in one hand. You only resist a little bit. His other hand flicks the box open and he picks up a thick fry.

“Open,” he rumbles, pressing it to your lips. When you open your mouth, you watch his pupils dilate. He purrs as you take a bite. “Good girl.”

The rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. You would let him feed you limp celery with that tone. You lean forward again, jaw dropping open.

“Should talk now,” Simon rumbles, thumb dragging over your lip as he feeds you the rest of the fry. The contact electrifies you down to your toes. You must make some kind of noise as you swallow because he smiles. “Didn’t consider I might feed you myself.”

“Okay,” you breathe, leaning into the hand cupping your cheek.

“Finished your stretches?”

The temperature in your body drops significantly. You lean away from him. “I…uh. I… didn’t.”

Simon hums a low note, hand finding your chin again without making you look into his eyes. “Hurtin’ somewhere?”

“No,” you rush to assure him. “No, I just… I was in my work clothes. And I didn’t want to do… that in front of Gaz and Soap.”

“Fair,” Simon says, drawing you forward to brush his lips over your forehead. You feel your face get hot all the way up to where they brush against you as he speaks. “You want to do them now, or later?”

The tension you barely noticed creeping into your shoulders melts away. Of course. Simon is just Simon now, not Ghost. If you aren’t comfortable doing something, he’s not going to get mad, just give you other options. He’s kept you safe, and he’ll make sure you continue to feel safe under his instruction. Even though everything is different, it’s all the same.

Tears prickle your eyes, so you squeeze them shut as you lean further into him. Suddenly, one of his arms is around your back, the one on your leg lifting you into his lap. If there’s even a grunt of effort, you don’t hear it over the way your breath gets caught in your throat. Your hands come up, automatically, to brace against his chest and one bicep before you’re folded into him like that’s the only place you ever needed to be.

And then his lips find yours.

God, how many times had you thought about kissing him? The fantasy is so muted compared to the real thing. His lips are thin and a little dry, surrounded by the barest scratch of stubble. He doesn’t coax your mouth open, just presses his lips against yours like he could do this all night. The tip of his tongue flicks out for a quick touch to your top lip, startling a sound out of you. He does it again, opening his mouth to moan into yours when you squeeze his arm in response.

When your own tongue comes out to touch the scar you’ve always admired at the corner of his mouth, he growls. “Fuck, Bambi.”

“Simon.” You barely recognize your own voice.

The hand on your thigh goes tight. It startles a gasp from you that he drinks down with a groan of is own.

He surprises you by pulling back enough to speak between kisses. “Beautiful, you know that? Thought I was hallucinating.” He tips you back a bit, taking all of your weight to scan your face. He grins as he says, “Was thinkin’ so hard abou’ you, and ‘ere you are.”

“You were thinking about me?”

“’Course, I was,” he says, leaning back into the couch. You end up resting your head against his shoulder. He sighs and kisses the top of your hair. “Missed our check in this week, ‘n you’d this big trip you were all nervous for. Didn’t get to see you off. Was lookin’ forward to gettin’ the tour of your hotel room, gettin’ y’r travel stories. ‘n then I got the call today, n’ I was cancelin’ on you again. Just about broke my ‘eart.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure what to say. You’d always kind of assumed he was indulging you, letting you ramble about your day until he could get to the good stuff, as your ex used to say. “I knew you were kind of… on call. I didn’t realize that you were saving hostages, but I knew you were busy.”

He twists a bit to look into your eyes. “Don’t like bein’ too busy to see you.”

“You just like seeing my ass,” you joke, burying your face into his neck to settle the butterflies in your stomach.

“’S a good arse,” he chuckles, shaking the meat of your thigh in his grip. “Was definitely lookin’ forward to a bit o’ skin. But if you were too tired, I jus’ wanted to ‘ear your voice, coax you through some of your stretches before bed. Speaking of…”

You roll your eyes at the significant look he gives you. The way he never forgets a command makes so much more sense now that you know what he does for a living. Your heart flutters to see the familiar way his scarred lips quirk at your sass, paired with the unfamiliar way he tweaks the skin of your hip with the gentlest pinch.

“I’ll do them later,” you concede. “I already did all my floor stretches, and I’m hungry now.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting your ass. “Should prob’ly eat before it gets cold.”

He pops open the second takeaway container to reveal your meal, a dish you had picked basically at random from the menu Gaz had showed you on his phone. It’s a lot less hand-feedable than Simon’s wrap and fries, so he lets you feed yourself, but he refuses to let you sit on the couch, even halfway. Just holds you in place while he eats one-handed, trading fries for bites of chicken adana and tipping water into your mouth every few minutes.

You’re ravenous until you’re suddenly not, halfway through your food. Simon doesn’t comment, just finishes the other half of your food while you rest against him, exhausted. Simon’s hand is still on your hip, his thumb tracing back and forth in an idle, steady pattern.

When he finishes eating, he asks, “Where’s your head at?”

“Nervous,” you say automatically. This, at least, is familiar. “’M tired, and I don’t know what you’re gonna expect of me.”

He taps three fingers on your hip, twice. “Trust me?”

“You saved my life today,” you point out.

“Tha’s work,” he dismisses. “Not workin’ now. You trust me?”

You think about it, because he always wants you to think about it before you answer. You fall back on your rules, the promises between the two of you.

“I trust you to be honest with me,” you answer, the mantra coming easy. “I trust that it’s okay to tell you if I’m not okay with something. I trust that you won’t yell at me. I trust that you’re not going to hurt or harm me on purpose to correct my behavior.”

“Very good,” he rumbles, pulling you close to press his lips against your forehead again. “I trust you to be ‘onest with me, too. Trust you’ll accept a no, when I give it. Trust that you’re not g’nna yell. An’ I trust you not to punish me if you’re upset.”

“Wow,” you say. “I never expected to hear you say that in person.”

“Never thought I’d ever ‘old you,” he replies. “An’ I’ve never folded a whats-it-called… a romper, before, neither. Interestin’ day o’ firsts.”

“It’s a jumpsuit if it’s long,” you mumble, mortified all over again that he’d had all of your stuff in his hands.

“’S impractical. Soft, though. Bet it’s real pretty on you.”

A swell of embarrassment swoops through your belly. It’s automatic to bury your face in your hands. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“None o’ tha’, now.” Simon grasps both of your wrists in one large hand again and brings them down to your chest.    He makes you look at his face with a finger under your chin. “Won’t promise I’ll never make fun, but I won’t say I think you’ll look good if I’m no’ bein’ ‘onest. Promised, yeah?”

“Trust you to be honest,” you whisper, tipping your face back into his shoulder. “Acknowledged.”

“Good girl. Three deep breaths.”

You push all of the air from your lungs, the way your therapist taught you. When you inhale, you feel his chest rise with yours. He matches you when you hold, then release the breath in a steady stream. Where the back of your hand touches his chest, you can feel his heartbeat, solid and steady as he takes the next breath with you. By the third inhale, you let your spine relax as you feel him do the same.

“Know we never planned on meeting,” he eventually rumbles. He tips you back to look down at you, then ducks down for a quick kiss. “But I’m gonna be selfish and say I’m glad you’re ‘ere. If you don’t want nothin’ else, tonight, gettin’ to ‘old you is still everythin’ I ever could’ve wanted. Honest. Acknowledge.”

“This is good. We don’t have to do anything else, and it’ll still be good,” you whisper. “Acknowledged.” You lick your lips, prop yourself up to look into his eyes, then away. “What if… What if I want to do more?”

“One step at a time,” Simon chuckles.    “Stretches first. Then we’ll see about tha’ reward I promised you, yeah?”

He brings his mouth to yours again. Your hands are freed so that he can cup your jaw so tenderly that it threatens to melt your heart, even as it electrifies you down to your toes. When you moan into his lips, he echoes you, then pulls a way to press his lips to your cheek.

“Up, Bambi. Let’s get you to the bed.”

[buddie-buddie]

“So,” Buck says, blinking up at Tommy. He still hasn’t gotten over how good that feels– looking up at his partner. Being with someone whose warm, protective hand settles on the small of his back and nearly spans the distance between his hips. Someone whose big, strong arms envelop him when they hug, someone who can tuck Buck into his chest almost effortlessly. Someone who makes him feel grounded, protected, safe. In more ways than one.

“So,” Tommy returns the word, accompanying it with a warm smile, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes and makes them sparkle as he looks down at Buck. 

“You met my parents,” Buck says with a laugh, because really– how could he not? It’s a little ridiculous, now that he’s saying it out loud. “On our third date.”

Tommy nods, leaning against the wall outside of Buck’s front door. “Mhmmm,” he hums, watching Buck with a fond smile as he fumbles for his keys. “Sure did.”

It takes a minute, but Buck finally manages to get his keys out of his pocket and into the lock. Tommy is nothing but patience and fondness, watching him with a sparkle in his eye that makes Buck feel warm all over. When he finally gets the door open, Buck’s chest swells as Tommy’s big hand comes out to hold the door open for him, nodding for him to head inside first. 

That’s a first. Buck’s stomach flips, a warm, pleasant feeling skating across his skin as he pulls his key from the lock and steps inside. It’s the same feeling he had on their first date when Tommy pulled out his chair before he sat down. The same one he had the first time Tommy texted him Be safe at the start of a shift. 

A smile tugs at his lips as Tommy follows him into his apartment and the door clicks shut behind him. There’s something so simple about it, something so mundane and normal and domestic that it makes Buck’s head spin and his heart pound against his ribcage in the very best way. He wants this again. And again, and again, and again. Wants to come home with Tommy. Come home to Tommy. Wants the door to close behind them, wants to leave the world outside and exist only in this world here, in the one with the warm glow of the kitchen lights casting shadows on Tommy’s face as he toes his shoes off beneath the bike that hangs on Buck’s wall. The one where he pulls two beers out of the fridge and sets them on the counter, and Tommy opens them wordlessly, the silence comfortable as it stretches between them. The one where the necks of their bottles clink and their knuckles brush and Buck’s skin hums and his heart sings from just one small taste of Tommy’s skin against his. 

Buck’s the one to break the easy, comfortable silence. He does it with a small laugh, just shy of a giggle, as he thinks back to the look on his mother’s face when he walked into Chim’s hospital room with Tommy by his side and she connected the dots. “You were covered in soot.”

“Wasn’t the only one,” Tommy points out, grinning against the lip of his beer bottle as he takes another sip.

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[casualavocados]

…It's nice. You're so noisy. […] Actually, it'd be better if we died together. That way, neither of us would have to suffer the pain of losing the other, right? Shut up.

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 13

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

[NEXT PART: SHADOWS]

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

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@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

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@thatsassyhufflepuff @rem-ie

[sleepymaya]

I made a tier list of the animes ive watched!! I know damn well i know more but for now...this should be enough ehehe UNL3SS SOMEONE CAN MAKE A LONG LIST OF ANIME WITH THE ANIME COVER BY THE NAMES THEN ILL DO ANOTHER TIER LIST TO SEE HOW MANY ANIME I KNOW!!

[starrierknight]

⇢ ˗ ˏ ˋ ⋆ ✧ ･ﾟ 𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

wc— 240 cws/tags— AFAB reader, creampie, cum eating, finger sucking, gagging, dacryphilia, face riding

thinking about satoru cumming inside you and he's got the stupid, self-satisfied grin on his face. so he rolls onto his back, preparing to just lounge with you in bed when you dip your fingers between your thighs, making them slick with that warm, sticky mess of your cum and his and shove your fingers into his mouth and down his throat. making him taste the mess he's left in you, pumping your fingers in and out of that pretty, pink mouth.

oh, and if it wasn't raw from screaming your name before, it is now as your fingers spitefully drag down the wet walls of his throat, making him gag and moan and sob. thick, pearly tears welling up in those pretty blue eyes as you force him to take everything that'd he'd just given you...

and just when he thinks he's catching a break as you retract your hand, and he gasps for breath—just before he can pout and bitch and moan about how fucking mean you are to him—you sit on his face.

watching with depraved interest as he's starved for air as you fuck that foul mouth of his, listening to those sinfully hushed moans as he laps his own cum from your pussy and swallows it. after all, how could you let him get away with making a mess if he wasn't going to clean it all up? not even a drop goes to waste.

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[small-sketch]

And they were bandmates!

[jambamthepaperman]

Rio's voice was so frantic when she was calling out for Agatha. And then how protective she got when it was Agatha's mother?! Also the implication that no one can keep Agatha but her??? Like she might as well have been saying “Agatha's mine.” Ahh my babies are so in love. Also Rio sticking up for Agatha every chance she gets, like “they were trying to kill her first” when everyone was talking about her coven, Rio would really do anything for her and years apart has not changed that. Guys, I’m dying-

[marlsswrites]

Summer camp AU, part 21!!

July 21st <3

Core - @jegulus-microfic - words: 881

First part Previous part

Arms swinging at their sides, pale skin reflecting pale skin and dark raven hair twinning as it fell from both of their heads in perfect curls. Yet one reached his shoulders and the other busy below his ears. The sounds of the wind whipping through the trees surrounded them, leaving them in an blissful silence as it felt like the wind was hissing and whispering at them.

It was early morning, Regulus had decided that he wanted to be productive and go for a walk, before he knew it his tired feet seemed to mindlessly carry him to where his brother was staying, his shaky hand knocking on the door then followed by a creak, the open door revealing Sirius, who's face bloomed with a grin as soon as he saw Regulus.

So here they are now, going for a walk and talking as brothers should, because they really need to do that more. The love between the two Blacks was almost invisible to the naked eye, but Regulus could see it, so could his brother. They both loved hard and soft, in their own ways yet still so caring.

The only other difference between them now was the younger boys scowl and the older boys wary smile as he was clearly waiting to say something that was sure to draw some sort of negative reaction from Regulus.

"Reggie?" His brother asked hesitantly as they nearly came to a stop outside Regulus' cabin, which was out of sight but still only a few doors down.

"Yes, Sirius?" A response came with a sigh. "Spit it out."

Sirius furrowed his eyebrows. "What?" He asked, his voice raising an octave.

"You clearly want to say something." He snapped, soon after realising he may have started being a bit too harsh, so his offered the best smile that he could muster - it wasn't a very wide or cheerful one, but it was there.

Sirius' face relaxed slightly, but it still held an unsettling tensity to it that urged Regulus to chew on his nails and nervously bite the skin of his glossy lips. See, he never knew what to expect from Sirius when they spoke, normally they avoided the harsh topics but that was a difficult thing to manage judging on their childhood. But there is one thing that Regulus can think happened, the one thing Sirius interrupted. He's been avoiding his brother ever since, praying he'd just forget or leave it alone, but clearly not. He still doesn't quite know what happened himself, how is he expected to explain it to Sirius?

They continued to walk, Sirius releasing what he had to say in one breath before pursing his lips and looking directly into Regulus' guilt filled eyes. "What happened at the movie night?"

"We watched movies." He replied bluntly

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Regulus avoided the question, as that was his only current solution, he didn't want to talk about it, not now, not ever. Especially not with Sirius out of all people.

The older flicked him on the arm, groaning and giving him an eyebrow raise to face Regulus' faux innocent face and his wide eyes as he yelped at the feeling of Sirius' nail hitting his arm with a sting. "Regulus!"

He only hummed in response, gaze sticking to the floor as they rounded the corner and made their way to Regulus' and James' shared cabin.

"I love you to the fucking core of my heart." Sirius started, Regulus scrunching his nose up at the affection but forcing himself to look up at his brother. "But you are so stubborn!"

"I'm not!"

"Fine." Sirius huffed. "Do you like him?" 

They walked through the door into the cabin, Sirius still tailing onto him like a dog following it's beloved, fast paced owner, as he kicked his shoes off and instantly sat himself - actually no, launched himself - onto Regulus' once neatly made, uncreased, bed. 

Music echoed from the bathroom, loud Arctic Monkeys songs blasted through the door as he could hear the low raspy humming of James as the water poured from the shower and hit the floor, Regulus taking in every single sound as the sound of his brothers horrific singing came into his ears.

"I'm not answering that." Regulus finally replied. 

"Regulus, do you like him-"

Seconds later, neither boys seemed to have noticed the lack of the sound of water and booming music coming from the bathroom. The door opened to let heaps of hot, sticky, steam out and James walked out.

The towel was tied sinfully low around his pointed waist, his hip bones stuck out and formed a lovely looking v shape that Regulus wanted to trace with his hands and admire it in all of its beauty. His tan skin had gotten darker during the summer, but with the water dripping from his torso it reflected the bright light that hung over Regulus' head. The smattering of hair ran under his towel made Regulus feel dizzy, the smile on his face when he saw Regulus standing there, hands on his hips and jaw lightly slack as he tried to push some words out of his mouth, made Regulus want to crumble to the wet wooden floor at his feet.

"Never mind." A cough came from the side of him as Sirius narrowed his eyes. "That answers my question." He sighed.

Next part