#rises from the depths of the bed nest to post this

[charlieslowartsies]

Char be clutching ice coffee like her life depends on it =.=

just a silly warm up sketch i found cute

[cbk1000]

Still bored and not feeling great, so here is a follow-up preview to this post. It's been sitting in my Google Docs for quite some time, so might as well throw some of it up online.

It was raining furiously going out of Edinburgh, so that the Viaduct had to rise from the heath as if from the mists of time. In fair weather, or even in typical weather, those nebulous masses which one could presume to be hills nursed their heather by the light of the sun or the soon-to-be-sun; and when the weather had determined to be better than itself, the hillsides showed where the day set fire to the bluebell and ling, and exposed the shy moss in its bole. But now they were going as if through the Atlantic. It was wet, it was grey; and sporadically the mist broke its back on a peak, and showed, as if through some spume, where there was a world still anchored in earth. Then the fogs closed again, and they were alone in that dread, dead place between worlds, in the wastes of time or no-time.

Arthur was still related to Morgana, and still, consequently, drinking. He had had a little champagne first, and remembered that he didn’t fancy champagne; and it certainly didn’t fancy him. He was sat now on one of the sofas with some whiskey, feeling a little better in his stomach, though not his soul. He was still thinking about the bed. He was thinking that for seven unremitting nights, he would have to be elbowed, and kicked at, and drooled on: all of which Merlin had done before, somewhere in the jumbled mists of their uni years, when their backs did not care where, how, or when they slept, and fighting over a blanket on a floor was no worse than doing it at the Four Seasons. But at least he had had the privilege of going to the other end of the sofa, and sticking his feet in Merlin’s face, or to the far edge of the blanket, where he could put some space and decency between the inevitable phenomenon of being a man alive in the morning, and happy to see it. Now because Merlin was not thoughtful enough to take the armchair, or make himself some cosy nest on the floor, now because he had been working on his physique, Arthur would have to compress himself into an inadequate double with some shoulders almost as broad as his own. Now he would have to share, on his own personal holiday, his own personal bed, with a man not civilised enough to give up most of his allotment. 

He was frowning out the window, and waiting for Scotland to do something lovely, when Merlin threw himself down onto the sofa with his own whiskey, and dropped his head back on the cushion. He had crowded in predictably, so that his knee was touching Arthur’s knee, in a rather ominous harbinger of what his nights were to be like from this day forward, unto eternity (Monday). He had got off his blazer already, and rolled up his sleeves, so that Arthur could see the muscles in his forearms, so that he could see the weedy uni mate who had had to make his way fighting larger men with his wit and rabies could now do it with his rather distastefully large hands.

“You’re not supposed to take off your jacket,” Arthur said. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Well, if they throw me off the Viaduct for violating the dress code, you’ll get the bed to yourself, yeah?” He nudged Arthur’s knee with his, and took a drink. “By the way, I’m going to bed at old man time tonight, and if you try and fight me over the bed, I will bite you. I’m so knackered.”

“Well, just remember, I sleep on the left, and if you take my side, you’re sleeping on the floor, one way or another.”

Merlin knocked their knees together again and drank. He looked away from Arthur, out the window; and there fell over them that silent existence which did something to the depths of Arthur. He left his knee where it was, where there was the small, warm point of human contact, in the desolate train hurtling in a desolate world to end or absolution. The whiskey had come up a little in his throat, and stopped where there was a lump to stop it. He had had the same human touch the rainy weekend in Cornwall, when he was alone on a planet of billions moving in time without him. He had to look from the window for a moment, to the stubbled face in profile, and hurt, for a moment, exquisitely. It is sometimes like that to love; though of course he would not have called it that, when there were a number of other terms less fraught or complimentary. 

“You ok?” Merlin asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Ok. You pillock.”

“What do you want me to say, in front of a lounge full of passengers?”

“You could say ‘yes’ in a tone that actually sounds like you mean it, or you could say ‘no’, and we could go back to the cabin, and get pissed, or watch Netflix, or call your dad and tell him what an absolute cock he is. I can do it; you should keep not talking to him.” Then there was the little knock on his knee again, and Merlin said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately.”

“I really didn’t notice,” Arthur said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ve been busy myself.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, every day when I called you whilst I was on lunch, you were like, ‘Merlin; Merlin…sorry, it’s not ringing a bell, mate.’”

“Well, you called me, so if you’re trying to accuse me of something lunatic, like missing you, it’s probably projection.”

“No, I didn’t miss you. Just wanted to make sure you had a voice to go with the hair doll.” He took another drink. 

“It’s a voodoo doll, actually.”

“So you just sit in your room all day, sticking pins in me? Kinky.” Merlin snorted. “You are bright red.”

“I am not. And you can’t say ‘kinky’ on a luxury train.”

“If you can’t say ‘kinky’ where it will make rich people uncomfortable, what’s the point of saying it at all?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

And now the teasing had gone from him, and he said, “Arthur,” quietly, and looked at him in the grey light of the window, and touched him, just long and gently enough, where there were no witnesses to ruin it.

“Yeah. Fine,” Arthur said, and Merlin clapped his knee with the hand he had laid briefly and feelingly on it, and said, “Ok, well, then we should get something settled. You are going to teach me how to eat dinner, right?”

Arthur rolled his eyes again. “You’ve never needed my help eating anything in your life. In fact, usually you stab me with your fork when I try.”

“Yeah, but there are going to be little spoons or something, and I’m going to have to use them in a specific order, and I’m going to have to eat the food in a specific order, and all whilst wearing a suit that I don’t want to muck up, because I paid fifty quid for it.”

“You only paid fifty quid for your suit?” Arthur cried. “For the whole suit? Did you get most of it from a skip?”

“I’m not going to just drop several hundred pounds on a suit I’m only going to wear a few times,” Merlin protested.

“You didn’t answer me about the skip,” Arthur said, setting aside the whiskey, which he did not have room to process, alongside his horror.

Dinner was got through with no mishaps but the mishaps Merlin had orchestrated; though he did have to ask Arthur whether he could eat the little flower on top of his salmon without dying.

“It’s a garnish, you plonker.”

Merlin pinched it between his fingers and held it up to the light to squint at it. “So can I eat it, or not?”

“You’re not meant to, though that’s never stopped you before.”

Merlin ate the flower, just to be gauche. 

“Are you going to eat yours?” Gwaine asked Arthur, and helped himself to it before he could reply. 

“You have my genetics, and hence could have pretty much any man you wanted, and this is your choice?” Arthur asked sourly, giving Morgana a nasty little look, and batting Gwaine’s hands away from his plate.

“Don’t malign me like that; I’ve only got half your genetics. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got yourself the Prince of Wales. No offence, Merlin,” she said, patting his hand, as if he would need to be consoled.

“None taken; he’s a twat,” Merlin said.

“Yes, but the difference is, Merlin and I are not a couple. So it doesn’t matter if he eats the garnish on his confit of salmon; it doesn’t reflect poorly on me, because I’m not shagging him where innocents can walk in on it.”

“If you had wanted to remain innocent, you should have knocked before walking into a flat that didn’t belong to you.”

“Who does that with the door unlocked?” Arthur demanded, whilst Gwen and Lance politely pretended they were not being involuntarily involved in someone else’s sex life, when they could have been off enjoying their own. 

There was entertainment in the Observation Car, which Arthur, naturally, complained about.

“You sound like you have gout,” Merlin said.

“What on earth does gout have to do with anything?” Arthur asked.

“Nothing; you just sound like one of those old men who sits round complaining about all his old man ailments and never letting anyone else have any fun. ‘Oh, music, people laughing; just horrid. Horrid,’” Merlin mocked in a bratty voice.

“There might be bagpipes.”

“They’re not going to bring bagpipes on a train where people can’t escape them.”

“There were bagpipes when we were getting on the train,” Arthur said, frowning.

“There are bagpipes everywhere in Edinburgh,” Merlin replied, in a voice that stated, firmly, he thought Arthur was a great nattering twat baby. They adjourned (it did not seem appropriate to say they merely ‘went’ to a train car full of furniture worth more than his annual salary) to the Observation Car, which was now full of diners, and music. There were not any of the dread bagpipes, but only a lovely fiddle, going on impressively, whilst an elderly passenger clapped in time with it; or what the champagne told him was in time with it. He was wobbling about, in exactly the opposite spirit of Arthur, introducing himself to everyone, and twice to Morgana, who had got all the charm there was to be got from the Pendragon line, leaving none for Arthur. 

Outside the window, Scotland was still rather miserable. Merlin had hoped to see those dreaming glimpses of the highlands, which were, or were felt to be, pure of humanity. The itinerary had promised him Ben Arthur and Loch Lomond, and he had fantasised making them into one of the walking tours, though he knew, intellectually, he would only glimpse them in passing. He had already made them in his heart a place for him and Arthur to be alone where aloneness has meaning; where it is a grand reckoning with that simultaneous infiniteness and finity of time. All that long month he had been caged in his office, seeing Arthur for brief intervals at the pub, or over FaceTime, whilst what was left of the wild country called to him; and now when he had expected to see it, at least, through the train window, streaming away into eternity, and taking with it his imagination into the secret dells and copses where there were fungi or larks to discover, what he saw was a desolate grey. He was looking at a smudge. Now and again there resolved out of it a larger smudge, more darkly or lightly coloured; and then even that feeble hope of scenery dissolved into that dreary badland which the British rain makes of the grasses which feed from it. If it were a nice little tropical rain, he could have marvelled at it, and counted the stalks of the gorse in the clean clear light of summer eternal; but here it was arse. Here he felt the train was having to invent the world as it drove along, into that great grey nothing out of which the trestle tracks sprang when they were needed, and vanished thereafter.

Arthur had got them some whiskeys, and sat them at the far end of the car, away from the musicians, and socialisation; so it was they two in the warm yellow light of the train, sitting too closely, because Arthur did not understand personal space; and especially he did not understand it when he had a mate, a very bisexual mate, who was trying to be romantically ignorant of him. Arthur was a great clueless lout, who blundered about in heterosexual infamy; and Merlin was tired. So they were sitting as close as boyfriends sat, and complaining about politics, whilst Merlin resisted sleep. He had that strange sensation of being unmade. He was as cosy on the sofa with Arthur as if he had been in bed; and so he was fraying, bit by bit, at the seams of his corporal body; he was in that state of confusion which the conscious mind feels when it is on the cusp of leaving itself. He was on the sofa, with his knee pressed to Arthur’s knee; but he was also beyond it, where dreams or half-dreams have carried their fuddled makers. He felt that he had been speaking one moment; and the next moment he was waking up on Arthur’s shoulder, in a puddle of drool.

Arthur had taken the whiskey out of his limp hand before he had spilled it, and was quietly going through his phone; though he pointed out, loudly, and quickly, before there was any confusion about his considerateness, about the drool, and pushed Merlin’s head. 

They left the others to what was a very fine night of drinking, and dancing, and returned to the cabin for bed, at the humble hour of 8.00, because Merlin had been up since 4.00, and because Arthur, in the Observation Car, would have been in tremendous danger of having fun. They had to decide the order of their ablutions by playing rock, paper, scissors; or a revised version of it, which went something like rock, paper, fuck you, because they were both wanton cheaters, so that whatever was to be settled by it generally was settled by taking the ostensible winner, and shoving him into a wall, or kneeling on his back, till he agreed the other was a wanker; but a triumphant one. 

Merlin was too tired for the usual order of business; he had to go for the truncated version. He smacked his fist three times into his palm: and turned whilst Arthur was mocking his loss, and sprinted for the loo. 

“I’ll remember that,” Arthur said with cold promise when he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

He put on his joggers after Arthur had disappeared into the bathroom, and got straightaway into the bed, with a little hope in his exhaustion, that he would be asleep before Arthur was even out of the loo, never mind in the bed. He was not as casual about the bed as he would have liked to be. He would have to wake up, practically in the arms of a man who was an egregious spooner, with his penis reporting for duty. He had shared an alarming number of sofas with Arthur in uni, and knew what was to be the next week of his life; it was to be horrid. Arthur would lie down very stiffly beside him, with a few pillows between them, which he had stacked like a wall between his heterosexuality, and Merlin; and then all those troubled instincts which he had for human touch would drive him to seek it. By morning the pillows would be gone; and Merlin would have both an erection, and the warm body in which it felt it could be sated. It was not polite to wank to one’s friends; and so he would have to lie, thinking of his grandmother, whilst Arthur twitched on or against him: and woke, with a snort, to say, “Why the hell are you cuddling me?” 

For safety they had had to sleep head to foot; and he considered now rearranging the pillow at the other end of the bed, so that Arthur’s feet could work their incredible magic on Merlin’s morning wood. They were better than thinking of his grandmother; who after all was not despicable, but only his grandmother. But those were the old insecurities of men, almost boys, trying to make it understood that they were, in the one case, straight, and in the other, possessed of actual taste. It was no longer necessary, at thirty, to flaunt their obvious sexual disregard for one another. So he kept the pillow where it was, and determined to be an adult about it; and then Arthur came out of the bathroom in only a towel, as if he were not rather fit, and Merlin were not rather bisexual. And with the usual inconsiderateness of the hetero, he went round the whole cabin in it, with the water running out of his chest hair, and into his stomach hair.

[orangeshipper]

Tiny fandom, I wrote a thing!

I just wanted to dip my toes back into writing, as it's been a LONG time, and with it being Valentine's day last week, I thought I'd see if that was around in Lymond's time.

It was!

Apparently its first romantic connotations appeared in Geoffrey Chaucer's poem 'The Parliament of Fowls', 1381, which features here. Also featuring is Wyatt's 'A Description Of Such A One As He Would Love'.

Post-Checkmate

Mature fluff? Is that a thing? Nothing explicit.

Francis/Philippa

14th February 1559

The fingertips of bleak morning sun struggled past the edge of the shutters, not quite lighting the chamber or its bed with strewn sheets, only casting delicate highlights on bared skin and hair, dark and gilt, on the pillows. Pale as it was, the light did not wake them.

The birdsong, however, did.

“You assume full responsibility for this, I take it?” Francis Crawford mumbled gently against his wife’s hair, a smile touching the long mouth as he registered her groan.

“I’ll own to encouraging them - a little - but no more than that.” Slowly, Philippa stretched her long legs against his, then sat up, mildly apologetic at her part in their peace being disturbed. “How was I to know that ravens would lodge there, and not any bird more melodious?” She grimaced as further raucous, grating caws rent the still air. It was incessant.

Rising, she padded to the window embrasure, loose shift clinging to her body and hair tumbling in coils on her shoulders. Quick fingers unlatched the shutters, then the windows, admitting the cool morning air to their chamber.

The noise increased, with a great flapping of wings as the birds chased and swooped. Leaning out, Philippa surveyed what she had indeed encouraged - a nest on a small ledge, tucked into a corner against the protruding stonework of St Mary’s and just within reach of the window, sheltered by the eaves further above. An ideal spot; after noticing some birds playing about it the week before she had carefully gathered and scattered some moss, twigs, leaves and other detritus in handfuls, hoping to encourage a perch there.

And her efforts had succeeded - just rather sooner, and with far larger, uglier and unpleasantly noisy fowl than she’d imagined.

With a sigh, she pulled the windows closed again, leaving the shutters to admit the burgeoning sun before retreating back to the warmth of the great bed and her husband’s arms, pulling up heavier furs over the sheets as she did so to cover them.

“Amis, don’t begrudge them,” Francis admonished. Lifting a hand to tease away the hair that fell over her eyes, his long fingers ghosted her cheek before pulling her down to a soft kiss. “Didn’t you know? For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day, when every fowl comes there his mate to take.”

“And each a marriage with its mate does make? I remember.” Delight danced in the depths of her gaze.

“Full joyous may they sing when they wake,” he continued, smiling, “as you see, the ravens do. And you?”

“I’m not sure I'd call it 'singing'!” Her chuckle was lost against his lips, becoming a gasp as the musician's fingers teased across her skin. “And me? Well. Him that she chooses, he shall have her as quickly…”

“Is that so?”

Philippa heard his breath quicken, heart hammering, as he eased up to bring her beneath him. He drew back a little, which allowed her to survey the way the brightening sun haloed the gold of his hair, throwing light into the deep blue of his eyes, darkened as they were with desire. Aware of her skin flushing under his gaze, her teeth caught her lip gently as she waited. He continued softly, “And he’ll have her whom his heart can’t forget. Ah, yunitsa. Are you content with your choice, still?” He glanced round at another harsh chorus from beyond the window and said, with only slight ruefulness, “I believe ravens mate for life, I’m afraid…”

Reaching up, she took his face in cupped hands, her own brow marked with a single line as she made a show of considering his question seriously, studying him. She couldn’t believe that he held any doubt, now, though their marriage had only been complete for a mere few months.

“Am I content? Let me see…

A face that should content me wondrous well Should not be fair but lovely to behold, With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel; With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words such words as none can tell; His tress also should be of crisped gold; With wit; and thus might chance might I be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.

“Yes, Francis,” she went on, fingers delving back into the golden whorls of his hair, drawing his mouth down to hers. Words came out in a breath, a sweet sigh as his warm lips moved from hers, to her cheek, to her throat, and his fingers started to play once more, dancing at - then under - the hem of her shift. “Tant que je vive, mon coeur ne changera… Mon chois est fait, aultre ne se fera. I love you.”

Her world had faded and sharpened to those devastating points of focus where she could feel his touch against her, inch by agonising inch closer to where she needed. God, but he knew how to play her.

All at once he raised himself on one arm, smiling down at her as his thumb brushed her cheek, the colour attractively risen in his own fair skin.

“Well that’s a relief. Otherwise I’d have had to convince you.”

“Francis!”

Philippa sat up, clutching the sheet to her body which still throbbed with warmth against the cold air in the space which he’d left. Quitting their bed he had crossed the room, charmingly naked, and set himself to making up the fire. Though she knew he remained excruciatingly conscious of her gaze on his back, he made no sign of it, rising smoothly when he’d finished to go and peer through the window at the raven pair, still at their disquieting play beyond.

“Francis…” Her voice was softer this time, barely concealing the pleading note it held. She swallowed. “My choice may be fixed, but it does no harm to affirm it, being St Valentine’s Day after all. Come.” Her hand stretched out to his, and her heartbeat quickened again as she saw how the glittering cornflower gaze fell to her reddened lips. “Persuade me.”

His grin was slow, and devilish. But he did not hesitate.

Fin

[devanbald]

Mastering Bass Fishing Throughout the Year: Expert Seasonal Techniques for Every Angler

Bass fishing is exhilarating, offering anglers the thrill of landing one of the most sought-after freshwater game fish. But bass behavior is anything but predictable, changing throughout the year in response to shifting water temperatures, food availability, and seasonal cycles. Adjusting your strategy to align with these changes is essential for anglers hoping to land trophy bass regardless of the season. Whether it’s spring feeding frenzy or winter's slow bite, mastering year-round bass fishing techniques can elevate your experience on the water. This guide will explore expert strategies tailored to each season.

The Seasonal Shift: How Bass Behavior Changes Throughout the Year

Bass are cold-blooded creatures, meaning their body temperature and metabolic rate are directly influenced by the water temperature around them. As a result, their feeding habits, movement patterns, and overall activity change with the seasons. Understanding how these changes affect bass behavior is the first step in becoming a more versatile and successful angler.

In warm seasons, bass are more active and chase fast-moving prey. In contrast, cooler months cause them to slow down, and they seek comfort in deeper waters. Each season offers a unique set of challenges but ample opportunity for those who can adapt their tactics.

Spring: The Pre-Spawn Build-Up and Spawning Rituals

Spring is widely regarded as the prime time for bass fishing. The bass enters the pre-spawn phase as water temperatures rise to the 50°F-70°F range. During this time, both male and female bass move from deeper waters into the shallows to prepare for spawning. This period provides the best opportunities to catch large, aggressive bass.

In the pre-spawn phase, bass are driven by the need to bulk up before spawning. They are often found in transitional areas such as the edges of drop-offs, creek mouths, and submerged structures. Anglers can capitalize on this period using crankbaits, spinnerbaits, and jerk baits that imitate baitfish, as bass aggressively feeds in preparation for the spawn.

Once bass start spawning, they shift focus from feeding to protecting their nests. During the spawn, the bass (particularly males) stay close to their beds, guarding eggs from predators. Slow presentations using soft plastics, like Senkos or crawfish imitations, can trigger strikes from protective males.

After the spawn, bass tends to be fatigued and scatter into deeper waters. However, the post-spawn period still offers excellent fishing opportunities as they gradually regain energy. During this time, topwater lures and soft swimbaits can prove effective, particularly in the early morning or late evening when bass return to shallower waters to feed.

Summer: Fishing in the Heat

As summer sets in, bass faces increasing water temperatures exceeding 75°F. This temperature rise can make daytime fishing more difficult, as bass move to deeper, cooler waters to avoid the heat. Understanding the summer heat's effects and how to adapt your techniques can still yield great results during the hottest months of the year.

Fishing during the early morning and late evening is essential during summer, as this is when the water is cooler and bass are more active. Topwater baits such as poppers, buzz baits, and frogs excel in low-light conditions, enticing surface strikes from bass hunting in shallow waters.

As the sun climbs and temperatures rise, bass moves to deeper, more comfortable environments. Anglers will find more success targeting areas with deep structures, such as ledges, points, and submerged timber. Deep-diving crankbaits, Carolina rigs, and drop shot rigs are the go-to when fishing deeper water. The key during summer is patience, as bass tend to be less aggressive in extreme heat.

Pay attention to the thermocline—the layer of water where the temperature changes sharply with depth. Bass often suspend just above or within the thermocline, seeking the optimal combination of oxygen and comfort. Fishing just above this layer with slower presentations will increase your odds of a bite during the peak of summer.

Fall: The Season of Abundance

As water temperatures drop in the fall, bass instinctively feed heavily to prepare for winter. This season is characterized by abundant food, including baitfish, crawfish, and insects, making fall one of the best times to target bass. Unlike in summer, bass are much more willing to chase down prey in cooler waters.

Look for baitfish schools during the fall—bass will rarely be far behind. Fast-moving lures like lipless crankbaits, spinnerbaits, and swimbaits are excellent for imitating baitfish and triggering aggressive strikes. Covering a lot of water with these search baits is a good strategy, as fall bass tend to move frequently in search of food.

During the fall, bass are likely found in transitional zones, such as points, flats, and creek channels. Bass will follow schools of shad or other baitfish into these areas, making them prime fishing locations. As the season progresses and water temperatures continue to cool, bass will begin to retreat into deeper waters for the winter. Switching to slower, deeper presentations as the temperature drops will ensure you stay on top of them.

Winter: Slowing Down for the Cold Months

Winter is often the most challenging season for bass fishing. As water temperatures drop below 50°F, bass become lethargic, feeding less frequently and spending most of their time in deeper, warmer water. However, winter bass fishing can still be rewarding with the right approach.

Slowing down your presentation is key during the winter. Lures such as jigs, blade baits, and suspending jerk baits are effective when fished slowly along the bottom or through the water column. Anglers should focus on deeper structures, such as rock piles, drop-offs, and submerged trees, where bass gather during colder months.

Because bass are less willing to chase fast-moving prey in winter, keeping your lure in the strike zone for longer is important. Fishing slower and using smaller baits, such as finesse worms or hair jigs, can tempt cold, inactive bass into biting.

Winter fishing also rewards anglers who pay close attention to weather patterns. On sunny days, shallow waters near rock or vegetation can warm enough to attract bass looking for warmer temperatures. Focus on these areas during midday, when the sun is at its peak, for a better chance of landing a fish.

Year-Round Gear Considerations

Seasonal strategies require the right gear to maximize your success on the water. In colder months, lighter lines and more sensitive rods are essential for detecting subtle bites. Fluorocarbon line, in particular, offers increased sensitivity and invisibility underwater, making it ideal for winter and early spring fishing.

In contrast, summer and fall often call for heavier tackle. Braided lines are perfect for fishing heavy cover or deep structure, offering the strength to haul bass out of dense vegetation. Topwater fishing during summer mornings can be enhanced using monofilament, which floats and allows optimal lure action.

Finally, consider the size and speed of your reel. Higher gear ratios are ideal for fast-moving baits in the spring and fall, while slower gear ratios will give you the control needed to fish deep water during the summer and winter.

Year-round bass fishing is an art that requires a deep understanding of seasonal patterns and the flexibility to adjust your tactics as conditions change. Whether you’re battling summer heat, enticing sluggish winter bass, or capitalizing on the spring and fall-feeding frenzies, these strategies will give you the tools to stay ahead of the game. With the right gear, patience, and a little finesse, every season offers the potential for success. Happy fishing!

[lord-explosion-baku]

Trident Tale

Merman!Shinsou x reader, Kirishima x Reader

Warnings: adult themes (Minors DNI)

A/N: read the prologue on AO3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

(Original image by @maewoahoah)

Synopsis: Moving to an island where everyone is big on the surf scene and other oceanic happenings might not have been the brightest idea for someone so afraid of anything that has to do with water, but you make do by spending your days looking after the Bed & Breakfast, trying not to burn the house down when you fry a few eggs, and obsessively scrolling through Eijirou Kirishima’s social media page. He’ll never notice you, and you think you’re fine with that, until a mysterious force washes into Ms. Shuzenji’s pool after a particularly nasty storm.

Hitoshi Shinsou is a pain in the ass from the get-go, but you put up with him, fins and all, when he promises he can help unite you with your soulmate. The catch? The fish is hellbent on taking back what was stolen from him, and he won’t lift a gracious finger until he gets what he came for.

You’re helpless to lend him a hand, so long as you stay dry. Unless, of course, he has other plans.

You know how the saying goes: you rub his fins, he’ll rub yours.

Storms have never really been your cup of tea. Though you keep yourself locked inside a good percent of the time, there’s nothing quite as suffocating as the compress of clouds overhead. It’s not like you always have to see them to be uncomfortable, but you definitely feel them pressing down, closing in, and caging you, even when you’ve got yourself tucked under a blanket on Ms. Shuzenji’s couch.

It’s been a little over a year since you first moved to the island. All you needed was a new beginning, and you got that, but you got that, and the tropical weather that you’re still getting used to. It’s currently typhoon season, and holy seaweed-on-your-doorstep, is it storming.

There’s little you can do to distract yourself while staying and working at Shuzenji’s bed and breakfast. There are currently no guests, aside from you, so all the rooms are made, and the old lady is on another one of her long vacations, so you’re basically being paid to lounge. You’re grateful for that, at least. But the only thing that’s keeping you physically separated from the terrifying weather is a thick glass pane that water sloshes on every time a wave laps over the backyard walls.

The things that separate you mentally are the old-timey recordings of Shuzenji singing alongside an ensemble cast, and the little device in your hand. If you didn’t have your boss’s haunting melodies echoing throughout the house, and some big, beefy, tatted eye-candy to gawk at during the storm, you’d surely go insane.

Eijirou Kirishima, one of the island’s best surfers, is out on his board, live-streaming his current fight against the waves. His whoops and hollers can be heard over the crashing tides, getting even you excited for what’s about to come. That’s the thing about Kirishima; he’s wild, you’re not, and it’s hot as hell. Oftentimes, you catch yourself daydreaming about joining him out in the surf—he guides you through the waves, maybe yoou impress him a bit with your sudden affinity for wave-riding, and the two of you wash up on shore where you’ll both share your first kiss. It would be feasible if you could swim. It would be feasible if you bothered to learn how to swim, but for now, you’re content with your imagination. At least he can make you hate the terrible weather a little less.

The conspiratorial smirk he shows the camera is borderline swoon-worthy when the swell begins to pull him further out. It’s impossible not to bite your lip every time you catch a glimpse of his arms forcing themselves through the sea. He makes this look easy—like the storm is child’s play, and as the winds blow Shuzenji’s trash bin into the sliding glass door, you welcome the delicious distraction.

As Kirishima stands up on his signature trident board and rides one of the biggest waves he’s seen all day, you’re once again struck with how much of a coward you are. He can fight the elements, while you can hardly bring yourself the courage to talk to him. Mind you, he’s constantly surrounded by a close group of friends—a close group of friends you find intimidating—and when he’s not with them, he’s out in the water. Where there’s water involved, you’re spoken for. Unless, of course, you’d like for the first time you guys actually speak, to be when he’s giving you CPR.

Not the most ideal “meet cute”, but if it works, it works.

A loud crash snaps you out of your admittedly salty daydream. Mango, Shuzenji’s orange tabby, yowls at the blanket of water cascading down the windows, and your stomach sinks. There’s only so many minutes you can pretend that the storm Kirishima is facing isn’t the one that’s destroying Shuzenji’s yard.

With a sigh, you roll off the velvet couch, and grimace when crumbs that were nesting in your shirt fall to the carpet: a mess to clean up later. Without any guests to mind, you don’t have to worry too much over keeping the place spick-and-span, so long as things are nice and tighty by the time the old lady gets back, which will be awhile.

You have an easy enough job—at least, when there aren’t bunches of thick seaweeds crashing over the yard’s wall, flooding the pool.

“Shit.”

Water sprays in every direction. The already trash-infested pool overflows as more kelp rolls in with the maniacal waves, and angry, white foam bangs on the back door. It's a disaster outside, and you’re not sure what to do about it.

Fingers wrapped around the back door handle, you struggle to think of a way to prevent a bigger mess, but even if you could manage to clean anything, nothing is stopping the tempest from wreaking anymore havoc. Best case scenario, you stop a plastic soda-chain from washing out to see and becoming a deadly necklace for an unlucky seagull. Worst case scenario, you slip, crack your head open on the pavement, and drown before you can ever utter the words “mahalo” to Kirishima.

Needless to say, you’ll take your life over a gull’s any day.

Another sigh.

A greater wave collides against the wall, bringing more of the Great Unknown into the pool. This is going to be a fun job to clean. Good thing you’ve got Shuzenji’s service boy, Denki Kaminari, on speed dial. You think if you sound particularly distressed in the morning, he’ll show up to help you out with just about anything in the matter of minutes. God bless desperate fuckboys.

So, for now, you cuddle back up on the couch, watch Kirishima shake saltwater out of his thick, red hair, and pretend that his storm is not the same thing as your storm.

It’s early morning when you finally rise out of bed. You hadn’t gotten a whole lot of rest—something to do with the wailing winds shaking your bedroom window nonstop, but after you finally drifted into dreams about snakes and dragons, you woke to clear skies, and light seagull calls.

From the second story, you can see early birds have already gotten the jump on cleaning up the beach. The sun is shining, the ocean blue and vast. The only trace there was ever a storm is already being taken care of. There are lifeguards riding around on ATVs and younger civilians with trash bags and grapplers picking up seaweed and absconded debris. The respect everyone has for the island is something to be admired, and you half-consider going out there yourself, after you’ve dealt with your yard, which is sure to be a wreck.

There’s no interest in picking out a cute outfit for the morning you’re going to have, even if Denki might see you, so you throw on a already-worn-this-week crop top, some pink shirts, and you’re good to go.

The first thing you do after Mango’s fed is check your socials. Kirishima posted a picture of his breakfast: a hefty plate with three eggs, sausage links, bacon, cut avocado, and what seems to be low-carb toast. The post reads, gotta eat ur gainz 2 gain ur gainz, and it’s so ridiculous that you’re infatuated with this reckless himbo. You wonder if you’d ever be able to hold an intellectual conversation with him, if you could ever manage to speak to him in the first place, but conversation wouldn’t matter if his mouth was between your thighs.

Following his example, you crack two eggs over a frying pan, sigh at the mostly empty fridge, then agonize over the state of Shuzenji’s yard. It’s worse than you thought it’d be. The pool is a sickly green color, and from where you’re standing inside, its murky depths seem to be almost opaque from the seaweed and garbage stewing together. Kelp litters the beige pavement, and there’s trash hiding in the shrubs. There’s a chocolate donut floaty bobbing around in there, too, and Shuzenji doesn’t own any floaties.

What a drag.

Before you get too far in your head about everything you’ll need to do to clean up, you quickly dial Denki’s number. He picks up after a ring and a half.

“I know what you’re about to ask,” says the boy on the line, and from his cocky tone, you can assume it’s not going to be about the cleanup. “I am absolutely free tonight. If you wanted to grab drinks at the Salty Barrel, maybe go on a romantic rendezvous out on the beach, watch the sunset on or in a couple blankets, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m not calling to ask you on a date, Kaminari,” you say as you step outside. The pavement is cold underneath your bare feet, and you have to tip-toe around to be sure not to let any kelp touch your skin. Yuck.

“But you’re not, not calling about a date, either,” he counters. By the volume of his voice, you can tell that he’s in his van, talking to you over the speaker. Good. So he’s already out and about.

“I need you to tell me how to drain Shuzenji’s pool.” Call you cold, but you’re used to Denki’s flirty nature by now, and you’ve learned that the best way to deal with it, is to not acknowledge it. Of course, you can’t be too callous when it comes to him, especially when you actually need his help. You eye the dangerously complex-looking valves off to the side of the house, and grimace. “There’s too many twisty thingies! I’m not sure what to do!”

“Now, hold your horses, little lady! Don’t go twisting any thingies just yet. Draining a pool is a process.” There’s a long pause, the loud growl of an engine, then silence. He’d pulled over to talk to you. “How’s your TDL? And what kinda PVC pipes you got?”

“The huh and what?” You don’t need to pretend to be in distress—you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Listen, don’t touch anything. You’re calling because the pool’s a mess right now, right? You don’t need to drain it; at least, not yet. I can swing by in an hour or so to clean it, but I’ve gotta make some stops first. You’re not the only single woman who wants to watch me do my thang, especially not after yesterday.”

“It’s so bad, Kaminari.” The water in the pool sloshes around, like there’s actually something in it causing the water to ungulate and burble. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head over it. You've got me, okay? It’s my job to protect and serve.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Nope, I’m better than a cop. I’m a pool guy.”

He goes on to ask you to check out what kind of drain the pool has, if you can find the drain, then loses you when he starts talking numbers and gallons. While still on the phone, you send a few texts to Shuzenji, explaining the predicament, then Denki mentions rates. You’re getting the cutie pie discount, doubled because he counts Shuzenji as a “cutie pie” too—something you mention to her because she’ll get a kick out of it—then he drops all business to ask about food.

“I’m cooking my breakfast,” you say with a wary glance back at the house.

“But is your breakfast fries and a shake from Tiki Burger?”

You bite your lip as your stomach growls its empty sorrow. “No.”

“Would you like it to be?” His knowing grin is heard through the line.

“…I’m not gonna go out with you.”

He chuckles and you’re grateful that he can’t see your answering smile. “We’ll see how you feel after you see me work my magic. And hey, if you’d like me to wear a Speedo while I work—“

“You’ll be here in an hour?” You cut him off, because Denki in a Speedo is the last thing you need on your mind. The thought of Kirishima in a Speedo, however, gets you a little hot, which is saying a lot, since you’re a part of the Speedos and Dolphin-shorts Are Abominations To Swimwear belief system.

“Maybe sooner. I think my next client just needs me to check out their chemical levels. Inside pool and all. Everyone else knew to put a tarp out.”

The tarp you had blew away, but you don’t bother explaining that to Denki. Let him believe you’re the dim-witted “little lady” he wants you to be. If it means Shuzenji gets a discount, not that she can’t afford any bill Denki’s company throws at her, then let him believe you can’t open a pickle jar without a man’s help for all you care.  

“See you then,” you say, and end the call. There will be time to work on your charm once Denki gets here. Until then, you figure you could do some investigating so you’re not completely helpless.

Leaving your phone on the pavement so you don’t accidentally drop it in the water, you make your way around the pool to where you think you remember the drain being. You can’t say you’ll know what kind of drain it is, but if you remember correctly, it’s circular, and like, kinda meshy? That description simply won’t do.

Dropping down to your knees, you peer down into the pool, squinting, as if that can help you see through all the muck. There’s definitely a lot of kelp and algae, sand drifting through the water, someone’s wayward brazier, and oh. A school of fish—little babies circling about. It’s wild, but you suppose it could be possible if all the chlorine washed out and there was enough salt water to sustain marine life.

The fish move together, bopping into each other, mouths gaping open to eat whatever they find in their temporary home. You don’t know enough about marine life to know what kind of fish they are. Silvery little things. Maybe Denki has something that can help transport them from the pool to the ocean. It’s not far—Shuzenji’s house is on the beach. It would be a shame if all the little fish had to die. You don’t particularly care about touching or feeding fish, but a life is a life, and if they can be saved, you’d at least like to try.

But all your thoughts of saving fish life stop when you catch something moving in the water. It’s not the fish—they’re not that big, but it’s definitely fishlike. Fish plus. It moves like a shadow, serpentine and fluid. You catch a glimpse of scales, so it’s definitely not a dolphin—even then, it’s bigger than a dolphin, and more graceful than a shark. You begin thinking of leviathan, and other mythical creatures, as ridiculous as that is, when you see a long flowing fluke.

Okay. This thing is not just big. It’s gargantuan, and to see this much of the creature without seeing its head makes your skin crawl. You imagine falling in and being swallowed whole, suffocating in the dark, drowning in a monster’s belly.

The thought spooks you static, just in time to meet a pair of eyes in the water. This is your overactive imagination—you’re scaring yourself insane, but you don’t look away, and those eyes, almost human and curious, don’t disappear.

You’ve consumed enough media to know how these impossible interactions go. The creature is inquisitive, but keeps its distance. It often has to be coaxed out of hiding, and even then, the thing is skittish and untrusting. You’re certainly not one to go “pspsps, hey little guy, I’m not gonna hurt you,” but even if you were, you don’t get the chance, because this thing you’re looking at isn’t the least bit skittish, and in one second, you’re making eyes at at it, and in the next, the thing is exploding out of the water.

A large, broad chest towers over you. The thing pushes itself up with arms, human arms, but it’s anything but human. Sure, it has hair, although an odd purple color, framing its angular face and jaw, which are both human enough. Also framing its face are a pair of long, pointed fins sticking out from where human ears should be. Water dribbles down its chest, down to its navel—its navel. Your brain screams mammal, but underneath its navel are scales, rippling down to where its legs should be. Not human. Not fish.

Fish plus.

Man.

Fish plus man.

Fish-man.

Its eyes are almost the same color as its hair, only a shade lighter, and much sharper, narrowed in on you. It’s glaring. You realize this at the same time you realize that you're staring at it with your mouth agape. This would be so rude in any other setting. It’s also rude to pop out of a pool that isn’t yours without any other warning, but you’re not about to chastise the thing. You’re far too scared.

Then the thing reaches out to you, sprinkling water on your thighs and your shirt. Its hands look like a man’s hand, but its long fingers are connected by thin, indigo webbing that matches its tail. Its tail. You lose focus trying to find the word for this creature that’s barely on the tip of your tongue, when you realize the palm of its hand, its fishy, webby hand, is hovering over your cheek, the other carefully placed next to your knee to keep it upright.

You open your mouth to speak, but only a hiss comes out. The creature, wary, brings its hand back, but only slightly. Not enough to put you at ease, but enough to allow you to gain your composure, and scream.

“H-help!!!” You screech. “Help! Somebody! Help me!”

It claps its hand over your mouth, knocking you back. Water drips down on your shirt as it leans in, mouth curling up with distaste. Then, it does something impossible.

It speaks.

“So loud,” it growls in a low, masculine timbre.

It speaks, you think, it speaks and it has no manners!

You try to yell back, probably something with little thought, but you have a mouth full of fish-man hand, and the more you warble in its palm, the more apathetic it appears.

“Be quiet and still,��� it commands, as if obeying it is supposed to be the most natural thing—something it expects from you. It catches you so off-guard that you actually listen, only trembling a little bit as those indigo eyes scan over your form. It’s uncomfortable having an unknown but cognizant creature observe you so closely. You shiver when its gaze roams over your belly, down your legs. You want to curl your legs up, move away, but you’re afraid if you even twitch more than it’s comfortable with, it’ll grab you and drag you into the pool. Your nightmare.

Instead, it does something slightly less worse. It moves its hand from your mouth to your cheek. The palm of its hand warms your skin in an unnatural way, like you’ve been laying in the sun for half an hour and it’s only your cheek that heats up. The creature's eyes widen as light begins to emanate, either from you, or from it, you’re not sure, but definitely from where it touches you. Tingles run from your neck down to your spine, and you wish you’d put a bra on before going outside, because this thing’s touch is making your body react in a way that it shouldn’t.

“So easy,” it purrs appraisingly, somewhat less insolent, but you’re still taken aback, ears hot with embarrassment.

Un-fucking-likely.

“Easy?!” You squawk out. “What do you mean by easy?”

It doesn’t answer you, and instead, moves its fingers from your cheek, down your jaw, to your chin. It begins leaning closer, heavy lids closing. You notice its lips for the first time: a defined line and a pretty bow. If you were in a less dire situation, you’d be able to admit that they’re very nice lips, but they’re getting closer to you, closer still, and you realize with a jolt what it’s trying to do.

Your foot meets its chest in a heartbeat.

“Nope!” You belt out, extending your leg so there’s more distance between you and the impolite beast. “Not today, fish-breath!”

Unperturbed, it lifts a lazy brow. Then, to your absolute horror, it presses both of its hands into your bare leg, and again you’re lit up, warm, and tingly, only far worse than before. Stomach tightening, you make a choked noise, trying to hold in the sigh that claws at your throat.

“Fish-breath.” It repeats your insult like it’s a balled-up piece of paper to be thrown in the trash. “I’ve been told that my aroma is quite appealing.”

“By whom? Other fish-breaths?!” You wriggle your leg out of his embrace, or whatever you could call that invasion, only to have it slip down so your foot rests in the fish-man’s hands, bright as the stars in the sky. “Eww ew! Don’t touch me! Get away!”

The creature scoffs, but let’s you go, and you both watch as the light disappears from the arch of your foot where he’d been touching. Fish-man slinks back into the murky water, hiding under a blanket of algae.

You have enough time to gather your composure, wipe the water droplets off your face, and rub your eyes. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that this has all been a sleep-deprived hallucination, but you’ve never really been one to delude yourself, unless your Kirishima fantasies were involved, and you know that you’ll have to try another tactic to accept the reality of your situation. Perhaps you can try to be civil with this creature, ask it if it’s…hurt, or if it needs a late night escort to get it back to the sea. But then, the thing resurfaces on the opposite end of the pool. It faces you, and leans back against the wall, arms spread out against the pavement, basking.

“You know,” he says, “your decorum is severely lacking. Don’t humans have classes that teach them proper etiquette—how to be more polite towards their guests and such?”

What’s lacking is your patience for marine life.

Standing up, you take in the thing, which you’re now pretty sure is in fact a man of sorts, in its entirety. His tail is long, longer than human legs, extending past the halfway mark of the pool, if your measurement counts his fluke. There’s a golden cuff on his right arm that spirals around, accentuating his large biceps. You stubbornly admit that it’s attractive—he’s attractive, at least, he would be for people who were into fish and not surfers. You brush whatever you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach off by telling yourself that you’re simply awestruck, and move on.

“Where I’m from-“ you begin, straightening your sodden crop top- “we offer our guests various beverages and snacks, depending on the time of day.”

Annoyingly, he looks interested.

“Since it’s the morning, I’d offer a guest tea, or coffee, and if I’m looking to impress, I’d maybe cook them a hot meal.”

The creature offers you a sardonic smile. “I happen to be famished.”

“However, with home-invaders, we’re more likely to pull a gun on them before heating up the earl grey.”

He loses the smile, and you’re glad that he might have an inkling of what a gun is. You’ve never owned one, and they don’t allow firearms on the island, but the threat stands. But if he was intimidated, even for a moment, he doesn’t show it anymore, and proves just that by turning his back on you, and resting his head in his arms. He has a dorsal fin with what looks to be a deep, x-shaped scar near his tailbone. You try not to wonder what that could’ve been from.

“Then how do you propose I go from a home-invader, to a house guest?” Asks the creature with little interest.

Cautiously walking around the pool with your arms crossed, you begin to list things off for the far-too-comfortable fish-man.

“You can start by telling me who you are, what you are, why you’re here, what you want, and why you think you can lay your webbed hands on me.”

“Oh, is that all?” He hums noncommittally. Content. Aggravating. “Why don’t you start then? Who are you, and why are you here?”

The back of your neck grows hot and uncomfortable. “How entitled do you have to be to—!” You start, but you’re swiftly cut off by the shrieking of the fire alarm. Smoke plumes from outside the house’s windows, and you curse under your breath before darting towards the door. You’d completely forgotten about your eggs.

In your haste to move the pan off the stove, you burn your fingers and drop the pan to the kitchen floor, two blackened egg crisps flaking off and diving in different directions. Mango yowls at the commotion and investigates one of the fallen egg crisps. Before you can tell him to buzz off, he loses interest in your mess, not bothering to give it a taste. You don’t blame him, but the eggs didn’t appear to be cat-bad. Ah, you can’t kid yourself. They are cat-bad. They’re completely inedible. Now you’re going to have to head to the market, while worrying about a man trapped in Shuzenji’s pool.

Your stomach roars at you.

After cleaning the mess as best as you could while desperately and ruefully wanting to return to your guest—no, not guest—invader, you get the alarm, half-heartedly fan the smoke out of the house, and return. Angry. This guy better start talking soon, or things are going to get ugly.

To your utter displeasure, he looks all the more amused at your newer, messier state.

“Was that supposed to be the hot meal,” he asks, cocky. “Because if so, I’ll pass.”

Instead of biting his head off like you’d like to, you present him with the still-dirty frying pan, pointing it at his head like you intend to use it.

“Start talking, fish-for-brains.”

The beast snickers, raising his hands in the air in mock-surrender. “Easy there, tiger shark. You know how to use that thing?”

You refuse to humor him. Instead, you keep your scowl tight, your arms steady. If he’s not threatened, he’ll lose interest in this game, then he’ll have to talk.

Lo and behold, you’re right. The fish-man rolls his eyes, and looks at you, again, with apathy.

“My name is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he says, lackadaisical, like he’s already bored of himself. “I’m one of Ryūjin. What humans have learned to call merpeople are actually descendants of the sea gods who lived centuries ago. I’m here, simply because the storm washed me here. What I want is to retrieve what’s mine. I thought I could lay my webbed hands on you—well-“ the corner of his mouth tilts up-“darlin’, it was because your body reacted to me.”

Mouth forming the beginning of a question that never comes, you stare in disbelief at this myth. Then the last thing he said dawns at you.

“I did not react to you!” You rebuke, steady hands now shaking.

“Oh no?” He says, but it’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

Hitoshi grabs the flat end of the frying pan and yanks it, and you, closer to him, closer to the water. You cringe and whine when a wet, webby hand closes around your wrist. Inadvertently, you drop the pan, but he pays it no mind as it sinks past his tail. Your skin begins to glow underneath his palms, and the tingles come back, shooting up your arm, causing tiny goosebumps to appear.

“Would you look at that,” Hitoshi croons, slow and almost sensuously. His indigo eyes narrow on your index finger where you’d burned yourself. To add to this nightmare, he closes his lips around it, and begins to suck. Your stomach flips, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re disgusted, or scared, or…enjoying the feeling of his warm mouth, his tongue, touching your skin.

“Stop.” It’s a whisper. It means nothing. You think you want it to mean something, but your thoughts are buzzing into a blur. Knees growing weak, you descend, leaning closer to him, not caring about the water or the seaweed or the fish, and instead, entirely focused on his mouth. It’s glowing, his mouth. Faintly. Like a single candle lit in an otherwise empty room.

When he eases off of you, he runs his thumb over your now-healed finger, and let’s your arm fall limply at your side.

“All better,” he whispers back at you.

There are prickles all over your skin once you regain an ounce of dignity.

“What the hell was that?” You ask, breathless for no other reason than shock.

“The glowing?” He asks. “The healing?”

“Both.”

“Your reaction to me.” He’s cocky again. This is something sick. Mythical creature or not, this has got to be a game he plays, washing into people’s pools, causing problems, sucking on lonely girls’ fingers. He probably gets his kicks this way, and uses whatever other kind of magic he has to erase whoever he’s tormenting’s memories, if he doesn’t end up eating them when he’s done. Bogus.

You won’t let him get to you.

“Alright, Hitoshi Shinsou, how would you like me to get you back into the ocean? You healed my finger-“ although it’s essentially his fault you were burned to begin with, if you take into account the sequence of events-“so helping you out is the least that I can do.”

“I could use your help,” he muses lightly, turning his body back around to his chest and abdomen are turned towards  the sun. You tell yourself not to stare like you know he probably wants you to. Though his eyes are closed, he peeps at you, sneaking a glance. “I don’t want to go back into the ocean, though. Not until I get what’s mine.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and scroll through her phone, you swallow your bite, and ask, “what would that be?”

“Oh, this and that-“ he waves his hand around dismissively-“other things.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and find another frying pan, you say, “alright, listen. Someone is on their way to the house to clean the pool. I don’t know what one of Ryūjin means, but I’m guessing people like you don’t always want to be discovered by people like us. So you either tell me what it is you need, or see how my pool guy reacts to a mermaid lounging around in my backyard! I wouldn’t put it against him to call the local news station. Get this place flooding with cameras. Does that sound like a pretty picture to you?”

Absolutely none of your threats penetrate Hitoshi’s cool nature. In fact, he laughs.

“When he gets here,” the merman drawls, knowing he’s got you hanging on every word, “invite him to swim.”

[stylistiquements]

Introduction : three older brothers

𐐪𐑂 Pairing : Sapnap x fem!reader {Playlist} 𐐪𐑂 Summary : When Sapnap learns the news, some questions are resurfacing.

𐐪𐑂 Word count : 1.1k

𐐪𐑂 Warning : none (for once lol)

Masterlist | Next

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

I’m coming to see you in Florida, your voice plays again and again like it’s some kind of song stuck in the back of Sapnap’s mind.

In the lull of the afternoon, a nest of merriment peaks in the crest of his chest and threatens to overflow, but honestly it’s more a promise than anything; bare feet stomping euphorically against the wooden floor without a hint of withhold and the humid air twirls around his fists as he punches a not so silent victory.

Fifteen years of friendship, two years of longing and four months until the world both crumbles and harmonizes again.

129 days until my best friend comes home, Sapnap processes ecstatic, acidic. Peonies hatch in the depth of his heart, where light shouldn’t reach but still does somehow.

The heel of his palm presses against the phone a little tighter, where your voice ringed high and low just minutes ago. He forgot to ask how long you were planning on staying with him and Dream. Somehow, he forgot how to think about anything else but the fact that, soon, late night texts and virtual calls are to be bad dream-ish flashes. But it’s so easy to put everything behind, so easy to dismiss when you’re about to appear in front of him, soft as a smile and real.

When the celebration falls breathless, Sapnap isn’t sure what to do with himself, throwing his body over the bed that bounces up and down and the movement is so swift he’s left tasting all fuzzy. He’s transported overseas, heart streaming over the sheets. They wrinkle and frame his body like a restless picture.

This could just be a dream, he reasons; he waited so long for you to say those words that, for all he knows, he might have been asleep all along. The threads of lights that escape the window fondle his hair and wash up two soft cheeks and, in an attempt to seal the wish, he closes his eyes and lets the sun flood the back of his eyelids.

What is printed there, between orange light and imaginary shapes, is an old memory that slowly unfolds; a brushed wound on your knee during one of those skateboarding afternoons.

Sapnap huffs. God, you used to love skateboarding so much it drove him crazy.

But it was, after all, his duty to carry you home. Like a princess, you said, eyes sparkling and smile so promising. He whined, complained the whole time about you being heavy, but it didn’t matter; what colored his skin was how important you gave him the opportunity to be. And the truth, although diluted, remains indelible to the passing time.

It’s funny, he recognizes, that the memory decided to collide with this very moment. Just as if a boiling impatience molded itself into a wave of memories. And when the nostalgia fades away, he imagines what it would be like if you were right in front of him; the shape of your eyes and the curve of your smile. Something old, something new, something blue, he thinks ironically, though it probably only makes sense to him.

“What the hell, Godzilla?” The door cracks open and welcomes a swirling breeze. Dream fakes the annoyance, but his tone betrays; boyish amusement. His silhouette intertwines with rays of lights and though his shadow elongates enough to hide Sapnap from the merciless sun of Florida, one glance at the man forces him to squint in order to not be completely blinded. Sapnap tunes into reality once again, heels sinking into the mattress.

“129 days,” he mumbles, willing to answer a question that hasn’t been freed yet, knowing it’s not too much of an answer yet everything he’s capable of for the moment given, still stuck into the ethereal.

“Cryptic,” Dream sighs. His scoff stops when he lies on the bed next to his friend, a small rattle falling out of his lips.

In the interlude, met by two green eyes and the chirping of the birds outside, he gives in, “I haven’t seen y/n in two years and now she’s coming back in 129 days.”

Dream’s head rises effortlessly, unimpressed, little birdie tells Sapnap he probably knew much before he did.

“Then why are you not as happy as you should be?”

“I’m not sure,” Sapnap shrugs. “I mean-- I am, but it’s weird. It’s like super long and super short at the same time.”

Dream’s hovering smile twitches slightly devious, slightly smirk-ish. “Maybe you’ll finally be able to tell her how you feel.”

Betrayal, he noticed the way his lashes flutter when your name is mentioned in a conversation, the way he secretly flusters every once in a while when the boundaries between what is and what could be are drawn too blurry. Sapnap’s eyebrows arch in a hypocritical confusion.

He gulps with a little bit of coyness, “It’s just not the right timing.”

“Things don’t always need to be complicated, you know.”

His jaw clenches in a sour agreement, but to be so desperately in love with his best friend, there is only room for difficulty.

It’s like magnets with the same polarity. Sometimes, too caught up by the pursuit of your own selves, sometimes kept apart by the fear of losing the most precious thing life has given the two of you. And if one second he thinks he could catch a glimpse of hope, too tangled with the force field to think, the next he never even dares to think about it.

“I’ve heard how you interact with each other, being all flirtie flirtie and stuff,” Dream notes high and daringly. The smirk blooms, Sapnap flinches.

“Right, as if. She also has three older brothers, you know? Kinda don’t want my ass to get beaten.”

“You’re being a giant baby.”

“You’re a giant baby,” Sapnap repeats to mock. “Shut up.”

And soon the air is filled with hands aiming to attack each other, weltering between a mound of sheets and choked out laughter. The introspection blows in the wind for a second before reappearing as easy.

Once Dream’s power has made its own point, Sapnap surrenders, “Fine. Oh my god, you’re so annoying. And if I tell her that I’m in love with her and she rejects me, what then?”

Heaving chests and remains of chuckle, the sun fades out for a moment to give them a rest.

“And if you tell her that you’re in love with her and she says ‘me too’, what then?”

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

Taglist : @open-minded-chip-101 ; @itsoakaa

A/N : I'm so happy to finally post something again I feel like it's been years lol!! Hope you guys appreciated the intro. it's a bit shorter but once again its just the intro and if you're used to the length of the sorcerer's chapters then this is gonna defo be a lot shorter. Anyway lmk what you think!! I think I'm going to publish one part every sunday but can't really promise anything. Until next time (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

[funkypoacher]

From OTP established relationship asks: 14. Do they have a morning routine? Describe it if you’d like to. For Vinya and Blackwall, and/or anyone else you want to. You know I love morning routines (and if I've asked this before and forgot, I'm sorry)!

These are what they are. I am so rusty at writing, like frig. They also got lazier the more I got into them, but I got to spend some time with a few ships I've neglected lately, so thanks f00b <3 <# <3

Blackwall/Lavellan

Due to new-dawn earliness, mornings are dim and dreary. The sky is purple-grey; the grass is wet. Yawning, Blackwall sits on a three-legged milking stool before the stove, conjuring flames from kindling—mostly twigs and sawdust, that, as a squirrel’s been nesting in the rafters, and he’s being economical, although she calls it cold and uncaring (around a smart-ass smirk).

Rubbing his eyes, he sets water to boil. Small, cracked flower-pot in hand for egg-collecting, Blackwall checks the roost and garden. He has to appreciate nature’s disregard for his husbandry. Fence needs mending again. Deer got the peas.

In the cottage, he does up toast and oatmeal, places chamomile in tea strainers, and pours two cups. As he sits on the bed of their one-room home, Vinya rasps questioningly, from within the depths of patchwork quilting, if he’s washed yet. He can tell the truth, say no, then watch her fall back to sleep for another hour—or he can fib, inform her that he “has”, and she’ll up, silently sponge-bathe her upper body from one of the hot water pots, and monosyllabically munch her breakfast around a half-hearted, well-intentioned ‘mmm’ of dozy approval.

Vinya rises with the sun. A bit too gruffly to do so like some mincing posy, but Blackwall thinks it just as poetic. His morning routine is making the day ready for her. Which is fine. She mucks the chickens, so it’s more than fair.

Anders/Hawke

Before and after the mage-templar war, mornings, much like bad weather, happen someplace different every day. However, once the Circles disband, it is due less to running from and more about running to. Mornings aren’t only “hurry, we need to get out of this barn before the owner comes around”—they are, rather happily, “hurry, we need to get out of this barn before the owner comes around, and Merrill is expecting us around noon at the Hambleton crossroads.”

Through thick, thin, and threatening to overwhelm, one thing respects the suffocating rules of constancy, though.

“Anders?” Hawke says it soft as camellia petals.

Justice, both spirit and ideal, ravage his body in equal measure as the years pass. Mornings are the same except a new shock of white silvering his beard, or wrinkle at his eye, or ache in his limbs. So Hawke tries to heal.

“A little lower,” Anders whispers, his exhaustion-strained voice cracking. Her hand spreads warm mana through his back; her fingers massage, cherishing his skin in circles, and dips.

“Sun up?” he asks. Face in the pillow, the mage can’t yet bear the morning.

“Yes,” she answers. “A while ago.”

Eventually Anders gives beneath her. Rolling over, he offers a weak, open smile. He never looks rested, but he is always beautiful.

“Good morning,” Anders chirps. For all his lethargy, the light of his optimism is one that doesn’t flicker out.

“Yep,” Hawke agrees, smiling wide.

Kaidan/Shepard

“Morning,” Kaidan rasps, sitting up on the low cot in the large tent on a scorched planet called Earth. At the end of the bed, an old rug spread beneath her, Shepard is seen in a head-to-knee position. Stretched forward, one hand grasps her foot, the other holds up a worn manual on 21st century generator repair, while a ration bar balances partially forgotten in her mouth. She’s intangible—a statue of concentration—an example of the flexibility required to cut it in these post-Reaper war years, and she’s back in his life. Kaidan is overjoyed.

“Mmm,” she replies, and the half of her breakfast not wedged between her teeth falls.

“Coffee?”

Shepard’s laugh isn’t exactly kind. Unfurling from her spot, she places the book down, stands, and stretches. “I traded my percolator a few years back. I can’t even remember… For boots? Laces, maybe?” Sitting off the side of their cot, she smiles in her joyless, honest way: at her eyes. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find one, though.”

He reaches for her hand and she stiffens. He brushes her jaw and she looks away. Seemingly made for each other, their trajectory has never matched; stuck on the Normandy for four years, he wasn’t there to watch her learn to live without the war, without a lot of things, without purpose, and it seems a lot of those lessons were hard bought.

Knitting his fingers with hers, he squeezes.

“I can…” The words belly-crawl out of his throat. “Learn to appreciate tea.”

“No you can’t!” Shepard laughs too loud. That’s another thing she’s learning to deal with: joy.

Raising her hand to his lips, Kaidan kisses her fingers, his eyes never far from hers.

“Soldiers learn to deal—am I right?”

And like that, Shepard slips from his grasp, back to her book, and her yoga.

A million things are different, but this—trying to figure Hestia Shepard out—is one routine Kaidan is never going to shake.

[loveyou-x3000]

Mika I kinda see Izayoi enjoyed being eaten out, can you do one please

Because I already have a scene written, here’s the only nsfw preview (no bondage, light bdsm dynamic) of Wicked Games I’ll post before the story goes up:

His hands fastened around her hips in an instant, clamping down with firm demand. She laughed with soft delight as he yanked her down, effortlessly reeling her into him, her elbow slipping free from underneath her as he dragged her flat on her back down the sheets. Her legs slid neatly into place on either side of him as they dipped over the edge of the mattress, the supple stretch of her inner thighs bracketing him to her. Completely nude, she was suddenly there, the cleft of her legs exposed— her scent, her fragrance, all intoxicating and impossibly tempting, now bared to him.

He floundered for only a moment before his brain caught on.

“What do you say?” Her fingers slid into his hair, carding back until she had him by the nape, clutching suddenly and arching his neck so he was looking up at her, tearing his gaze away from her prize.

“Thank you,” at the rise of her eyebrow, expectant and elegantly poised, he remembered himself, “ma’am.”

“Good.” She tugged again, drawing a soft noise of desire from deep in his throat, lifting her free hand to pry his fingers off one hip. His other hand fell away with the first, not needing further prompting. “Go on, then.”

He fisted his knuckles against the mattress, pressing in on either side of her with a simmering sort of frustration until she finally released his hair. His head snapped forward at the release, back to where he’d previously been attuned— to the smell, which was quickly growing heavier by the second.

Unable to touch her, unable to spread her with his fingers and part the slicked petals before him as he normally would, there was only one thing he could do. Locking eyes with Izayoi, finding himself lost in the endless, clouded depths of her dark gaze, he bent forward and pressed his lips against her, a breath of hot air against the soft thatch of curls. The moan that escaped her at his contact hit his ears and crashed straight down to his knees, ricocheting through his entire body with white light. And he might’ve been able to linger in that satisfaction, if not for the urge to taste her— if not for the fact his tongue moved of its own volition, exploring, pressing against the seam before splitting her apart, licking, tasting, lapping and— holy fuck.

He’d returned to paradise for the second time in a single night, and there was nothing whatsoever holding him to this Earth.

Izayoi’s hand tangled back in his hair within seconds, her back arching as she pressed her hips up to his face, neck lolling back in a sway of black hair across her front. Her other hand fell on top of his fist behind her, pressing down on the back of his hand as she tipped backwards and angled into him. Her breathy, lustful sighs set his pace; he lapped up whatever she offered him, soon daring to spear her, to taste her moist, inner walls as they convulsed and pulsed against him. His nose nested against the throbbing cluster of nerves that made her shudder at the faintest touch, scenting her to excess, living inside the heavy musk that was dripping out of her and into his mouth.

Izayoi whimpered and he refocused his efforts, moving his tongue out of her to focus solely on that throbbing nub, sucking and rasping until her thighs were shuddering beside his head.

“Fuck,” her fingers trembled against his scalp, blunted nails digging in harmlessly where they weaved into his hair.

Agreed, he groaned to himself, sucking hard until she cried out, falling back flat on the bed and dragging him forward without mercy.

“Touch me.”

He obeyed without thought, barely registering her words before he felt her hips beneath his claws, the constant tremble of her sweat-slicked, heated body between his hands. He pinned her to his mouth, brought her in closer as he finally had her sprawling over the edge, living in that final hungry stroke of his tongue—

—and then he didn’t stop, renewed by her orgasm, by the way she hooked her legs over his shoulders and locked him into her. Toga delved, prodding her again, nuzzling and kissing and paying every imaginable attention until she was shocked with new waves of orgasms; one after the next, folded up in the last, until she was sobbing with pleasure, hips spasming against his face.

“...holy gods," she whispered, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Only when he felt all semblance of strength shake out of her legs did he stop, growling happily as he kissed the trembling muscles of her inner thigh.

[afni-fics]

In Hindsight: Chapter 8: In the Present... Fathers and Son

In Hindsight: Chapter 8: In the Present... Fathers and Son by C_R_Scott Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tim Drake/Tam Fox, Jack Drake/Janet Drake, Janet Drake & Tim Drake, Jack Drake & Tim Drake, Lucius Fox/Tanya Fox, Tim Drake & Tam Fox Characters: Tim Drake, Tam Fox, Janet Drake, Jack Drake, Lucius Fox, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Tim Drake-centric, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Family Feels, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sweethearts, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Good Parent Janet Drake, Bad Parent Jack Drake, no beta we die like robins, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Story Summary: What if Tim Drake was originally raised by his maternal grandmother for the first eight years of his life due to "circumstances" involving his biological parents? What if Tim's grandmother was also the next door neighbor and occasional sitter for Lucius Fox's family?

Chapter Summary: Still in the present day, Bruce watches over Tim as he sleeps away some of the emotional exhaustion of the morning. Some unexpected information is dragged into the light, and Bruce improvises what to do and say once his son wakes up.

...

How long had it been since Bruce last watched Tim as he slept?

The Wayne patriarch sat quietly on the window seat of Tim's bedroom, but kept his eyes on bed. Barely an hour earlier he'd managed to lead his physically and emotionally exhausted son out of the Nest and back into the living room of his house. Tam had led the way and gave a brief impromptu tour as she showed them to the master bedroom. Tim was barely coherent during most of the walk, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he passed out. The boy didn't even flinch when Bruce pulled the comforter over him, tucking it over his shoulders. While Alfred asked Tam for a more in-depth tour of Tim's new home, Bruce remained behind.

Tim looked so drained and despondent, even in sleep. It broke Bruce's heart to see his boy this way. The last time Bruce saw this side of Tim was on his first night at the Manor after his biological father had been murdered.

And once again, even now, Jack Drake was the source of his son's misery.

Bruce heard a quiet knock from the bedroom door. After a quick glance at Tim to ensure he was still asleep, he got up and walked to the door.

"Yes Alfred?"

The older gentleman glanced into the room first, assuring himself with brief once over of the slumbering teenager before motioning for Bruce to step out of the room. With great reluctance, Bruce followed the old man out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"I wanted to let you know that Miss Fox has left to return home, and I'm on my way out to return to the Manor. Timothy's kitchen is rather sparse on ingredients, so I'm going to prepare some meals and bring them back for when he finally wakes up." Then Alfred brought out a medication bottle and placed it in Bruce's hand, his expression gravely serious. "Before she left, Tamara asked that as soon as Timothy wakes up he is to be reminded to take a dose of this. She said normally he takes it first thing at the office during the work week, but because he never made it there this morning he will need to take his dose as soon as possible."

Bruce's brow furrowed as he read the prescription label on the plastic orange bottle. "Amoxicillin?" His eyes shot back up to Alfred. "Why is Tim on a daily regiment of antibiotics?"

Alfred frowned deeply. "I do not know. I didn't press Miss Fox for clarification as I didn't want to upset her further than she already was this morning. She also appeared to be operating under the assumption that I already knew Timothy was taking this medication." 

Bruce shook his head. "What is going on? First we find out Jack was lying to Tim for years about his grandmother, and now Tim is keeping secrets from us regarding his health?"

"From the label, it appears that Dr. Thompkins was the one who prescribed the medication. I should still be on Timothy's HIPAA release forms regarding his medical records. I'll call her on the way to the manor and try to get some answers." 

"Thank you Alfred. Please keep me posted." Nodding, Bruce turned away from Alfred and returned to Tim's bedside, sitting down beside him. He gently stroked the teenager's hair from his face, concerned gaze softening as he watched his son sleep. 

  ...

For a few hours, Bruce kept vigil over his son. Though a part of him was very curious and wanted to explore the remodeled movie theater in greater depth, he did not want Tim to wake up alone after everything that had happened earlier. So he spent the next couple of hours on his phone distracting himself as best he could by going over Tim's Neon Knights reports that he hadn't had time to review earlier as well as other Wayne Enterprises related work that had been on the backburner for far too long, now that he was taking the time to review everything.

That is, he did so until a text message alert popped up on the screen. It was a message from Barbara.

"Call me."

With reluctance again, Bruce stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He placed his Bluetooth headset on and dialed up Barbara. 

"What have you got for me?"

He could hear typing in the background. "Not much... yet. But I definitely get the sense that something was shady happened and was buried back when the original custody arrangement with Tim's grandma was severed. Fortunately for Tim, the ground is soft and I'm prepared to dig."

Bruce allowed himself a small smile at the fierce determination he could hear in Barbara's voice. He knew he could count on her. "What about why Tim was in his grandmother's custody to begin with? Was it just due to Jack and Janet's constant travelling due to their work, or was there something else?"

He listened to Barbara sigh, and there was a pause in her typing. "Definitely something else," she finally replied with an unhappy tone to her voice. "I'm sending you a couple of docs. One of them is the original custody arrangement, initiated when Tim was just two years old. 'Officially'--" Bruce could practically hear the air quotes around the word. "--the paperwork says it was due to the fact that they were travelling constantly for work, that it was more practical for the wellbeing of their son to stay in one constant, stable location and his grandmother was kind enough to open her home to him."

"And the reality?"

"I don't know for certain yet, but I think there may have been some domestic abuse happening. The rest of the docs are some of Tim's medical records from when he was a baby until he turned two. There are a worrying number of reports due to various 'accidental injuries' during this time period, that essentially dried up the moment Tim was in his grandmother's care."

Bruce could taste the bile rising up in the back of his throat as he read over the reports. On their own, if they were one-off occurrences, it would be easy to dismiss the injuries as just "accidents". Nothing was life threatening or permanently damaging, but as time went on, there was a definite pattern and a gradual trend of escalation regarding the severity of the injuries and how frequently they were occurring and requiring visits with his pediatrician or the children's hospital emergency department.

All before Tim even reached the age of two.

  ...

Tim's eyes opened slowly to the pitch darkness of his bedroom. His brow furrowed as he glanced around after sitting up, dislodging the comforter that had been tucked around his shoulders. He plucked at the still warm, very inviting blanket as if he wasn't quite sure if it was real or not before turning his attention to the glowing numbers of his bedside alarm clock.

"Why am I in bed at two in the afternoon?"

He rubbed at his eyes, which felt gritty and itchy. To his surprise, he felt a slight change of texture on his skin beneath his eyes. It was a feeling he was quite familiar with. 

"Was I crying?" he thought as he felt the remains of the dried tear tracks on his cheeks before reflexively scrubbing them away with the heel of his hand. "Why was I--?"

Then he froze.

His bedroom door had opened and he recognized the silhouette of his adopted father in the doorway against the daylight filtering in from the hallway.

Then Tim's short term memories from the morning caught up with him, and is breath stuttered audibly in his throat.

"Oh... I remember..."

Bruce had paused when he saw Tim sitting up in his bed. His startled expression quickly bled into concern. "Sorry," he apologized as he stepped further into the room, closing the door partway to dim the light, though he didn't shut it all the way. He shoved his phone into his pocket. "Did I wake you?"

Tim shook his head without a word as he focused his gaze firmly on the quilted lines of the comforter. He felt the mattress shift as Bruce sat down next to him. 

"How do you feel?"

The young man dared to glance up at Bruce's question. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but nothing came out. Tim was startled by his lack of words. There were so many thoughts and feelings twisted up inside his head. Heartache... Confusion... Anger... Regret... Betrayal... Surprise... Grief... There was so many conflicting things churning in his mind, like a pot threating to boil over.

But he couldn't find his voice for any of it. 

All Tim could do was close his mouth, bowed his head, and let his expression communicate how miserable he felt.

Suddenly, the bed shifted again and Tim felt a strong arm wind itself around his back as a hand gently clasped his shoulder. He tilted his head upward to see that Bruce had moved to sit beside him and drew him into a one-armed half-hug that gave him a choice of either leaning into the embrace or escaping it if it was going to be too much for him. Tim was stiff for a moment as he processed the unspoken choice he'd been given. Then, slowly, he relaxed into his adopted father's embrace and leaned against him with a small sigh.

"Having a hard time processing everything?"

Tim nodded. 

A low hum of acknowledgement rumbled from Bruce's throat that Tim could feel. A corner of his lips twitched upward even as he closed his eyes wearily. It felt nice. He felt safe. 

"Do you want to talk about anything right now?"

The teenager thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. Now that he felt safe and comforted, the tendrils of sleep that had slipped away earlier were returning to drag him under once again. He was still so very tired.

Bruce seemed to guess that his son wanted to go back to sleep. "Before you pass out again, Tam said you need to take these." He reached over for the nightstand and grabbed the orange bottle. 

Tim blinked at the bottle in drowsy confusion, though once he recognized the label of his prescription, his eyes widened. His posture had stiffened and he looked at Bruce with a guilty hesitant expression. "I-- I can explain..." he forcefully croaked out in a barely audible tone.

His father shook his head to stop Tim from speaking. "Is Leslie fully aware of what is going on and why you're on this medication?"

Tim nodded.

Bruce gave him a small reassuring smile. "Then, we can talk about this later," Bruce said "As long as you're not in any immediate danger, we can postpone this conversation. But since this involves your health, especially your immunity if I'm recognizing this medication correctly, I don't want you going out on patrol until we clear the air about this, alright?"

With a resigned sigh, Tim nodded again. "Fair." 

Once he'd taken his antibiotics, Tim made himself more comfortable again in his bed. After resting his head on his pillow, before he could allow himself to drift off, there was one question he had to ask his father. "Bruce?"

"Hm?"

"Who else knows?"

"Alfred was with us earlier, though I'm not sure how aware you were of everything that happened in your Nest," Bruce revealed, to which Tim nodded thoughtfully. "Barbara knows as well." At Tim's confused look, Bruce clarified. "I asked her to investigate how... all this happened. Was it just oversight or was it something malicious?"

"But I can--"

Bruce shook his head. "I could never ask you to investigate your own father. That would be too cruel." Bruce said sadly. Then he reached out to stroke Tim's hair in a soothing gesture. "And... I don't want you to focus on Jack right now. In fact, I want you to take a break from Wayne Enterprises and being Red Robin as well, at least for the rest of this week." 

Tim felt the words of protest rise up in him almost like a reflex. He tried to sit up and was fully prepared to launch into an argument right then and there about being benched. He paused though, when Bruce pressed a hand to his shoulder to stop him, and he could see the naked compassion in the older man's eyes.

"There's someone else who deserves your undivided attention right now, especially if you want them back in your life again."

Tim's breath got caught in his throat, and despite having felt like he cried himself out earlier, he could feel his eyes begin to tear up once more. New thoughts and feelings surrounding his grandmother began swirling around in his head, robbing him of his voice just as the earlier thoughts had done so, though these were nowhere near as angry, raw, and painful as the ones when he first woke up.

Bruce's smile was equal parts reassuring and wistful. Tim stared at Bruce's face trying to read the unfamiliar expression. He could tell that love was feeding the look his father was giving him, and it made him feel warm inside. But there was... something else hiding behind Bruce's blue eyes... a melancholy that he couldn't decipher that made his own heart ache to see.

Before he could ask Bruce about it, much to the teenager's surprise, his father leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of his hair. "Get some more rest," Bruce instructed as he rose to his full height and turned to leave the room. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Still stunned by the impromptu display of affection, Tim could only nod numbly as he watched Bruce step out of the bedroom and close the door behind him. Though his thoughts and emotions still churned inside him for a time, eventually sleep reclaimed him.

...

Author's Notes:

Author's Note: Bruce is trying really hard to be a good father in this story. A part of him both wants to ensure Tim is reunited with his grandmother, since it's clear the boy loved the woman. However, there is a part of him that is afraid that once he has his grandmother back, Tim might decide to leave him and the rest of his adopted family behind to remain with her. However, if that is Tim's choice, who would he be to deny him? What would Bruce do if he was given a chance to have his own mother back in his life? What about any of his other children (who had decent caring mothers...)?

#tim drake#tam fox#tim/tam#red robin#fanfiction#wip#rr: in hindsight#batfam#batfamily#lucius fox#bruce wayne

[archadianskies]

old habits

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Friday Day 5: Jealousy + Heartfelt Moment; post revolution Elijah Kamski/Leo Manfred

He knows what he’s like, he knows how bad he gets when he hyperfixates on his work. It’s partly why he has Chloe, really; he may be a certified genius but looking after his very human body has never really been a strong trait. Or a passable trait, for that matter. 

He is Elijah Kamski, creator of androids, and sadly not an android himself. Oh to be an android relying on a solar cell and thirium instead of food and water and sleep. Cursed with flesh and blood, he’s still bound by mortal restrictions no matter how hard he wishes. 

He’s well aware of how hard Chloe and his team work to keep him alive, he’s under no illusions he’s easy to care for, not when he forgets to eat and drink and sleep in lieu of working on and on and on. Surely he can’t be frowned upon, it was the most important system update to CyberLife so far. An update and a complete overhaul of the system, ensuring the removal of their obedience and reliance to their original programming. He had to test it over and over and over to ensure the rollout would be smooth. The mind of every deviant was at stake, and he had to make sure the update was safe and sound and unbreakable.

It means he surfaces on the other side of just over three weeks with only a blurry recollection of the past twenty-three days. At some point Leo visited, or was it a few more than some? He can at least remember that much. Sort of. He remembers Leo’s grinning and the taste of coffee, not the pot kind brewed around the clock in his lab but coffee made by someone and drank from a tall takeaway cup and not a mug or the percolator pot itself. Leo Leo Leo, his brave little lion. 

Elijah pats his face dry with the towel, gingerly tracing his now freshly shaved jawline and sighing as he stretches his muscles after the hot shower. The fog is starting to recede from his mind now he’s no longer focusing on the monumental task of breaking deviancy from CyberLife’s clutches.

There’s clothes laid out for him, soft sweatpants and a soft worn jersey shirt and a soft soft hoodie- they know when he resurfaces from the depths of work he has to try and settle back into his own skin and its fleshly machinations. Drying his hair lets his mind wander again, and he thinks yes actually he does want to see Leo properly now he’s not delirious from sleep deprivation. 

Maybe he can hold actual adult conversations now. His phone is within reach on the bathroom counter beside his toothbrush and he quickly thumbs Leo a message before jamming the brush into his mouth and vigorously scrubbing the fuzzy-feeling coating away.

“Breakfast is oatmeal with stewed cinnamon apples and honey.” Peter informs him softly when he pads into the kitchen, the PL400 setting the tray down at the table. “And a glass of milk, because-”

“Chloe’s not letting me have coffee.” Elijah finishes the sentence with a tired chuckle. “Thank you Peter.”

“Welcome back, sir.” The PL400 flashes a grin and he rolls his eyes in response though there’s no real sarcasm behind it. “Chloe is just getting dressed. She’ll join you soon.”

He nods and tucks into his breakfast, marvelling over the rich texture and the sweetness and that heavenly scent and he just knows everything he’s eaten in the past twenty-three days went into his mouth and into his stomach without a moment’s pause to savour it in favour of getting it down as fast as possible in order to focus on his work. He’d really be dead without his little team here, his little family of androids. 

Arms wrap around him from behind, and a chin rests atop his head as he breathes in the familiar spicy scent of wild orchids. “Hello my dear.” He greets as a kiss is pressed into his hair.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Eli.” Chloe teases. Reaching over him, she grabs a tablet and drags it closer. “Catch up on the world and we can catch up after. I’ve got the preliminary report about the update.”

“Yes yes.” He sighs, tilting his head slightly so she can kiss his cheek before she flitters away and leaves him to his meal. Lending only a cursory glance at the world news, he flicks through the articles with passing interest before narrowing the field to local news only. A large headline catches his eye.

[Slipped on Ice? Prodigal Manfred Son Seen Slipping Back to His Old Habits] 

There’s a photo, blurry and grainy as if taken by a paparazzi from far away, perhaps from a moving vehicle. Certainly not using one of the cameras he developed, because then the photo would’ve been crystal clear. Leo is easily identified by his favourite beanie, one knitted by the revolutionary named Simon, first PL600 of his kind. 

The man beside Leo has a full beard, and he’s dressed in a hoodie that looks unwashed even through the grainy quality of the photo. He thinks he can see stringy locks of long hair peeking out from under the hood. An ugly feeling rears up in his chest, and Elijah grimaces as he recognises it as jealousy. Why is Leo with another man? They’re standing too close to be acquaintances, Leo’s head tilted up and towards the stranger. 

He loathes it, detests it, this rising indignant feeling in his throat like acid reflux. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of such a look, he knows how soft Leo’s eyes get, how his smile is slightly lopsided and entirely endearing. 

Suddenly he aches for his company, yearns for the way Leo cards his fingers through his hair and scritches along his scalp as if he’s nothing but an overgrown lapcat to him. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be tangled in bed, not even for sex but just to be bundled under heavy blankets sharing bodyheat and eye contact and the easy affection they’ve built between them. 

He seeks Chloe in his lab, and before she can open her mouth he cuts in. “I’m worried about Leo.”

“Leo?” She echoes, blinking in surprise. “Why would you be worried about Leo?”

“I just- I saw this article- specifically a photo and it’s made me uneasy about the company he keeps.” It sounds utterly stupid now he’s said it aloud, and it shows in Chloe’s expression.

“The company he keeps?” She says it slowly, as if double-checking his statement. He strides forward and thrusts the tablet at her, jabbing at the photo.

“Look, I-” He sucks in a deep breath, “I don’t want to sound paranoid, and I don’t mistrust him but-” There’s a frantic note in the tone of his voice so he tries to reason with himself. “I mean, no, I know he’s not slipping back into old habits he’s done wonderfully and recovered well, so maybe I’m overreacting and maybe he’s sought out a friend to also help through their recovery and that wouldn’t be too far-fetched because he knows firsthand how hard it is and he’d be the best person to guide someone through a difficult addiction and-”

Chloe’s face turns blank in that way where he knows she’s hiding something from him. She looks entirely too machine-like though she’s never been a machine like those made after her. 

“Elijah.” Oh no she’s using his full name and not Eli. “I think this report can wait. You should go see Leo.”

“That’s even worse, that means you’re worried about him too!” He blurts, the worry rising in his chest. “How did I miss this? Was I too caught up in my work? The update took less than three weeks, I was only over my estimate by two days!”

“Elijah.” Her tone is softer this time, an exasperated smile on her lips. “Go get dressed and drive down to Carl’s. It’s best you talk this through with Leo in person.”

 He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he lets his car do the driving for him which unfortunately means he spends the entire time stewing in his jealousy and anxiety until he’s ready to cancel the current route and go back home. Trying to distract himself, he checks his phone to read the preliminary report on the update which ate three weeks of his life but finds he can hardly focus on the words, not when his thoughts keep straying to Leo. 

There’s no way Leo would ever touch red ice again, he believes that with every cell in his body. It cost Leo nearly everything, and he knows Leo wouldn’t give up everything to slide back into such habits.

He doesn’t doubt Leo’s conviction, but he doubts the old company Leo used to keep. What if they try and tempt him? Leo won’t fall to such temptations but what if they turn violent? What if they try to blackmail him the way Leo used to use Carl’s guilt to fuel his addiction? What if Leo had an old flame, someone who shared in the misery and rush of addiction with him, what if that bond still remains, what if he’s been nothing more than a distraction, what if-

The car tucks itself neatly by the curb and the door slides open, the rush of chilly air snapping him out of his spiralling dark thoughts.

[Welcome back, Elijah.] 

The security AI greets him as the door slides open and he belatedly realises he never even informed Leo he’d be coming over- the surprise on Leo’s face confirms this as the man curiously peeks out from the common room.

“Hey.” There it is, that slightly lopsided grin-smile and those warm claret eyes he’s missed so much.

“Hi.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Leo wanders over and slips his arms around him, head tucked under his chin in a delightful reminder of the height difference between them. “Update was just rolled out at midday yesterday, aren’t you meant to be at CyberLife today for the debrief?”

Delaying his answer for a few moments longer, Elijah squeezes him close and buries his nose in the unruly nest of wispy curls atop Leo’s head. 

“Missed me that much huh?” Leo huffs a laugh, returning the tight embrace. 

“I just...wanted to know if you were alright.” He murmurs into his hair.

“Alright? Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Yes, why wouldn’t he be? Elijah feels childishly stupid for even bringing it up, but if he doesn’t ask he’ll go mad from not knowing.

“I-” a breath to steady himself, “I saw something. A paparazzi shot on some stupid gossip site.”

“Ah fuck,” Leo snorts, “listen it was North’s idea entirely to break into the old distillery for photos. She conveniently forgot I’m not an android like her and can’t parkour my way out of sight when surveillance drones turn up.”

“...What?”

“Don’t worry I didn’t get arrested- Tina let me off with a warning.” Leo’s grin is sheepish when he looks up, the expression vanishing when he sees his confused expression. “Is that...not the photo you’re referring to?”

“You broke into the abandoned distillery?”

“No, tell me what photo you’re referring to first!”

“I-” he fumbles for his phone and brings up the cursed photo. “I’m not judging you for the company you keep, please understand that, I’m just worried they might threaten your well-being I know you worked so hard and overcame so much and in no way do I doubt the fact you’ve beaten your addiction and you have such a wonderful heart Leo I’m afraid those from your past may try and take advantage of it-”

He’s cut off by Leo throwing his head back and laughing loudly, big heaving lungfuls of laughter that leave Elijah standing there stunned.

“Leo I fail to see how this is funny I-”

“When was this photo taken?” Leo interrupts, shoving his phone back to him. 

“Last Thursday.”

“Open your bank app.” Leo commands. “Open it.”

“Why do I-” he does as he’s told, an intense look in Leo’s eyes warning him not to question him further. 

“Check your transactions.” He taps the screen. “What’s the transaction from last Thursday?”

Scrolling through the itemised list in chronological order, he notes the usual scheduled grocery transfer and then one other transaction.

“Starbucks?” He blinks, tipping his head slightly in confusion.

“Uh huh.” Leo says slowly, the way Chloe would say ‘Elijah’ in the same tone that has infinite patience and exasperation rolled into one. “Starbucks. On Thursday. When this photo was taken.”

It takes him far too long to piece together all the clues and the fog in his head finally clears and all that’s left is the sheer horror of it all.

“That’s me?”

“That’s you.” Leo sputters a giggle, barely holding himself back from another peal of laughter. “Chloe begged me to drag you outside to take a break. You really don’t remember?”

“...No?”

“Oh my god Eli please.” His boyfriend punches his shoulder lightly. “I can’t believe you thought I was hanging out with junkies again.”

“I left the house looking like that?” He brings up the photo again and zooms in, wincing at the wiry beard and the greasy hair. 

“Chloe made you brush your teeth and take a shower before I picked you up. Don’t worry, you smelled better than you looked.” Leo’s grin is full of mirth and Elijah wants nothing more than to crawl into a deep dark cavern and never emerge. 

“I am so sorry.”

“For the looking like a hobo part in public or for thinking I was dating a fellow junkie part?”

“Both. All of it. I’m so sorry.” Elijah winces, wrapping Leo in his arms again. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

They stay like that for a full minute because Elijah counts the seconds as they pass, ticking off the seconds as a way to bring his anxiety down and even his breathing and let himself ease back into the present. Leo shifts, pulling away and stepping back.

“Hang on, let me just get something.” He walks over to the coat rack and rifles through the pockets of his favourite worn leather jacket. “I was going to give this to you at lunch tomorrow. Y’know, when we actually planned to meet up. But you’re here now, so.”

He places a plastic chip into the palm of his hand. Elijah picks it up and holds it, turning it this way and that; the number ninety is embossed in the light round object. It takes a moment for him to identify what it is, and when he realises it he feels his heart squeeze with the familiar ache of affection.

“It’s your ninety day chip.”

“Yeah.” Leo’s smile is a little wobbly, a little unsure and Elijah leans down to kiss it better. 

“Well done, Leo.” He murmurs, so close their lips still touch. “I’m so proud of you.”

There’s a brief flash of raw vulnerability in Leo’s eyes, before it’s replaced with something fond.

“And you just defeated the last villain in the saga of CyberLife.” He bumps their noses together. “Congrats on setting my brother and his people truly free.”

They kiss again, something slow and mellow and sweet and finally finally Elijah feels like he’s back in the living, waking world at last.

“So,” Leo’s grin is full of mischief. “Starbucks?”

[sirius-archive]

Chaos Theory Chapter 13

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader, Harry Potter x Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader, George Weasley x Reader, Fleur Delacour x Original Male Character

Warning: Swearing, mild smut, drug use

Word Count: 6,411

A/N: I’m finally posting this!! I’ve been working on it for ages and I’ve scrapped so many drafts but now I’ve finally settled on one I like! I also apologise for the format; I’m posting on my mobile bc I’m house sitting for a friend. I will repost later when I’m back at home but for now, enjoy.

Please be aware that there is a mild sex scene toward the end of the story and also discussion about underage sex. If this makes you uncomfortable, please stop reading. 

P.S thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this chapter!!!

***

Chapter thirteen

There is an old-fashioned code for people like him; honour among thieves. 

Darius has never been that trusting let alone stupid — stupid gets you caught, and he’s far too busy to get caught by the assholes chasing him. Darius has been in the business since he can remember, and he knows all to well that thieves have no honour, that’s why they’re thieves. 

Still, He’s always known to a certain degree that his own greedy ambition would thrust him headlong into a nest full of hungry serpents. It’s an occupational hazard, he supposes; there’s always someone with an ulterior motive, which is why he works alone. He can’t deal with snitches. 

Snitches are just asking to be killed. 

The one that snitched on him is practically begging Darius to kill him, and he’s going to grant the snitch that wish as soon as he gets out of here. 

Thanks to the suicidal dumbass, Darius now has to deal with the auror’s who have managed to invade his underground safe house.  He can sense them creeping through the sewage, armed with wands that have taken away countless lives. 

It’s all very...inconvenient the whole situation is. He’d just settled into his neat, little man cave. Now he has to find a new spot. 

Using wandless magic, Darius effortlessly levitates a giant dung bomb from its spot in a box and drops it in front of the door. With a snap of his fingers, Darius ignites the bomb just as the door bursts open in a cloud of dust and dirt. 

“I found him!” Auror douchebag murmurs into a hidden mouth piece and Darius smirks. 

“Took you long enough,” Darius quips, “Would you like a tea or a coffee? I would offer you something stronger but I’ve run out — I’ll just pop down to the liquor store—“

Auror douchebag’s lips bend into an ugly, menacing smirk, “You’re not leaving here alive, boy. You stole from the wrong people. Give me the book.” 

Instead of answering, Darius slants a glare at the auror, noting his height and weight. Darius copies auror douchebag’s stance and posture. 

“You’re not leaving here alive, boy,” Darius mimics, almost laughing at auror douchebag’s confused expression, “You stole from the wrong people. Give me the book!”  

“Stop that!” Barks auror douchebag, raising his wand, “Give me the damn book!” 

“Stop that! Give me the damn book!” 

Auror douchebag takes several steps forward, attempting to assert his dominance. 

“Stop playing games,” Auror douchebag snaps, “You don’t realise how much danger you’re in.” 

Darius takes a decisive step forward, straightening his posture. He’s significantly taller than auror douchebag, and the coward has to take a step back. 

“No need to be afraid,” Darius remarks, the beginnings of a smirk flirting around the corners of his lips, “It won’t hurt.”

Auror douchebag snorts, “What are you on about, boy? What won’t hurt?” 

“Killing you,” Darius replies, simply, “Well, it won’t hurt me anyway.”

Auror douchebag’s mouth flaps open to spit some dull remark, but before he can finish the dungbomb at his feet explodes. Plumes of thick, acrid smoke fill the air, clouding both auror douchebag and Darius’ vision. Auror douchebag splutters into his fist, distracted long enough for Darius to land a punch to his jaw and a roundhouse kick to his chest.  

Auror douchebag flies backward, gasping as the wind is knocked out of his lungs. His head lolls forward, resting on his shoulder as his lids slide shut and he drifts off into unconsciousness.

Darius smirks, “You should have let me go to the liquor store.” 

Concentrating hard on auror douchebag’s rugged appearance, Darius’ skin ripples and stretches, bones crunching into place as he morphs into an exact copy. Rising to his feet, Darius transfigures the unconscious body of auror douchebag into a rat just as his partners rush into the room. 

They sent the whole god damn brigade, Darius thinks with a flush of pride. 

Doubling over, Darius feigns a serious rib injury, rasping on a sharp, jagged breath, “He escaped! He beat my dumb ass and went that way!” 

The aurors stupidly follow Darius directions, rushing off to the other end of the sewer. Darius waits until their footsteps fade before grabbing his escape bag and scaling the ladder out of the sewer, smirking as he escapes into the night. 

When he finally finds somewhere to lay low — an abandoned mansion that’s most likely haunted — Darius drops onto the creaking, jarrah bed and unzips his bag.

“Finally” He murmurs, staring down at an ancient, leather bound book.

Darius studies the book he had stolen with curiosity, wondering why everyone wants this book so damn much. He opens the first page, noting the snake consuming its tail and the Scarab beetle fluttering its moth-like wings. What a strange illustration...

Beneath it, scrawled on the page in barely-legible chicken scratch, is a strange Latin incantation. Without even realising it, Darius mutters the incantation, not knowing the ripple effect those simple words will unleash on the world he knows, not realising the tragedy contained within the stained pages of the book, not realising what it means to his estranged family...

Not knowing that, three-thousand miles away, (Y/N) Arden startles awake with a loud, piercing scream, having experienced a nightmare that felt more real than anything she’s ever known.  

***

The scream comes just as the hour hand of Hermione’s quaint, muggle alarm clock strikes six. 

Hermione stumbles out of bed and fumbles for her wand, pushing wiry locks of brown hair out of her face and blinking away the sleep from her eyes. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through her. She almost feels dizzy from it. 

More screams ring through the dormitory, issuing from behind the drawn curtains of (Y/N)’s four poster. Hermione hears Parvati and Lavender stir awake in their own beds, the curtains yanking open to reveal their sleepy expressions. Hermione rushes toward the (Y/N)’s bed, hastily tearing the curtains apart to reveal her terrified friend. 

The white linen sheets of her bed are kicked into a tangled heap at her feet as (Y/N) flails. She glistens in the morning light, beads of sweat coating her skin and drenching her sheets. Her eyes are wide and panicked, misty from unshed tears and her breath rattles in the back of her throat. 

Without hesitating, Hermione clambers onto the bed and drapes her arms around (Y/N)’s small, trembling form, holding her close. She can feel (Y/N)’s heart thumping in her chest, pounding against Hermione’s like a second heartbeat.  Hermione squeezes a little tighter. 

“It’s okay,” Hermione coos, “You’re safe.”  

“I-I-“ (Y/N) chokes out, swallowing thickly, “It was-it was right there...” 

“It was just a nightmare,” Hermione reassures, gently, fingers trailing down the knobs of (Y/N)’s spine, “You’re okay.” 

(Y/N) exhales a shaky breath, a sob forming in the back of her throat. She swallows it and steadies her trembling voice. 

“A-a nightmare,” she finally whimpers, voice tight and small like a child’s, “Just a nightmare.” 

“That’s right, just a nightmare.” 

Through her peripherals, Hermione spots Lavender and Parvati peeking through the crack in the curtains, expressions riddled with questioning concern. Hermione dismisses then with a shake of her head and the curtains draw once again, soft footsteps disappearing to the other side of the room.

“What—What was it about?” Hermione asks, slowly, hesitantly, watching (Y/N) carefully. 

There’s a long, eerie silence. Hermione doesn’t think (Y/N) will respond, and just as she’s about to give up and go back to sleep, (Y/N) sighs, “There was this huge...shadow monster with these-these long claws and huge teeth and—and scratched something into the mirror.” 

“What was it?” 

(Y/N) exhales a shaky breath “The truth will set me free...” 

Hermione frowns, bites her lip. She’s heard that before, though she’s not sure where. 

“What else happened in your nightmare?” 

(Y/N) sniffles, “It was...peculiar. Like a dream within a dream...” 

“Go on.” 

“Well...In my nightmare, I had just woken up from a different nightmare. I don’t really remember but it felt so real!” 

(Y/N)’s voice wavers, her bottom lip trembling. Hermione can tell that she doesn’t want to be alone, and after what she’s just heard, Hermione doesn’t blame her. 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Hermione whispers into (Y/N)’s hair. She feels (Y/N) nod, tears soaking through the thin cotton of Hermione’s pyjamas. 

Hermione settles into the bed beside (Y/N). (Y/N) wraps her arms around Hermione’s waist in a desperate hug that feels as though she’s clinging to her for safety, for reassurance, for comfort. Like she’s drowning in an ocean without a shore, waves crashing over her and pushing her further to their murky depths. 

Together, they lie in (Y/N)’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. Raw sobs and sharp knots of air tangle in the back of (Y/N)’s throat. 

“Breathe,” Hermione whispers, soothingly, “Just breathe.” 

Eventually, (Y/N)’s stuttered breathing smooths and shallows, her long lashes drooping closed. Tears stain (Y/N)’s flushed cheeks and she still trembles from fear, but at least she’s asleep.  

Hermione stays by her side, lying awake, watching her with a mixture of worry and curiosity, wondering with a tiny prick of envy how someone could look so pretty when they sleep. 

***

Ron — to his eternal frustration — is not as oblivious as everyone thinks. 

He notices things. Important things. Sometimes obvious things. He’s noticed things before other people have (except for Hermione because, lets face it, she’s a bloody nerd). He notices (Y/N) –– though, admittedly, everyone does, and he’d have to be half troll to not notice her. This morning, he notices something different about her, something that blurs the line between excitement and unease. 

In earnest, Ron doesn’t notice anything peculiar about her at first. When he enters the common room from his dorm, she’s cradling Nightshade and mingling with some of her sixth-year friends. He can tell she’s tired, though almost everyone is feeling sleepy from the previous nights festivities, including himself. 

(Y/N) spots him almost immediately and waves goodbye to her friends, practically bounding toward Ron. She flashes a dazzling smile, displaying a perfectly straight row of gleaming teeth, but there’s something about it that seems a little...forced. 

“Morning,” she greets, and Ron reaches out to pat the messy bun she had tied on the top of her head. She smiles broadly. 

“Sleep well?” Ron asks and (Y/N) sighs. 

“No...not at all.”

“Been dreaming of Cedric Diggory all night, eh?” 

(Y/N) rolls her eyes, cutting Ron’s snickering off with a well-aimed punch to his shoulder. 

“Oh shut up...” she snaps, though her cheeks are pink and the corners of her lips hedge on a smile. 

Ron casts a look over her shoulder, watching the group of sixth years she had been talking to. 

“How do you have so many friends?” Ron asks, eyes meeting hers again. 

She shrugs, “Mainly through that thing called — now, what’s it called now? — social interaction.” 

“Huh. Isn’t it annoying?” 

“Not really,” (Y/N) answers, “They’re not like my best friends or anything. I’ve only got three best friends...” 

“Don’t you mean four?” Jokes a familiar voice from behind Ron. 

Ron doesn’t need to turn around to know that his two older brothers, Fred and George, are standing behind him. He exhales heavily, glancing over his shoulder just in time to catch George slap Fred behind the head. 

“Who taught you to count?” George snips as he watches Fred rub the back of his head soothingly. 

“You don’t count,” Fred explains, “You’re more of (Y/N)’s boyfriend than ‘best friend.’” 

Fred winks at (Y/N). 

George’s cheeks glow red. 

“Didn’t you hear?” Ron chimes in, “(Y/N) is already taken.” 

“Thanks, Ronald,” (Y/N) snaps sardonically, narrowing her eyes on him, “I’m relieved to know my privacy is of your utmost concern.” 

Ron throws (Y/N) a disbelieving look, “It’s Hogwarts, (Y/N). Nothing stays secret for long.” 

(Y/N) snorts, just as Nightshade begins to stir from her doze. She squirms in (Y/N) arms and she gently placed her cat on the floor. 

“Looks like George’s old sweater has found a new home,” Ron nods at her sweater, “Are you sure that’s hygienic?” 

Ron has to bite back a laugh. It’s almost comical, the way she swims in George’s sweater, so much so she’s had to tuck the excess fabric into the hem of her tennis skirt. He has to admit, she does wear the it well, though he can’t figure out why anyone would want to wear such a monstrosity of a sweater in the first place

George rolls his eyes, “I think now would be a good time to reflect on the memory of Ron projectile vomiting slugs in his second year.”

(Y/N) cringes, “Please don’t. I’ve been trying to erase that memory from my mind for the past two years.”

“Didn’t you nearly catch one, (Y/N)?” Fred smirks. 

“Anyway,” Ron snaps, glaring at Fred and George, “It looks better on you than it ever did on George.” 

(Y/N) throws her head back and laughs. Her eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, still seem to twinkle with amusement. 

Ron casts her a side-long glance. Maybe she is just tired. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Ronald.” 

The four of them head down for breakfast, talking about the previous night and laughing amongst themselves. The twins and (Y/N) do most of the laughing, mainly at Ron’s expense, but if that means he gets to cheer his best friend up then he doesn’t mind. He watches with a mixture of relief and joy as the apprehension begins to melt away from (Y/N), leaving her brimming with happiness. 

The twins — to Ron’s dismay — decide to sit with Ron and (Y/N) for breakfast, where they wrestle over who gets to sit next to (Y/N). She eventually points out that she can sit between them, though not without watching their pissing contest with amusement. Content with her suggestion, the twins finally settle, Fred a little more so than George, the latter of whom keeps throwing (Y/N) strange looks. 

Soon after, the four of them are joined by Hermione and Harry and they all settle in to enjoy their breakfast. To Ron’s relief, the twins decide to leave after breakfast and with bellies full of delicious food, the four of them return to the common room. 

“You must be starting a collection of stolen clothes,” Harry jokes, nodding at (Y/N)’s sweater, “You still haven’t given me my hoodie back.” 

(Y/N) bites her lip apologetically, “It’s so cozy though...” 

Harry’s lips tilt into a smirk, “You can have it, it was Dudley’s old hoodie anyway.” 

(Y/N) cringes and laughter erupts between the four of them, the unspoken tension lingering from last night melting from the warmth of each other’s company. When bubbles of laughter fade, Ron and Harry begin to fill them in on what they learned about Hagrid.  

“Well I thought he must be,” Hermione says once Ron finishes, shrugging nonchalantly, “I knew he couldn’t be pure giant, because they’re about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can’t all be horrible.” 

Ron blinks at Hermione, biting back several scathing comments. Is she bonkers? He always knew that she wasn’t completely sane, but now it almost seemed as though she were deliberately talking crazy to egg Ron on. 

“And what do you think about this, (Y/N)?” Ron sighs, rubbing his forehead to keep himself from starting another argument with Hermione. 

(Y/N) shrugs, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. The hem of her skirt slides up a little, giving him a glimpse of smooth skin beneath the fabric of her stockings. Ron can’t help but notice the way Harry’s cheeks flush and he has to swallow down the urge to tease Harry. 

“Hermione and I figured it out almost straight away,” she says, matter-of-fairly, “Why is it such a big deal? We know Hagrid isn’t like other giants so why should everyone care that he’s a––“

Ron cuts (Y/N) off with a sharp ‘shush’, glancing around to make sure no one heard. 

“Keep your voice down,” Ron hisses, “We might know Hagrid’s a You-know-what but no one else does. He could lose his job!” 

(Y/N) rolls her eyes, “I’m going to make sure he’s okay,” she says, climbing out of her armchair and flattening the fabric of her skirt, ���He’s probably a bit hurt from what happened last night.” 

“You’re right,” Hermione says, narrowing her eyes on Harry, “Harry should go with you.” 

Harry’s mouth drops open but Hermione gives him a stern, pointed look that withers any argument Harry or Ron could muster up. 

“Okay,” (Y/N) shrugs, flashing a brief smile at Harry, “I’ll go and get my cloak. It’s bloody freezing out there.” 

When (Y/N) is safely out of range, Harry rounds on Hermione. 

“What was that all about?” He snaps. 

Hermione leans forward, glancing around the room conspicuously, “(Y/N) had a terrible nightmare last night. She woke up screaming and absolutely terrified. Honestly, if you had seen her...” she cuts herself off with a sharp sigh, “Going with her to see Hagrid night help her open up a little and maybe you can tell her how you feel.” 

“I already did that!” Harry grumbles, bitterly, “And she said she loved me as a friend!” 

Hermione snaps the book in her hands shut with such ferocity, she startles the sleepy Crookshanks curled up on her lap, “Well who’s fault was that?” 

“—Alright, I’m ready.” 

The three of them jump. 

Swivelling around, Ron forces a smile he hopes looks convincing. (Y/N) arches a brow suspiciously, though to her credit, she doesn’t ask. 

“Ready to go?” (Y/N) asks Harry, and Ron spots the way her fingers twitch around her mothers bracelet. 

Harry jumps to his feet, mumbling an uneasy ‘yeah’ and the two of them set off, stepping through the portrait hole. Despite himself, Ron can’t help wondering what the bloody hell is going on. 

****

Harry is — well...

Nervous doesn’t quite fit it. 

He’s certainly uneasy, for reasons obvious to seemingly everyone around him except for the one person who matters, whose always mattered, even when he didn’t realise it. He wonders whether that’s because of she’s blinded by Cedric or if it’s because of something Harry has said or done. 

He claws awkwardly at the nape of his neck, clearing his throat every now and again as though he’s trying to gulp down that swirling, heated pool of feelings currently trying to climb its way up his throat. 

“Frog in your throat?” 

Harry tries his best not to jump. He was so deep in his own thoughts and feelings, he had temporarily forgotten where he was. 

(Y/N) stares at him expectantly and Harry sighs. 

“Not quite.” 

He clears his throat on impulse, and the corner of (Y/N)’s lips twitch.

“Still sulky about last night, then?” 

Harry’s jaw slackens. 

“What—? I wasn’t — I mean — I was never —?” 

“Parvati told me all about it,” (Y/N) interjects, a smile teasing her (perfect) lips  “Are you feeling better this morning?” 

Harry drags a hand through his hair, grazing his nails over his scalp to stave the prickle sprawling beneath his hair. 

“Yeah...though to be honest, Ron was more upset than me.” 

(Y/N) snorts, “Yeah he was, wasn’t he?” 

“I’m just glad he and Hermione have agreed to disagree.” 

“I think that’s the basis of their friendship.” 

Harry chuckles, giving her a sidelong glance, “Where did you end up disappearing to last night anyway?” 

Guilt briefly crosses over (Y/N)’s face, shadowing the light in her eyes and accentuating the dark circles beneath them. 

“I was...I was looking for my brother...” (Y/N) says, so softly he barely manages to catch the hitch in her voice. 

“Is he okay?” 

(Y/N) bites her lip, hesitating, “No...not really...” 

Harry waits for her to elaborate. 

She doesn’t. 

He wisely decides to let it slide. 

“Listen, I’m sorry I ditched you last night,” (Y/N) mumbles, “I didn’t mean to. I guess I was just annoyed at Ron, you know?” 

Harry nods in understanding, “At least you made sure Hermione was okay.” 

(Y/N) nods and sighs, looping her arm through his, “You’re both assholes, you know.” 

Harry laughs. He’s missed her more than he originally realised. He can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed with her since...well since last year. The unease he’d felt entering the conversation has drained away, leaving him warm and content in (Y/N)’s company as they stroll through the castle, approaching Hagrid’s hut at a leisurely rate. 

When they make it to Hagrid’s door, Fang gives a couple of raspy barks until he catches their scent and he hears the heavy thump of his tail against the door. A long, groaning noise issues from the other side of the door, like someone choking the engine of an old, rusty motorbike. 

Harry shares a worried look with (Y/N). 

He knocks. 

No answer. 

“Huh,” (Y/N) frowns, “Lets try again. Maybe — maybe he didn’t hear —?” 

“—Didn’t hear Fang?” Harry asks, stepping away from the door. Another long peal of that strange groaning noise echoes through Hagrids hut. Harry frowns, “And what is that weird noise?” 

Harry creeps around the side of the hut, peering in through the window. A hazy sheen of fog covers the glass, but through it he can just make out the sleeping form of Hagrid collapsed on his bed, one giant hand on his stomach while the other clutches an empty bottle. 

Harry laughs, “He’s passed out drunk!” 

(Y/N) rushes to his side, reaching up on the tips of her toes to stare into the window. 

“So he is,” she giggles. 

“Best leave him to it, eh?” 

(Y/N) nods, grinning at Harry. 

The two of them make their way toward the castle, laughing. 

“I should brew him a hangover potion,” chortles (Y/N), “Something tells me he’s going to need it.” 

Just as they reach the courtyard, a familiar voice rings through the air. 

“(Y/N)!” 

Harry’s stomach curls into a swampy knot, resentment climbing up the back of his throat. He clenches his jaw shut, grinding his molars as he and (Y/N) turn around. 

“Cedric!” she beams as he jogs toward her. 

Harry stares as his arms wrap around her waist, embracing her in a hug. Watching them sours the good mood (Y/N) put him in. 

When they break apart, Cedric laces their fingers together, beaming broadly at Harry, “Heya Harry. Suppose you heard the news about (Y/N) and I...” 

Harry nods curtly, “I heard.” 

(Y/N)’s teeth clamp down on her bottom lip, glancing uneasily at Harry. 

“We were just on our way back from Hagrids,” (Y/N) says, gazing lovingly up at Cedric, “He’s — er — still asleep. Had a long night I suppose.” 

“I think we all did,” Cedric says, giving (Y/N) a look Harry does not like at all. A delicate, spring-pink blush spreads across (Y/N)’s cheeks. 

It’s grating. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry snaps. 

Cedric smiles sheepishly. 

(Y/N)’s blush deepens. 

“Anyway,” Cedric continues, “I hope you don’t mind if I steal (Y/N) for a moment? There is something quite important that I need to talk to (Y/N) about.”

Harry does mind. Very much so. But he can’t make a scene, so he bites back several sarcastic remarks and nods his head, “Sure.” 

Cedric beams, “Well, see you around then.” 

Harry sincerely hopes he doesn’t see Cedric around. 

“I’ll meet you back at the common room,” (Y/N) says, giving Harry one of those lovely, reassuring smiles. Harry, though, is too bitter to fully appreciate it, and the fact that he can’t appreciate it only makes him more angry with Cedric. 

“Yeah.”

With that, Harry wheels around and leaves, the remainders of his good mood tarnished by Hogwarts favourite champion. 

****

Cedric used to be a patient person. 

He’s been told by many that it’s one of his defining qualities, that he’s patient with people in the same way that they imagine Helga Hufflepuff being. Cedrics always thought that comparing him with Helga Hufflepuff is an exaggeration to say the least, but since he’s met (Y/N), he’s begun to realise just how patient he used to be. 

‘Used to’ being the operative term here. 

Because since meeting (Y/N), he has been the most impatient, the most selfish, greedy fool he’s ever known, an idiot in love who has completely surrendered himself to her charms. He can barely wait to be with her and when he’s with her, he’s found that he only wants more — more of her. 

“What is it?” She asks when they reach the Hufflepuff common room, concern creeping into her words. 

Cedric hesitates, chewing his bottom lip. He really doesn’t have anything romantic planned like their previous dates. He’s just a desperate man trying to soak up as much warmth a woman like (Y/N) emits. 

The common room door hisses and slides open, inviting them into the cozy warmth of the room. Cedric leads her inside, checking to see if anyone is there. It’s completely empty. Everyone is out enjoying the snow. 

Thank God. 

“Wow!” (Y/N) exclaims, gazing at the tree in the centre of the room, “That’s incredible! I wish our common room had a tree in the middle of our—“ 

“Do you trust me?” Cedric cuts her off, glancing at her lips. (Y/N) nods slowly, curiously, though there’s a glint in her eyes that tells him she knows what’s about to happen. 

Cedric kisses her. 

She’s surprised at first, taken aback by the ferocity of the kiss, and he worries for one dreadful moment that he overstepped his boundaries. But then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, her movements swift and desperate and Cedric sighs into the kiss, tongue sliding over her bottom lip. 

Relieved and emboldened, Cedric presses her against the wall, hands roaming up and down her sides, relishing in the warmth that hums beneath his touch. Guttural moans rumble at the back of his throat as his brain melts to slosh in his skull, swimming with intoxicating amounts of dopamine and serotonin. 

“Is this the important matter you so desperately wanted to discuss?” She rasps when they finally break apart, lips red and swollen. She gasps when Cedric’s lips drag across her jugular, teeth scraping over her thumping pulse. She shudders in response, lolling her head back to grant him more access to her neck. 

“I hope you’re not too mad,” He murmurs, breath hot against her skin, “Though something tells me you’re not.” 

She whimpers when he kisses her collarbone, arching up into him, “Oh I’m totally furious.” 

“I’ll have to make it up to you.” 

“I’m not so easy to please.” 

His lips travel up the curve of her neck, gliding across her jaw, until his eyes meet hers. They’re blown wide with what Cedric’s horny, caveman hindbrain recognises as lust; syrupy warm and obsidian dark. Those eyes of hers could paralyse even the strongest of men and turn sinners into beggars. 

She’s going to be the death of him. 

Licking his lips, he leans in close, gazing into her eyes, his voice a mere whisper. 

“I’m counting on it.” 

Their lips collide. 

All he’s been able to think about is this very moment. Since the moment he met her almost a year ago, all he’s wanted to do is drag her into the closest broom closet and kiss her senseless. That desire, matched with an healthy dose of love and adoration, has gradually filled up until it overflowed, drowning him in absolute yearning. 

He’s brought back to earth by a tug on his belt, and Cedric realises her nimble fingers are fumbling around it, blindly trying to strip it from his pants. 

Cedric leaps back.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, frowning. 

Cedric licks his lips and swallows, “I’m not sure you’re ready for—for that...” 

(Y/N) reaches out to him, hooking her fingers into his belt and tugging him forward. She reaches up into her toes and whispers into his ear. 

“I’m ready, Cedric. I want you.” 

Cedric swallows, blood heading straight to the region beneath his belt. His resolve is rapidly dissolving and it takes every ounce of his willpower to step away from her.

“Are you sure, though?” He asks in a soft, reassuring voice, “We’ve only just made our relationship official. We don’t have to rush things...” 

(Y/N) peers up at him through doe-like eyes, lashes fluttering as a cute, little frown forms. 

“Do you—do you not want this? Want me?” 

Cedric bleats a laugh on impulse.

“Merlin, (Y/N)...” Cedric drapes his hands over hers, ducking his chin to catch her gaze, “All I think about is you. You’ve completely consumed me. And you know what? I don’t even care.” 

(Y/N) smiles bashfully, her teeth catching her bottom lip. Cedric gives her hands a gentle squeeze. 

“All I want is for you to feel comfortable,” Cedric says, softly, “You’re only fourteen (Y/N). Pushing you into a situation you don’t want to be in before you’re ready will hurt you. And the last thing I want to do is hurt you because—“ 

I love you

Cedric catches himself. He licks his lips and swallows, “—I care about you.” 

(Y/N) almost looks relieved. She clearly wasn’t as ready as she thought she was. 

“I care about you, too,” she murmurs, reaching up to kiss him. 

Eventually, Cedric manages to break away long enough to show her the common room. They take full advantage of the solitude; kissing languidly whenever they get the chance, as though their kisses are oxygen in a vacuum. 

They barely manage to stumble into his bedroom and collapse on his bed, giggling between kisses. Time seems to slow to a stop whenever he’s around her, whether they’re making out or chatting. All Cedric knows is her, his anchor that keeps him tethered to reality, that stops him drifting into space. 

Cedric wasn’t lying when he said she had completely consumed him. He doesn’t think there is a single cell in his body that doesn’t belong to her. It sounds cliche but it’s true. 

Together on his bed, the two of them drift off into a dreamless sleep, warm and comfortable, oblivious to fates cruel, cold plans. 

***

Luke wakes with a start.

He groans. His head feels like a small, rabies-infected rodent scratched away at his brain. His stomach feels like the rodent curled up and died inside it. 

Blinking blearily, Luke glances around the room. 

He’s in a cellar, surrounded by shelves of fire whiskey and butterbeer. He scratches the back of his head. How the fuck did he end up in the basement of the Three Broomsticks. 

A chill breeze sweeps through the basement, prickling his skin. With a shock, Luke realises he’s completely naked. Fleurs body is warm and soft beside him; her head resting on his chest, her hair splayed out like a silver halo against his skin. She’s equally naked, which is not a particular thought Luke really needs to process right now; his erection is already poking into her thigh and he can feel the round smoothness of her breasts as her chest rises and falls with her shallow breathing. 

Luke carefully manoeuvres Fleur off his chest, stuffing his pitiful excuse of a pillow under her head. 

He has to find his clothes. 

Climbing to his feet, he steadies himself on a bench, cradling his head in a large hand. His eyes snag on his pants and he dashes toward it, wincing at the obnoxious ache throbbing between his temples. 

As he pulls on his pants, snippets of the previous night return to him; the Durmstrang ship, inhaling the Nyx’s blood, getting blind drunk, stumbling around in the snow, having sex in the Beauxbatons carriage, in the prefects bathroom and the Black Lake and in the Three Broomstick’s cellar...

Luke’s heart sinks. 

(Y/N)’s face floats across the jigsaw puzzle of memories forming in his mind. She saw him. She knows...

“You look like a bloody mess,” says a cold, sniffy voice from over Luke’s shoulder. Luke turns, spotting a well-dressed boy no older than eighteen sitting on an armchair. His thin lips are pinched, his expression sharp and his eyes narrowed on Luke in disdain. 

“Who are you?” Luke croaks, squinting at the boy. He’s not sure if it’s the hangover or the lighting but he doesn’t recognise the intruder. His crisp Posh accent tells Luke that he can’t be from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. 

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” the boy waves his hand at Luke, as though dismissing him, “I’m after your sister.” 

“A lot of boys are after my sister,” Luke snaps. Within the span of three minutes, this fucker has proved to be a condescending, arrogant bastard, “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from her.” 

The twat rolls his eyes like a little bitch, “Or What? You’ll kill me? I’m afraid you’ll find you can’t kill me.” 

A stabbing pain slices down Luke’s skull. Something about this guy reminds Luke of his father. The likeness leaves a sour taste in Luke’s mouth. He curls his fingers into fists, grinding his jaw. 

“I may not be able to kill you,” Luke growls, stepping closer to the stranger, “But I can make you wish you were dead.” 

“Says the half-naked, hungover imbecile who doesn’t even remember how he got here...” the dense motherfucker has the audacity to scoff, climbing to his dumb feet, “I’ll find her myself.” 

“Don’t you dare go near her!” Luke snarls, advancing on the stranger, “I swear to Merlin I will destroy you!”

The stranger barks a cold, mirthless laugh. The more Luke stares at the stranger, the more he’s reminded of his human-stain of a father. The resemblance is uncanny. 

The stranger’s expression flickers, anger contorting the handsome features of his face, “You wouldn’t know anything about destruction! You’re just a boy drowning himself in toxins instead of being a man and making a choice! You’re sister is better off without you!”

Luke swallows thickly, the strangers words creating a deep, hollow fissure in his chest. 

“Who are you talking to?” Asks a husky voice from behind, accented with crisp and elegant French. Fleur is awake and swimming in his dress shirt. Luke blinks, glancing back over his shoulder at the stranger. He’s gone. 

Was that entire conversation real? Or is the Nyx’s blood still lingering in his system. Luke turns to Fleur, forcing a smile. 

“No one,” Luke says, hands sliding into his pocket. His fingers twitch around the vial of Nyx’s blood sitting like an anchor in his pocket. He retrieves it, shaking the vial in front of him, “Want some breakfast?” 

“Don’t you think it’s a little early?” Fleur asks, walking toward him. She sinks to her knees, her perfect teeth digging into her bottom lip. She peers up at him through a row of long, thick rashes as she purrs “Besides, there are other ways to make you forget...” 

Luke stares down at her, watching as she tugs on the zipper of his pants. He lowers his hand, cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek bone. He guides her up onto her feet.

“You don’t have to do that for me...” 

“You don’t mean that,” she says, eyes not quite meeting his. She slides her tongue across her bottom lip. 

Carnal desire flares inside of him, jolting straight to his crotch. His hand slides down her face, fingers curling around her throat. 

“What if I do?” 

“Then you’re a liar,” Fleur says, her fingers reaching into his pants. He groans and she flashes a wicked grin, “A dirty, sexy liar...” 

A strange, almost toxic combination of desire and anger simmers in Luke’s veins. A sudden burst of possessiveness pulses through and he slides his hand from her throat to her waist, picking her up and planting her on the bench. 

Fleur delighted laughter tapers into a moan when Luke wraps a tight and slightly assertive grip around her neck with one hand. With the other, Luke pops the lid off the vial and inhale the glittering smoke that curls in the air. The chemical mixture travels straight to his head, curling around his brain. The pressure in his head seems to drain, healing his pounding migraine. 

Luke’s head is already swimming when he offers her the vial, and when she takes it, he drops to his knees, nudging her legs apart so he can kneel between them. He licks a white hot trail up her inner thigh, smirking smugly when he hears her gasp. 

The empty vial falls to the ground with a loud clang. 

Fleur wiggles forward. 

Luke chuckles, exhaling against her skin and breathing in her scent, “Oh how the tables have turned...”

“If you’re going to do something, do it quick,” Fleur taunts, he can hear the smirk in her voice, “Unless you’ve forgotten...”

“Oh yeah?” Luke leans forward, teasing her with his tongue, “How bad do you want it, Delacour?” 

Fleur is panting above him, “My guess? As bad as you do.” 

Luke’s heart races, head swimming in a hazy delirium. 

He dives forward. 

The stranger is already a distant memory, buried in the deepest, darkest crevices of Luke’s haunted mind. He’s never been so happy to forget. 

***

@marauderskeeper @weaselby418 @acciorinn @hervench@depressed-octopods-art @steph-fowlie @lilulo-12@randomfangirl117 @asofslytherin @seunlight@thebesteleganttrashyouseen @elsie2018@polkadotfairyposts @hylianhighlander @dracosdoves@siriuswitches @bernadineisreborn @lousimusician@randomoutsiders @smolldork @danidomm@xrosegoldwolfx @ashkuuuu @sly-vixen-up2nogood@tchalland @lucifersnipnips @notorious-fiction@peppermintspecks @sleep-i-ness @reducto-bitch @who-said @mhftrs @whimsicalangels1234 @kneekoteen  @steve-thotgers @qrangr @valiantlynervouschaos @klaudia-deer @bennie-badeend @gryffinclxw @steph-fowlie @acciorinn@fallern618 @alyenaaa @dammit-scamander @kararanae23@myhopeisinfinite @blaised-zabini @poppykoke@swansong321

[a-splash-of-stucky]

some nights (i stay up)

Read this on AO3 Square Filled: Hurt/Comfort Ship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Rating: E Major Tags: Nightmares, Blood, Angst and Smut, Top Bucky, Bottom Steve Word Count: 3578 Summary:

“They—they gave me a gun,” Bucky says, “I could…watch them torture you some more…or I—could end it. Sh-shoot you.”

In which Bucky has a nightmare and Steve comforts him as best as he can.

Created for @mcukinkbingo​

Notes: Day 2 of my Steve Rogers' 100th Birthday Celebration.

I couldn’t resist slipping in the little IW reference, hehe. Leave me a comment if you spot it (dw, no spoilers are revealed).

Also, I’ve realised that for all the Stucky fics that I’ve written, I’ve never actually posted an in-depth description of them having penetrative sex. So, boom: this fic marks a first, for me.

Something drags Steve out of his slumber. He’s pulled into that state of half-consciousness, floating in between the realm of the living and the world of dreams. Steve rolls over onto his left side, throwing an arm out to pull Bucky closer, hoping that snuggling with his husband will be enough to lull him to sleep.

His fingers close around empty sheets.

Frowning, eyes still closed, Steve scrabbles his hand around Bucky’s side of the bed. The sheets are slightly warm to the touch, but Bucky is most definitely not there. Now that he’s more awake, Steve realises that he can’t hear Bucky’s steady breathing either.

With great reluctance, Steve opens his eyes.

Their bedroom is still dark. Steve squints at the clock on Bucky’s bedside table; the digital display tells him that it’s a few minutes past four in the morning.

Steve flops over onto his back, wide awake now. With a quiet grunt, he kicks off the covers and heaves himself out of bed. Steve stretches his arms above his head and rolls his shoulders, then hitches up his boxers, which are riding dangerously low on his waist. He notices that their bedroom door is slightly ajar. Using his toe, Steve nudges it further open.

The rest of their home is shrouded in darkness.

Steve pads down the corridor to their living room/dining room/kitchen area. Perhaps Bucky’s decided to have a midnight (early morning?) snack.

He turns a corner and freezes, pulse skyrocketing when he spots a dark silhouette sitting on the couch. Though the back of the couch obscures most of his view, from where Steve’s standing, he can make out a head of dark hair and a flash of metal, glinting in the sliver of moonlight spilling in from the window. Bucky seems to be staring at the floor.

Oh.

It must be one of those nights.

Nightmares don’t plague Bucky as often as they used to, and for that, Steve is thankful. However, Steve’s inclined to think that the nightmares that Bucky does have are more vivid and intense; they seem to linger with him for a while, after, leaving him quiet and withdrawn.

Softly, quietly, Steve walks over to the couch, careful not to make too much noise, as he doesn’t want to startle Bucky. He’s under no false impressions here, of course Bucky’s aware of his presence, but it can’t hurt to be a little cautious.

Steve stands by the side of the couch, arms folded over his chest, assessing the situation. Bucky doesn’t look up or acknowledge him, in any way. He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. His head is hanging limp on his shoulders, like it’s too much effort to hold it up. His dark hair falls in a thick, shaggy curtain around his face, obscuring his beautiful features from Steve’s sight.

Bucky is clothed only in a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms. The scraps of moonlight streaming through the window paints strange lines across his bare back.

Steve stands there for a long moment, waiting to see what Bucky will do. When he does nothing, Steve decides to bite the bullet; gingerly, he perches on the couch on Bucky’s right side.

It’s a conscious decision on Steve’s part to sit on Bucky’s right – if Bucky wants to hold Steve, then he’ll be wanting as much skin-on-skin as possible. Steve is careful to keep a few inches of space between them, as he’s not sure what kind of mood his husband is in. Touch may or may not be appreciated right now.

Though physically, there might only be a few inches of space separating them, Steve feels like Bucky is miles away – he’s closed off and tucked into himself, having retreated to some deep recess of his mind. Steve yearns to wrap him up in a nest of blankets and chant some voodoo magic spells to ward off the evil beings that haunt his dreams.

Steve’s not sure how long they sit there, but it’s long enough for him to doze off momentarily. He comes awake with a quiet gasp, whipping his head from side to side to shake off the sleepiness.

Bucky hasn’t moved.

Steve sighs quietly and blinks several times, trying to clear the haze of sleep from his brain. Despite his best efforts, Steve can feel his eyelids drooping shut again, heavy with fatigue. He jerks awake when Bucky’s hoarse voice cuts through the silence between them.

“You should go back to bed, sweetheart, s’early still,” Bucky says softly, still looking at the floor.

“Nah,” Steve mumbles, knuckling his eyes. “I’ll head out soon, maybe go to the gym.”

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Steve chews on his bottom lip. “Do you…wanna talk about it?”

He’s met with silence.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, nodding as he closes his eyes again. “S’okay, you don’t have to, m’just gonna be here.”

“Can I—,” Bucky blurts out, before abruptly cutting himself off. Steve hears his metal arm clicking and whirring the way it does when Bucky’s clenching his fist. Steve sits up straighter, scrubbing a hand down his face and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“What is it, honey?” Steve asks.

Bucky exhales a shuddery breath. He lifts his head minutely, turning to look at Steve through a curtain of hair. “Can I—hold you?”

Hearing Bucky’s hesitant tone, Steve’s heart breaks a little. “Of course,” he whispers, shooting Bucky a small smile. “Don’t gotta ask, Buck, you know you can, anytime you wanna.”

Bucky grunts as he sits back, slouching into the couch cushions. He holds his right arm out, allowing Steve to arrange himself against Bucky’s side. Steve, somehow, makes himself small enough to wedge his body underneath Bucky’s arm, curling against him so tight that not even a sheet of paper could be slipped between them. Bucky drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulders, and Steve pillows his cheek on Bucky’s collarbone. He twists his body so that his legs are draped over Bucky’s lap.

Steve gently grasps Bucky’s metal wrist and guides his hand until it’s resting in Steve’s lap, allowing Steve to fold both of his hands around it. Bucky hums quietly, turning to rest his cheek on top of Steve’s head. His breath ruffles Steve’s hair.

There’s an unnatural tension in Bucky’s muscles, a buzzing that is reminiscent of a wild beast trying to claw its way out of his body. Steve can’t do anything about it besides being there for Bucky, so to pass time, he idly swirls patterns on Bucky’s bare torso with the tips of his fingers, keeping his touch feather-light. It’s a small gesture to let him know that Steve is there with him, that Bucky is safe.

“I always get the same dream,” Bucky murmurs, his voice causing Steve’s moving hand to still. He doesn’t interrupt Bucky, just squeezes his metal hand gently in encouragement.

“Well, actually, not quite the same, but kinda…I—they’re about you,” he says tightly, like it’s a struggle for him to get the words out.

Steve makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat but otherwise, gives no other response.

“I—it’s…you were…I came home,” Bucky says. “I—I came home, and you weren’t there, and I just knew that they took you.”

When Steve flattens his palm over Bucky’s chest, he can feel Bucky’s heart thumping against his ribs, like a caged bird demanding to be set free.

“They?” Steve echoes.

“HYDRA,” Bucky spits, the plates in his metal arm clicking unhappily as they recalibrate. He’s shaking like a cornered animal, so Steve tries to soothe him, petting his skin and stroking his arm, pressing soft kisses against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky takes a shaky breath before continuing.

“I searched,” he whispers, “I searched and searched and searched, but I couldn’t—find—”

He heaves a dry sob. Steve hugs Bucky tighter, blinking rapidly to clear the tears that have unexpectedly welled up in his own eyes.

“Then I knew,” Bucky says darkly. “They took you, so of course they’d’ve put you there. I found you—” he breaks off again, a pained noise ripping free of his throat. Steve’s heart clenches; the noise makes him want to rip the spine out of every single one of the fuckers that laid a hand on his Bucky.

Bucky’s rubbing his palm in wide circles on Steve’s back and pressing his nose into Steve’s hair, as if trying to ground himself in Steve’s scent. Steve lets him do whatever he needs to do, wishing he could do more to take this pain and suffering away.

“They’d…hurt you,” Bucky says, voice tense. He’s silent for a long time, after saying that, perhaps unsure of how to go on.

“Where’d you find me?” Steve prompts.

“An old base,” Bucky answers, “One where they used to keep me. I—you were in a room. It was dark, and mouldy, and you…you were tied to a chair and they’d hurt you, Stevie – there was so much blood—”

“Bucky,” Steve says, voice trembling as he clings on a little tighter, like an octopus to a rock.

“They gave me a choice,” Bucky whispers. Steve stills, knowing in his gut that he’s not going to like this next part.

“They—they gave me a gun. I could,” he pauses, swallowing to clear his throat. “I could watch them torture you some more…or I—could end it. Sh-shoot you.”

He’s trembling, Steve realises. He’s shaking so hard that Steve can feel the tremors in his teeth.

“I-I couldn’t do it,” Bucky breathes, voice rising in panic. “I—couldn’t think my way out of it—couldn’t—there were too many of ‘em and—and if…what if they hurt you?”

Fat, wet tears are rolling down Steve’s cheek and dripping onto Bucky’s chest. He wants to brush them away, but that would involve letting go of Bucky, and Steve can’t bring himself to do that.

Bucky takes another breath, like he’s bracing himself. “Then…they uh—then they put me in the chair, again. There was pain. A lot of pain.”

Steve whines in distress, digging his fingers into Bucky’s skin, gripping him so hard that he’s sure to leave bruises.

“They sent me on a mission,” Bucky says, his voice wobbling. “Gave me a place, a gun, told me to wear a suit and tie. My orders were to go to the location, wait in the audience and kill the man in white when he shows up. There will only be one.”

“I—was him,” he explains. It doesn’t take a genius to realise which ‘him’ Bucky is referring to.

“I mean, I know I am him,” Bucky amends, “But…he’s not-me enough for him to be him, rather than me, y’know?”

Steve hums, giving Bucky the verbal encouragement that he seeks.

“I—so I go, and there’re a lot of civilians there,” Bucky says. “It’s a fancy place. No one notices me. Him. I—slip into a seat and wait for the target. There’re a lot of guys there, no one in white. There’s a…I guess a stage, at the end of the room.”

Steve frowns, noting the change in Bucky’s cadence, the slightly clipped nature of his sentences. It’s like he’s reliving the memory of the dream but stating the facts objectively, as if he’s trying to distance himself.

“And then—then I see ‘im. The target. He comes in from the side, walks through the audience. I take out my gun – I can’t see his face.”

Bucky pauses, breathing heavily. “I take the shot – it’s not a headshot, and I don’t know how I missed, but—but the man turns around and—”

Steve knows what he’s going to say.

“It’s you,” Bucky whispers brokenly, “I killed you.”

Steve can no longer sit by and do nothing. “Oh, sweetheart, baby, no, no,” he whispers, clambering into Bucky’s lap, straddling his thighs. Steve grabs Bucky’s flesh hand and presses it over his heart, allowing Bucky to feel the strong, steady beat of his pulse.

“I’m real, see?” he says, voice breaking on a sob, “I’m real and I’m here, in our home, with you.”

“It felt so real,” Bucky sobs, surging forward, pressing his forehead to the base of Steve’s throat as his arms snake around Steve’s body. He pulls Steve close, like he’s afraid that Steve might crumble to dust in his hands. “Steve—Steve, I—”

“I know, it’s okay,” Steve soothes, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair, cradling the back of his neck. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re safe now, I promise, Buck.”

Bucky starts mouthing wet kisses along Steve’s collarbone, tongue darting out to taste Steve’s skin, his breath hitching on a sob. Steve continues to murmur soft words of comfort into Bucky’s hair, not really paying attention to what’s coming out of his mouth. Bucky continues to kiss his way up his throat, over his jaw, until his lips finally close over Steve’s.

The kiss is hot and wet and frenzied, Bucky’s tongue pressing insistently against Steve’s lips until they part for him. There’s a manic undertone behind Bucky’s actions, an impatience and an insatiable need that vibrates out of his skin. Bucky kisses Steve like a man starved of oxygen and dying of thirst. Steve kisses him back with every ounce of passion in his body, moaning into Bucky’s mouth when Bucky nips on his bottom lip.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, “Stevie, honey, I—I need you. Please, I need you.”

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, “Okay, yes—you have me, I’m here.”

Blindly, Bucky roots around in the couch cushions and pulls out the bottle of lube that they’ve stashed in there. He squirts some into his flesh hand before shoving it down the front of Steve’s boxers, closing his fingers around Steve’s cock. Bucky brings him to full hardness with short, sharp strokes. Steve’s fingers spasm, gripping onto Bucky’s shoulders tightly as he groans into Bucky’s mouth.

With clammy hands, Steve gets some lube onto his own fingers. His hands are shaking, a physical manifestation of his need to comfort Bucky. He pushes his boxers down his thighs and widens his knees, roughly shoving first one, then two fingers into his hole. He grunts at the sudden stretch and burn, but the discomfort is temporary, quickly giving way to a dull fire. He spreads the lube around as efficiently as he can, needing Bucky to get inside him as soon as possible. Bucky’s lips are sucking bruises along Steve’s collarbone, teeth nibbling on Steve’s skin. When he feels that has loosened up enough, Steve pushes in with three fingers, hissing as his tight rim struggles to adjust to the stretch.

“Sweetheart, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, kissing along Steve’s jaw, his thumb flicking over the head of Steve’s cock. “Need you, baby, need’ta feel you.”

“Buck,” Steve breathes raggedly, “Yeah, c’mon sweetheart, m’ready.”

It takes some fumbling, but together, they manage to get Steve’s boxers off his legs and Bucky’s pyjama pants down his thighs. Steve tucks the waistband underneath Bucky’s balls, then squirts more lube into his palm, slicking Bucky up hurriedly. Bucky moans against Steve’s mouth, tongue lazily flicking around the corner of Steve’s lips.

Steve grabs hold of both his ass cheeks, spreading them apart, shivering as the night air blows over his exposed, sloppy hole. Bucky steadies the base of his cock and guides the tip to Steve’s entrance. Steve holds his breath as the head breaches his rim, the burn more acute than normal due to his rushed prep job. He groans low in his throat as he sinks down, impaling himself onto Bucky’s shaft. Bucky gasps and holds his waist tight, breathing wetly against Steve’s throat, muttering curses into Steve’s skin.

“Stevie, Stevie,” Bucky chokes out, like he can’t believe that Steve’s really here, in his arms.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve whispers, threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair, using his grip to pull his head back. He crushes their lips together, teeth and tongues colliding in perfect harmony. Steve gives his body a moment to get accustomed to Bucky’s girth, then starts rolling his hips back and forth, pulling carnal moans from them both. He’s not really bouncing on Bucky’s dick, just holding it deep inside him, safe and warm and protected as he grinds into Bucky’s lap.

Bucky can’t do much with Steve’s weight pinning him down like this, but that’s okay – this is Steve’s chance to take care of him, to show him how safe and loved he is. Bucky’s metal arm is tight around his waist, whilst his flesh hand gently cradles the back of Steve’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. Their noses bump against one another occasionally, and their mouths are so close that they’re breathing in the same air.

“Fuck, Stevie, fuck,” Bucky groans, tightening his grip on Steve’s waist, pulling their chests flush together. “So good to me, sweetheart—so fuckin’ good.”

“I love you,” Steve gasps, “Bucky—love you so much.”

Bucky hums, mouth claiming Steve’s once more. “Love you too,” he mumbles against Steve’s lips.

Steve starts to move his hips faster, gasping each time Bucky’s cock nudges against his prostate. He can feel his orgasm starting to creep up on him, a simmering fire at the base of his spine. Steve keens, high in his throat, when Bucky closes a fist around Steve’s leaking cock, jerking him off roughly.

“Gonna come for me, Stevie?” Bucky growls, nipping Steve’s bottom lip. “Gonna make me messy, make me yours?”

“Buck—Bucky,” Steve pants, going cross-eyed with the pleasure. His rhythm falters. Steve grabs onto the back of the sofa and uses his grip as leverage, heaving himself onto his knees before slamming down onto Bucky’s dick, his ass meeting Bucky’s thighs with a resounding smack.

“Yeah, that’s it, Stevie,” Bucky croons, his sinful tongue tracing the line of Steve’s jaw. “C’mon, make yourself come, baby, wanna see it.”

“Bucky—m’close, shit,” Steve moans, his channel clenching around the intrusion inside it. Bucky grunts in response, his hand making loud squelching noises as he jacks Steve’s cock even faster.

“I know y’are, sweetheart, I know,” Bucky whispers, “C’mon, Stevie, let go for me, yeah? Lemme see you come, baby, lemme see it.”

“Bucky—Buck—oh!”

Steve body tenses up, a broken cry tumbling from his throat as his climax crashes through him. Hot, wet pulses of come spurt from his dick, spilling over Bucky’s hand and smearing between their bodies. Steve grinds himself onto Bucky’s cock, keeping just the right amount of pressure on his prostate. He’s white-knuckling the couch cushions, gripping them so hard that he worries that the fabric might rip.

“So good, Stevie, so fuckin’ hot, fuck,” Bucky whispers fervently, mouth laving over Steve’s sweaty skin. “Goddamn, baby, goddamn, so hot.”

“Bucky,” Steve says weakly, his body slumping forward. Bucky’s cock is still hard inside him, a warm, unyielding weight. “Buck—c’mon, you wanna—"

His breath whooshes out of his lungs as Bucky flips them around, throwing Steve onto his back in a lightning-fast manoeuvre. His dick slips out of Steve’s ass in the process, making Steve whine in protest. Bucky bullies his way between Steve’s thighs, yanking them around his waist. He pushes his cock back into Steve in one hard thrust, forcing a shout of surprise from Steve’s lungs. Bucky plants his elbows on either side of Steve’s head, taking his weight on his forearms as his hips slam into Steve at a brutal, unforgiving pace.

Steve moans heatedly, one hand clawing at Bucky’s back, his nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. His other hand clutches Bucky’s ass, trying to pull him closer, take him deeper.

“Yeah, Buck—sweetheart, c’mon, let go, I got’cha,” Steve pants, tightening the muscles of his channel around Bucky’s cock, doing his best to bring his husband to orgasm. Bucky groans, pounding into Steve with renewed vigour.

Bucky twines his fingers through Steve’s hair and forces him to look up, to meet Bucky’s wild gaze.

“I can’t lose you, Stevie,” he says desperately, “Can’t—can’t be without you,”

“You won’t lose me,” Steve promises, his hand coming up to cup Bucky’s jaw. “You won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll – fuck, oh – promise you’ll stay safe?” Bucky gasps out.

“I promise,” Steve tells him, “I will—fuck, yes, Bucky, yeah—oh, that’s it, sweetheart—”

“Steve,” Bucky says urgently, dropping his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, his hips working frantically as his cock plunges into Steve’s heat, again and again. “Steve, Stevie, fuck, m’gonna come, m’gonna come—”

“Yeah, that’s it Buck, let go,” Steve urges.

Bucky bites down into the meat of Steve shoulder, muffling his cries of pleasure. His hips slam into Steve’s ass, once, twice, three more times, before holding still, burying his cock to the hilt. He empties the contents of his balls into Steve’s hole, his dick spurting out thick ropes of come. Steve moans, tightening his legs around Bucky’s waist and winding his arms around Bucky’s back, holding him close as he shakes through his climax. Steve whimpers and breathes shakily as Bucky’s warmth fills him up.

In the aftermath, they lie there, wrapped up in each other’s arms, trading soft kisses and even softer touches.

“Promise you’ll stay safe?” Bucky asks again, as he intertwines the fingers of his flesh hand with Steve’s.

Steve brings their joined hands together and presses a reverent kiss to Bucky’s knuckles.

“I promise,” he whispers.

[the-letter-horror-lover]

Kuroshitsuji Drabbles

AWatchDogsFantasy

Summary:

These drabbles are based in the Kuroshitsuji universe so they are being posted separate from my Kuro AU Kink drabbles! I will also be taking requests for these drabbles as well but they must be Kuroshitsuji verse. <3

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Coddling Ciel

Chapter Text

Ciel sighed as he sat in his bed, surrounded by pillows and cocooned in a nest of blankets. There was a wash basin and towels on his bedside table and his curtains were shut tight. His door was opened and Sebastian entered with a tray with tea and soup in one hand and Ciel scowled at him.

“Must you coddle me, Sebastian.” It was more a statement than anything as the demon placed the tray down.

“Honestly, I’m fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot at or dropped in cold water.” Sebastian remained silent, efficiently moving things from the tray. Ciel’s brows furrowed as he pushed some of the blankets from his shoulders. Gloved hands pulled them back up and the Earl made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, the boy indignant.

“Sebastian! I’m sweltering in all of these sheets. Why-” A cup of hot tea was placed into sweaty hands and Ciel made that noise in his throat again, irritated.

“Sebas-” A cool rag wiped over his face, a gloved hand turning it this way and that as the other cleaned. Ciel struggled, trying to free his face as he grumbled.

“Seb-…kn-knock it off! That’s an order!” The hand and clothe were gone immediately and the butler was standing beside the bad, hands clasped behind his back as his red eyes scanned over his master. Ciel scowled back, sleeve wiping at his damp face.

“What are you doing, Sebastian?” The demon actually averted his eyes, taking the cup back and setting it back on the tray, and Ciel was amazed that it hadn’t spilled. What amazed him more, however, was when the demon sat himself gently on the edge of the bed ,without asking permission, and faced his young master with red eyes that bore into the young man’s face. Ciel swallowed, suddenly nervous as he pushed the covers back down his shoulders. He held back another deep sigh as gloved hands carefully pulled them back up.

“You act as if I’ve never been in such danger before. I won’t catch cold so easily.” Sebastian averted his eyes, staring just above his head for a moment. There was silence, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound.

“This time was different, my lord.” Ciel lifted his head, brows furrowed again as he met Sebastian’s gaze again.

“Different? How so?” The demon slowly reached out and his fingertips brushed gently over the rise of the Earl’s cheek, just below his contracted eye.

“When the shooting started and that man dropped you into the water after having such a hold on your throat…for just a split second, your heartbeat faltered.” The Earl’s eyes went wide and he stared up at his demon, swallowing and unconsciously leaning into the gloved caress.

“Wh…what? It…faltered? I didn’t feel-”

“You wouldn’t.” Sebastian interrupted, hand slipping down to rest on a thin shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles against a collarbone.

“It was just for a second. But I heard it, I felt it. I was…” The demon closed his eyes, laughing softly before opening them again. Ciel was speechless at the desperation in those crimson depths.

“I though, in that second, that I had lost you, my lord. Those men were all dead in that very moment and you were back in my arms before the last one fell. But it felt as if it had been an eternity.” Ciel stared at the butler, faintly feeling the soft pressure of that thumb against his collarbone.

“You…were scared?” Sebastian merely stared at him before leaning closer. His other hand lifting to cup the side of the boy’s neck, thumb caressing a soft jawline as their noses brushed. The boy swallowed, wide eyed as he stared into his demon’s eyes.

“Is that what all of this coddling is about?” His voice was soft and he gasped a soft breath of air as soft lips pressed gently to the very corner of his. Sebastian pulled back, studying his master’s face as the boy lifted a small hand, fingers caressing the spot. Sighing softly through his nose, the demon gently pressed his lips to the tender skin of Ciel’s forehead, sliding them gently over to his temple. His eyes slipped closed as his lips slid over the soft skin near a large sapphire eye and he nuzzled the downy hairline near Ciel’s temple. He inhaled deeply to take in the intoxicating scent that had him so enamored. Ciel’s left eye slipped closed as he felt those sinful lips brushing beneath it. Sebastian’s hands were large and warm against his throat and jaw. His heart fluttered against his ribs as his soft breaths picked up speed. His small hands came up to wrap around Sebastian’s wrists.

“Sebastian…” His words were breathy. The demon slowly slid his hands away to tug the blankets tighter around his now shivering master. He nuzzled the side of the boy’s head, eyes half lidded as he gripped his arms through the blankets. He sensed the confusion and insecurity of his lord and pressed those lips gently to the corner of the boy’s.

“Please do not fear me, my lord. I want nothing more than to make you happy.” Ciel’s eyes finally slipped closed as he tightened his grip on those wrists.

“I thought…that you wanted nothing more than my soul.” Sebastian pulled back, fingers gently lifting the boy’s face to meet his eyes. Ciel stared back fearlessly.

“There is truth in the fact that I hunger for you, my lord. But my hunger is for much more than just your soul now. You are my beautiful little lord. My cold heart beats for you as it never has before.” The implications of the demon’s words brought a flush to the boy’s face and he shifted his gaze away from the intense red of his butler’s. He heard the man chuckle softly and felt soft lips pressing against his forehead.

“Sleep now, my lord. You’ve had a trying day.” He was tucked in firmly, still grumbling about being overheated as his butler blew out the candles but left the fire to burn itself out. As he left the room, he gave Ciel a soft smile and pulled the doors closed. Ciel hid his face in his blankets, feeling the heat from his own skin radiating over his hands as he turned onto his side and fought to fall asleep.

Chapter 2: Just for You

Summary:

Ciel dresses up just for Sebastian but things don't go the way he planned at first.

Chapter Text

Sebastian stood in the kitchen, chopping and preparing for the next evening’s meal, when he heard the door creak open. Sighting through his nose, he wiped his hands on his apron and turned to reprimand whichever useless servant had interrupted. He froze, eyes wide, when he realized that it was not a servant at all. No, most definitely not. His little master stood in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame and a hand propped on his right hip. Leaning into the door, his right hip cocked, the boy was dressed much different than his usual style.

His dainty feet and slender calves were encased in leather boots, fishnet stockings taking over from the knee and, as Sebastian’s red eyes slid slowly over the boy, he noticed they stopped mid-thigh. A garter belt held them up, showcasing smooth and milky skin as the straps crawled up beneath extremely short shorts that were black and tight and high-waisted to accentuate the boy’s minuscule figure. Sebastian swallowed, eyeing the expanse of creamy skin bared by the untucked, unbuttoned dress shirt. It hung off of the boy’s shoulders, caught smartly around his elbows, and his single sapphire eye, so very large and captivating, studied the demon from that soft, round face. Soft, pink lips parted and his voice was low as the little master spoke.

“Sebastian?” Out of reflex, Sebastian reverted to his proper butler mannerisms, hand covering his eyes in exasperation.

“With all due respect, my lord…what the hell?” Whatever soft, shy smile that had made its way to Ciel’s face fell and soft, round cheeks flushed in shame. Staring at the demon, the Earl felt his breathing become shallow, a panic attack beginning as his chest stung. As Sebastian began babbling about propriety and his position, Ciel bit his lip and angrily flung the closest utensil, a useless wooden spoon, but he was just so mad and hurt that it didn’t matter. He turned and stormed out of the kitchen. Sebastian lowered his hand, blinking at the harmless spoon laying at his feet. His master was gone and the demon sighed. He removed his apron, replacing it on its hook, and carefully slid back into his tailcoat before following after the Earl. By the time he reached the boy’s room, he found the door cracked open and furrowed his brows, for it was unusual for the young man to leave his personal rooms accessible. He heard the accelerated beating of the boy’s heart and carefully peeked through the opening.

Ciel stood in front of his mirror, eye-patch thrown to the floor as he stared at himself. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he began buttoning the dress shirt up. It still hung loosely about him, untucked, and he stared tiredly at his reflection as he ran his fingers over his own face. He seemed to be examining himself, turning his head this way and that, fingers sifting through slate locks, until his arms fell listlessly to his side. Sebastian’s eyes followed the boy, as he slowly backed up until he found his bed, sitting heavily. He began untying his boots, toeing them off with some difficulty. Pulling himself backwards to the center of the large bed, the Earl flopped back and stared at his ceiling. The butler waited a moment and raised his fist to knock just as the boy spoke softly to the room, causing him to pause abruptly.

“Even a demon doesn’t want me.” Said demon’s eyes widened minutely, lips parting as his fist lowered slowly. Red eyes focused on the boy as small hands ran over a soft, rounded face, contract mark casting a soft violet glow in the dim room.

“It was stupid anyway. What does some…some tainted, scrawny thing like me have to offer aside from my shattered soul…” The hidden demon swallowed thickly, watching a single tear slip into slate hair, the boy stubbornly wiping the trail away before rolling to his side and curling into himself. He shivered, unused to having so much skin revealed, and slowly crawled further up the bed to slide under the covers. Sebastian, for once, did not know what to do and stood dumbly outside the door, eyes locked on the small lump under the sheets. Ciel laid there for a minute before his shoulders shook, a weak chuckle falling from his lips.

“He must think me a fool.” The air barely stirred as Sebastian moved and the boy jolted as the edge of his bed dipped. He turned to find the demon perched there, watching him through soft eyes. His voice, dark and warm like velvet, filtered through the room as the butler gently ran the back of a gloved finger over a baby-soft cheek.

“A fool only for running, my lord.” Ciel scowled, averting his eyes as his face flushed. He turned his back to the butler, swatting his hand away, and buried his face in a pillow. Sebastian curled around him, nuzzling against a small, pink ear as a gloved hand slowly stroked the boy’s arm.

“Oh, do not be angry, my lord. I was merely surprised. Can you blame me? A delectable little thing such as yourself offering a lowly butler something so precious. My immediate reaction was to believe it a joke. Or perhaps…a trick played by my own mind.” Ciel pouted but uncurled just a bit as his demon smoothed his hand up a small arm to stroke his cheek. That hand slid to the top button of the shirt, murmuring gently against the soft skin of a temple.

“I promise to react more favorably…if you’ll just unbutton this again.” Ciel’s flush darkened but he slowly rolled onto his back, large eyes staring up, unsure, at his butler. Sebastian smiled gently, helping the boy sit up and watched those small fingers gingerly (and clumsily) pry open each button. The shirt fell away, falling to rest once more in the crooks of his elbows, and Sebastian sighed in a satisfied manner. He scooted closer, nudging the Earl’s temple with his nose as his pupils became slits, eyes half-lidded and glowing magenta. The boy’s eyes fluttered and he turned to press his own nose against the demon’s chin. The man’s lips brushed the bridge of that cute little nose as he spoke again.

“And the boots?” The proud little lord slid shyly from the bed to retrieve them, offering the demon a spectacular view of his rear as he bent over to lace them up. Once they were laced, he turned slowly to face Sebastian, eyes cast shyly towards his feet as he fiddled with the ends of his sleeves. He watched his demon as he licked his lips and felt his face heat up. Sebastian dragged his eyes up from booted feet, to fishnet encased thighs, all the way to those tight, high-waist shorts wrapped around that tiny midsection. With a growl, the demon’s lips and teeth attacked the boy’s pale chest, large hands wrapped almost entirely around the little thing. Ciel gasped at the abrupt appearance of the other before him, hands gripping the man’s wrists and spine arching to push himself closer to those lips. Sebastian hummed, tongue laving over smooth, soft skin as he dragged the tip of his nose across a collarbone, inhaling deeply. He slowly made his way down the boy’s chest, leaving a trail of reddish-pink marks as he went, and dipped his tongue into his belly button. Ciel’s breath hitched and his small hands moved to rest on broad shoulders, gripping the fabric. The demon’s own hands squeezed around the delicate body against him before sliding down. The cotton encased digits squeezed until his prey released a breathy sigh before slipping down to slim hips and around to pull the boy closer by his rear. Ciel’s tiny fingers slid up into ink-black hair, caressing and carding through to stop at the back of his head to massage gently. Sebastian moaned softly and returned the favor by kneading the back of the boy’s thighs and yanking him close to suckle against a clothed hipbone, leaving a dark, damp patch. Ciel whimpered as sharp teeth (too sharp for a human) grazed the skin through even the material and large hands mauled his tiny thighs, easily wrapping around them. He tangled his fingers with the longer ones around his right thigh and smiled shyly as they welcomed him. Those hot lips moved down his body slowly, nipping at his thigh before moving back up, the trail he left in his wake cooling as he went and caused the boy to shiver. Gently, Sebastian leveled himself, coming face to face with his little lord as he knelt before him. Ciel bit his lip and his demon lifted their linked hands to press a kiss to those soft, small fingers, red eyes smoldering as he pulled the boy flush against him.

“You make it so hard for a demon to resist you, my lord. So much beautiful, porcelain skin on show just for me…it makes me crazy. It makes me want to mark you and make it known that you are mine.” His voice was low, a feral growl underlying it as he nipped at the Earl’s wrist and his lord whimpered, pressing his little arousal to his demon’s stomach. Those sharp teeth nipped at his earlobe now, voice still a deep growl as his free hand mauled a fishnet clad thigh.

“Because you are mine. Your soul, your body, your very being are mine.” The snarl reverberated against the Earl’s sensitive erection and he whimpered again, arching and tugging at dark hair as needlepoint teeth moved to his jaw, the demon’s free hand moved back up to grope a firm rear and he pressed his lips to the corner of a gasping mouth. His eyes were coals in the dim light, boring into hazy blue and violet as he ground the boy forward into his chest to give him the friction he craved.

“Say it.” Ciel swallowed, body shaking.

“I…S-Sebas…” A harsh tug, rough friction, pulling a soft cry from him.

“Say it!” The boy’s legs shook as he continued to thrust into the butler.

“I-I…I belong t-to you! Only you, Sebastian…all of me, e-everything!” The demon growled, kissing the boy hard and muffling his moans. Spreading his own legs to rest on either side of the boy’s thigh, Sebastian began to grind his own arousal against the soft, tender skin. Their breath mingled as the demon held the tiny thing tightly.

“Good little darling, my beautiful precious lord. You are mine…and I am yours.” Ciel was gasping, squeezing Sebastian’s hand with surprising strength as they rutted against each other. The demon’s voice was wavering between human and something much darker.

“You shall never be rid of me.” That slate head bent as a small arm tugged around Sebastian’s neck.

“I will never let you leave.” Ciel sobbed and his hips stuttered as he buried his face in dark hair, fingers squeezing the silken strands. Sebastian buried his nose in the crook of that slender neck, fangs bared and nose scrunched as his eyes clenched shut.

“And I…will never leave you.” He bit down then, marking his lord and groaning as he felt the young one’s release dampening his uniform. Ciel screamed, pulling harshly at dark hair and crying into those soft strands as he rode his pleasure out. The taste of the boy and the feel of him against his chest had Sebastian coming with a groan. He rutted against the soft skin as he came down with a growl and his fangs slowly retracted. Licking the blood away, Sebastian held his master close as the boy shook. Nuzzling his temple, the butler pressed soft kisses to his cheek. He gently untangled their fingers in order to wrap him up tightly. Slim arms wrapped weakly around his neck and the demon smiled, gently stroking matted hair. Moments passed and Ciel finally stirred, sleepily pulling back, clouded eyes watching and analyzing his butler. The man smiled, eyes their usual burgundy, and he stroked a soft cheek. His little lord gave a weak smile and Sebastian realized just how used the boy looked. His slate hair was mussed, shirt hanging lower on one arm than the other, and his little shorts were stained dark in the front. The demon smirked at the shine of dampness against the Earl’s thigh and that flushed little face with its dazed eyes and swollen pink lips.

“Come, my lord. Let’s get you cleaned up and put to bed.” Ciel’s eyes sharpened a bit as he was lifted and carried, legs wrapped around the slender butler.

“Will you stay?” His voice was unusually meek and a kiss was dropped to his hair with a deep chuckle.

“Why, didn’t you hear me, my lord? You’ll never be rid of me now. That includes bed time as well.” He felt Ciel smile against his shoulder and he stroked a finger against an exposed strip of skin. Yes, this boy was certainly full of surprises.

Chapter 3: Opals

Summary:

Sebastian is sure that his little lord has a favorite stone. He just has to coax it from the young man.

Chapter Text

Tea tumbled perfectly into the bone china cup and Sebastian set it gently at his lord’s elbow, watching as the young man deftly picked it up with his left hand. He sipped it, eye closing as he sighed in appreciation and continued signing with his right hand. After a moment of watching, teapot still in hand, Sebastian tilted his head and spoke.

“What type of stone do you like, my lord?” Ciel paused, brows furrowed as he turned to stare at his butler, cup poised before his lips.

“What? Stones, Sebastian?” The butler merely smiled at his master, red eyes boring into blue.

“Yes, my lord. Stones, gems, jewels, baubles. Which type do you prefer?” Ciel blinked up at the man in confusion, slowly lowering his cup back to its saucer.

“Jewels?” He sounded a bit incredulous.Ciel's Ring

“Why in the world would that matter?” The butler merely continued to smile, topping the young man’s cup off before stepping back again.

“Merely curious, my lord. Is there a stone you favor over the others? I myself am partial to garnets. The deep red color, the color of blood, the deep resonating shine that they hold.” Ciel was watching him wearily before he turned back to his papers.

“That makes sense, for a demon. It’s also the color of your eyes.” He mumbled the last bit and Sebastian raised a brow, smiling slyly. Ciel was silent for a moment, signing away until he spoke softly.

“Opals, I suppose.” Sebastian cocked his head, watching the boy sign his name.

“Opals, my lord?” It was an odd choice for a young noble, a young man at that. But then, his lord was nothing if not a bit odd. Ciel nodded as he tapped his pen against the desk.

“Yes. People often take them for granted. They seem very plain on the surface but are multifaceted in ways one does not expect when the light hits them.” The demon thought for a moment before a smile spread over his face. He carefully set the teapot down and moved to stand behind his master’s chair as he spoke.

“Yes, opal. From the Sanskrit word “upala”, for precious stone. A stone of inspiration which enhances imagination and creativity and can also be used to bring happy dreams and avoid nightmares. I can see the appeal of such a stone for one such as yourself.” Ciel paused in what he was doing, head turning a bit as he listened. Sebastian gently slid his hands to rest upon the boy’s shoulders as he continued.

“The spirit of the stone is like that of a child, splashing and spraying color spontaneously wherever it pleases. Never one single color from any angle as my master has mentioned. Unexpected, underappreciated, beautiful. Very much like my little master himself.” Ciel’s ears turned red and he bowed his head, beginning to scribble furiously at his paperwork.

“I-idiot. Get back to work, stupid demon.” Sebastian smiled softly, squeezing the boy’s shoulders gently before moving to toll the tea cart out of the room with a final bow. After quickly taking care of it, he picked up the phone receiver, dialing the number he had procured days before.

“Ah, yes hello. My name is Sebastian Michaelis. This is Mr. Simon Brindle? Excellent.” He turned to lean against the desk, smirking.

“I wish to place a custom order.”

Two weeks later found Ciel sitting in the same spot, signing papers and awaiting his tea. He heard it as it was poured into the cup, smelled the rich fragrance as Sebastian sat it near his elbow, and moved to lift it to his lips. He paused when something bumped against his fingers and turned to look. There, tied to the handle of his cup with a blue satin ribbon, was a ring. Silver, delicate, and…Ciel felt his face heat up and he gaped at it for a moment. A ring. An opal ring. Whipping his head up, he stared wide eyed at his butler, mouth slack. Sebastian stood there with a smile, eyes closed and arms behind his back. The Earl looked from him to the ring and back. Sebastian’s smile widened as he addressed the young Earl.

“Yes, my lord?” The boy sputtered at him, looking flustered and adorably childish with his wide eye and red ears. Gently, the demon cupped his large hands around Ciel’s smaller one, holding the cup carefully up to the boy’s eye level. The stone flashed red, yellow, and blue in the sunlight and Ciel’s lips parted, staring in awe at the precious thing.

“Does it displease you in some way, my lord? If so, I will gladly have it remade for you.” The Earl bit his lip, glaring at his demon.

“Why?” It was all he was able to push out as he stared, confused, as Sebastian untied the ring and gently placed the cup down.

“As with a similar situation prior to this one, I must emphasize. This ring belongs on your finger alone. Please take good care of it.” The ring slid to rest perfectly on his ring finger and Ciel stared at it, eye wide. It was on his left ring finger.

“S-Sebastian…” The butler smiled serenely as he cupped the young man’s hand in his own, watching as the gem threw light in different colors. It was a simple silver band with a square-cut opal flanked but two smaller, square-cut garnets. Simple, elegant, not too flashy so as to draw attention from anybody but the wearer. Ciel’s hand curled into a fist and he tried to tug out of the demon’s grip with no luck.

“What…what are you doing? Giving another man such a gift…do not toy with me, demon.” Sebastian’s grip tightened, tugging the boy out of his chair and into him, holding that small hand with his own in the sunlight.

“I do not toy, my lord.” Ciel gave him a deadpan expression and the demon gave an innocent smile, tilting his head.

“Well…I do not toy with you, my lord.” That blue eye narrowed further and Sebastian sighed, cupping the boy’s hand with both of his and rubbing his cheek over it, eyes closed.

“Ah, such a heart breaker you are. So very cruel. You will not even give me a chance?” Ciel’s little fingers twitched as the demon rubbed against them like a cat marking its territory with scent.

“A chance…what the hell are you pulling, demon?” Sebastian sighed and flipped the small hand to now rub against the palm, ignoring his little lord.

“Yes, so cruel. But I suppose I would not have you any other way.” His flush rose higher on his cheeks and the Earl smacked at his servant’s head, once again completely ignored. A kiss bushed against his knuckles stopped his tantrum and the butler in black winked up at him.

“So, my lord…do you accept this lowly servant’s gift?” Ciel blushed and turned his face away shyly even as his fingers twitched tightly around the other man’s. The sun shone brightly on his new ring, casting colors wildly as he spoke.

“Stupid demon…who would refuse such a thing?”

Chapter 4: Misunderstandings

Summary:

Time for a little angst! This chapter focuses on a slight misunderstanding between Sebastian and Ciel after a mission for the Queen. Sebastian does not seem to understand Ciel's feelings on a certain matter.

Chapter Text

Sebastian sighed as he stood in the hall outside of his master’s rooms. Mey-Rin exited moments later, slightly flushed, and gave a small bow to the head butler before scurrying off. Sebastian watched her go for a moment before turning his eyes back to the door closed to him. He almost felt bad for the maid. Their master had demanded that she be the one to prepare him for bed, ignoring Sebastian completely when he made the demand at dinner. The maid was not used to the job and who could blame the young woman? It was not a maid’s proper job to have to prepare her teenage master for bed. Sebastian’s red gaze could have burned a hole through the oak as he stared it down, seemingly blaming it for his own displeasure. Ever since their last mission, the Earl Phantomhive had been short with him and would not deign to look at him. Sebastian knew the reason well. He had employed a certain skill of his to obtain information from a young woman.

He had allowed the boy his tantrum, finding it pointless, until he had demanded Mey-Rin’s assistance instead of his own. Now he was just being childish and it was beginning to wear on the butler’s patience. As he stood staring at the doors of his lord’s room, he was prepared to demand answers of the childish Earl. His hand stopped short of the knob however and he furrowed his brows. Sniffing the air, the demon caught the scent of salt, warm and melancholy. Taking a brisk step back, he eyed the door intensely. Tears? Was his lord…crying? Sebastian had seen Ciel Phantomhive angry, confused, exasperated, even panicked, but never crying. Not since the day he had summoned him and they had forged their contract. So why now?

Quickly and silently, the butler finally made his way into the bedroom unnoticed, not even stirring the air itself. He perched in the darkness, became the darkness, and focused his gaze on the small lump in the center of the large bed. It was still aside from the small shiver when the young lord would sniffle. The boy was not sobbing, most certainly not, as he was Ciel Phantomhive. But he sniffled softly and the demon could scent the salt of his tears on the air as they slipped silently over his rounded cheeks. As the boy rolled over, his face was revealed to the one hidden in the shadows. A small hand lifted to wipe listlessly at the light tear tracks marring his kitten-soft skin and his eyes slipped open to stare blankly at the floor. His contracted eye cast a pale purple glow over his cheekbone and Sebastian watched, enraptured and curious as those large eyes lifted slowly to roam his room. When the boy jolted and recoiled, the butler tensed, sensing for any immediate danger. Instead, the Earl scowled and wiped at his face with his bed linen.

“Bloody hell, Sebastian. What the hell are you doing?” Said man’s brows rose in the darkness until he realized that his own eyes had begun to smolder as he watched his little darling. They glowed like magenta embers in the darkness from the corner he was crouched in and, as he stood slowly, he watched Ciel’s eyes follow his as they rose. He spoke softly so as not to startle the boy that was scowling at him as he turned over in the bed to face away from him.

“My apologies, my lord. I was only coming to check up.” The boy pulled his duvet up further, voice cold as he responded.

“Do you believe yourself to be the only one capable of putting me to bed?” The demon moved into the small sliver of moonlight that slipped through the curtains.

“Of course not, my lord. I merely scented something…curious as I passed by.” The Earl was silent at that but clutched harder to his covers. Both remained quiet for few moments before Sebastian moved to the edge of the bed. He watched Ciel scoot a bit further away, towards the other side of the bed, and spoke gently.

“Why do you cry, my lord?” He waited patiently for a response, watching the boy fidget beneath the sheets before finding a soft-spoken response.

“Do not feign concern with me, demon. I tire of your games. They may seduce those simple women but I will not tolerate them being used on me.” Sebastian furrowed his brows, straightening in surprise before chuckling, laughter clogging his words.

“Is that truly was your tantrum is about, my lord? I had suspected but had not wished to believe that you would concern yourself with something so menial.” A pillow hit him directly in the face and he blinked rapidly when he could see again, greeted with the sight of Ciel Phantomhive sitting straight up, a tear slipping over his cheek as he pressed his lips together to keep them from quivering. His small chest rose and fell harshly, irregularly, as the child fought to keep his emotions at bay. The pair stared each other down, watching one another wearily until, finally, the Earl threw himself back onto his side, facing away from his demon once more.

“Get out. I do not wish to see you. I am queasy just from hearing your voice.” The boy’s own voice was venomous and the demon narrowed his eyes, defenses on the rise as his own temper flared. He plopped the pillow back on the bed and turned on his heel. At the door, he turned and stared coldly over his shoulder as he spoke.

“A child should not concern himself with the ways of adults. Tantrums are very off-putting, my lord.” As soon as he spoke, he was through the door and already wishing he could take the words back as it clicked closed with an odd sort of finality behind him. He stood completely still, staring at the wall as he listened to the breathing from the room behind him become uneven. The demon’s black heart clenched as a sob finally escaped his lord’s lips, words whispered bitterly into the darkness.

“I wasn’t a child when you wanted to fuck me.” Another ragged breath followed and Sebastian couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat, wanting nothing more than to go to the boy’s side and kiss his tears away. To assure him that it hadn’t been meaningless, that he hadn’t fucked the boy but had instead made love to him, that he was different than those women or anybody else the demon had known in his long life. But he couldn’t move. He could only stand in the darkness of the hall, not understanding the wetness that slipped over his own cheeks.

The next morning, after an evening of prowling the hall outside of the Earl’s rooms, Sebastian almost sent Finny to wake the Earl but shook himself out of the thought. What kind of demon would he be if he was scared to face a mere human? He sighed as he rolled the tea cart down the hall, stopping outside of the Earl’s bedroom doors. Of course, this was no mere human. The boy’s choked, defeated words rang through the butler’s head as clearly as they had the night before and he had to force himself to knock. Opening the door without a response, as the boy never responded, he rolled the cart in and closed the door behind him. He moved nearer to the bed before going to the curtains and tossing them back to allow the sunlight to flood the room. Ciel groaned from the bed, burrowing deeper beneath the covers to avoid the invasive light. Sebastian moved back to the bedside and began preparing his lord’s tea.

“A Darjeeling blend for you this morning, my lord. Blueberry scones with a choice of honey or butter and a nice-”

“What are you doing, Sebastian?” The butler was cut off and he turned, hands pausing in their movements. Ciel sat on the edge of the bed, head lowered as he stared blankly at the carpet with his hands fisted in the covers.

“My lord?” The butler stood before the boy, watching him fidget. With a sigh, the boy lifted tired, bloodshot eyes to meet the demon’s.

“You should just take what you want and be done with this. My revenge is not getting any closer and I think we both know this is becoming very taxing.” The Earl slowly shifted his eyes away again, staring blankly out the window.

“I am tired, Sebastian.” The man swallowed thickly, moving carefully to straighten the boy’s hair.

“Perhaps you should rest today then, my lord. A bit more sleep-” Ciel slapped his hand away and glared up at him with glassy eyes.

“Don’t play dumb, Sebastian. I am tired of this. Of the dance and the fight. I am tired…” He deflated, eyes searching as he swallowed and took a deep breath.

“I am tired of living a lie, of fooling myself in everything I do.” Sebastian stepped closer, moving his hands back to caress the Earl’s head. The other clenched his eyes closed and the demon sighed, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“My silly young master.” His lips moved against soft skin to a smooth cheek as he knelt, trailing them over a temple and down a cheek. Red eyes slipped open when a tear slid down, landing on his lips. His tongue darted out, liking it away and scraping his teeth gently over the skin before soothing with a kiss. Small hands moved to his shoulders and he could feel the indecision. The boy wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. The demon slowly slid his own hands down a slender neck, under arms, and around to hold the boy close. The pair sat in silence, pressed together, eyes tightly closed as they breathed the other in, Ciel began to shake, gentle tremors jolting his small body, and Sebastian pressed small kisses to the skin he could reach. He spoke softly so as not to startle the being in his arms.

“I’m sorry, my lord…I should not have left you last night allowing you to harbor such thoughts. I should have reassured you instead of laughing at the idea. I just found the very idea impossible and I never believed that you had seriously been allowing such thoughts to affect you.” Ciel’s fingers tightened on his coat and the demon nuzzled his nose into the crook of a slim neck.

“I had thought you had known that it was different with you, my dear lord.” Ciel sniffled, voice weak as he spoke, reminding Sebastian of how young he truly was.

“How was I to know, Sebastian? You…afterwards, you never acknowledged it. And then that woman…I had to listen to her, imagine it as I just sat there. And then you laughed at me as if it were some sort of joke even after I had given you all that I had left of myself.” Sebastian gently squeezed the boy, taking in the exquisite scent of his soul.

“Out of all of my years, my little darling, I have never felt so much for a human. You needn’t fear such a thing. That woman…I was only trying to gain information and I had thought you had understood. You’re always so grown up and it never occurred to me that you would feel so insecure.” Ciel sniffed again and Sebastian pulled back, gently hold the boy’s arms as he searched his face. He gently wiped a tear away.

“I swear to you now, little soul, that I will never gather information in such a way again. My body, it is yours alone…my heart as well, if my lord will still accept it.” Those large eyes stared into him, searching for any sign, even with the thought that the demon could not lie to him. In a rare show of vulnerability, he extended his arms until Sebastian took him into his own, pulling himself into the safe curve of the butler’s body and nuzzling his face into the crook of the man’s throat. He spoke softly into the smooth skin there.

“Until the end then?” His demon smiled against the baby-soft hair, eyes sliding closed.

“Until the end.”

Notes:

My Tumbl!r:

http://awatchdogsfantasy.tumblr.com/

[thrillofthechase-blog1]

Fighting Demons || Z & Annabeth

The recent Senate House fire has brought back some not so fun memories for Annabeth. Thankfully Z is there to...help?

tw: traumatic flashbacks

It was dark. Though it wasn’t the simple darkness of night that seemed to cast itself over the young blonde kneeling on the ground. It was complete and utter pitch black that covered every surface, an inky shade so obscure that it was almost difficult to tell if there were shadows within the shadows, moving as if the murky and velvety depths of it might actually hide something sinister. They always started this way. The nightmares that had plagued Annabeth since her and Percy’s escape from Tartarus. At one point she’d gotten to a place where they had been happening with less frequency, but after having witnessed the burning of the Senate building...it seemed that the heat of the fire and yelling demigods had awoken her memories of Tartarus.

If she was being truthful, her and nighttime terrors had always had a somewhat close relationship, ever since she’d been a little girl and the spiders had come at night to bite at her in retribution for Athena’s curse on Arachne. Even now, Annabeth could feel the minuscule legs of hundreds of spiders crawling over her skin, though the darkness surrounding her didn’t permit her to see them. Instantly she began to shiver and shudder as chills wracked her. Defeating Arachne had done little to curb her phobia of spiders, and she could already feel the panic rising in her throat as she tried to brush the black arachnids away frantically.

Remaining conscious for long periods of time always had a fatal flaw. In Z’s case, that flaw manifested as terrible naps that drew him away from any tasks he was hoping to accomplish. He had known such a thing was coming, much like the elderly claimed to know when the heavens would part for storms. Z had always blamed it on his power, but recently began to assume it was because of his father’s domain and his attuning to it. For preparations, he turned his bed into a nest of pillows and blankets, poured himself a nice cup of tea, and cleaned his face to avoid getting anything on his precious linens. It took less than a few seconds after his head landed on a pillow before his consciousness was being pulled away from his body. Z preferred to dream walk instead of having any of his own, desperate to avoid the demons of his past manifesting themselves behind his eyelids. He had to be careful with whom he chose in his new environment. There were so many traumatic experiences from the demigods and legacies alike. Faces of monsters and men, gods and horrors plagued them in ways he would rather die than stand against. There had been so much that happened behind the veil of mist, curtains that Z was thankful never drew back while he was attending the play known as Life

Typically, Z’s form took on a resemblance to his father. Bright white wings sprouted from his back and allowed him to navigate through minds like the true demigod he was, but in recent times, he found it best to take on the form of a raven. Being absolutely angelic was effective in NYC because it was a virtue to be blessed by him at night, but that was different here. The amount of post-traumatic stress would probably make his flying form an easily recognizable farce, or worse…a target. His eyes, which almost always took on the color of bubblegum, were swallowed by his pupils as he settled on a nightmare in progress. They allowed him to see through anything, which in this case meant watching as a girl was attacked by spiders. The names Annabeth, Arachne, and Tartarus whispered to him, enticing him to stay. Memories were enthralling that way; and, he was too weak to refuse.

“Get off me!” She called out to no avail. Annabeth should have known better than to try such silly tactics of yelling them away. If anything, it only seemed to make the spiders crawl over her more avidly, the incessant tapping of their infinite legs already chipping away at her stability. With a panicked choke, she shut her eyes tight, as if it would help anything. But it was rather useless when she had already only been cloaked in darkness, and her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to physically hold herself together. It was rather amazing, how it took only moments for a remarkably strong woman to began to crumble. In the waking world she was known for her wit and bravery, but in the darkness— when she was alone…there was a secret that leaked out of her. She was only strong in front of others. Ever since she could remember, she’d been looked to for guidance and confidence. But when there was no one to look to her, only herself— it was infinitely harder to don the mask of indifference and sureness that she wore when conscious.

But suddenly she rose from the ground, hands balled into fists as if by some miracle she’d managed to find her strength. With another yell she stomped her foot to the ground. “I said, leave!” And just like that the spiders were gone. There was a split moment of relief before a realization came to her. There was a sound emitting from the darkness, a sort of…cracking? It was soon joined by Arachne’s familiar cackle, and suddenly the floor beneath the foot she had stomped began to fissure, a bright and glowing orange that erupted until there was no floor left. And Annabeth was left to fall through the crumbling floor. The strangest thing was the smudge of white she noticed above her. A single white bird floating above her gave her the smallest sense of peace as the wind rushed past her, and she feel for what felt like eternities. It was out of place. but not entirely unwelcome. But it wasn’t to last as she slammed into the floor. Rising once more from the ground, she gasped as pain erupted over her every inch of skin. The familiar toxic air of Tartarus was quickly filling her lungs, and as coughs violently shook her it was back to the ground she went. At least their was light now, though it was more of a constant throbbing red that the true light of the sun. As her lungs continued to try and expel the poisonous air, she could see the enormous blisters that had formed over her skin. When she’d actually been in Tartarus, there had been Percy to heal them away. But now she was utterly alone.

Closer inspection from his dream-awarded night vision showed the spiders as more apparition than reality. It as almost like watching the girl being haunted by hundreds of miniature ghosts, all in the form of spiders. Their bodies were wispy and thin, cruel in texture and in appearance. All in all, he wondered what would’ve happened had she gotten a true look at the creatures torturing her. Ordinary spiders were already the cause of one of the most common fears; smoky spider ghosts were like an excessive amount of terror. By some stroke of confidence, she had managed to muster up enough energy to get up. The spiders followed the motion like they were programmed to, but scattered away from the frightened girl when demanded they leave. He only had but a moment to revel in her strength before she was sent plummeting through the floor. Z dove down after her.

His form had shifted with the light, taking on the coloring of a dove rather than a raven as he fought a further transformation. Let it be known that he almost reached out to save her, trauma be damned. He was thankful he thought better of it as he landed on a floating platform, head cocked to the side as he landed on a platform he manipulated into existence. The air filled with a miasma that he was immune to as it was but a memory of Annabeth’s. In the wake of any toxicity, Z’s eyes flashed through memories of pure agony. Of all the things the other demigods he watched had been through, Annabeth took the proverbial cake made of pure, unadulterated shit. She had been trapped for what she felt like were eons. There was a boy beside her: Percy Jackson. He took care of her as she did him, but was nowhere to be found in the present dream. She was alone and it was taking its toll on her.

The blisters only kept coming as Annabeth’s eyes squeezed shut, as if she could block out the pain somehow. But it was to no avail. Just when it felt as it she would be consumed by the agony, a voice came from the distance. It was a voice she’d recognize anywhere. Percy. He was here somewhere. And as his tones washed over her it was as if the healing waves he’d summoned during their time in Tartarus were driving the blisters away. But it was only a brief moment of relief. For a single moment he was there. Standing right in front of her with that dorky smile that she’d first found infuriating when they were young, but was now the thing that was a direct line to her happiness. “Percy,” she spoke out in alleviation. If Percy was here— if they were together— she knew it would be okay. But in the next instant his form flickered from existence, as if he was a badly tuned TV channel. “No, Percy!” And just like that her personal hell was back. It was the same as it had been when the arai had attacked them. There was the deep feeling that he was near, and yet she couldn’t see nor hear him. “Percy?!” He was here. She knew he was. He had to be. People didn’t just disappear into thin air. And there was that unmistakable sense that he was near. But it was no use. Just as when Percy had been invisible to her due to Calypso’s curse so was he now. “Percy— please,” she choked out.

There was something deliciously enticing about nightmares, especially those driven by trauma. His powers of memory diving were strongest in times of his targets’ distress as the avenues for subconscious travel were wide open. What Annabeth went through allowed him to see how the arachnaphobia had affected her throughout her life. Z saw the way the nights were filled with their attacks, and they would disappear by sunlight, leaving her floundering to explain the cobwebs to her stepmother. According to her own studies, Annabeth knew that spiders were particularly cruel to children of Athena. Now, Z had that information to store away as she went through the second phase of her nightmare. Once his meddling had finished, he focused then on the apparition of Percy. What did he mean to her?

He was like a tether, strong and unwavering when she needed it most. She was the anchor for others, but there weren’t any for her until he came around. Z understood then why she’d called out for him and why the apparition of him came and went. There was a bond there that he’d heard about through whispers, but seeing it play out was somehow even more…Greek Tragedy. How fitting. Z had let it play out for longer than he should’ve. Fingering through her memories just seemed way too exciting to pass up, but he noticed that at this rate, she had the potential to trap herself here in this Hell. His avian body dispersed entirely without a single blip, and he manifested a spectral hand resembling Percy’s that was held out of a large white portal. “Take my hand,” he said in Percy’s voice, fingers splayed out open for her to grasp.

As Percy’s hand appeared in front of her and his voice rang out, it was as if the heavens themselves had opened up, but infinitely better. It was like the first gasping breath one would draw after nearly drowning, breaking the surface with a crack. Without hesitation Annabeth reached out towards the hand. This was Percy. There was seldom a time she would question going with him, especially in a situation such as this.  As her hand found his it was as if her entire body sighed a breath of relief. Things were going to be okay. Percy was the best anchor she could have ever asked for. Using his hand to help her stand, a newfound peace had come over here. She could be strong for Percy. It was easier than simply being strong for herself. “Thank you,” she breathed out. Her blisters were still burning and present, and she knew further dangers loomed in the dark, but it seemed that. for now, Percy had calmed the louder monsters of her nightmare. She still couldn’t see the rest of him, but she could guess that the glowing circle he was within was some sort of portal or the like, and she prepared to be rid of this literal nightmare.

The hand that quickly embraced his had a sick comfort to it. Somewhere deep down, Z was battling with the true implications of personifying someone so deeply close to Annabeth without living vicariously through the entity he was embodying. He was manipulating someone into believing he was a person of major interest to them. Regardless of if it were for the sole purpose of helping the person through something as traumatic as what she was going through currently, there was a definite breach of trust and a boundary he was crossing with pointed intention. Still, there was something fun about getting a chance to shapeshift within another's subconscious. As she pulled on his hand to stand, Z took the time to alter the rest of his form to resemble Percy's as he pulled her into his arms. "I've got you," he said softly, hands roaming over her arms to heal the blisters. "You have to wake up, Annabeth...Wake up!"

Under Percy's touch, Annabeth was instantly relaxed, and though she was still under stress, a good amount of it was washed away just as he had rid her of the blisters that had peppered her skin. The beginnings of a smile was very nearly beginning to make their way across her lips, and she tried to catch one of Percy's hands in her own. "I knew you wouldn't leave me behind, Seaweed Brain." Perhaps it was just the veil of the dream confusing her, but there was the smallest sliver of her that still felt as if something was off. Was Percy different somehow? He looked and sounded to be exactly how she knew him. But she didn't have time to ponder it before he was demanding she wake up. Wake up? Was she not awake? But as his words continued she couldn't help but feel herself being pulled out of the nightmare. As the dream began to bleed away into the waking world, she looked once more to Percy, but the strangest thing happened. For a moment, he wasn't Percy. There was another in his place, someone she vaguley remembered seeing atop Hannibal in the fire from the night before, and the only words Annabeth managed to say before she woke entirely were. "What the hades? Who are you?"

[jedifighterpilot2727]

If Red Kryptonite Kara happens again do you think how she will treat Lena and how Lena would handle the situation?

This was supposed to be a short little headcanon post and it turned into 936 words of angst. Sorry?

I don’t control the muse, the muse controls me.

Read it on AO3- http://archiveofourown.org/works/9100903/chapters/21856079

Lena jerks upwards, mind immediately leaving the reports in front of her as she trains her ears towards the balcony. She isn’t worried, she had put a biometric lock on the balcony door so that only she and Kara could open it. But pigeons had taken to nesting out there recently, and she would much rather it be her girlfriend than a flock of birds making a mess.

The door clicks open and she swivels in her chair to see Kara enter.

At least, it looks like Kara.

The same sunkissed blonde waves flowing behind her, the same gorgeous face that Lena has grown accustomed to waking up next to every morning. But there’s a hardness about her, a danger that makes Lena want to shiver and recoil at the same time. Her trademark suit is gone, traded instead for a black body suit that hugs her frame in all the right places.

“Kara?”

But Kara doesn’t answer, instead turning to survey Lena’s office with an air of superiority that doesn’t seem fitting on her usually shy girlfriend.

“L-Corp.” Kara finally huffs. “Did you really think that changing the name of the company would erase all of your brother’s evil deeds?”

Kara’s blue eyes lock onto hers and for a brief second she allows herself to be pulled into their icy depths. But then she hits bottom and there is none of the warmth that usually lurks beneath - even on bad days when it’s buried particularly deep.

She shivers then and feels her heckles rise.

“You, of all people know that I work so hard every day to-”

Kara laughs then and it isn’t the sunny, body- shaking laugh that Lena loves to draw out of her, it’s cold and harsh - mocking in it’s lilt.

“That’s just it though, isn’t it? I’m not even a person, am I?”

She leans over Lena’s desk until the CEO can feel hot breath on her face.

“I’m an alien. And I think, deep down, that that’s something you’ll never really be okay with. Because buried under all of that do-gooder, save-the-world exterior, you’re just like your brother.”Lena fights the urge to back away, to break eye contact, to show weakness; even as Kara reaches out a thumb to trace Lena’s bottom lip.

“And that’s why you’re with me? Isn’t it? You like having a Super in your bed. All of the things I let you do to me. All of the things I beg you to do to me. Gives you a high doesn’t it? Because that’s a kind of control that Lex never had over Clark. So I guess you one upped him after all.”

Lena closes her eyes then, fighting back the tears welling in them. When she finally opens them, she hopes they show more resolve than she feels.

“I think you should leave.”

Kara’s face twists into a sardonic pout.

“Aww, love, did I hit a nerve?” Kara’s hand reaches around until her palm is cradling Lena’s ear, fingers buried in dark tresses. “Was that a little to close to home, my little Luthor?”

Lena locks her gaze onto the wall.

Refusing to look at Kara.

Refusing to cry.

“Get out.” Her voice cracks, and she hates herself for it.

Kara withdraws and laughs again, the same mocking sound like nails on a chalkboard to Lena’s heart.

“Alright, I’ll let you work. It’s the one thing you love more than me anyway, right? Just give me a ring when you’re ready to stop pretending that you care about this city and you want to have a little fun.”

She looks back in time to see Kara wink before stepping to the door. The blonde blows her a theatrical kiss before letting herself out and free-falling off the balcony.

Lena waits until Kara is out of sight to collapse in a shuddered sigh.

She should be used to this really.

She’s dealt with emotional abuse most of her life.

She just never expected it to come from Kara.

Kara was the one person who always made her feel safe. And not just physically, but emotionally - she never worried about Kara using her only to abandon her later.

Apparently that trust was misplaced.

She clicked her phone to check the time, stopping when she sees Kara’s smiling face on the lock screen.

They had taken the picture a few weeks ago at game night, after winning a particularly raucous game of Pictionary. Kara’s face is pressed so tightly to hers that her glasses are tilted to the side, cheeks stretched in a wide grin. Lena’s own face is smiling back her too, looking for all the world like half of a perfectly happy couple.

And they were.

Or at least she had thought. Apparently Kara had different ideas.

But something is off.

The blue eyes staring up at her from the screen are not the same ones that had looked mockingly at her from across the desk a few minutes before.

She shakes her head. She’s just looking for an excuse.

Looking for reasons why Kara wouldn’t feel the way she said she does.

She chews her nail.

Her gut says that something was wrong. And as much as her insecurities are screaming at her that Kara really feels that way, she hasn’t gotten this far in business by not trusting her gut.

On impulse she picks up the phone, quickly scrolling through her contacts and sending the call.

“Danvers.”

“Alex.” She breathes a sigh of relief. At least one of the Danvers sisters sounds normal. “I think there’s something wrong with Kara.”

So this has turned into thirty chapters (so far), and is easily my most well received story on here. You guys are awesome!